She watched him lay out two Beretta nine millimeter automatics on the shooting bench.
"How was Arizona?" she said.
"It was great. You been down there?"
"Monument Valley and Four Corners. I've never seen colors like that, the way the light paints the rocks and the desert."
Ronnie nodded. "You can let your mind go in all that space. When the rains come and the clouds build up over the Sacred Mountains, it's one of the most beautiful sights in the world."
He reached in his pocket, took a picture from his wallet. He handed it to Selena. It showed a stout, older woman in front of a low building of wood capped with an earthen roof. A deep red velvet dress, almost purple, reached to her ankles. Around her neck and on her arms and hands she wore heavy jewelry of silver and turquoise. Next to her stood a man in jeans, a plaid shirt and a flat brimmed black Stetson sporting a silver Concho hat band.
"This is my Auntie and Uncle. They're both traditional Navajo. He's a Singer."
"A singer? You mean like rock and roll?"
Ronnie laughed, a deep, belly laugh. "No, a Singer is…like a doctor. Only he's a doctor for restoring harmony, not a doctor with pills. When something bad happens, like sickness or if you break one of the traditional taboos, you call in a Singer. He helps you restore personal harmony. Then everyone feels better."
"Are you traditional?"
"No. It's mostly the old people. But I speak the language and keep the stories in my mind. So I guess I am, in some ways."
He put the picture away and picked up one of the Berettas.
"I don't like these much," he said. "You find them everywhere, so you need to be familiar with them. Our troops carry them and some of our allies."
"Why don't you like them?"
"It takes three or four rounds from one of these to put down someone doped up and ready to die for Allah. Not enough punch with nine mil. Nick likes his H-K. I like Glocks, like the one you've got. They're light, they're reliable and the .40mm will stop anyone."
They shot for a while. Ronnie showed her how to field strip, clean and reassemble the pistol. He had her practice until it felt familiar to her. He timed her and made her increase her speed. Then he blindfolded her and had her practice some more. After another hour he began packing up.
"How long have you known Nick?" Selena asked.
"Eight years. We were in Recon together. Special Ops. He was the best officer I ever served with. Never asked us to do anything he wouldn't."
"Were you there when he got hit? With that grenade?"
Something flickered across Ronnie's face, was gone.
"Yeah, I was there. But I don't really want to talk about it."
"Sorry."
"No, it's not like that." He smiled at her. "I just don't want to talk about it."
"Neither does Nick," she said.
Ronnie picked up a pistol, set it down again.
"You serious about him?"
Selena picked up one of her targets. Round holes in the black.
"He's still in love with Megan," she said.
CHAPTER FIVE
Back in her rooms at the Mayflower, Selena dressed in a yellow sport bra and workout pants. She put on a light over shirt to cover her holster and a pair of running shoes. Rule one at the Project: never go anywhere without your gun. Time to go for a run, go to the gym, clear her mind.
She exited the building and headed for DuPont Circle. She didn't see the blond man across the street taking pictures of her with a telephoto lens. She ran along the busy streets, dodging traffic, feet pounding on the pavement, the sweat building, waiting for the burn. She ran, circled back, slowed, came to the gym. She went inside.
The place was cool with air conditioning. Filters tried to take away the odors of testosterone and sweat. The A/C couldn't quite pull it off. There was a faint, sour smell of deodorant and mildew in the air. She walked over to a heavy stationary punching bag. She paused in front of the bag, closed her eyes and centered herself, as she'd been taught. She opened her eyes and began hitting it, quick jabs, picking up speed until her arms were pistons, quick blurs of motion. Like a striking cobra. Or whatever snake was so fast, the motion blurred and you were down before you knew what had happened.
She began throwing side kicks, leg straight out, heel extended, balanced so the full strength of her body traveled down the bone and into the bag. The heavy bag rocked and shuddered with each blow.
She thought about Nick. She loved his hard, scarred body, the way he took her. But he never relaxed, even after they'd made love. He always acted like he expected something to jump out at him. He never stopped watching, observing. His gray eyes were always moving. He never sat with his back to a door or window. He always walked away from walls. He always carried a pistol.
She did too, now. She felt the hard shape moving against her hip.
Damn him. The fury of her kicks increased. She forced herself to slow down, to focus. Being with Nick was like being with two or three different people. He was moody as hell. He got headaches and sometimes he had a far away look in his eyes like no one was home. Relationship, as in a real relationship with a woman, was like a foreign concept to him. At least as far as she was concerned.
Then there were those nightmares. She'd asked him about them. He dreamed about Afghanistan, where a child threw a grenade that almost killed him.
He dreamed about things that hadn't happened yet. It was something passed down in his genes. Sometimes the dreams came true, although not always the way he thought they would. It was weird, beyond weird, spooky.
He dreamed of his dead fiancée. Sometimes when they were in bed she felt like there was a third person in there with them. Megan. All Selena really knew about her was her name.
Thirty minutes later she was back in her rooms. She stripped off her sweat stained clothes and headed for the shower. She stood under the stream and let the hot water run down. She held her face under the shower and ran her fingers through her the hair while the water beat on her breasts.
She stepped out of the shower and toweled herself off. She stood naked and considered her body. Five ten, a taut hundred and forty pounds. She wasn't into the anorexic thing. She worked hard to keep herself in shape. It let her do things that made life interesting, like sky diving and scuba, her martial arts.
She looked in the mirror, touched her face, the high cheekbones, brushed a wisp of hair away from her forehead. She turned on the dryer and thought about the Project while she mussed her hair.
Before she'd met Harker, she'd consulted with NSA and worked the academic circuit. She was a world class expert on ancient and oriental languages. She was more than accomplished in martial arts. She was rich. She could jump out of airplanes and hit the center of a pistol target from fifty yards. She could run must men into the ground. She could do most anything she wanted to. And she had been bored.
Before the Project, life had been predictable. A lecture. A consulting assignment. A translation. Then she'd met Nick and Elizabeth Harker and found herself caught up in a world where people tried to kill her.
Now she was part of the team. Now she carried a Glock .40 mm in a fast draw holster instead of a pen. She was sleeping with Nick and wondering where the hell it was going, or if it would go anywhere. Her life had turned upside down.
She looked in the mirror and smiled. At least it wasn't boring.
CHAPTER SIX
Fluorescent light glared off scarred yellow walls. The cement floor was painted dull gray. The room was bare except for a metal table bolted to the floor and two plastic chairs. A camera watched from one corner. A large mirror took up a portion of one wall.
Ari Herzog, senior Shin Bet agent in Jerusalem, watched through the one way mirror. The man in the room was around six feet tall, about two hundred pounds. He had black hair and eyebrows, wolf-like eyes, and a hard, square-jawed look. He needed a shave. He sat quietly, waiting for whatever came next. There was no fidgeting, no nervousness. The medic had dressed his knife wound an hour before.