Excerpts
Invisible Recruit
Vaughn leaned against the steel curve of the Quonset hut,
aware of every movement around her, the other agents in training
as tired, as ragged as she. The thrum of pain beating across her
ribs sang a by now familiar dirge. Stone scored this time. It wasn’t
the first, but one of these days, soon, she’d make sure it was the
last.
"The man isn't human," Alexis, ‘Alex’ Noziak muttered at her side,
collapsed over her gear pack. "Maybe he's one of those demon
creatures who work at night to feast on mere mortals. He even
looks like he could be the devil's spawn. Dark hair, dark eyes,
body to die for, but even that could be just temptation working for
him."
"So how do you explain that he's as hard-edged during the day as
he is at night?" Kelly McAlister asked in her soft Kansas sound.
"Can't." Alex sighed, leaning her head back and twisting her neck
like a rag doll. "My momma told me never to trust dark-eyed men
who are too good looking for their own good."
Vaughn scraped together enough energy for a smile. Week two
and they'd lost four recruits so far. After tonight there'd most likely
be more. Who’d have thought volunteers could be thinned like
debs at their first outing. Systematically picked off until none were
left. Even the government had to accept and keep some of its new
hires, but not Stone. If he continued as
he’d begun, the Agency would end before it began. Not her
problem. Her problem was to make sure if any probies were left,
she’d be one of them. Damn and double damn. She should have--
.
Failure clogged her throat.
She shrugged against the cold metal seeping through her
fatigues. Too bad it did nothing to chill the churning in her gut.
He walked like he taught-- -arrogant, assured, and always in
control. Alex was right. The man wasn't human. He was a robo-
instructor sent to make life a misery for all of them. And he did a
fine job of it.
M.T. Stone. A few recruits shifted.
"Anyone want to explain why no one made the objective tonight?"
He strode forward, boots silent against the concrete floor, his
voice as dark as he was, his gaze lethal as it razored over the two-
dozen women huddled on one side.
"Poor execution, sir." Jayleen stepped forward like the butt-kisser
she was. Eyes as hard as the man's name slid toward the former
con artist.
Stone continued, his voice saber-slicing through the group, his
gaze still pinning Jayleen. "Poor execution? Is that what the
problem was?"
Vaughn actually felt sorry for the woman. Duck, Jayleen, the man's
hunting for heads.
He shifted, lasered in on Vaughn as if beading a rifle scope. He
wanted blood. That wasn't news. He'd settle for hers. But that
wasn't news either.
"Do you agree, deb? Poor execution?"
"No." She didn’t bother to shift more than her gaze until it locked
with his. She’d make him work for every ounce of blood he drew
from her. Blood, sweat and tears. Churchill had it right. The great
statesman understood the price of survival, but he forgot the cost
of pride.
"So you think you executed tonight's exercise well?" Stone’s tone
taunted.
"No."
"Can't have it both ways, princess. Which is it?"
"We screwed up. We gave it our best, but it wasn't good enough."
"If that's your best, you'd all be dead."
Man had a point. And he knew she knew it. "Agreed."
"You think that's going to get you off the hook?"
Not with this man.
"No."
Something hot and dangerous came and went in his eyes.
"You've finally gotten something right, Monroe."
Calling her deb, or princess was bad enough, but when he used
her last name, the crap was about to hit the fan. She refused to
move, keeping her hands flat and open at her sides even as the
muscles in her stomach locked into a granite block. He would not
break her. She would not let him.
She said nothing.
He stepped closer to Vaughn, towering over where she sat, using
size as a weapon. Not that he needed one with that malt whiskey
over ice voice. It could kill all on it's own. "No second chances. No
do-overs. Monroe should have taken me out when she had the
chance. She didn't. Three shots on target. None lethal. She should
have confirmed, it’s the way of a true operative."
Truth wasn't always painless.
"Stand." The word commanded, even when spoken so low that
most recruits couldn't hear it.
She used the steel at her back to give her courage as she rose to
her feet, locking her legs into a stance as rigid as the man before
her.
Her gaze shifted upwards to his.
And to think she'd actually volunteered for this. Next time she
wanted to prove something, to herself or to her family, she’d take
up bungee jumping. Unfortunately she already had. And sky
diving, and-–finding one’s niche was hell some days.
"Nothing to say for yourself, deb?"
She glanced at the neon yellow paint stain dampening his right
shoulder. He was right. She'd taken her shots. Knew even then
they might not be lethal. And moved on. Too scared to find out if
she’d failed. Not trusting that she might have won.
"No." She was glad her voice didn't quiver.
"You screwed up."
Yup, sure did. She remained mute.
"You do that in the field and you kill your team members.
Understand?"
It was a low blow. And effective.
"Yes." The word congealed chalk-like along her throat.
"You kill yourself, no loss. You kill them and the mission fails.
Unacceptable."
Those were not tears acid etching her eyes. She wouldn't let them
be. She wouldn’t give him the pleasure of knowing he could get to
her.
He leaned closer, his words sand-papering across her. "Do you
understand?"
Her hands curled without thought. She watched his gaze shift to
them, aware that he'd scored. Again.
"Understand?" he repeated, this time his voice lower and huskier.
An intimate sound. Between the two of them. Promise and
warning.
"Yes."
"If you can't kill, you don't belong here."
His eyes said what his words didn't. You don't belong here
anyway. It was an old refrain, communicated in a hundred ways
over the last two weeks. He wanted her off the team and out of the
Agency. No former-ambassador’s daughters allowed. No room for
debutantes. For a fast-living, high-society woman seeking a new
thrill. His words, his phrases again and again, echoing her own
fears.
Holding his gaze, no matter what the price, she offered her mother-
trained smile, knowing it'd only make the next months even more
unbearable. As if that were possible.
"I won't make that mistake again." She spoke to him and him
alone. "Next time I kill you, I'll make sure you're dead
aware of every movement around her, the other agents in training
as tired, as ragged as she. The thrum of pain beating across her
ribs sang a by now familiar dirge. Stone scored this time. It wasn’t
the first, but one of these days, soon, she’d make sure it was the
last.
"The man isn't human," Alexis, ‘Alex’ Noziak muttered at her side,
collapsed over her gear pack. "Maybe he's one of those demon
creatures who work at night to feast on mere mortals. He even
looks like he could be the devil's spawn. Dark hair, dark eyes,
body to die for, but even that could be just temptation working for
him."
"So how do you explain that he's as hard-edged during the day as
he is at night?" Kelly McAlister asked in her soft Kansas sound.
"Can't." Alex sighed, leaning her head back and twisting her neck
like a rag doll. "My momma told me never to trust dark-eyed men
who are too good looking for their own good."
Vaughn scraped together enough energy for a smile. Week two
and they'd lost four recruits so far. After tonight there'd most likely
be more. Who’d have thought volunteers could be thinned like
debs at their first outing. Systematically picked off until none were
left. Even the government had to accept and keep some of its new
hires, but not Stone. If he continued as
he’d begun, the Agency would end before it began. Not her
problem. Her problem was to make sure if any probies were left,
she’d be one of them. Damn and double damn. She should have--
.
Failure clogged her throat.
She shrugged against the cold metal seeping through her
fatigues. Too bad it did nothing to chill the churning in her gut.
He walked like he taught-- -arrogant, assured, and always in
control. Alex was right. The man wasn't human. He was a robo-
instructor sent to make life a misery for all of them. And he did a
fine job of it.
M.T. Stone. A few recruits shifted.
"Anyone want to explain why no one made the objective tonight?"
He strode forward, boots silent against the concrete floor, his
voice as dark as he was, his gaze lethal as it razored over the two-
dozen women huddled on one side.
"Poor execution, sir." Jayleen stepped forward like the butt-kisser
she was. Eyes as hard as the man's name slid toward the former
con artist.
Stone continued, his voice saber-slicing through the group, his
gaze still pinning Jayleen. "Poor execution? Is that what the
problem was?"
Vaughn actually felt sorry for the woman. Duck, Jayleen, the man's
hunting for heads.
He shifted, lasered in on Vaughn as if beading a rifle scope. He
wanted blood. That wasn't news. He'd settle for hers. But that
wasn't news either.
"Do you agree, deb? Poor execution?"
"No." She didn’t bother to shift more than her gaze until it locked
with his. She’d make him work for every ounce of blood he drew
from her. Blood, sweat and tears. Churchill had it right. The great
statesman understood the price of survival, but he forgot the cost
of pride.
"So you think you executed tonight's exercise well?" Stone’s tone
taunted.
"No."
"Can't have it both ways, princess. Which is it?"
"We screwed up. We gave it our best, but it wasn't good enough."
"If that's your best, you'd all be dead."
Man had a point. And he knew she knew it. "Agreed."
"You think that's going to get you off the hook?"
Not with this man.
"No."
Something hot and dangerous came and went in his eyes.
"You've finally gotten something right, Monroe."
Calling her deb, or princess was bad enough, but when he used
her last name, the crap was about to hit the fan. She refused to
move, keeping her hands flat and open at her sides even as the
muscles in her stomach locked into a granite block. He would not
break her. She would not let him.
She said nothing.
He stepped closer to Vaughn, towering over where she sat, using
size as a weapon. Not that he needed one with that malt whiskey
over ice voice. It could kill all on it's own. "No second chances. No
do-overs. Monroe should have taken me out when she had the
chance. She didn't. Three shots on target. None lethal. She should
have confirmed, it’s the way of a true operative."
Truth wasn't always painless.
"Stand." The word commanded, even when spoken so low that
most recruits couldn't hear it.
She used the steel at her back to give her courage as she rose to
her feet, locking her legs into a stance as rigid as the man before
her.
Her gaze shifted upwards to his.
And to think she'd actually volunteered for this. Next time she
wanted to prove something, to herself or to her family, she’d take
up bungee jumping. Unfortunately she already had. And sky
diving, and-–finding one’s niche was hell some days.
"Nothing to say for yourself, deb?"
She glanced at the neon yellow paint stain dampening his right
shoulder. He was right. She'd taken her shots. Knew even then
they might not be lethal. And moved on. Too scared to find out if
she’d failed. Not trusting that she might have won.
"No." She was glad her voice didn't quiver.
"You screwed up."
Yup, sure did. She remained mute.
"You do that in the field and you kill your team members.
Understand?"
It was a low blow. And effective.
"Yes." The word congealed chalk-like along her throat.
"You kill yourself, no loss. You kill them and the mission fails.
Unacceptable."
Those were not tears acid etching her eyes. She wouldn't let them
be. She wouldn’t give him the pleasure of knowing he could get to
her.
He leaned closer, his words sand-papering across her. "Do you
understand?"
Her hands curled without thought. She watched his gaze shift to
them, aware that he'd scored. Again.
"Understand?" he repeated, this time his voice lower and huskier.
An intimate sound. Between the two of them. Promise and
warning.
"Yes."
"If you can't kill, you don't belong here."
His eyes said what his words didn't. You don't belong here
anyway. It was an old refrain, communicated in a hundred ways
over the last two weeks. He wanted her off the team and out of the
Agency. No former-ambassador’s daughters allowed. No room for
debutantes. For a fast-living, high-society woman seeking a new
thrill. His words, his phrases again and again, echoing her own
fears.
Holding his gaze, no matter what the price, she offered her mother-
trained smile, knowing it'd only make the next months even more
unbearable. As if that were possible.
"I won't make that mistake again." She spoke to him and him
alone. "Next time I kill you, I'll make sure you're dead
The Makeover Mission
"Tell the major she's awake."
Jane Richards snapped her head back, paying for the movement
with a pounding that felt like a band of fire across her temples.
Who was the major? And where was she?
She blinked, straining to see into the darkness. Nothing.
Something shielded her eyes. What? Why?
Panic tightened her throat.
She attempted to rip off whatever covered her eyes. But her hands
wouldn't budge. They were strapped to the blunt edges of what felt
like armrests.
Blindfolded and trapped.
But why? Where?
"Who are you?" The words were hers, but the voice didn't sound
like her voice. It sounded weak and scared.
No one answered.
The air around her felt clammy. The darkness seemed uniform
throughout. There were no traffic sounds beyond thin windows, no
voices through walls. The only noise permeating the silence
came from behind her. The sound of someone breathing. Slow,
even breaths. The sound from a child's nightmare. The sound
from a woman's worst fears.
But it was real. And it was happening to her.
She wanted to scream. The temptation to struggle against the
bonds trapping her was stronger. It must be a nightmare. It had
to be. People like her did not end up in dark rooms with their
hands tied to the arms of chairs.
"Who are you? Why am I here?" Her voice shook; her whole body
mimicked it.
No answer. The breathing continued. Evenly paced and controlled.
She had to keep calm, to regain control. Isn't that what they told
her during library fire drills? The person who panics is the person
who's lost. And she was ready to panic in a big way.
Jane squeezed her eyes shut, attempting to hold back the tidal
way of terror pulsating through her system. She wiggled her
hands, wondering what held her in place. Tape? She could feel
adhesive tugging at her bare skin with each twist of her wrists.
The fear wanted to paralyze her. If she let it, it would. She flexed
her hands, the tug of the tape holding strong. Her legs too were
bound. Helpless.
Scream? If she shouted would anyone hear her? Could she alert
someone before the breather stopped her? Did she have any
other choice?
She might have only one chance. She had to make it good. She
opened her mouth to scream.
"I wouldn't do that if I were you."
The voice stopped her cold. It was male. Rough-edged and deep.
"Tell the major she's awake."
Jane Richards snapped her head back, paying for the movement
with a pounding that felt like a band of fire across her temples.
Who was the major? And where was she?
She blinked, straining to see into the darkness. Nothing.
Something shielded her eyes. What? Why?
Panic tightened her throat.
She attempted to rip off whatever covered her eyes. But her hands
wouldn't budge. They were strapped to the blunt edges of what felt
like armrests.
Blindfolded and trapped.
But why? Where?
"Who are you?" The words were hers, but the voice didn't sound
like her voice. It sounded weak and scared.
No one answered.
The air around her felt clammy. The darkness seemed uniform
throughout. There were no traffic sounds beyond thin windows, no
voices through walls. The only noise permeating the silence
came from behind her. The sound of someone breathing. Slow,
even breaths. The sound from a child's nightmare. The sound
from a woman's worst fears.
But it was real. And it was happening to her.
She wanted to scream. The temptation to struggle against the
bonds trapping her was stronger. It must be a nightmare. It had
to be. People like her did not end up in dark rooms with their
hands tied to the arms of chairs.
"Who are you? Why am I here?" Her voice shook; her whole body
mimicked it.
No answer. The breathing continued. Evenly paced and controlled.
She had to keep calm, to regain control. Isn't that what they told
her during library fire drills? The person who panics is the person
who's lost. And she was ready to panic in a big way.
Jane squeezed her eyes shut, attempting to hold back the tidal
way of terror pulsating through her system. She wiggled her
hands, wondering what held her in place. Tape? She could feel
adhesive tugging at her bare skin with each twist of her wrists.
The fear wanted to paralyze her. If she let it, it would. She flexed
her hands, the tug of the tape holding strong. Her legs too were
bound. Helpless.
Scream? If she shouted would anyone hear her? Could she alert
someone before the breather stopped her? Did she have any
other choice?
She might have only one chance. She had to make it good. She
opened her mouth to scream.
"I wouldn't do that if I were you."
The voice stopped her cold. It was male. Rough-edged and deep.
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Copyright Mary Buckham 2005 All rights reserved
