The Enemy Within

“A little bit of everything, of course.” Helen sat down on the sofa and watched him closely. “Does this mean that I don’t get a guided tour of the upstairs~”

“You actually want to see the vast, inner expanses of my mansion? All two bedrooms and two baths?” Thorn asked casually, instantly aware that he awaited her answer with anything but casual interest. He leaned over the steaming assortment of different dishes, carefully doling out portions onto each plate.

“I’d love to.” She watched his head come up in a hurry and laughed gently. “But after dinner, Peter.”

To Thorn’s considerable relief, the Thai restaurant hadn’t let him down. Each dish tasted as good as it had smelled a rare achievement for any prepared meal, let alone takeout.

At last Helen pushed her empty plate away with a small sigh. “Now, that was worth waiting for.”

“Better than Stannard’s?”

“Much better than Stannard’s,” she agreed. She leaned back against the sofa and closed her eyes for a moment. “This is really nice, Peter. It’s peaceful and quiet, and best of all, it’s away from work. Miles and worlds away.”

“Have a bad week?” he asked quietly.

Helen opened her eyes and made a face. “Just a typical week.” She shrugged. “Sometimes I think half the senior men in the Bureau believe I’ve gotten to where I am on the Hostage Rescue Team solely because I’m a woman… a real affirmative action aberration. The rest only want to trot me out as a showpiece for Congress or the media. You know, with a little sign around my neck that reads, ‘See, we do get it. We’re hip. We’re with it on equal rights.’ ”

Thorn snorted. “Not many showpieces kick Sergeant Major Diaz’ butt in a shooting-house competition.”

Helen smiled in fond memory. “That’s for sure.” Then she shook her head in frustration. “It just doesn’t seem to matter to the older guys in grey suits, though. I still have to prove myself to them all over again every single day.”

“But not to your section,” Thorn suggested.

“No. Not to them.” She smiled. “They’re a pretty good bunch of guys. For Neanderthal door-kickers, that is.”

“I’ve — heard that some of us are even almost human.” Thorn started clearing dishes. “So what made you decide to go for the HRT anyway?”

“You mean as opposed to choosing the normal career path for a young, ambitious FBI agent?” Helen shrugged again. “I wanted more action and excitement than I thought I’d get behind a desk in Omaha or Duluth or Topeka. Besides, it was a chance to break some new ground. To be one of the first to do something.”

She looked up at him. “Does that make any sense?”

Thorn nodded. It made a lot of sense especially to him. They were a lot alike despite their very different upbringings, he realised. Both of them were driven to win, to succeed, to be perfect. If anything, Helen had it a little harder than he did. As one of the first women assigned to the FBI’s traditionally male counterterrorist unit, she would always have to fight the unspoken presumption that she was only there as a token female. He knew her well enough now to realize just how galling that must be.

He was also positive that Helen Gray would never take anything she hadn’t earned in a fair and open competition not a job, not a promotion, and not a trophy. The day after they’d first met, he’d gone back to Fort Bragg to review the videotapes of her section’s winning run through the House of Horrors. Any thoughts that her victory was a fluke had gone right out the window after seeing those tapes. She was good. Very good. Her assault tactics were brilliant, she improvised rapidly when things went wrong, and she was a crack shot. She made up in agility, accuracy, and intelligence whatever she might lack in raw physical strength.

Helen touched his shoulder lightly. “What are you thinking, Peter?”

Honesty overrode his native caution and fear of sounding corny. “Just that you’re the most beautiful and intelligent woman I’ve ever met.”

She laughed deep in her throat. “One hundred Coins for flattery, Colonel Thorn.” She shook her head in wonderment. “Louisa Farrell said you were dangerous. And she was right.”

Still sitting, Helen stretched lazily, arching her back and shoulders in a way that sparked a definite rise in Thorn’s pulse. He moved closer.

Helen turned her face toward his, her lips slightly parted. He kissed her, gently at first, then harder. After he’d spent what seemed an eternity exploring a soft, warm sweetness, she leaned back and looked intently into his eyes. “And what are you thinking now, Peter Thorn?”

He smiled slowly. “I was wondering just when you had to report back to Quantico.”

She pulled him down to her again. “Not until tomorrow night.”

JULY 1

Sofia, Bulgaria.

(D MINUS 157)