Chapter 1

1

Monday

S asha saw the punch coming. The fist was headed straight for her right cheekbone. She bent her knees to duck, weave to the side, and then bob back up. Clean and easy. At least it should have been. But she misjudged her timing, and the blow caught her on the side of her head between her pterion and her ear. Pain radiated along her skull as her head snapped back.

Sloppy. Sloppy and slow , she berated herself. Then she shoved the self-criticism aside. There’d be a time to critique her performance. The middle of a fight was not that time.

She wiped the sweat from her eyes and pummeled her attacker’s solar plexus. Left, right, left. The flurry of gut punches was met with a deep, low grunt from her adversary. She bounced lightly on her feet, anticipating his next move. Then, just as he was feinting to the left—a clear indication he was going to come at her from the right—the alarm on his mobile phone sounded.

Daniel stopped mid-swing and silenced the alarm. Then he held out his fist; she bumped it lightly with her own.

“That was a good session,” he panted, bracing his hands on his thighs to catch his breath.

“Mmm. That’s not true, and you know it.”

He gave her a look then jerked his head toward his office. “Water?”

“Sure.”

He loped across the room and retrieved two ice-cold stainless steel bottles from the mini-fridge shoved beneath his desk. He tossed one over the half-wall that separated his small workspace from the Krav Maga studio, and she snagged it with her left hand.

She twisted off the cap and took a long drink.

“You might be a little off your usual speed,” he allowed. “Something going on?”

“My reflexes are crap.”

“You can’t run on empty forever, Sasha. Eventually fatigue will catch up with you.”

She gave her hand-to-hand combat instructor a long, level look. “I think it finally has.”

He frowned but said nothing. He didn’t need to. She already knew she was violating one of her personal rules: Eat when you have the opportunity; sleep when you can. A nourished, rested brain and body were weapons. But despite her best efforts, she couldn’t seem to get adequate rest. Her metaphorical plate was so full it was piled higher than a towering Thanksgiving dinner platter.

Across town, Leo Connelly rubbed the dried rheum from his eyes and reread the text that had torn him from his sleep:

Check your email. We have a mtg at FISC tmrw.

Finally. After months of agitating for a meeting to get clarity about their role, it appeared he and Hank had broken through the bureaucratic wall of inaction that had been blocking them from doing the job they’d been hired to do.

He thumbed out an upbeat response to Hank and caught himself whistling as he rolled out of bed and padded barefoot into the bathroom to start his day. Leo drew energy from his work, and the long months of being chained to a desk had begun to wear on him.

But no more, he told himself, as he brushed his teeth. The calculated risk he and Hank had taken had paid off. He cupped his hands under the faucet, rinsed his mouth with cold water, and smiled at his reflection.