Out of Reach: A Novel

by Patricia Lewin

  OUT

  OF

  REACH

  PATRICIA LEWIN

  BALLANTINE BOOKS NEW YORK

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Other Books by Patricia Lewin

  Copyright

  For Ed

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Thanks to all those who shared their knowledge and professional insight. Sharon Reishus, for the CIA details and her endless patience in supplying them. Jonathan M. Sullivan, M.D., Ph.D., who once again answered my dozens of e-mails on all things medical. Patricia McLinn, friend and fellow writer, for helping me navigate the Washington, D.C./Virginia area. Peter Van Wie for the German phrases. Jennifer Stern and Agent Mick Fennerty for responding to my FBI questions. Lesley Matthews, shodan, and Sensei Peter C. Litchfield, sandan, for choreographing my martial arts scenes and showing me how a woman can take down a man.

  All mistakes (or literary license) are mine.

  Thanks also to Gin, Sandra, Ann, Pam, Donna, Anne, Pat, and Deb for the brainstorming and general moral support. You keep me sane.

  As always, thanks to my husband, Jeff, for believing I can do anything. And to my daughter, Andrea, for cheering me on.

  Thanks to Meg Ruley, the best of agents, and Charlotte Herscher, who deserves a medal for her patience and for maintaining a calm demeanor while navigating rough waters.

  PROLOGUE

  THE NEW KID was finally crying.

  Softly. Into his pillow while the rest of the mansion slept. But Ryan, standing outside the door, heard, and a touch of sadness squeezed his throat. This one had held out longer than most. He’d been here two days, with no sign of breaking. Ryan had to admire that.

  Shifting the tray to one hand, he unlocked the door and slipped into the room.

  The crying stopped.

  Some of the kids broke right away, the soft ones, sobbing nonstop for their parents. Others took longer. The street kids, the fighters. They got angry, hiding their fear with hateful words. The really strong ones, the leaders, said very little, telling Ryan and the rest to go fuck themselves without uttering a word. This boy, pretending to sleep as Ryan crossed the room, was one of those, refusing even to eat.

  But his defiance had finally begun to crumble.

  The tears were Ryan’s cue to offer comfort. One child to another in a scary adult world. Though Ryan wasn’t much of a kid anymore. Sixteen on his last birthday, he’d long outgrown any usefulness other than tending the new arrivals.

  “I thought you’d be hungry,” he said, and set the tray on the nightstand.

  At first there was no response from the bed. Then the kid’s survival instincts kicked in as the smell of fresh bread and hot chicken soup teased his empty stomach. He swiped a fist across his eyes, then rolled over.

  “I’m not supposed to bring up food after hours.” Ryan sat on the edge of the bed. “But it won’t hurt this once.”

  The boy pushed up against the headboard. “Who are you?”

  Ryan felt the squeeze of sadness again. “My name’s Ryan.” He hesitated, then broke one of his own rules. “What’s yours?”

  “You don’t know?”

  Usually it was better that way, easier, not knowing anything about the kids he cared for. Not even their names. “They don’t tell me much around here.” The truth, but something more, a common bond between them.

  The kid looked doubtful, or maybe he was just figuring out the downside to sharing his name. Finally he said, “Cody Sanders,” then, “Where am I? And what is this place?”

  Ryan glanced around at the large bedroom and sitting area. Like all the others in this wing of the house, it was designed for a time when the wealthy owners entertained overnight guests. But that was all in the past. Now it was little more than a gilded prison. “Just a house, or I guess you’d call it a mansion.” The rest, that he didn’t know the exact location of the estate, he’d keep to himself.

  Cody hesitated, then asked, “Where is he?”

  “Trader?” The word came out as a question, though Ryan knew exactly whom Cody meant.

  “Is that his name?”

  “I doubt it, but it’s what the staff calls him.” When they dared speak of him at all. “Don’t worry, he’s not here right now.”

  “Why did he bring me here? What does he want from me?” As usual, once the questions started, they tumbled out one after the other and begged for answers Ryan didn’t have. Or was willing to share.

  “Look.” Ryan shoved off the bed. “I better get going.” It was easier than staying. “I just brought you the tray.”

  Cody looked at the food, obviously hungry, but made no move toward it. “Help me get out of here.” Not, I want my mom or dad. Just, let me go.

  “I can’t.” Ryan started for the door. He could no more leave than Cody. Nor did he want to. He was safe here, safer than anywhere else he’d ever lived.

  “Are you afraid of him?”

  Ryan couldn’t deny it. Trader was the scariest man he knew, and Ryan hadn’t survived this long by defying men like him. “Eat your soup, it’s good.”

  “You could help me if you wanted.”

  “It’s just not possible, okay?” Ryan hadn’t planned to explain himself to this kid, but the words came anyway. “There’s no place to go. We’re in the middle of nowhere.” There were guards. And the dogs.

  “So you’re a prisoner, too.”

  That touched off a spark of anger. “This is my home.” In a few days this kid would be gone, but Ryan would still be here. “I live here.”

  Cody studied him for a minute, as if evaluating Ryan’s claim, then said, “I will get out of here.”

  Ryan didn’t answer. What was the point? The kid wasn’t going anywhere until Trader came for him. Sooner or later he’d figure that out for himself.

  “I’ll check on you later,” Ryan said.

  As he closed and locked the door behind him, something slammed against the other side, then slid to the floor. Ryan pictured the tray, the shattered dishes and food in a puddle on the expensive rugs.

  “Damn.” It would be his job to clean up the mess.

  The kid was going to make this difficult. Too bad. Because he would break. They all did. Eventually.

  I

  HE WAS BIG.

  Two hundred, two hundred and twenty pounds at least. Visibly strong. And young. No question his body had made the journey to manhood, but the stupid grin on his face said his mind was stuck in adolescence.

  He’d taken an aggressive stance, feet planted wide, arms flexed. “You’re going down, bitch.”

  Erin backed up. “Whatever you’re trying to prove, this isn’t the way.”

  “I’m not the one with something to prove.” He edged toward her.

  She put more distance between them, reaching for the
calm that would get her through this. Instead she found something else, something darker.

  “Where do you think you’re going?” he asked, a smirk in his voice and on his face.

  He was right. She had little maneuvering room. Though she doubted more space would make a difference. If she ran, he’d be on her in seconds, and it would be over. Her best bet was to stand her ground.

  “Look—” she started.

  He made a sudden and unexpected grab for her, his big hands clamping brutally around her forearms. But the move was based on brute strength not skill, and she twisted and brought one elbow up to slam into the underside of his chin. He grunted and released her.

  She backed up again.

  The next time, she saw him coming and ducked and rolled out of reach. Back on her feet, she pivoted to face him again.

  “You’re quicker than you look,” he said.

  “And you’re clumsier.” The reply escaped before she could check herself, and he obviously didn’t like it.

  “Enough of this shit.” He came at her again, fast and straight this time.

  Erin blocked him, her foot outside his, ankle to ankle. The heel of her right hand slamming against the underside of his chin. Her left striking his biceps, then delivering a stunning blow to the side of his neck and forcing his head sideways into his shoulder.

  At another time, the shock on his face might have been comical, but today, she wasn’t laughing.

  She seized his elbow, twisted, and he landed on his back. Hard. But she kept him rolling onto his stomach and jammed her knee against his kidney. His arm wrenched behind him, bent at the wrist. Her free hand shoving his head to the floor. And he frantically slapped the mat in surrender.

  The class applauded.

  Erin held him a few seconds longer, then let go, releasing his arm and backing away.

  “Good job, Erin.” Bill Jensen, head martial-arts instructor at the CIA’s Farm, stepped away from his trainees and extended a hand to the man on the floor. “Sorry, Cassidy. It’s the price you pay for being the biggest SOB in the class.”

  The younger man ignored the offered assistance and sprang to his feet. “No problem.” He rotated and massaged his shoulder. “I like getting roughed up by a woman half my size.”

  “Life sucks sometimes,” Erin said as she retrieved her towel from a corner of the mat. “Especially in the Company.”

  She was still edgy. More than she should be, more than would be healthy if this had been real. Maybe that was the problem. This had all been a game, and she didn’t like games.

  “Go ahead,” Cassidy said, “rub salt in my already shredded ego.”

  She looked him over. He was probably ex-military, and the CIA wasn’t known for recruiting people with low self-esteem. The combination meant it would take a lot more than one fell to do serious damage to his ego. “You’ll survive it.”

  “Okay,” Bill said to the others. “Do I have to interpret these results for the rest of you?”

  “I want some of what she’s got,” said a short, compactly built young woman in front.

  “They don’t hand out balls to wimps, Sheila,” goaded a man behind her. He was nondescript in the way of many nice-looking American men: medium height and build, muddy eyes, and dark blond hair. Perfect raw material for the CIA.

  Sheila turned a brief, cold stare on him, then dismissed him with a sneer. “You should know, Chad.”

  The class whooped, congratulating her while offering condolences to her target.

  “Okay, joke if you want,” Bill said. “Just don’t miss the point. Which is . . .” He looked from one career trainee to another.

  “Size don’t mean shit,” said Sheila. “The big ones just make more noise when they fall. And the small ones . . .” She threw another quick glance at the man behind her. “They squeak.”

  Another burst of approving laughter, and again Bill cut it short. “That’s right. You can be strong as an ox, and this little lady”—he gestured toward Erin—“will use that strength against you. Any questions?”

  “I’ve got one,” said another of the women. “That was very impressive, Officer . . .” She hesitated, evidently unsure what name to use, though it was Farm policy not to use an officer’s last name—even if you knew it. “Erin.”

  “But?” Erin knew what was coming, the question asked after every demonstration. And it was always one of the women who did the asking.

  “Well, you’re obviously well trained. What are you, a black belt in tae kwon do?”

  “Erin holds several black belts,” answered Bill. “What’s your point?”

  “Well, what happens when she comes up against someone who’s just as good, and he outweighs her by a hundred pounds?”

  Before Bill could answer, Erin said, “No matter how good you are, there is always someone better.” She glanced at him, saw him nod, and went on. They both knew it was the women who wanted an answer, and they wanted it from her. The men needed to hear it as well, but would never admit it. “And in this business you’re bound to run into that person sooner or later. Whether it’s someone your own size, or”—she glanced at the hulk she’d just put on the mat—“or not.”

  “So what do you do? Hope for the best?”

  “You train and acquire as much skill as possible. You get good.” Erin paused, letting her eyes drift from one face to the other, wondering how many of them understood what she was saying. They were young and brash, the best of the best in their respective fields. Or else they wouldn’t be here. The CIA recruitment criteria were very tough. Every one of them was used to winning. “Then it comes down to heart, and the will to survive.” Not win. Survive.

  “It becomes a chess match,” Bill offered. “You fight with your head as well as your—”

  “More than that,” Erin interrupted, frustrated with him. They needed to know this wasn’t a game. “It’s a question of which of you is willing to pull out all the stops.” She looked pointedly at the guy she’d taken down. “And who gets meaner, quicker.”

  For a moment, no one spoke.

  Then, “Okay, thanks, Erin,” Bill said, indicating the end of the session. “Now pair off.

  “Chad, I want you and Sheila together. I’m pretty sick of the two of you, so work it out.” Then, almost as an afterthought, he added, “Just don’t kill him, Sheila. The paperwork for dead CTs is a bitch.”

  Dismissed, Erin started toward the locker rooms. As always, she left wondering if anything she’d said or done would have an impact. Would they take their training more seriously and understand the inherent dangers of the job? Had she listened when she was a trainee? Probably not. It wasn’t until you got out in the field that reality set in.

  Bill fell in beside her.

  “Sooner or later, one of your gorillas is going to wipe the floor with me,” she said.

  “Sounds familiar.”

  She grinned and threw him a sideways glance. It wasn’t the first time they’d had this conversation. “That was an accident.”

  “So you’ve always claimed.”

  Four years ago, as a CT—career trainee—in Bill’s class, she’d put him down in a demo similar to the one she’d just given for his current class. It never would have happened if he’d taken time to read her student file, which revealed her years of martial-arts training. Instead, she’d caught him by surprise, embarrassing him in front of a class of newbies, and he’d never let her forget it.

  She suspected, however, that he’d also never repeated the mistake of ignoring student files. “So this is your way of getting even. You’re hoping one of your recruits can take me.”

  He laughed abruptly. “I’m not holding my breath, but it wouldn’t exactly break my heart.”

  “Easy for you to say. You’d be watching from the sidelines.”

  “As you said, life in the Company sucks.”

  She laughed and shook her head. “You have a wicked streak, Officer Jensen.”

  He grinned. “Yeah.”

  They�
��d reached the women’s locker room, but as she went to open the door, he said, “Wait up a minute, Erin. We need to talk.”

  She stopped, aware of the sudden shift in his voice. “Okay.”

  He hesitated, briefly. “You were a little rough on him. Cassidy, I mean.” He backstepped and planted his hands on his hips. “You put him down pretty hard.”

  “Please.” She rolled her eyes and held out her arms, splotches of red showing where Cassidy had grabbed her. By tomorrow, they’d be black and blue. “The guy was looking to hurt me.”

  “He was playing a part.”

  “And I wasn’t?” She folded her arms, not believing he was serious about this.

  “I’m not sure.” He looked away for a moment, then met her gaze again, head-on. “Sometimes you play the part a little too well.”

  She frowned, surprised. He meant it. He was actually worried that she’d hurt one of his handpicked testosterone junkies. “This isn’t a game, Bill, those recruits—”

  “This isn’t about them, it’s about you.”

  “What are you talking about? The only reason I do this is to give them a taste of what they’re up against. If—”

  “Look,” he interrupted. “I know you’re not crazy about working in the States.”

  He wasn’t making any sense. “What does that have to do with anything?”

  “You’re angry, and it shows. Hell, Cassidy really pissed you off out there.”

  “Give me a break. You know better than that.” In a fight, anger could get you killed. Bill knew that as well as she did. It was one of the realities drilled into all serious martial arts students.

  Still, she had to admit, Cassidy had irritated her with his Neanderthal tactics. But she hadn’t been angry. Not really. Or maybe . . .

  “I’m worried about you,” he said. “You don’t belong at Georgetown babysitting a bunch of foreign students.”

  It was a guess, but he wasn’t that far off. Knowledge of a covert officer’s assignment was on a need-to-know basis, but it wasn’t much of a leap for someone who’d been in the Company as long as Bill. Erin had been trained for the clandestine side of the Company and reported to the Directorate of Operations, as Bill well knew. Then responsibility had dragged her home.