Masquerade (59 page)

As she settled into her usual slow, steady gait, she gazed left at the ocean, which extended in a blaze of turquoise out to the Channel Islands some twenty miles away. Here on the ocean side, the vegetation was far different, not thick and upright and hardy as it was on the lagoon's slope, but sparse and gnarled from fighting to grow out of rock crevices where it was exposed to harsh seawinds. She could hear the roar of the surf far below—at least fifty feet—but she could not see it from the trail.

The cliff continued along the campus for miles. Every year a handful of people died from falling off it during drunken parties or while bicycling, hiking, or running. The media would cover the tragedy, and people would be careful for a while. But as time passed, the sense of danger faded. They resumed old habits. Became careless. Until someone else was killed.

She tried to shake off a sudden feeling of uneasiness. There were still occasional moments when she felt as if her past were catching up with her, and she was overcome with despair. But that seldom happened out here where the peaceful lagoon spread on one side, and the timeless ocean on the other. Where
the clear sky and the warm sun and the joyful calls of seagulls reminded her how good life was. She usually ran this high trail between the two bodies of water as if she were invincible.

But not today. She was nervy, wary. She did not understand it. Ahead, the path was empty, but she heard people behind. She glanced back, mindful of the rutted trail. There was another runner, tall and muscular, dressed in sunglasses, baseball cap, and jogging clothes. Ordinary looking. Behind him was a bicyclist, crouching low over his handlebars as he sped toward them, adjusting gears.

She listened to the rhythm of her feet, felt the measured beat of her heart, tested all her senses while she reminded herself to stay composed.

Soon the bicyclist whizzed past on her right, through the wild grasses on the lagoon side, off-trail. Relieved, she slowed to avoid breathing the billows of dust from his tires as he hurtled back onto the dirt track and roared onward. Next she felt the movement of air that told her the runner was about to pass, too. She moved politely left, to give him room. He did not move to the right.

Instead, he stayed directly behind, his speed increasing, his footsteps closing in. A chill shot up her spine, followed by anger. What in hell was he thinking! And then she knew. From the back of her mind, from a time and place she had worked hard to forget, she understood that she had been monitoring him all along, because he had been pacing her. He did not pass because he wanted something else.

She burst ahead. Her feet were light, her speed explosive, escaping. Her muscles sang. Vegetation passed in a blur, but his pounding gait told her he was fast, too. She dared not look back. She might trip, fall off the cliff.

She leaped off the beaten trail, risking tangled grass and loose rocks, aiming toward the gentle slope above the lagoon. But with a suddenness that sent fear rushing through her, she felt his hard, hot exhalations on the back of her neck. Desperately she tried to accelerate again, but there was nothing left. This was it, her top speed. She would have to fight.

As she started to turn, he slammed his arms around her
waist, wrenched her off her feet, and swung her around toward the cliff's ocean side.

Above her, the sky tilted. Panting, she rammed her right elbow back. He grunted in pain. She had connected with his pectorals, muscular and resilient, but she had not hit him hard enough to really hurt. He was taller and far stronger. She twisted from side to side and briefly saw his face with her peripheral vision. Heavy jaw, hollow cheekbones, thick, short nose. Ray-Ban sunglasses. His lips were a thin, neutral line.

Frantic, she slashed her other elbow into his shoulder and punched a fist back over her shoulder at his throat. Too little, too late. Like a big, bored child, he flung her from his arms and staggered back to safety.

Her balance utterly gone, she sailed helplessly through the air. Her mouth opened, her arms windmilled, and a primordial scream erupted from somewhere deep in her belly. She did not recognize the sound, and then it was gone, lost in the roar of the surf pounding far below.

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In this sequel to the
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Masquerade,
Liz Sansborough is thrust back into the life she had forsworn when it becomes apparent that someone has the files of the long-dead Carnivore, the most notorious Cold War assassin, and is using them to deadly effect
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