CAT VAULTED OVER the low wall, her blood singing at the sheer joy of running parcours. Her breathing was fast but her movements measured as she and Paolo raced through the abandoned warehouse.
She vaulted, then made a tic-tac of her feet on a wall as she built momentum and leapt, grabbing the edge of an empty skylight. Swinging, Cat hauled herself up and over the edge. It was there Paolo passed her. She was fast and agile but he beat her hands-down in upper body strength.
With a whoop he was away, across the roof to clatter down an empty stairwell while she raced to draw close. Bounding off stairs, walls and a balustrade, she’d almost caught him when they reached the perimeter fence.
‘Mine today,’ he gasped.
Cat nodded, bracing hands on knees. Her ponytail swung over her shoulder as she breathed deep. ‘That passe muraille of yours was faultless.’
He grinned. ‘Something for you to aim for?’
She punched his arm. ‘Almost up to my standard.’
They headed for the exit. ‘Same time next week?’
‘I may have a job out of town. I’ll call.’
He nodded and unlocked his car. ‘You need a lift?’
Cat shook her head. ‘No. I’m heading to the gym.’ The outwardly dilapidated but excellent gym they used was around the corner. She wanted to check on the kids she’d been coaching after school. They were troubled teens, like she’d been. But they showed promise and while she was between jobs she enjoyed being with them.
She turned into the dog-leg alley shortcut, head full of teenagers and their prickly pride. Which was no excuse for the few seconds it took to scope danger. The shiny limo was out of place in this part of New York. But it was the tall guy with the bulge under his jacket, peeling away from the wall, she should have noticed instantly.
He moved fast as a professional. But so was she. When he reached for her she ducked, grabbed his wrist and used his forward momentum to crash him to the ground. Knee between his shoulder blades, she took his gun.
‘Ms Dubois!’
She turned, hearing the man beneath her groan as her knee swivelled. Standing in the doorway of the limo was a slim man in a dark suit, eyes wide.
‘Ms Dubois, please. I only want to talk.’ The air expelled from her lungs in a rush. Because the man didn’t speak English but the distinctive patois of her native tongue—a modified version of French. Alarm bells rang, leaving her more rather than less alert.
‘Who are you?’ She eased back, giving the guy beneath her room to breathe, keeping a hand locked on his wrist.
The man at the limo stepped closer. ‘I’m the St Gallan ambassador to the US. I’m here with a job offer. If I may show you my credentials?’ Slowly he approached and Cat read his ID. It was genuine.
Tucking the gun into her waistband, she rose. ‘If you want to talk, why send him?’ She gestured to the big man clambering to his feet.
The ambassador grimaced. ‘I was told you might not welcome an approach from St Galla and I needed to be sure you’d listen. His instructions were to bring you to the car so we could talk.’
His bodyguard straightened, rolling his shoulder to test it and nodded. ‘Tactical mistake. I knew you were one of us but I didn’t expect...’ He shrugged, then winced.
‘I’m not interested in a job in St Galla.’ She’d left her island home at eighteen after her mother’s funeral. The place held nothing for her after she lost the one person who’d ever loved her, the only one she’d loved.
The ambassador nodded. ‘There’s someone who could change your mind. The Prime Minister is waiting.’
Cat’s eyes darted to the limo’s tinted windows.
‘A long-distance call. Allow me to offer you the privacy of my car while you talk.’
Angry and confused, Cat was in no mood to comply. But curiosity won and she found herself alone in the vehicle, looking at a screen and the thin, clever face of the St Gallan Prime Minister, Monsieur Barthe. He looked shocked.
‘By God, you are like her! I saw the photos but...’