Excerpt of Invisible Recruit by Mary Buckham

Vaughn Monroe hesitated, unsure for a second, hugging the brick wall and peering into the darkness beyond. The smell of spring dampened the night air. A whip-poor-will's trill was cut off midnote with crickets playing beyond the mowed grass. Traffic far down the valley hummed past while her heart beat shallow and fast.

Had she killed him? Or should she have tried harder? The run uphill had been rough, guided only by the moon glowing overhead and the vapor arc lamp in the opening between buildings that hunkered down in the stillness, obsidian slabs casting more shadows.

She'd trained for this, anticipated the drill inside and out. But knowing and doing were worlds apart. How many had he said? Five total? She'd counted four down. One to go.

Not bad for a deb. Take that, Stone, and stuff it up your backside.

She crouched lower, not wasting much effort on celebrating. Yet. Not while he could still be out there. Somewhere. Waiting.

Overextended muscles cramped in her lower stomach, mimicking those in clenched fingers cradling the modified Walther PPK. She ignored everything except the space before her. She hadn't come here to fail. This time she was going to win. Two hundred yards and she was home free. Another quick scan as she swallowed hard.

She should have made sure she'd taken him out back at the creek. Maybe it'd been enough. But the man was like Lazarus — killing him meant nothing.

She stepped forward, heard the brush of her crepe-soled boots against the gravel.

Damn!

She froze, breath stalling in her lungs, muscles quaking, sweat trickling along her lower back.

He was there. She knew it.

Waiting. Watching. Anticipating.

He wanted to stop her.

Tough. Let him want.

Nothing.

When pinpricks circled her vision she gave in, gulping a ragged fistful of cool air. Only then did she move forward into the shadows.

Wall to her left, steel building to the right. Objective at four o'clock.

Where would she hide if she were him?

Straight in front of her. Downwind. Easier to hear movement. He'd stay south of the objective, where the darkness deepened between two buildings.

She smiled, stood and crept forward. Ten feet. Eight. Almost there. Stay focused, no time to get cocky. Five.

A whisper of cloth against cloth. That was all.

Too late.

She whirled. The slam of a shoulder careened along her rib cage, twisting her, rolling, her back punched against packed gravel. She couldn't inhale, couldn't move.

A knee slammed to her chest. Hand to her throat. Pressing.

He had her. And there wasn't a damn thing she could do about it.

"You're dead," he whispered, leaning so close his breath warmed her face. "Mission failed."

Lights blazed on all around them. The exercise was finished. She swallowed the defeat clogging her throat, telling herself it was physical pain but knowing she was lying.

She noted only his eyes, inches from hers. Death promised less pain than they did. This wasn't over. Not by a long shot.

Vaughn leaned against the steel curve of the Quonset hut, aware of every movement around her. The other agents in training were as tired, as ragged as she was. Two weeks ago, they had been only names; now they were her team. Not yet friends, if ever. They'd all come here with an agenda, a job to do, and friendship wasn't it. But here and now, she accepted their thoughts as her own, their disappointment mirroring hers, their aches and bruises shadowing her own. Almost.

The thrum of pain beating across her ribs sang a familiar dirge. Stone had scored this time. It wasn't the first, but one of these days, soon, she'd make sure it was the last.

"The man isn't human," Alexis "Alex" Noziak muttered at her side, collapsed over her gear pack, her straight blue- black Native American hair hiding the frustration in her expression but not in her voice.

"Maybe he's one of those demon creatures who work at night to feast on mere mortals. He even looks like he could be the devil's spawn. Dark hair, dark eyes, body to die for, but even that could be just temptation working for him."

"So how do you explain that he's as hard-edged during the day as he is at night?" Kelly McAlister asked in her soft Kansas accent.

"Can't." Alex sighed, leaning her head back and twisting her neck like a rag doll. "My momma told me never to trust dark-eyed men who are too good-looking for their own good."

Vaughn scraped together enough energy for a smile. Alex told it as she saw it. Nothing hidden in this Idaho girl. But would that trait backfire as their training continued? One more excuse for Stone to cull their already dwindling numbers. Week two, and they'd lost four recruits so far. After tonight there'd most likely be more. Who'd have thought volunteers could be thinned like debs at their first outing. Systematically picked off until none were left. Even the government had to accept and keep some of its new hires, but not Stone. If he continued as he'd begun, theAgency would end before it began.

Not her problem. Her problem was to make sure if any probies were left, she'd be one of them. Damn and double damn. She should have —

Failure clogged her throat.

She shrugged against the cold metal seeping through her fatigues. Too bad it did nothing to chill the churning in her gut.

"Attention," Jayleen called to her right. Jayleen was the most stunningly beautiful black woman Vaughn had ever met. All angles, large obsidian eyes and attitude armor-thick around her. An attitude Vaughn had yet to get through.

She heard bodies shifting, no doubt in response to Jayleen's command. As if all eyes weren't already riveted on the man entering the empty building. He walked like he taught — arrogant, assured and always in control. Alex was right. The man wasn't human. He was a robo-instructor sent to make life a misery for all of them. And he did a fine job of it.

M. T. Stone.

No one knew what the initials stood for. On the first day, they'd guessed Mighty Tough; by the third day, it'd become Mostly Terminal. The polite terms had disappeared by the end of the first week.

A few recruits shifted. One, in addition to Jayleen, stood. The rest remained where they were, like Vaughn, not sure if their legs would hold them.

"Anyone want to explain why no one made the objective tonight?" He strode forward, boots silent against the concrete floor, his voice as dark as he was, his gaze lethal as it swept over the two dozen women huddled on one side. Vaughn didn't need to glance at her watch to know sunrise was less than an hour away; exhaustion gave the time away. They'd been at this exercise for more than twenty hours. And it looked as if it wouldn't be over for a while.

"Poor execution, sir." Jayleen stepped forward like the butt-kisser she was.

Eyes as hard as the man's name slid toward the former con artist. She called herself a tarot card reader, but the rumor about this recruit's background already raced like wildfire among them. Jayleen stood a heartbeat from jail time unless she got her act together, regardless of whether she looked like a cover model. Everyone had their own reason for joining IR5, their own motivation for facing hell, and Stone, on a daily basis. Too bad Vaughn couldn't call upon it.

Stone continued, his voice cutting through the group, his gaze still pinning Jayleen. "Poor execution? Is that what the problem was?"

Vaughn actually felt sorry for the woman. Duck, Jayleen, the man's hunting for heads.

He shifted, zeroing in on Vaughn as if beading a rifle scope. He wanted blood. That wasn't news. He'd settle for hers. But that wasn't news, either.

"Do you agree, deb? Poor execution?"

"No." She didn't bother to shift more than her gaze until it locked with his. She'd make him work for every ounce of blood he drew from her. Blood, sweat and tears. Churchill had it right. The great statesman understood the price of survival, but he forgot the cost of pride.

"So you think you executed tonight's exercise well?" Stone's tone taunted.

"No."

"Can't have it both ways, princess. Which is it?"

"We screwed up. We gave it our best, but it wasn't good enough."

"If that's your best, you'd all be dead."

Man had a point. And he knew she knew it. "Agreed."

"You think that's going to get you off the hook?" Not with this man.

"No."

Something hot and dangerous came and went in his eyes.

"You've finally gotten something right, Monroe." Calling her deb or princess was bad enough, but when he used her last name, the crap was about to hit the fan. She refused to move, keeping her hands flat and open at her sides even as the muscles in her stomach locked into a granite block. He would not break her. She would not let him.

She said nothing.

His eyes goaded, daring her to fight back.

Suicide. "Sir?" Alex's voice slashed the tension. "We almost —"

"There is no almost in this business." Stone didn't even bother to look atAlex. Instead he stepped closer toVaughn, towering over where she sat, using size as a weapon. Not that he needed one with that malt-whiskey-over-ice voice. It could kill all on its own. "No second chances. No doovers. Monroe should have taken me out when she had the chance. She didn't. Three shots on target. None lethal. She should have confirmed — it's the way of a true operative."