Atlanta, Ga.

The flight was late.

Caitlin Malone scanned the crowded terminal, tamped down the urge to swipe at the moisture coating the valley between her breasts, and checked her watch again. Fifty minutes late. Maybe the intel Northstar Security Firm had received was wrong. Maybe the target wasn't on this flight. She arched her back and silently cursed the ribbon of sweat that trickled between her should blades. It was becoming increasingly difficult to keep her frustration at bay. At least her wilted condition wouldn't rate a second glance. Her no longer crisp, white cotton top and cargo shorts blended well with vacationing crowds, many of whom showed similar signs of melting as the late September humidity that taxed the overworked air-conditioning at Atlanta International.

Shifting her weight to her other foot, she flipped another page of the magazine, pretending to read. The assignment was simple. Fly into Atlanta from Dulles. Locate the target. Track his movements. Report to headquarters. Nothing more. Yet the future of her career with the firm rested on a successful outcome. Nearly two years of training, drills, and simulations combined to prepare her for the real deal. Even though the practice targets had been a lesser menace than today's assignment, she was ready. She'd committed the case file to memory, which included a photograph of the target's face, as well as his physical statistics, height, build, and eye color. For the past forty-five minutes, she'd scanned the multitude of passengers until her eyes burned, confirming that he'd not taken an earlier flight.

Nothing.

Caitlin shifted again, an attempt to ease the dampness building inside the band of her shorts. This simple shadow and report assignment had all the hallmarks of walking a tightrope, requiring patience, composure and poise. None of which were her forte. She preferred action over contained anticipation. Nevertheless, the assignment called for finesse and she was committed to deliver.

Glancing at the arrival and departure monitor for the hundredth time, she noticed the delayed flight status from Missoula, Montana via Salt Lake City had changed. Finally.

She punched number one on the speed dial of her cell phone. One ring sounded in her hands-free, Bluetooth earpiece. "The plane's landing now," she spoke quietly to her unseen partner on the other end of the line.

"Roger," replied Sloan Cartland.

Sloan had procured the rental car and had been circling the pickup lanes while waiting for her signal. Although his experience and seniority outweighed Caitlin's, the director had made her lead on the assignment. Sloan was her back up and logistics coordinator. Glorified babysitter, more like. She had argued to make the assignment a solo, but the director refused, citing the firm's guidelines that all out-of-state assignments required a partner. Logically, she understood, but part of her resented being watched. Graded.

Through the throng of passengers, Caitlin spotted an average built, medium brown haired man weaving through businessmen and harried vacationers. Her heart rate escalated, sending an adrenalin surge to her eager limbs. The stale airport air no longer seemed oppressive as her vision sharpened and focused on the target.