"What do you think, N3?" she said, using my Killmaster rank instead of my name. Among girls who looked as striking as she did, I tried to encourage a little more familiarity than that.
"Of the car, or the driver?" I asked.
Fire flared in her green eyes. "The car, of course. I don't give a damn what you think of the driver."
I glanced at the mechanic, who shrugged, then beat a diplomatic retreat. He didn't want to be a witness when this magnificent redhead chopped the famed Nick Carter into little pieces with her scorn.
"What have I done to you?" I asked her, slightly bewildered.
"Nothing at all. Let's see that it stays that way, N3."
There it was again, the rank instead of the name. I took this and the glint of fire in her eyes as a challenge. "I thought you were showing off a little bit when you were behind the wheel of the car," I said. "Was it for my benefit?"
"Of course you'd think that. You were probably astonished to see that a woman could handle a car better than you can." Her proud lip curled, but it only made her full mouth more inviting. "Let's get the obvious out of the way right now, N3. You may be worshiped as a bedroom athlete by some of the girls around here, but I'm not impressed by your reputation."
"What does impress you — performance? Maybe we can arrange a demonstration."
She laughed as though the suggestion amused her. She tugged at the zipper that ran down the front of her baggy coveralls. "Do you know what I was told, N3? I was told that if you were on a plane that was crashing, you'll still find time to proposition the stewardess."
That's true," I told her. "In fact, I'm the one who said that."
She shrugged the coveralls off her shoulders and wriggled out of them, managing to make the procedure as titillating as a strip tease. Underneath her work clothes, she was wearing hip-hugging pants and a sweater that clung to her curves like the skin on a grape.
"I respect you as a professional. The rank N3 means something," she said. "But let's keep our conversation on the professional level, shall we?"
I couldn't think of anything that interested me less, except possibly delivering a temperance lecture at a home for old maids.
"The car handled well for you, but I'd like to try it out for myself," I told her.
I got under the steering wheel, awoke the motor, and backed the car up. Then I gunned it. I took the course as fast as the girl had and finished up by braking the car into a tire-screeching double spin. When I got out, tossed her the keys, and said, "It'll do," I thought she'd spit in my face.
"Now who's the show-off?" she said, but there was a hint of surprise mixed with the sarcasm in her voice.
"The car doesn't look like much, but it's got a lot under the hood. You look like a lot of woman, but maybe you aren't so much. I'm curious enough to wonder about that." I dropped the duplicate key to my quarters into her hand. "If you want to use this it'll have to be tonight. I'm leaving the base in the morning."
"What makes you think I'd even consider using it?"
"Maybe you're as curious as I am," I said.
Back in my quarters I tugged off my coat, baring the stripped-down Luger in the quick-draw rig under my left arm. The armament I checked out from AXE varied from assignment to assignment, but I was never without my personal weapons: the Luger I called Wilhelmina; the stiletto, Hugo, up my sleeve; and taped to my inner thigh, the tiny gas bomb, Pierre. The bomb could kill everyone in a closed room within seconds; all that was required was a hard twist that snapped its shell.
Opening the desk drawer, I took out the folder Hawk had given me. I flipped back the cover and frowned in annoyance. I thought I remembered leaving the copy of my cover story on top of the file. Now the first page was the sheet containing Sheila's physical description and a still photograph excerpted from the film I'd seen earlier that day.
I told myself I had to be mistaken. I shuffled through the contents of the folder, but there was no sign of the single-page story. Well, no use worrying about it now, I reflected. An outsider would find infiltrating an AXE base as difficult as smuggling a steamboat into a football stadium.
Still vaguely uneasy, I settled down to read over the file on the Brant girl. As Hawk had said, there were no details on her past. She might have been born the weekend Frank Abruze had picked her up in Las Vegas. After AXE discovered her in Idaho, however, the data was painstakingly complete — the hours she worked as a waitress, what time she usually went to bed, and even a penciled sketch of the floor plan of the house she rented.
Many times I had wished that I had a photographic memory. Since I didn't have one, I'd developed my own methods for anchoring key facts in my mind. I jotted down notes in the pocket notebook I carry and read them over, scanned the floor plan of Sheila's house, then stretched out on the bed, pushing everything out of my thoughts except the material I'd been reading.
I must have dozed off. I awoke in darkness, alerted by a sound so tiny I couldn't define it.
It came again, just a faint scratching sound, metal touching metal. I surged off the bed and landed in a crouch with the Luger in my hand.
The door opened and a yellow stripe of light raced across the floor. The redhead said, "You have quick reflexes, N3."
I relaxed, realizing the sound I'd heard had been her key turning in the door. I wasn't embarrassed to be caught with a gun in my hand. The instinct that had brought me off the bed had saved my life more than once.
"Turn on the light. The button's on the wall behind you," I told the girl.
She flicked the switch, then tossed me the key. "If you're leaving tomorrow, I won't be needing this again, will I?"
I palmed the key, grinning. "So you got curious."
She shrugged. "I guess I just had to find out if you're all that I've been told."
"Why don't you close the door and introduce yourself?" I said.
She closed it without taking her eyes off me. The challenge still glinted in their green depths.
"Patricia Steele," she said.
Removing my shoulder rig, I hung it on the back of a chair and slid the Luger into the holster. "How long have you been working for AXE?"
"A year, approximately. Now ask how a nice girl like me got into this business."
"Let me hazard a guess. You wanted to prove you could do anything a man could do."
"Oh, you're a cunning bastard," she said without a noticeable degree of malice.
"I have a bottle of Scotch," I said. "A gift from our boss. Shall I break it out?"
"I didn't come here to drink," she said. She peeled her sweater over her head and pitched it at a chair.
She wore a black lace bra. Well, half a bra. Her cups were running over. Well-endowed was one of the inadequate descriptions that sprang to mind as I eyed her.
Shaking out the bright red mane of hair, she smiled at me. The smile was part taunt, part promise.
I remembered her line from that afternoon. I repeated it. "Now who's showing off?"
"I am," she admitted. "But you like it."
Still smiling, she tugged down the zippered fly of her slacks, wriggled out of the heap they made at her feet. Now she wore only the black bra and a matching splash of black lace below.
Calmly she walked to the bed and sat down on the edge. She unfastened the bra and pulled it away from her large breasts. With a casual movement of her arm, she draped the garment across the headboard, then lay back on my pillow.
"I'll leave the pants for you," she said. "I thought you might like to tear them off me."
Something other than a challenge was shining in her eyes now. Excitement, desire.
When I shed my clothing, and she saw the stiletto and the gas bomb, she exclaimed, "My God, you re a walking arsenal."
I grinned lewdly. "You re packing a pair of cannonballs yourself."