The First Prophet by Kay Hooper Page B

“Damn, damn,
     damn.”
    She eased back through the balcony doors into the apartment she had—so to speak—sublet
     and bent over a lovely Regency desk. The former occupant’s work had been unceremoniously
     shoved aside, and an open laptop sat in the center of the pretty floral blotter.
    “Jeez, enough with the plant motif,” she muttered, momentarily distracted as she glanced
     around at the very pretty, very feminine, and very floral bedroom in which she stood.
     Frilly was hardly Murphy’s style. Barely suppressing a shudder, she fixed her attention
     on the screen of the laptop.
    A section of a city map, brilliantly colored, met her intent gaze. She studied it
     for a long moment, frowning, then tapped a few keys to produce a close-up of the section.Her index finger traced the distance from a square representing the hotel across the
     street to a quieter street where former residences had been turned into small businesses.
    “Too close. Dammit, they have to know where she is.” Murphy wasn’t even conscious
     of speaking aloud, so accustomed to working alone that talking to herself had become
     a habit.
    The words had barely left her mouth when the very faint sound of a key in the lock
     of the apartment’s front door brought her head up alertly, and this time the curse
     that left her lips was a mere whisper.
    Just my luck that Ms. Bank Vice President went off this morning and left her damned
     lunch on the kitchen counter!
    Swiftly, unwilling to wait and find out whether the apartment’s legal occupant would
     choose to come into the bedroom for some reason, she closed the laptop and dropped
     it into the pouch hanging against her hip. Without a wasted motion, she backed out
     onto the balcony and slid the door closed.
    There was a fire escape, which was good, but leaving the shelter of the greenery meant
     she was too visible, even in the shadows, for her peace of mind. Still, being seen
     by the wrong person was infinitely preferable to being arrested for breaking and entering,
     which was what likely would happen if she remained on the balcony.
    She moved quickly and quietly down to street level and, once there, paused only long
     enough to stow the binoculars in their pocket of the pouch containing the computer.
    The pouch was not conspicuous, resembling nothingso much as a large, if bulky, shoulder bag, but someone might well have taken notice
     of the binoculars.
    A quick glance around told her that none of the few people about seemed interested
     in her. She was just about to relax when a carefully casual glance up at the window
     across the street brought her to a dead stop just two steps away from the fire escape.
    Duran was at the window, and he saw her.
    He was too far away for her to recognize his face, but she knew it was him. She knew
     he was looking at her. And she knew he recognized her. She could feel it. Like some
     night animal caught unexpectedly in the light, she stood frozen, not breathing, a
     panicky sensation stirring deep inside her. It was not a feeling she was willing to
     define to herself, though if asked she would have said angrily that it was hatred.
     Pure hatred.
    If asked, Duran would have said the same thing.
    The moment seemed to last forever, and if a car horn had not rudely shattered the
     quiet of the morning, there was no telling how long she would have stood there staring
     up at the man in the window. But the horn brought her to her senses, and with a soft
     little sound more violent than a curse, she hurried to the corner and around it, taking
     herself out of his field of vision.

    He turned away from the window and looked across the room at the other man.
    “What is it?” Varden asked, instantly alert.
    “We’ve run out of time,” Duran said.

    Sarah?
    She was struggling up out of the depths of an exhausted sleep, frantic to wake up
     and get control, to be able to shut out the whisper in her mind.
    Sarah, you must—
    Her eyes snapped open, and Sarah was