A waist-high, teak wood fence barred him from her backyard. DeMarcus didn’t hesitate. He braced his arms on the fence and vaulted over. His sneakered feet landed on a paved walkway between the Jones’s residence and a well-manicured lawn as lush as a deep green carpet. Past the house, the walkway opened to a space half the size of a basketball court. The lawn bracketed the court’s thick, shock-absorbing tile. Two strong maple trees stood guard on either side. And in the center of the setting was the source of the steady thumping. Jaclyn dribbled an NBA-regulation basketball. The Lady Assassin charged the post. She was part modern dancer and part ruthless predator. Her slender arms worked the ball hard to the basket. She spun, dodged and weaved around imaginary opponents foolish enough to challenge her. A foot from her goal, she leaped into the air, arched her lithe body and slammed the ball through the net. She landed on her feet as graceful as a cat. “Two points.” DeMarcus applauded her game.
