A nice steady one hundred fifteen. She made sure to regulate her breathing—nice and slow, to optimize her workout. It turned out crackheads didn’t need the gym. Chemically induced, they ran like the wind. Not that she had been chasing any petty thieves or junkies lately. No, the predators she stalked were more about stealth and surprise. More than likely, she didn’t need to keep in shape to chase after a serial killer, but to run the hell away from one. Nicole glanced down to her phone, which she had propped up on the treadmill’s computerized screen. No new calls or texts. But what had she expected? She knew Kent couldn’t tell her where he was going or how long he would be gone. It was part of the deal when you were a consultant for the CIA, DOD, and half a dozen other three-initial agencies. Though technically Kent was still a Special Agent with the FBI, he seldom found himself in an office. His skills were better put to use out in the field.
