His balls clenched up and sweat popped out across his skin, nearly drenching him in a matter of moments. He knew her. He had seen more of her than he ever wanted to. She came into him in a way that shouldn't be possible, in a way that rape victims—man or woman—would never know. What was worse, perhaps, was that she knew him. Knew everything about him, every piece of his mind and body. Whatever he projected to the people inside this house, it wouldn't work with her. She would know what he thought, perhaps even what he planned to do before he did it. "Shut up," he whispered. His hands gripped the binoculars tight as she walked across the field. He had a job to do, a singular job right now, and it didn't matter what happened in the past. It didn't matter what she knew about him or what she had seen. This mission was no different than any other mission over the past fifty years. In fact, it might be more similar to the recent ones.
