But stilettos, paired with a short skirt to show off her runner’s legs, gave her an advantage very few men had: the power of distraction. And since she couldn’t wear her favorite accessory—the Ruger she liked to keep strapped to her thigh—she had to arm herself in subtler ways. The staccato of her heels as she headed for the clandestine CIA station in New York City helped to soothe the frisson of unease that tingled up and down her spine. Following her extraction from Venezuela, the CIA’s in-house psychologist had diagnosed her with post-traumatic stress disorder. She’d been prescribed mild sedatives, which she’d flushed down the toilet, and was benched in paperwork hell until they deemed her fully operative. Apparently she had passed her most recent evaluation with flying colors or she wouldn’t be here. Thank God. Her imposed R & R was finally over! She couldn’t wait to get back into the game.
