by Dee Davis
There were security people stationed in each section, as well as at intervals along all the concourses. She and Simon had been assigned to patrol the grandstand level. And so far, except for a couple of drunks and a rowdy Texas fan, there hadn’t been any trouble.
Avery was set up with other top brass from Homeland Security and the FBI in a command center close to the broadcast booth. Nash and Drake had flipped for the field level, Drake winning with a whoop, and Nash grumbling all the way to the main level where he, too, was patrolling. Men and their sports. Tyler was acting as a runner between the two, working both levels, and from what Jillian could see, enjoying herself.
It was the top of the seventh inning, and the Yankees were up by two. And although spirits were high throughout the stadium, the game itself seemed to move incredibly slowly. Simon assured her that it was indeed exciting if you understood it. But she didn’t, and now was certainly not the time to try to learn.
They were all wired for sound, connected to each other with comlinks running through the command center. While A-Tac maintained a separate channel, they could be connected at a moment’s notice with the rest of the various personnel should the situation warrant it.
“I think I’m going to go downstairs and check out the concourse,” Jillian said, as the crowd erupted with what sounded like a resounding boo but, according to Simon, was actually “Boone”—one of the relief pitchers.
“I’ll come with you,” Simon offered, pulling his attention reluctantly away from the game. “Fingers crossed, this will be over soon.”
“You talking about the Yankees, or the threat?” she asked with a smile as they walked down the steps.
“Both.” He grinned, and she felt her heart lighten. No matter how difficult things were between them, she was glad that there was still a connection. When this ended, she’d be reassigned back to Washington, but, at least in the moment, they were still friends.
She tossed the cup into the trash as they hit the pavement of the concourse and nervously ran her hand across the butt of her gun. So far there hadn’t been any sign of a threat, but there was still time. This late in the game the vendors on the concourse were shutting things down, and most of the fans were in their seats. Which made it easier to survey the area for anything out of place.
Most of the high-end stores were located on the lower tiers, fans there paying a ridiculously high price for seats and therefore presumably better able to spend on extras. Seriously, for that kind of money, Jillian would rather take a trip to an island somewhere. Blue water, palm trees, sand, and…
“You guys seeing anything?” Nash asked, his voice jerking her away from an image turning decidedly X-rated. Clearly her imagination hadn’t gotten the memo regarding Simon.
“Not a damn thing,” Simon responded. “If Isaacs is here, I’d say he’s focused on the game.”
“Smart man.” Drake’s voice echoed across the airwaves. “Just a few more good pitches, and we’re into the top of the ninth.”
“Drake, I assume you’re still keeping an eye out?” Avery’s tone was fierce, but there was a hint of laughter as well.
“I am indeed.” He sighed. “You know the operation is always number one with me. Besides, it’s not the Angels. Anyway, at least for the moment, we’re clear down here.”
“We’re also batting zero,” Tyler said, as Nash groaned. “But in the infamous words of Yogi Berra, ‘it ain’t over till it’s over.’ ”
Everyone laughed, then the comlinks went dark as they turned back to the business at hand. Jillian and Simon headed for the far right side of the concourse. They passed a couple of security folks, acknowledging them with a nod. Then, just as they reached the end, and a crowd of rowdy fans spilling out of one of the stadium’s private clubs, Jillian frowned as a man broke away from the group.
“Over there,” she whispered, her hand on Simon’s arm. “Moving through the crowd in the direction of the escalator.” She nodded toward a dark-haired man in a bulky jacket. He was walking with purpose, ignoring the other revelers, but stopping every now and again to check out the crowd.
“Same height and coloring as Isaacs,” Simon said as they moved forward, her hand still on his arm as they smiled and pretended to be engrossed in each other. “Keep acting casual, but let’s try to close the distance.”
They sped up the pace as the man broke free of the crowd, striding toward the escalator, which was running down now that they were in the final innings of the game.
“Nash?” Jillian called softly into the comlink. “We’re coming your way. Got a guy acting suspicious and about to enter the south escalator. Could be Isaacs.”
“Copy that,” came the reply. “We’re at the opposite end of the concourse, but we’re on the way.”
“Keep back for now,” Simon interjected. “We don’t want to spook him. So far, he hasn’t made us. We’ll keep you advised.”
“We’ll be listening. And we’ll close the distance just to be sure.”
The man walked into the open area fronting the escalators, then stopped for a moment, adjusting something inside his jacket. The bulky outline reminding Jillian of the bomber Simon had chased before.
“You thinking what I’m thinking?” Simon asked, clearly reading her mind as he reached for his weapon.
“His jacket looks just like the guy at the seaport’s.”
Simon inched closer, just as the man looked up, eyes narrowing as he saw Simon reaching for his gun. For a moment, the man froze, and then he bolted for the escalator, jumping over the railing to disappear onto the moving stairway below. But in the second before he disappeared, Jillian got a good look at his face. It wasn’t Isaacs, although the guy obviously had something to hide.
“Son of a bitch,” Simon cursed, sprinting for the escalator and vaulting over the side in pursuit, Jillian following behind him.
The man had a fairly good-sized lead, but Simon was taking the moving stairs two at a time. Jillian hurried to follow, but moved carefully, fearful that if she fell, Simon would have to stop to make certain she was okay.
Simon lifted his arm, trying to get a shot, but before he could manage, the man jumped the last five risers, hitting the bottom and rounding the corner into another boisterous crowd of tipsy Yankee fans. A huge screen on the wall above them showed that the game was still in the top of the ninth.
“Where the hell did he go?” Simon asked, sliding to a stop, gun concealed now near his pants leg.
Jillian stood on tiptoe, scanning the crowd. “Over there,” she said, catching sight of the man as he pushed through the crowd just beyond the bar. He turned back for a look over his shoulder, spotted Simon, and began to run.
Simon sprinted forward, pushing people out of the way.
“Simon’s in pursuit,” Jillian cried into the comlink. “They’re heading for the far side of the main level. Is there an exit that way?”
“A staircase,” Drake replied. “I’m heading there now. Worst case, I’ll cut him off before he has a chance to clear the field level and get outside.”
“Copy that,” Jillian said as Simon, along with the man in the jacket, disappeared into the now surging crowd. On the screen above, the Yankees were all spilling out onto the field, high-fiving and chest bumping each other, the game clearly over.
“Where’d they go?” Nash asked as he appeared beside her, raising his voice to be heard over the screaming crowd.
“I’ve lost sight,” she said, “but they went that way.” She pointed toward the far side of the concourse, now filling with fans as they vacated their seats, still whooping and hollering. “Wait a minute. There they are.” Simon emerged from the bar crowd, headed toward a hallway leading to the back of the concourse. And just ahead of him, rounding a corner, she could see the man in the jacket.
Nash began pushing his way through the crowd, and she stuck close, following in his wake, knowing that she’d never make it through in time on her own. Finally, they broke free, and both of them began running. Sim
on was out of sight by now, but they followed his path into the corridor leading to the bathrooms.
They were still ahead of the crowd, but if the man was in fact wearing a bomb, it wouldn’t matter. As they approached the two doorways, there was still no sign of Simon or the man in the jacket, and no other way out.
“You take the ladies’,” Nash said. “I’ll head for the men’s.”
She started to protest, knowing full well that they were most likely in the men’s bathroom, but then stopped. If this guy was who they thought he was, there was no room for error. Pulling the Glock, she rounded the open doorway into the ladies’ room. It was long and narrow, with stalls opening to the right and sinks with mirrors on the left.
Keeping her back to the wall, she moved along the line of stalls, kicking the first one open. And then the second and third. Only six more to go. Behind her, a woman walked into the bathroom, but Jillian waved her back, still moving along the line of stalls, kicking each door open in turn. Finally, she reached the last one, and after swinging the door open, determined that it, too, was empty.
Wild goose chase. Hopefully Simon and Nash were having more luck.
She was just starting to turn back when a shadow detached itself from the corner behind the last stall. Something hard hit her from behind, and she was sent sprawling to the floor, managing to hold on to her gun only through sheer force of will.
Rolling to her knees, she drew the gun level, pointing it at the now fleeing man’s back. “Stop or I’ll shoot,” she yelled, her finger already tightening on the trigger. The man froze, back still turned, then one hand started reaching into his jacket.
“Don’t do it,” she said. “Unless you’re ready to die right now.” It was an empty threat if he was the bomber, but it was all she had. If she shot him, the odds were he’d still have time to detonate before dying. “I want you to lift your hands in the air. And turn around slowly.”
Again the man made a move for his coat, and this time Jillian fired.
The bullet went wide as the man hit the floor, then rolled to his feet again, turning, a gun in his hand. For a moment, everything seemed to move in slow motion. The man fired, and Jillian dove to the floor, getting off a second round, but knowing that the trajectory had been off.
Then the man lifted his arm, and Jillian struggled to line up her shot, knowing she only had a second at most. But then suddenly another shot rang out, the man crumpling to the ground, the gun clattering against the tiled floor.
“Are you all right?” Simon asked, rushing over to her side, his face etched with fear. “Did he hurt you?”
“No.” She shook her head, a combination of adrenaline and fear making her shake now that it was over. “You got here in time. What about the bomb?”
“There isn’t one,” Nash said, kneeling beside the body as Simon slipped an arm around Jillian, helping her to sit up. “Looks like he was concealing a bunch of signed baseballs.” He held one up, then moved so that they could see that the inside of the man’s coat was lined with little pockets, most of them holding a ball. “Counterfeit from the looks of them. Probably was hawking them to fans.”
“Explains why the jacket was so bumpy,” Simon observed.
“But why would he risk his life for something like that?” Jillian asked, taking Simon’s arm as he helped her to stand.
“Depending on what he was selling them for, he could have been charged with a felony,” Nash said, “but I’m guessing the wild dash into the bathroom was more about this.” He opened his other hand to reveal a plastic bag filled with white powder. “Looks like cocaine, but we’ll need a lab to confirm it.”
“Everyone okay?” Avery said, appearing in the doorway, followed by a uniformed policeman who walked over to the body.
“Yeah, boss,” Nash replied, pushing to his feet after handing the drugs over to the police officer. “Looks like we’ve caught ourselves a drug addict, among other things. But no bomb. And no Isaacs.”
“Well, considering the potential for disaster, I’d say that’s a good thing.”
The four of them walked out of the bathroom, a group of police and other assorted security people waiting just outside. And beyond them, a group of curious baseball fans.
“It’s okay, people,” Avery said, as usual assuming command. “Everything’s been taken care of.” He and Nash stopped to confer with the ranking Homeland Security agent.
Simon, his arm still around her, pulled her over to a quiet corner close to the stands, his gaze colliding with hers, his expression colored with worry. “Are you sure you’re all right?” He framed her face with his hands, searching her eyes.
“I’m fine. I promise. Probably a couple of new bruises. I’m sorry, I should have got the guy, but he caught me off guard. I’d cleared the stalls so I thought the place was empty. If you hadn’t gotten there when you did…” She trailed off, still shaken.
“You’d have shot him. I just moved things along a little more quickly.”
“You saved my life,” she whispered, thinking that it was getting to be an all too common occurrence.
“Again…” He smiled, his train of thought following hers. “But then you’d have saved me, too, if the situation had been reversed.”
“Yes.” She nodded, thinking that she should break the contact, but not actually willing to do it. “I would have.”
Behind them in the stands, the remaining crowd was going wild, the Yankees lined up in celebration, air cannons firing confetti into the stands. Red, white, and blue bits of paper rained down everywhere.
“Which is why we make a perfect team,” Simon whispered, bending his head closer to hers. For a moment, she thought he was going to kiss her, and by God, even though she knew it was a mistake, she was going to let him.
But instead, he slid his arm around her again, turning her back toward the crowd gathered near the escalator, as the confetti twirled and drifted to the floor around them.
“What do you say we call it a day and head for home?” he asked, his arm tightening around her. “Looks like we’ve made it through the game without an attack. And it seems as if Avery’s got everything in hand.”
She wished she could say the same. But her emotions were running the gamut from elation to despair. If this was really over, then she’d be leaving New York. Which should be a good thing. Except that there was a part of her that wanted to stay—with Simon.
CHAPTER 19
Jillian sat on the sofa in the sitting room, curled up under an afghan. They’d stayed at the stadium long enough to verify that things had quieted down and there was no sign of further threat. They’d closed the bars and restaurants that were still open and escorted the stragglers from the stadium. Then they’d worked to hurry the players and journalists along, the NYPD playing the heavy. And finally, with Avery’s blessing, Simon had driven J.J. back to the safe house.
She probably ought to be in bed, but her mind was still running a mile a minute, replaying the events of a few hours ago. She could still see the guy leveling his gun, feel the wave of certainty that this was it. That she was going to die. But then Simon had been there, doing what was necessary to keep her safe. Riding to her rescue once again.
And yet even though she knew in her heart that Simon wasn’t Ryan, she couldn’t shake the conviction that if she gave in to him, she’d be falling into the same trap. Making the same mistakes all over again. Giving in to a man who lived his entire life surrounded by violence. How could it not spill over into everyday life?
She pushed her hair out of her face with a sigh, snuggling deeper into the comfort of the afghan, feeling as if she were being torn in two. She wanted him so badly. But she was afraid. Afraid of herself. Afraid of her feelings for Simon. Afraid of… hell, everything.
Ryan had taken so much from her, and she’d let him do it. Which meant that the biggest loss of all was that she no longer trusted her own instincts. At least not when it came to believing someone. Really, truly believing.
“I
hope you still drink bourbon,” Simon said, his voice startling her from her reverie. It was almost as if she’d conjured him. “I thought maybe we could use a drink after everything we’ve been through.”
“You thought right.” She nodded, pushing off the afghan as she took the glass from him. “And yes, I still love bourbon.”
A smile ghosted across his face as he sat down next to her. He looked tired, and she resisted the urge to reach out. To try to ease his pain. But she couldn’t stop herself from asking. She’d seen the awful scars on his leg the night before. Seen him wince even in the heat of passion.
“Are you hurting?”
“Always,” he said, his mouth twisting with grim acceptance. “It’s just going to be a part of my life. The new norm.”
“I’m so sorry. I can’t even imagine…” She trailed off, unsure of what to say. There really weren’t words.
“I was lucky. I know soldiers who’ve come home with a hell of a lot worse. And some of them,” he paused, looking down into his drink, “like Ryan, didn’t come home at all.”
Silence stretched between them. It seemed that no matter what they said or did, the past was always there between them—waiting to rear its ugly head.
“J.J.—” he started then stopped, lifting his gaze to meet hers on a deep sigh, “we need to talk.”
“I know.” She nodded, taking a sip of her drink. “But it isn’t going to change anything.”
“Maybe not, but I think it’s important to get it all out in the open. If we have any chance of putting this all behind us, we’ve got to be honest with each other.”
“Sometimes honesty is overrated,” she said, thinking about Ryan, about the real truth.
Simon leaned back against the windowsill, his expression resolute. “So if you don’t blame me for Ryan’s death, then why the cold shoulder? Why the distance when things have been so amazing between us?”
