by Irene Hannon
Gathering up her purse and briefcase, she threw her jacket around her shoulders. But as she flipped off the light in her office and pulled open the door, she froze.
A red-faced Jack Hanley stood on the threshold of the hall door, his path blocked by all five-foot-three inches of Maria, who had a white-knuckled grip on the door on one side and the door frame on the other. It was clear she had no intention of moving as she glared at the man who towered over her by a good ten inches.
When Jack caught sight of Emily, however, he shouldered his way past Maria, throwing her off balance.
“He was on the other side of the door when I opened it to leave,” Maria told Emily, anger flashing in her eyes as she steadied herself on the doorframe. “I told him you were not seeing anyone else today, but he would not go away.”
“It’s all right, Maria.” Emily did her best to keep her face and tone placid, though her stomach was churning. “Mr. Hanley, why don’t you call tomorrow, and Maria will set up an appoint—”
“Did you send those cops to interrogate me?” He planted his fists on his hips and glared down at her as he bit out the words, his face inches from hers.
Although Mark had said the officers and agents wouldn’t reveal details of the investigation, Emily wasn’t surprised Jack had connected it to her. She’d been his nemesis of late, and he knew she had detailed information about his problems. Logic would suggest to him that she was somehow involved with, or had knowledge of, his encounter with the police.
“I’m aware they were planning to talk with you.”
Her answer fueled his anger. “That’s what I thought. Look, lady, I have enough trouble already. I don’t need the cops hanging around. I haven’t done anything illegal.”
“Then you have nothing to be concerned about.”
“Since the day I met you, I’ve had nothing but trouble.”
“The trouble was already there when we met, Mr. Hanley. I’m trying to help you work through it.”
“And sending the cops to my house is a way to do that? What kind of therapist are you, anyway?”
She eased away from him. “I think you should leave. We can schedule an appointment for tomorrow when you’re calmer.”
“I want to talk now.” He raised his voice. “I’m tired of being jerked around. Tired of people telling me what to do and how to live my life. And don’t try to brush me off.” He reached out and snagged her jacket as she turned away, as if to restrain her, but succeeded only in pulling it from her shoulders.
The next few seconds were a blur. Emily heard pounding footsteps in the hall. Maria started hitting Jack with her purse.
Mark and Coop appeared, guns drawn. As Coop whipped Jack around and barked out an order, Mark stepped in front of Emily, keeping his Glock trained on Jack.
“What the . . .” Jack’s complexion reddened as Coop flashed his credentials and proceeded to do a thorough pat down.
After he finished, Coop backed off and lowered his gun, but he didn’t put it away. Nor did the grim line of his mouth ease.
“He’s clean.”
Turning, Mark holstered his gun and eased Emily into the chair beside Maria’s desk. Maria hovered close, muttering in Spanish, and handed her a glass of water.
As she lifted it to her lips, Emily realized she was shaking.
When the water sloshed dangerously close to the rim, Mark closed his hand around her cold fingers. She was grateful for his warm, steady touch as she took a sip.
“You’re okay now.” Leaning down, he stroked her hair, her cheek, his gaze probing hers.
“What’s going on here?” Jack glared at Coop.
“He has a solid alibi for Saturday. But you have every right to press harassment charges for this little incident.” Mark ignored Jack’s question and kept his voice low as he spoke to Emily.
“No. That would only complicate his life further. I shouldn’t have given you his name. I knew it would backfire.”
“Now that I’ve seen him in action, I’m not sorry we checked him out. Are you sure about the charges?”
“Yes.” She gave a jerky nod.
He hesitated a second, then straightened and turned to Jack.
“You’re a very lucky man, Mr. Hanley.” His tone was icy. “Dr.
Lawson has elected not to press harassment charges. And for your information, she was extremely reluctant to reveal your name to us, even though she was wounded by a sniper on Saturday.” “She was shot?” Shock rippled across Jack’s features, and some of the color drained from his face. Angling his head, he looked past Mark. For the first time, he seemed to notice the thick white dressing on Emily’s upper arm that extended below the sleeve of her blouse.
“Yes. Now I suggest you leave before she changes her mind about the charges . . . or before we change it for her.”
“Look, I’m really sorry about . . . I had no idea.” He moved toward the door, turning when he reached it to address Emily, his tone subdued. “I guess maybe I do need that anger management class. Thank you for not . . . for not taking any legal action today.”
At least something good had come of this episode, Emily reflected. Jack had acknowledged his anger problem. And recognized that he’d narrowly averted serious trouble as a result of it.
“Just get some help, Mr. Hanley,” she told him.
With a brief nod, the man slipped through the door. Coop moved to the threshold, watching until he exited the building.
Dropping down to balance on the balls of his feet beside her, Mark took her hand. “Let’s get you to the doctor, then home, okay?”
She managed a smile. “How is it you always manage to make such dramatic entrances in my life?”
“Frankly, I could do with a little less drama.” He turned to Coop, who had stepped back inside the office.
“He’s gone,” Coop confirmed.
Maria moved closer, concern etching her features. “Can I do anything else for you, Emily?”
“No. Thank you for coming to my defense. That purse can be a lethal weapon. I know how much it weighs.” She managed a shaky smile.
“You take good care of her,” Maria addressed the two men.
“That’s the plan.” Mark rose.
“I am sure you will try. But it is not always easy to do. She can be terca . . . stubborn.” Maria turned to Emily. “You do what they say, and I see you tomorrow. And from now on, I will look even if I think no one is there. I will not make this mistake ever again. Buenas noches.”
As Maria disappeared out the door, Emily stood. Her legs felt like rubber, and she was grateful for Mark’s hand under her elbow. She reached for her purse and briefcase, but Mark beat her to them.
“How about you concentrate on hanging on to me instead?”
That was no hardship. She could feel his muscles bunch beneath her fingertips as she slipped her hand through his arm, and his rock solid steadiness gave her a sense of strength and security. Two things she was in desperate need of tonight.
Especially after he told her on the way home that none of the interviews or leads had produced any suspects. And that they were no closer to finding the shooter now than they had been three days before.
He almost missed the follow-up story. If someone hadn’t left Wednesday’s newspaper on the table in the lunch room, he would have.
As he nuked one of the last homemade chicken potpies Ruthie had frozen, he scanned the headline: “Police Continuing to Check Leads in Park Shooting.” Information on the incident had been sparse until now. An initial story short on detail, plus some TV coverage the first day that consisted of nothing more substantive than video footage of the park.
That had been it.
The reason for the lack of coverage was obvious. The police didn’t have a clue who was responsible. And this latest headline was a crock. There weren’t any leads to check. If there had been, he’d be in jail by now. The care he’d taken to cover his tracks had paid off.
The microwave pinged, and he withdrew the potpie,
settling at the table with the newspaper in the empty lunch room. He’d started eating later than the other guys in the past few weeks.
Their chitchat had begun to get on his nerves.
“Smells good in here.”
He looked up as Red entered. Pushing sixty, the foreman had a shock of thick white hair that always needed combing, and the ruddy complexion that had earned him his nickname was redder than ever after the summer construction season.
“It’s one of Ruth’s potpies.”
It didn’t surprise him when that response discombobulated his boss.
“She was a good cook.” Red busied himself at the coffeemaker and changed the subject. “You gonna bowl with us again this fall? League’ll be starting soon.”
“Not this year.”
Turning, Red looked over at him. “Listen, I know you’ve had some really tough months. You okay?”
“I’m fine.”
For a moment, he thought Red was going to say more. Instead, the man added some cream to his coffee and headed for the door. “Don’t forget to read that note from George on the bulletin board. Take care, pal.”
Pal.
Red wasn’t his pal. Not like Ruthie had been. Or his son. Nor were any of the guys at work. They weren’t there when he went home at night. They didn’t cook him great meals and listen to his problems or shoot baskets with him or help with the chores.
They went home to their own families.
And he didn’t blame them. That’s what he used to do too.
When he had a family.
A savory piece of chicken from the potpie stuck in his throat, and he pushed the food away, struggling to blink the moisture from his eyes. He couldn’t break down. Not yet. He had a job to do first. The Lord had spoken to him about it. And until he finished that assignment, he needed to keep a clear head. Grief could come later.
Lifting the newspaper, he scanned the story. Until now, neither of the victims had been identified. But today’s article listed one by name and the other by profession—FBI Special Agent Mark Sanders and a prominent local psychologist. According to the piece, the investigators were focusing on Sanders as the target because of a high-profile shooting in which he’d been involved.
Looking up from the newspaper, his gaze fell on the employee bulletin board next to the refrigerator. He’d already read the note from George Aiken, general manager, about a new Missouri Department of Transportation project the company had been awarded. And he’d read the letter next to it from big-time builder
Mike Evans, commending the team at Aiken for its work on his latest housing development. The man had even personalized it with some handwritten kudos at the bottom.
He’d worked on that project. Done a good job too.
As he considered Evans’s note, he suddenly realized that the tools to further deflect attention from his real target were staring at him.
It was like a message from above.
And once everyone was focused on protecting the FBI agent, it would be much easier to finish his job.
The next time, Emily Lawson would die.
10
Signaling to the waitress, Mark pulled out his wallet to pay for the late lunch he and Coop had wolfed down after spending a long Thursday morning following up on some leads for Nick’s bank robbery case. As it turned out, those had been far more productive than the ones they’d pursued for the shooting. And now, after five days, the latter had dried up. The news story in yesterday’s paper identifying Mark as one of the targets had produced two calls, but both had been dead ends.
“Let me get this.” Coop reached for the bill as the waitress set it down.
“Nope. My treat. It’s the least I can do for keeping you and Monica apart.”
“True.” Coop retracted his hand with a grin.
“However, you must be getting used to these separations by now.”
His grin faded. “As a matter of fact, I’m not. And imminent fatherhood isn’t making them any easier.”
Surprised by Coop’s candidness and serious demeanor, Mark looked at him. In all the years they’d worked together, his partner had rarely talked about personal issues. And he reserved serious discussion for job-related topics. Everything else got the glib, irreverent treatment.
“How does Monica feel?” Mark decided to test the waters, open the door if Coop wanted to talk.
“The same.”
Coop played with his coffee mug, and Mark sensed a sudden tension in the air. Instinctively, he braced.
Grasping the mug with both hands, Coop looked over at him.
“I’m leaving the HRT, Mark.”
For an instant, Mark stopped breathing. For four years, he and Coop had spent most of their waking hours together. They’d trusted each other with their lives on numerous occasions, suffered together through long, uncomfortable missions, pushed each other to do their best during countless training simulations.
They’d covered each other’s backs and put their lives on the line for one another more times than Mark cared to count. They shared a bond born of mutual dependence—and respect—that few ever experienced.
And now their partnership was coming to an end.
Because of Monica. And a baby.
Resentment clawed at Mark’s gut. “I guess this is why I never got married.”
“I had a feeling you’d look at it that way. And marriage was one factor in my decision. But not the only one.” Coop pushed his mug aside and leveled a direct gaze at his partner. “I’m thirty-nine, Mark. I’ve been on the HRT for five years. There are only two operators from my class left on the team. You know as well as I do that four or five years is the average tenure. And we both know this is a job for younger men. It’s time for me to go. With or without Monica and the baby.”
Struggling to control his roiling emotions, Mark considered Coop’s words. Everything he’d said was true. Most HRT operators lasted four years, max. And the job was designed for younger bodies. The intense training and often-difficult working conditions took a physical toll. Mark didn’t bounce back as quickly from injuries as he had in the past, and some had caused permanent damage. Coop had suffered a broken leg three years ago during a mission, and Mark knew he continued to fight the lingering pain and effects—and that the grueling training often aggravated the old injury.
Logic told Mark that Coop’s decision was a good one. But it didn’t make him feel any better about it. He was losing a partner. He was losing a part of himself. And life would never be the same again.
“When are you leaving?” Mark managed to ask the question with reasonable calm.
“The end of September.”
“What will you do?”
“I’ve lined up a teaching job at the academy.”
At least he was staying with the FBI. Meaning their paths would continue to cross. It wasn’t much of a consolation, but it helped.
“It sounds like you’ve given this a lot of thought.”
“I have. It wasn’t an easy decision, Mark. But it’s the right one.”
Taking a sip of his tepid coffee, Mark tried to smile. “I guess that means I’ll have to break in a new partner. Maybe I’ll luck out and get one who doesn’t snore.”
“I probably should have warned Monica about that, huh?”
Coop grinned.
“I could always tell her my secret for making you stop.”
“A jab in the ribs with a blunt instrument? Forget it. Besides, she has a different technique. And it’s far less painful.” A slow, lazy smile lifted his lips.
“I don’t suppose you’re going to expound on that.” Mark quirked an eyebrow.
“Not a chance.”
“That’s what I figured.” Mark withdrew a credit card from his wallet and waved it at the waitress, who took it as she passed.
“Seriously, Coop, I wish you well. I understand your reasons for leaving, but it won’t be the same without you. It’s been a . . .we’ve had a good run.”
“Yeah. We have.”
Coop drained his cup and cleared his throat. “But you’re not rid of me yet. We still have a shooter to find.”
“I’m not too hopeful on that score.”
“If he tries again, we may have another chance.”
“Much as I hate loose ends, I’d prefer that to risking a life just to catch this guy.”
“Agreed. However, given the planning that went into the first attempt, the guy strikes me as determined.”
“True. The most frustrating part is not knowing why he’s determined or who he’s after. The one good thing is that it’s looking less and less like he’s after Emily now that Jack Hanley is out of the running as a suspect and none of our shelter interviews turned up anything suspicious.”
“Depends on how you define good. If he’s not after her, that puts you in his crosshairs.”
“Better me than her. I’ve got you watching my back.”
“No pressure there.” Coop gave him a dry look.
The waitress returned with Mark’s card, and after he signed the check and pocketed the receipt, he stood and faced his partner. “I’m not worried. You’re the best. And I trust you with my life.”
Emotion had no place on the HRT. Nor did sentiment. And he and Coop had avoided both, on the job—and off. The closest they’d ever come to acknowledging their feelings for each other had been when Coop asked Mark to be the best man at his wedding, choosing his partner over his brother.
Until now.
Though Mark’s comment reflected his professional opinion of Coop, both men knew it resonated with deeper meaning.
Rising, Coop held out his hand. “You can count on me, Mark.
Always.”
As they left the restaurant, Mark felt a little less depressed.
He’d miss Coop. No one could ever take his place as an HRT partner. But he was confident that on another level, their partnership would continue long after Coop moved on to other things.
“This is the best Chinese food I’ve ever eaten.” Mark helped himself to another scoop of chicken broccoli.
“I discovered this place when I was in college, and I still stop and get takeout on a regular basis.” Emily leaned over to grab a few paper napkins from the center of her kitchen table.
