by Pamela Clare
“You thinking of giving Emily a little brother or sister?”
Nate nodded. “Megan applied to law school. If she gets accepted, we might decide to wait till she graduates. If she doesn’t . . . Well, she’ll be pretty disappointed. She wants to help young women who get into trouble. She had a rough life and wants to make sure other girls have a better chance.”
“That’s a worthy goal.” Javier knew next to nothing about Megan, but he didn’t like the idea that she’d had a hard time of it growing up. Whatever her past was, she certainly seemed to have moved beyond it.
“How about you? You ever going to get married again, raise a few kids?”
Javier glared at Nate. “Are you my mother? She asked me the same thing when I was home.”
She wanted him to buy a house somewhere nearby, marry a sweet Puerto Rican wife, and give her more grandkids while she was still alive to enjoy them. But he’d had a wife, and she’d run off with some cabrón from Silicon Valley midway through their first married deployment—less than a year after they’d tied the knot. Why would he want to go through that again?
Nate studied him for a moment, then took one last swill. “Well, I guess we’d best get to work if we want to get the patio shoveled in time to get back to the horses.”
It was a big patio with a built-in gas grill, a fire pit, stone benches, a few outdoor propane heaters, and a couple of picnic tables.
Javier got to his feet, pain shooting through his left thigh. “Tell me again why you have barbecues in the middle of the winter, bro?”
Nate looked at him like he was an idiot. “We like steak.”
* * *
LAURA MET SOPHIE in the cafeteria for a late lunch, both of them opting for the salad bar over the burgers. They made their way to a table in the back of the nearly empty room, Laura grabbing a bottle of mineral water on the way.
“I can’t believe the FBI isn’t going to do anything to help you.” Sophie stirred sugar into her iced tea.
“That’s not exactly what they said.” It was close enough from Laura’s point of view, but she was a journalist and had to be fair—even if she was furious. “The special agent in charge—Agent Petras—said they had no evidence that Al-Nassar’s threats were credible or that I was in any danger. He said they were monitoring the situation and that they would act if they found evidence that a threat existed.”
“Having a terrorist leader put a fatwa on your head doesn’t count as credible?” Sophie jabbed her fork into her salad. “Good grief! What does?”
What Al-Nassar had done didn’t constitute a fatwa, but Laura didn’t feel like explaining. Besides, it wasn’t what the FBI agent had said, but how he’d said it.
“Petras was smug, so condescending. He talked down to me as if I were a nuisance, as if I’d cried wolf or something—when he wasn’t staring at my boobs.”
Sophie rolled her eyes. “Why do men do that? Do they think we don’t notice?”
Laura had no idea. “What’s so infuriating is that I didn’t contact the FBI. I wasn’t the one who asked them to come.”
Sophie frowned. “Who did?”
“The U.S. Marshal Service.” Laura wished they hadn’t.
Sophie got a knowing look on her face. “I bet that’s the problem. There’s no love lost between the FBI and the Marshal Service.”
Then Sophie told her how her husband, Marc, the SWAT captain, had been deputized by the U.S. Marshal for Colorado a couple years back when Natalie Benoit, a friend and former I-Team member, was in danger from a Mexican drug cartel. She’d just started telling Laura how the cartel had abducted Natalie off a bus, when she caught herself. “Oh, God! Sorry! I’m sure you didn’t need to hear that.”
“Don’t apologize.” For a moment, Laura had forgotten about her own situation. “I’m not the only journalist who—”
Her cell phone rang. She glanced down at the display.
Him again.
Something of her feelings must have shown on her face, because when Sophie spoke again, she sounded worried. “Who is it?”
“Derek Tower, the man who owns the company that handled my security detail.” Laura told Sophie about him—his phone calls, the accusations he’d fed to the press, his demand that she meet with him. “When I got out of the meeting with the FBI, I had another message from him. That makes three today.”
“Have you considered getting a restraining order against him?”
Laura had thought about that. “I’m not sure he’s done anything that could be considered threatening. If pestering people with phone calls and e-mails were an actionable offense, you and I and everyone else in the newsroom would be in jail.”
“You’ve got a point there.”
For a while they ate in silence.
Sophie set her fork aside. “Can I ask you a personal question?”
“Yes.” Laura could always refuse to answer.
“How do you stay so calm? If I were in your shoes, I’d be scared to death.”
That wasn’t the question Laura had been expecting.
“I am scared.” She hated to admit that. She was tired of feeling afraid. “I just try not to let it control me. If I did . . .”
If she did, she’d never leave the house.
Sophie took out a pen and wrote a phone number down on a clean napkin. “You and I haven’t known each other for a long time, but . . . if you ever need a place to stay, a place where you can feel safe, you’re welcome at our house. Marc—Mr. SWAT Captain—wouldn’t let anything happen to you. He’s armed to the teeth.”
“I carry a gun, too.” Laura rested a hand on her purse. “I keep it loaded and with me all the time. I even sleep with it under my pillow.”
It was a decision she’d made when she’d come back to the States. She would never be defenseless again, nor would she leave the responsibility of protecting herself entirely in someone else’s hands. So she’d bought a .22 SIG Mosquito, taken some classes, and then applied for a concealed carry license, which the sheriff had granted.
Sophie reached over and gave her arm a squeeze. “Good. I’m glad. But the invitation is open.”
“Thanks.”
“You’re coming to the party up at the Cimarron tomorrow, right?”
The barbecue at the ranch.
“Oh, well, I . . .” Laura had forgotten completely about it. “I don’t know. Parties really aren’t my scene. It’s been a hard week.”
“It’s only going to be past and present I-Team members and their families. I know they would all love to meet you.”
“It might snow, and I’m not used to driving on mountain roads.” She was digging for excuses now, and she knew it.
“You can catch a ride with us.” There was a hopeful tone to Sophie’s voice, as if it really meant something to her for Laura to come. “The trial will be over. You can get away from the city, see the mountains, meet Marc. It’s peaceful up there—no media, no Derek Tower, no one around for miles.”
It was on the tip of Laura’s tongue to decline, but hadn’t she just vowed in front of the whole world to live her life to the fullest? “Okay. I’ll come.”
“Wonderful!” Sophie’s smile broadened. “It will be a celebration.”
And despite Sophie’s kindness Laura found herself wishing she’d said no.
* * *
HE COULD ALMOST smell her fear.
Derek Tower kept to the shadows, watching as Laura Nilsson left the newspaper and crossed the street, hurrying through the parking lot, her head turning from left to right as she kept an eye on her surroundings. Yeah, she was afraid. She’d be stupid not to be after what Al-Nassar had said in court yesterday.
Derek followed her using cars for cover. The little bitch refused even to speak with him, referring his questions to her attorney rather than answering them herself. But he wouldn’t let her get away with
that, not with three of his men dead and his business in bankruptcy. She owed him.
She held out her keys and clicked the remote, and the hazard lights on her car flashed—revealing to Derek exactly which car was hers.
He moved quickly, silently, opening her passenger-side door and sliding into the passenger seat beside her just as she slipped behind the wheel. “Ms. Nilsson.”
She screamed, reached for the door handle, but he had already locked the doors.
He grabbed her coat, forced her to face him. “We need to talk.”
She swore in a language he didn’t understand, the fear in her eyes flashing into anger. “What the hell are you doing following me?”
“It’s just business.” He glanced around the parking lot to make sure no one was witnessing this little drama, then turned back to Ms. Nilsson, only to find himself looking down the barrel of a SIG Mosquito.
Damn.
He hadn’t been expecting that.
He released her, gave her some room.
She glared at him, her aim rock steady. “Falsely accusing someone of wrongdoing is slander. Following me to my car is harassment and stalking.”
“Put the pistol away before you hurt yourself.” He reached for it but froze when her finger curled around the trigger.
The woman was serious.
She glared at him, the ferocity on her feminine face pissing him off—and turning him on. “Get the hell out of my car right now, and don’t come near me again!”
“I lost three men that day, Ms. Nilsson—three good men, men with families, men who’d been my friends since—”
“Nico, Cody, and Tim were my friends, too!”
Cold rage had him leaning closer, the pistol now a mere inch from his throat. “I served with them for a decade in Special Forces. You can’t begin to understand what that means. Now they’re dead, and I want answers.”
“Try Ask.com.”
“Oh, you’re a cold bitch, aren’t you?” Beautiful, but cold.
“Or go talk to the State Department. They did the investigation. In case you’ve forgotten, I was the target.”
“I remember. Except you lived, and everyone else died.”
Her eyes narrowed. “What are you implying?”
“I’ve spent the better part of three years trying to piece together how this happened. My sources in Islamabad say that Al-Nassar’s men were tipped off by an American who said he’d heard from you exactly where you’d be that day.”
She glared at him. “That’s impossible.”
“Is it? How many nights did you hang out with all the other reporters at that ex-pat bar in the hotel? Maybe you got a little tipsy and said more than you should have. Maybe you picked some guy up and let him fuck the intel out of you. Either way, my men paid with their lives. My company probably won’t recover from the loss of reputation caused by your disappearance—”
“Loss of reputation? Your company?” Her voice quavered. “I spent eighteen months of my life trapped in a living hell!”
“You don’t look any worse for wear.” He knew what had happened to her, but she had survived, hadn’t she? “My men are dead. I want answers from you, and I’m going to get them. Now, put the pistol away.”
She tightened her grip, fear and rage in her eyes. “You’re insane! Get out, and stay away from me, or I’ll get a restraining order!”
As if that would stop him.
Tired of the bullshit, he grabbed her wrist, angled the barrel away from his body, and wrenched the weapon from her grasp. He held the little pistol for a moment, let her sweat it out. “Nice bit a steel. SIG makes a good pistol, but it won’t do you a damned bit of good if you’re not willing to fire. Don’t draw if you don’t plan to kill.”
She rubbed her wrist, defiance on her face, only her rapid breathing betraying her fear. “That was assault.”
He removed the magazine and racked the slide to expel the round from the chamber, then tossed the firearm in her lap. “You told someone, Laura. Who was it?”
She stared warily at him, still rubbing her wrist. “You really are crazy. I never disclosed my travel plans, not even to my own mother. I certainly never talked about them in the bar. As for guys, I wasn’t seeing anyone.”
Derek was an expert at reading people. It had been part of his training, part of what had kept him alive behind enemy lines for so long. Her shock seemed genuine, nothing on her face to suggest she was lying. Then again, she might not remember.
He deliberately softened the tone of his voice. “I know some of your memories are vague, but you need—”
The shrieking of a car alarm interrupted him.
Her car alarm.
She watched him, a look of dark triumph on her face, the panic button on her keychain gripped in bloodless fingers. “Get out!”
He should have taken the damn keys from her. “You’re a journalist, Ms. Nilsson. Don’t you care about the truth?”
Out of time, he unlocked the door and opened it. “And, hey, not such a great idea to unlock your car till you’re near the door. Those flashing hazard lights give you away, tell an assailant right where you’re headed. If I’d been one of Al-Nassar’s followers come to kill you, I’d have slit your throat before you even knew I was here.”
Ignoring the horror on her face, he climbed out of the car, shut the door behind him, and did his best to disappear.
CHAPTER
4
JAVIER SHOOK ZACH McBride’s hand. “It’s an honor to meet you. It’s not every day a man gets to drink beer with a Medal of Honor recipient.”
Javier had read about McBride’s heroism and the catastrophic mission that had claimed the lives of McBride’s men and had left him gravely wounded. Every SEAL had.
Tall with short, dark hair and a strong handshake, McBride met Javier’s gaze through sharp gray eyes. “The honor is mutual. West told me how you were there for him, how you pulled him out of the burning debris, stayed with him.”
And Javier knew that McBride and Nate were close. That wasn’t a story Nate shared with everyone.
Javier grinned. “He talks too damned much.”
McBride chuckled. “How long have you been with the Teams?”
“Fourteen years.”
“Going for twenty?”
“That’s the plan.”
For a while the two of them traded stories—instructors they’d both had in BUD/S, the joys of eating sand with their MREs in Iraq, the scorching heat and freezing cold of Afghanistan. It was always like this when Javier met another SEAL. Each and every one of them was like a brother, the bond between them forged from the unique challenges, risks, and deprivations that came with wearing the Trident.
And for a moment Javier forgot about Laura.
Women’s laughter drew McBride’s gaze. He gestured with a nod of his head toward a pretty dark-haired woman who was sitting next to Megan, the two of them reading something. “That’s my wife, Natalie. She’s decided she wants to write fiction—romance novels. I hope that means I get to help with the research.”
Two heads came up, and Natalie glared at McBride. “The books are not just about sex.”
Javier lowered his voice. “I guess you said the wrong thing, man.”
The doorbell rang again, and Megan rose to answer it.
Javier’s pulse skipped.
You’re excited to see her, chacho. Admit it.
Sure, he was. Not a day had gone by since Dubai when he hadn’t thought of her. Yeah, he was excited to see her again. And more than a little tense.
When Megan returned, it wasn’t Laura walking beside her. Instead, Javier was introduced to Julian Darcangelo, a tall son of a gun with a dark ponytail who’d once worked with the FBI but was now head of Denver’s vice unit. He’d brought his family—his wife, Tessa, a sweet thing with long, curly blond hair and a mot
her’s soft curves, and a little girl and a baby boy.
The doorbell rang again.
This time it was Reece Sheridan, the state’s newly sworn-in lieutenant governor, his wife Kara McMillan, and their three school-aged kids. They were followed not two minutes later by Kat James, a pretty Navajo woman, her husband Gabe Rossiter, and two little ones under the age of two. Then Nate’s brother-in-law, Marc Hunter, Denver’s SWAT captain, and his wife, Sophie, arrived with their two kids.
Between the adults talking and children running and squealing, it was chaos. It might have bothered some guys, but Javier felt right at home. He came from a big family with two brothers, three sisters, six nephews, and nine nieces, not to mention aunts, uncles, and a few dozen cousins, most of whom had kids. When they got the whole family together—which they did whenever Javier was on leave—the laughter, music, and conversation were loud and lasted late into the night.
He found himself outside on the deck shooting the shit with Hunter and Rossiter, while everyone got ready for an afternoon of skiing, snowshoeing, and sleigh rides.
Rossiter, who was a climber and former park ranger, was talking about his grand plan for the afternoon. “You can ski some incredible places with a paragliding sail strapped to your back. It’s like flying, BASE jumping, and skiing combined.”
Ski paragliding wasn’t a sport that interested Javier, in part because he couldn’t see the point. He shook his head. “I don’t know—strapping some kind of ’chute to your back and letting the wind pull you down the mountain? Either ski or jump.”
Hunter chuckled, pointing to Rossiter. “You wouldn’t believe the sick shit I’ve seen this guy do. If a sport involves gravity, snow in any form, and a high likelihood of death, he’s in.”
A flash of short platinum-blond hair—and a body that could kill.
It wasn’t Laura Nilsson, but . . .
Javier gave a low whistle.
Hunter and Rossiter looked over their shoulders, then back at Javier.
Hunter shook his head. “Oh, no. No, no. Don’t even think about it.”
