Striking Distance ti-6

by Pamela Clare

  While Marc organized the evacuation, Julian walked over to Laura, something in his hand—a Kevlar vest. “Let’s get this on you.”

  Laura’s adrenaline spiked. “You think someone’s waiting out there for me?”

  His expression gave nothing away. “The vest is just a precaution.”

  She raised her arms and let him draw it on over her head.

  “I’m glad to see you’re okay.” Julian pulled the Velcro straps tight. “I heard you got a bad bump on the head. How are you feeling?”

  “I’m fine. Just a headache, maybe a little dizzy.”

  He frowned, seemed to study her. “We’ve got a couple of ambulances standing by. I think it’s best if we get you, Holly, and Sophie to the hospital, get you cleaned up, make sure you really are okay.”

  Laura shook her head. She hated hospitals. “I’m fine. I’d rather work to get the paper out. They’re going to need all the help they—”

  “I wouldn’t be doing my job as a law officer and a friend if I let you go back to work without first seeing a doctor. Head injuries can take you by surprise. You can refuse treatment if you want, but at least let a doctor check you out.” When she didn’t object, he pushed the button on the radio clipped to his Kevlar. “Eight-twenty-five.”

  A voice crackled back. “Eight-twenty-five, go ahead.”

  “I need two ambulances at the paper’s rear entrance. Someone will need to shift the barricades to let them through.” He turned his attention to Holly. He drew her close in a careful hug. “It’s going to be okay, honey.”

  Holly cried harder.

  Marc at last came to stand at Sophie’s side, his hand resting protectively on the small of her back. “Let’s get you out of here. That cut on your arm looks deep.”

  Julian looked over at Laura. “Can you walk?”

  “I walked down here.” His hand at her elbow, she headed out of the cafeteria and down the hall, the blaring fire alarm louder in the hallway, the shrill sound making her headache worse.

  She stepped out the back door and for one dark second found herself back in Baghdad in the aftermath of a terrorist bombing, the air tinged with the reek of burning fuel, rubber, and wires, men armed with high-powered assault rifles on the rooftop of the building next door, the whir of a helicopter mixing with the wail of sirens.

  But this wasn’t Baghdad. It was Denver.

  How could this have followed her to Denver?

  To Laura’s left, two ambulances turned down the alley toward them, steel barricades and police cars with flashing lights holding curious onlookers and the media at a distance, officers guiding the other evacuated employees to safety. To her right stood Marc holding Sophie in a protective embrace.

  Sophie looked up at him. “Be careful.”

  He cupped the back of her head with a big, gloved hand and kissed her forehead. “You know I will be. You let them take good care of that arm.”

  It was an intimate moment, a private moment.

  Laura looked away, feeling sick to her stomach to think these good people had been put in harm’s way because of her. She looked up at Julian. “Do you have any idea who did this?”

  “We will as soon as we can ID the body.”

  “You mean . . . ?”

  Julian nodded his head. “Looks like a suicide bomber.”

  CHAPTER

  6

  JAVIER LEANED AGAINST the wall in the emergency room of University Hospital, feeling more restless by the minute. On the television screen, Channel 12 kept going back and forth between the same recycled footage they’d been repeating for the past three hours. The smoking hulk of the car. Firefighters dousing the flames. Police evacuating the area as the bomb squad moved in. An aerial view of the blast site filmed from a news helo. SWAT guys milling around in body armor.

  So the FBI hadn’t found Al-Nassar’s threats against Laura credible.

  Idiots.

  They were damned lucky the bastard who’d tried to kill her today hadn’t known what he was doing. If he had . . .

  It had been close, so damned close.

  Javier fought the urge to pace, glanced around the waiting area. A thin old man with papery skin and an oxygen tube beneath his nose. A mother and father with a crying baby. A middle-aged woman sitting alone. Two men and a woman who were almost certainly journalists, smartphones out, notepads in hand. They were clearly checking the place out, probably hoping to snag an interview with Laura.

  What kind of assholes staked out an ER, for God’s sake? And what was taking so long? Maybe Laura was more seriously injured than they’d realized.

  Or maybe she doesn’t want to see you.

  Nate had left with Sophie and Holly almost an hour ago. Both women had been cut by flying glass. Sophie had needed stitches, and Holly had seemed pretty shaken up, her perfect face marred by little nicks. But both of them had wanted to get back to work to help get the paper out on time—a reminder to Javier that courage came in all shapes and sizes.

  A woman in blue scrubs walked up to him. “You can see Ms. Nilsson now.”

  It’s about fucking time.

  Javier followed the aide through the double doors, aware that the journalists had gotten to their feet the second they’d heard Laura’s name and were now watching him. Down a corridor to the right, he saw a cop standing guard outside an exam room.

  The aide pointed. “She’s in exam room nine.”

  “Thanks.” Javier turned down the corridor, drew his wallet out of his back jeans pocket, and showed his driver’s license to the cop, who jotted his name down on a list, then stepped aside.

  Javier knocked. “Laura?”

  “Come in.”

  He found her sitting up in the exam bed, talking on her cell phone.

  “Thanks for calling. It means a lot to me. Bye.” She disconnected the call. “Gary Chapin, my former anchor. He called to check on me.”

  The left side of her face had a few tiny nicks from flying glass, flecks of blood on her tailored white shirt. A dressing of gauze was taped to the inner elbow of her left arm where they’d hooked her to an IV. Her eyes were swollen, proof she’d been crying.

  Seeing her like this—hurt, angry, afraid—made him want to hit someone. How the hell had this been allowed to happen? Al-Nassar, the media, the feds—they’d all played a role in this, through either action or inaction.

  But Javier had walked into enough hospital rooms in his life, visited enough wounded men, to know that his anger wouldn’t help Laura.

  He put a smile on his face. “You’re looking good. How you feeling?”

  “I just want to get out of here.” Her blond brows knitted in irritation. “They say I have a mild concussion. They insisted on doing two MRIs even though I said I was fine. I want to go home, but they’re taking their time discharging me.”

  “They’re just trying to take good care of you.”

  “I suppose so.” She looked away, the tension inside her palpable. “I don’t like hospitals.”

  Neither did Javier.

  He walked to the bedside. “When I heard the news, I . . . I’m glad you’re okay.”

  “The networks aren’t reporting this yet, but it was a suicide bomber.”

  “Yeah.” He’d heard that from Nate, who’d heard it from Marc.

  The anger faded from her face, naked fear in its place. “They’re going to do it, aren’t they? They’re going to kill me. I’m going to spend the rest of my life looking over my shoulder, and one day—”

  “No, bella.” Javier took her right hand, gave it a squeeze. He wanted to do more. He wanted to wrap his arms around her and hold her tight, but he wasn’t sure she’d feel comfortable being touched like that. “People are going to be asking the feds some tough questions. The FBI is going to have to step up now and do its job. You’re a hero to a lot of folks out there. The feds can’t let anything happen to you.”

  “Tell them that. I spoke to them Friday. They blew me off.”

  Javier hoped whoever she’d
spoken to had been handed his ass today. “They won’t be able to blow you off now.”

  “Al-Nassar told me I would live the rest of my life in fear. I told him I would forget him. Now look at me. I’m shaking, terrified. Damn it!” She looked up at him, a kind of desperate fury in her eyes. “I don’t want to be afraid anymore. He’s stolen so much from me. So much. I can’t give him that satisfaction. I just can’t.”

  Javier couldn’t begin to understand what she was feeling. He’d never been a prisoner, never been raped. He’d never had control of his body and life ripped away from him. Even when he’d been shot, he’d at least been armed and able to fight back. “You look like you’re holding up pretty well to me.”

  She let out a gust of breath, then shook her head as if he’d just said something ridiculous. “I spent an hour crying on the phone to my mother.”

  “I’d say you’re entitled.” If only she could see herself through his eyes.

  “She and my grandmother want me to give up my job and move back to Sweden to live a quiet life in some small town up north where everyone knows everyone and there’s no place for strangers to hide, but—”

  The door opened behind him and two men in suits entered. The first was in his mid-forties, shorter than Javier by a good few inches, his dark hair cut conservatively, his brows dark and bushy, his face round. The man behind him was taller and blander with brown hair and eyes to match, his face expressionless.

  It was about time they showed up.

  Javier crossed his arms over his chest. “Don’t they teach you FBI boys to knock?”

  “Ms. Nilsson.” The bastard’s gaze fixed for a moment on Laura’s chest before shifting to his partner. “This is Special Agent Spiteri. We need to ask you a few questions.”

  Laura’s gaze went cold. “Do you find Al-Nassar’s threats credible now, Agent Petras?”

  “You might believe that you’re the center of the terrorists’ universe, Ms. Nilsson, but the truth is there are other more tangible threats.”

  “Whoa, there, buddy.” Javier stepped forward. “You’re in the emergency room, and regardless of what your priorities are, someone tried to kill Ms. Nilsson today. Show some respect, man.”

  Petras turned to Javier. “You’re Javier Corbray.”

  It was a trick meant to impress, but Javier knew Petras had simply gotten his name from the cop outside the door.

  “I’m an old friend of Laura’s.”

  “You’ll need to wait out in the hallway.”

  Petras could go fuck himself as far as Javier was concerned. He turned to Laura. “Is that what you want, bella?”

  “No.” Laura looked over at Petras. “Javier stays.”

  Petras glanced from Javier to Laura, cold indifference on his face. He reached into his pocket, drew out a photograph, and handed it to her. “Do you recognize him?”

  Laura looked down at the photo, the blood slowly draining from her face. “No. Is he the one who . . . ?”

  “The vehicle was registered to him, and he’s been reported missing. We’re still waiting for DNA confirmation.”

  She handed the photo back to Petras, then turned her face away.

  “You’ve never seen him before?”

  “No. What’s his name?”

  “Ali Al Zahrani. Eighteen years of age. U.S. citizen born in Denver to Saudi immigrants. College student. His dad is a physician.” The agent tucked the photo back inside his pocket.

  “So young.” The words were a whisper. “Please tell his parents how sorry I am.”

  Petras acted as if he hadn’t heard her, his attitude seriously getting on Javier’s nerves. “The FBI is prepared to give you short-term protection while we resolve this case. We don’t yet know whether the bomber acted alone or was working with others. It could be that he removed the threat against you the moment he detonated the explosives. Regardless, we’re coordinating with the Denver police to have a two-man security detail on duty around the clock.”

  “What about my car? It’s still in the parking lot at the newspaper.”

  “Give me the make, model, and license plate number, and we’ll have a police officer return it to you once it’s been cleared.”

  “Thank you. There’s just one thing.” Laura’s chin went up. “Last week, you ignored my concerns and spent more time looking at my chest than my face. With all due respect, I don’t trust you enough to put my life in your hands. I want someone else to be put in charge of my security detail.”

  Javier fought back a grin as Petras’s face slowly turned red.

  * * *

  LAURA SAT IN the backseat of Agent Petras’s brown Chevy Impala, Javier beside her. She stared out the window, watching the busy streets of Denver pass. The state capitol with its golden dome. The graceful architecture of Civic Center Park. The redbrick walls of Coors Field. The perpetual construction zone around Union Station. It was the same city, and yet it felt different.

  “When I got up this morning, this was my new hometown.” She’d hoped to make a new start and one day raise her daughter here. “Now it’s the city where a teenage boy died trying to kill me.”

  “You okay?” Javier was sitting so close that she could smell the subtle spice of his aftershave, his voice deep, soothing.

  “Sure. It could’ve been worse, right?” Laura squeezed her hands tightly together in her lap. “Sorry you got dragged into this.”

  The doctor had insisted that Laura take the next few days off from work and find someone to stay with her for the next twenty-four hours in case her concussion proved to be more serious than they realized. Javier had immediately volunteered. Laura had agreed for purely selfish reasons. She’d feel safer with him nearby.

  “Hey, don’t apologize.” He closed his hands over hers, giving them a reassuring squeeze. “I wouldn’t have offered if I didn’t really want to be here. Besides, how else am I going to have dinner with you tonight? I just know you’d try to use this whole car bomb thing as an excuse to cancel on me otherwise.”

  She couldn’t help but smile.

  They stopped at the Denver Police Station where Nate had left Javier’s duffel bag and guitar case, then headed straight for Laura’s place, which SWAT and the FBI had already secured. They arrived at The Ironworks, an old redbrick industrial building recently converted to lofts, and parked in the gated underground parking garage, where Laura saw what she hoped would be the last of Petras. She and Javier took the elevator to the third floor to find another FBI agent already waiting outside her door. Laura didn’t miss the fleeting look of surprise on Javier’s face when he saw the agent was a woman.

  “I’m Special Agent Janet Killeen.” The agent shook their hands. “I’m taking over your protection detail from Agent Petras, Ms. Nilsson. I’ve always admired your courage. I’ll do my best to make sure these assholes don’t get another crack at you.”

  Laura immediately liked her.

  She was in her early forties, tall and slender with a pretty face, her shoulder-length brown hair sleek and shiny. She wore a brown pantsuit with a crisp white shirt and black pumps, looking more like a real estate agent than a fed. And yet Laura was certain that somewhere beneath her tailored jacket Agent Killeen was strapped.

  “SWAT already went through the building and the surrounding streets and alleys to make sure there were no surprises waiting for you. DPD has its two-man detail out front. I’ll be out back with another agent, so you’ll be covered.”

  “Thank you, Agent Killeen.”

  “Call me Janet. Will you be staying here, Mr. Corbray?” She drew a notepad and pen out of her jacket pocket.

  Javier nodded. “Yes, ma’am. Like I told your buddy Petras, Laura is a friend.”

  “Petras is not my buddy.” Janet glanced through her notes, her eyebrows going up. “He ran background on you and says you’re a Navy SEAL. Are you carrying?”

  “I’ve got a concealed SIG P226 loaded with hollow point and a Walther PPS.”

  Laura looked Javier up and down, won
dering how he managed to hide all of that beneath a gray blazer, black T-shirt, and jeans. She’d had no idea he was armed.

  Why hadn’t she guessed he was a SEAL? Now that she knew, it seemed obvious, the pieces falling into place. His confidence. The graceful way he moved. His hard, muscular body. His attention to detail, both in and out of bed. His reluctance in Dubai to talk about his job.

  “Good to know.” Janet looked up from her notepad and smiled. “If we hear weapons fire, we won’t shoot the first person we see holding a firearm.”

  Javier gave a nod. “I’d appreciate that.”

  Janet took a few minutes to explain the same things that Petras had outlined for them and then went on her way, leaving the two of them alone.

  Javier glanced around. “Nice place.”

  “Thanks.” With the original brick walls, polished wood floors, and concrete ceilings with visible ductwork, it had the urban look Laura loved. Big windows let in lots of natural sunlight and gave her a beautiful view of the Rockies to the west. “It’s my home, my sanctuary.”

  Javier walked to the windows and looked out toward the mountains, where a faint pink glow was all that remained of daylight. “I guess you see a lot of sunsets.”

  “When I’m not working late.” Except for midsummer, it was usually dark when she got home.

  He glanced around the living room, his gaze fixing on her bookshelves. “Is that your Emmy?”

  “Yeah.” The golden statuette had an alcove to itself, a reminder of what she’d once accomplished. “It’s probably dusty.”

  He walked over and carefully picked it up. “You got this for that investigative piece about the soldiers who were looting and shaking down Iraqi civilians, right?”

  “I’m surprised you remember that.”

  He set the statuette down. “That was big news to those of us in the military. Some guys were pissed, felt coming down on them was too harsh, but I thought you did a good thing. We can’t pretend to be heroes if we’re acting like thugs.”