Striking Distance ti-6

by Pamela Clare

  It felt strange to be alone with him here in her most personal space. No one had ever been here before. “Want a tour?”

  Even as she asked the question, she realized that the adrenaline she’d been running on all day was fast disappearing, leaving her empty, exhausted.

  “This is obviously the living room, kitchen, and dining area.” She walked through the kitchen toward the hallway.

  “Hey, that’s my postcard.”

  She turned to find him standing in front of her refrigerator holding the postcard from Dubai, surprise on his face. “You left it in my room.”

  “You kept it.” His gaze met hers, something in his eyes that made her look away.

  She turned and walked down the hallway toward the bedroom area. “This is the guest room where you’ll be sleeping. It has its own bathroom. Across the hallway is my office. The master bedroom is at the end of the hallway.”

  While he glanced around the guest bedroom, postcard still in hand, she walked to the windows and closed the blinds, her head starting to throb again, the day’s events weighing down on her, the smiling face of the young suicide bomber stuck in her mind. “I should start dinner.”

  “You don’t need to take care of me, Laura.” He set the postcard on the nightstand. “You should rest. Go soak in the tub or lie down for a while. I asked you out, didn’t I? Let me take care of dinner.”

  * * *

  “SOPHIE AND HOLLY said you’d been wounded, that you’re on medical leave.”

  Javier nodded. “I’ll be back on active duty soon.”

  They’d finished dinner a while ago. Javier had ordered chicken marsala, a dish he knew she loved, from an Italian place down the street, and they now sat on the sofa, a beer in his hand, a glass of white wine in hers. He was trying to keep her mind off what had happened today, though he knew that was probably impossible.

  She had changed into faded jeans and a silky blue sweater that hugged her soft curves, the sweater picking up the blue in her eyes. “What happened? Or maybe you don’t want to talk about it.”

  He told her only what he’d told the others. “There’s not a lot to say. We were ambushed. They had the high ground, put four rounds in me. I spent a few weeks in a hospital and then a couple of months in physical therapy.”

  “I’m so sorry.” Her eyes were soft with sympathy. “Four bullets? You must have come close to dying.”

  He shrugged. “It’s a hazard of wearing the uniform.”

  “Have you ever thought of leaving the SEALs?”

  “I signed on to do a job that most men can’t do. I still want to do that job.” The topic was getting close to a raw nerve, so he changed it, returning to an earlier subject. “If you love TV journalism, why did you go to work at a paper?”

  “Standing in front of a camera . . . I just feel too exposed. I was looking into that lens, the tally light blinking red to show the camera was live when . . .”

  AK fire. Screams. Blood spatter.

  Javier had watched that scene explode from the other side of the lens.

  She studied her wine. “That probably sounds lame.”

  “No. It doesn’t.” It bothered him that she didn’t realize how amazing she was just to have survived. “How do you like the newspaper biz?”

  “The people are good, but it’s . . . It’s not the same thing.”

  They sat together in silence, B. B. King turned down low in the background.

  “I kept it in my handbag.”

  Javier didn’t follow. “Kept what in your handbag?”

  “The postcard of Dubai City.” She took a sip. “You left it in my room. I kept it in my handbag. It was there the day I was abducted.”

  “Oh.”

  She avoided his gaze. “It was my memento of you, of that weekend.”

  Did she understand what she was telling him? Until now, he’d wondered if he’d been the only one who felt that their weekend together had been something different, something special. He’d left Dubai with his head full of her, determined to see her again. Now he knew those three nights and two days had meant something to her, too.

  “I’m glad you kept it.”

  “The State Department sent my handbag and computer back with my suitcase to my mother in Stockholm. My poor mother! She’d just lost a daughter, and then she was faced with dealing with my belongings—my loft in Manhattan, my car, my bank accounts. She sold it all—every bit of it. My furniture, my clothes, the art on my walls. She gave the money to Columbia University in my name.”

  Javier hadn’t known any of this.

  “A few weeks after I was rescued, I learned that I had nothing except what had been in the suitcase and my handbag. My mother had kept most of that. She had this postcard hanging on her refrigerator. When I saw it, I remembered that weekend—all of it. I—I took the postcard back.”

  “It must have been hard to find out everything you’d once owned, everything you’d worked for was gone.”

  “I was grateful to be free, grateful to be alive. But, yeah, it was hard. It was as if I really had died.” She took another sip of wine. “Columbia returned most of the money, but I still had to start over.”

  Maybe it was the beer. Maybe it was the situation. But Javier suddenly couldn’t keep his damned mouth shut. “I never forgot you, Laura, not for a day. When they said you’d been executed, I wanted to kill that bastard with my bare hands.”

  He could count on one hand the times he’d gotten tears in his eyes—and the day they’d announced that Laura had been murdered was one of them.

  She met his gaze, eyes filled with regret. “I forgot you. I forgot everything, everyone. I almost forgot myself. Every night during the last prayer I would use the silence to repeat my name in my mind in English and Swedish. I was so sure they would figure it out and that Al-Nassar would follow through on his threat to cut off my head.”

  “We operators get training on how to survive captivity, but you did it on your own, alone. You won, Laura. You beat him.”

  “Only because I was rescued.” She tilted her head away from him, a sad smile on her face. “Sometimes when I can’t sleep, when the nightmares are bad, I close my eyes and pretend that the men from that SEAL team are here in the loft in their gear, armed to the teeth and watching over me, the tall one standing watch over my bed. I know it’s silly, but there are nights when it’s the only thing that helps me sleep.”

  Javier felt a hitch in his chest. She’d been comforting herself at night by thinking of him—without knowing she was thinking of him. “That’s not silly. You’ve been through hell, Laura. But tonight I’m here. You’ll be safe.”

  Tonight, she wouldn’t need to pretend. Part of that SEAL team would be watching over her for real.

  CHAPTER

  7

  LAURA LEFT JAVIER watching the evening news and went to take a shower, needing to wash the reek of smoke and emergency room off her skin before she tried to sleep. Hot water and facial cleanser stung the nicks on her face, the lump where she’d struck her head tender as she shampooed, her mind dull from exhaustion. Or maybe that was the effects of the concussion. It didn’t matter. She didn’t want to think anyway.

  She didn’t want to think about what had almost happened today or the teenager who now lay on a slab in charred pieces or the parents who were grieving the loss of their son. She didn’t want to think about her helpless daughter out there somewhere, a prisoner of terrorists. She didn’t want to think about what tomorrow would bring. And for a time, Laura let the water pour over her skin, her eyes closed, the heat and the scent of lavender soap soothing her, lulling her into forgetfulness.

  She’d just turned off the spray when there came a knock at the bathroom door, startling her, making her pulse spike.

  Javier called softly to her. “Laura, the police are here.”

  “I’ll be right out.” She dried herself, combed her hair, and dressed, sliding into a pair of gray leggings and a purple oversized sweater, the muffled sound of men’s voice
s drifting from the living room.

  There, she found Javier talking with Marc, a man she didn’t recognize, and Police Chief Stephen Irving, whom she’d seen on TV but never met before. The four men rose to their feet as she entered.

  Marc gave her a nod. “How are you feeling?”

  “I’m okay.”

  Chief Irving, an older man with a bristly white crew cut, held out a beefy hand, regarding her through world-weary blue eyes. “Ms. Nilsson, I’m sorry to meet you under these circumstances. I admire your work.”

  She took his hand. “Thank you, sir.”

  “I believe you know Hunter, DPD’s SWAT captain.” He motioned toward Marc with a nod of his head. “This is Detective Brent Callahan. He left Boston PD behind to head our EOD unit.”

  Detective Callahan reached out, shook her hand. Tall with dark blond hair, blue eyes, and a deep tan, he looked like a man who spent his life outdoors. “I’m sorry about what happened today. I worked EOD—that’s explosive ordnance demolition—for the army in Iraq and Afghanistan. My team and I are heading the investigation on the bombing. I’ll do my best to keep you informed and answer your questions.”

  “I appreciate that.” Suddenly remembering her manners, she gestured to the sofa and two leather chairs. “Please, make yourselves comfortable. Would anyone like something to drink?”

  They muttered “No thanks” and shook their heads, everyone but Marc taking a seat. He remained standing, arms crossed over his chest.

  Laura sat beside Javier, not missing the glance the men exchanged, the room awkwardly silent. “Should I guess why you’re here, or would you like to tell me?”

  Chief Irving turned to Detective Callahan. “You want to fill Ms. Nilsson in?”

  “We found one body in the car—a young male believed to be Ali Al Zahrani, age eighteen. The vehicle destroyed in the explosion was registered to him, and neither his parents nor his friends nor his professors at Metro State College have seen him all day.”

  The face Laura had tried to forget in the shower came back to her—dark hair, big brown eyes, a wide smile. So young.

  Callahan went on. “The car had been loaded with metal buckets filled with homemade ANFO, an explosive mixture of ammonium nitrate and fuel oil, in this case diesel. The diesel detonated, but the ammonium nitrate didn’t. Whoever mixed the explosive used a grade of fertilizer that comes in large prills, or pellets.”

  This meant nothing to Laura, but clearly Javier understood.

  “The guy was an amateur,” he muttered.

  Marc spoke, venom in his voice. “It’s lucky for all of us the bastard somehow managed to blow up only himself.”

  And Laura knew he was thinking of Sophie.

  Callahan explained. “The larger pellets can’t absorb the fuel. When the primer exploded—we believe it was dynamite—the fuel ignited, along with the fumes that had filled the vehicle, causing a gas explosion. If the ammonium nitrate had ignited, our bomber would have taken out most of the building.”

  Laura tried to take this in, the intellectual side of her mind struggling to keep up with the pounding of her heart. “Taken out the building?”

  Callahan nodded. “A similar explosive was used in the Oklahoma City bombing.”

  Oh, God!

  Laura felt light-headed, images of the partially collapsed federal building, of the human loss and devastation, coming to her mind. Her head began to throb once more.

  Javier’s hand closed reassuringly over hers. “You okay? Maybe you should lie down for a minute.”

  She shook her head. “I’m fine. It’s just . . . a horrible thing to imagine.”

  Chief Irving watched her through sympathetic eyes. “There are some peculiar aspects to this bombing. The coroner did a CT scan of the body and found a twenty-two slug lodged in the alleged bomber’s brain. Whoever we pulled out of the wreckage was dead before the explosion. The ME places time of death about two hours prior to the blast—about seven thirty this morning.”

  “What?” Maybe the concussion was worse than Laura had realized, or maybe all of this was too much. None of it made sense to her.

  “I hadn’t heard this.” Marc frowned. “I’m not an expert, but aren’t suicide bombers supposed to kill themselves?”

  “Strange, isn’t it?” Chief Irving agreed.

  Javier shook his head. “Not necessarily. We encountered suicide bombers whose charges were set to detonate both by the bomber and by someone watching nearby. It’s insurance in case the bomber gets cold feet, decides that martyrdom is overrated, tries to warn someone. Maybe the kid wanted to back out—and someone wouldn’t let him.”

  Detective Callahan seemed to mull that over. “It’s a possibility. Regardless, it proves that at least one other person was involved in this operation.”

  At least one other person.

  “Our other suspect is still out there,” Chief Irving said. “He may try to strike at you again, so we’ve shared all of this with the FBI. Special Agent Killeen is getting hourly updates from my team.”

  “Right now, we’re sifting through all the debris, gathering the bits and pieces of wire and metal so that we can re-create the detonator,” Callahan said. “Once we reconstruct it, that will give us a lot of information.”

  Laura didn’t understand. “How can you reconstruct it? Isn’t everything melted, incinerated beyond recognition?”

  Javier and Callahan shook their heads at the same time.

  “An explosion causes an outward burst, a blast wave, which is what produces the damage,” Javier explained. “That blast instantly creates a vacuum, which sucks material back in again. Everything you need to know about the bomb is right there.”

  “All we have to do is pick up the puzzle pieces and put them back together.” Callahan drew out a notepad. “I’d also like to create a list of potential accomplices, people with motive who might have been pulling the bomber’s strings. Can you think of anyone besides Al-Nassar who might want you dead?”

  Laura looked down at her right wrist and the bruises that encircled it. “The only person I’ve had conflict with lately is Derek Tower. He thinks I’m to blame for my own abduction, the deaths of his men, and his company’s demise.”

  She filled Callahan in on Tower’s e-mails and calls, and the confrontation in her car last Friday evening, showing him the bruises on her wrists. “I filed a police report.”

  Chief Irving glanced over at Callahan. “I’ll make sure you get a copy.”

  Marc took a step toward them, his brows bent in a frown. “Wasn’t Tower a Green Beret? He wouldn’t make a mistake like that. If he’d wanted to blow up the building, it would be rubble now.”

  Javier shrugged. “Maybe he got sloppy.”

  “No.” Marc shook his head. “That’s beginner stuff.”

  “Why would Tower start hanging with a teenage terrorist?” Javier asked. “He spent a decade fighting them.”

  “I want him brought in for questioning regardless,” Chief Irving said. “There’s still the matter of his accosting Ms. Nilsson in her car. We’ve been searching for him since Friday night and haven’t found him.”

  Callahan leaned closer to Laura. “I know it can’t have been easy for you to hear all of this, but we’re doing all we can.”

  Chief Irving reached out and clasped one of her hands between two of his. “The FBI got caught with its pants down today, but we at DPD will get to the bottom of this and keep you safe, Ms. Nilsson.”

  And Laura knew both men meant what they said.

  The men stood, so Laura got to her feet, too. “Thank you. Marc, thank you for being there for us today.”

  He gave her a nod. “I was glad to help.”

  Callahan handed her his card. “We’ll be in touch as the investigation progresses.”

  Laura walked with them to the door, thanked the three of them, and wished them all a good night, asking Marc to tell Sophie hello for her. There was a smile on her face, but behind her breastbone, her heart was still pounding.
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  Out there somewhere was a man who’d tried to kill her today, someone who wanted to see her dead and had been willing to murder his own accomplice and a building full of innocent people to get to her.

  * * *

  JAVIER WATCHED LAURA struggling to cope, watched her throw her energy into a load of late-night laundry, pretending that she wasn’t in pain, that she wasn’t afraid. But he knew her head hurt, knew that what she’d learned from the police had shaken her badly. When she poured the third capful of laundry detergent into the machine, he took the plastic bottle from her hands, set it aside, and drew her into his arms.

  “Stop, bella.” He felt her stiffen, then slowly relax, sagging against him. “Where’s that prescription the doctor gave you, the one for headaches?”

  “I think it’s in my handbag.”

  “You get into your pajamas, and I’ll get you water and a pill.” He released her, but she didn’t budge. “That’s an order.”

  She glared up at him, gave him a mock salute, and walked off to her bedroom, her step seeming to drag under the weight of the news she’d just heard.

  He walked out to the living room, found her handbag on a chair, and fished around inside, finding her .22 SIG and a plastic bag holding two prescription pill bottles—one with hydrocodone, the other containing Valium. He carried the bottles to the kitchen counter, took one pill from each, and got her a glass of cold water. He turned to find her standing behind him.

  She was wearing a fuzzy blue bathrobe over a nightgown of pale blue silk or satin—hell, he didn’t know the difference—her curves delicate beneath the layers of soft fabric. Her hair was almost dry now and hanging in thick, tousled strands. Her feet were bare, her toenails peeking out from beneath the hem of her robe and painted a soft shade of peach. And for a moment all he could do was stare.

  She was everything soft and sweet and beautiful in his world, feminine in a way that made his chest ache, his urge to protect her strong.

  “I really shouldn’t take those.” She looked at the pills in his hand. “I need to be alert in case something happens tonight, in case whoever—”