by Pamela Clare
“No.” He withdrew his hands.
“I’m sorry. I don’t mean to pry. If it’s too hard for you to talk about—”
“It’s not a problem.” He rounded the sofa and sat in a chair across from her, elbows resting on his knees, his hands folded together. “We ran across a shepherd and his sons on our way to infiltrate a village outside Ghazni. I had to decide whether to let them live or to kill them to prevent them from warning anyone. We gave them food, water, a little medical help. We tried to show them we weren’t the enemy. They promised not to give us away. I let them live. They warned the Taliban anyway. Taliban fighters ambushed us. We called for exfil. The medevac helo sent to retrieve the wounded was hit by an RPG and blew up before it could land.”
“Oh, God.” Laura stood and took a few steps toward the fire, the memory of the narrow escape from Al-Nassar’s compound coming back to her. She turned to Javier and asked the question, pretty sure she knew the answer. “What happened to the medics?”
A muscle clenched in his jaw. “Everyone on board was killed.”
“That’s terrible.” She found it appalling that anyone would attack medical personnel.
Then the truth of what Javier must be dealing with dawned on her. A decision he’d made had resulted in an ambush that had ended in the deaths of some of his men—and the crew of the medevac chopper, too. Did he blame himself?
“It wasn’t your fault—those men’s deaths, the medevac chopper.”
“I know that. I don’t sit around lamenting my choice.” His denial came too quickly, and Laura wasn’t sure she believed him.
She sank into a chair, an image of his scars in her mind. “All of you who were wounded—you had to wait for another chopper, didn’t you?”
He gave a single wooden nod. “Not everyone made it.”
“I’m so sorry.” Her words seemed empty, inadequate. “It must have been horrible to lie there in so much pain and to watch those men get shot out of the sky, knowing it meant some of you would probably die, too.”
He stood, walked over to the window. “We all knew the risks when we signed on, even the medics. Besides, it’s over.”
She rose, followed him, slid her arms around him, rested her cheek against his back, his body tense, rigid. “It’s not over, not if it still affects you like it did today. Are you getting therapy?”
“I passed the post-combat psych screening. I don’t need therapy.” He drew her hands away and stepped out of her embrace. “I’m not some weakling who can’t get his shit together.”
“I saw a therapist every day for almost a year, and I still can’t say I’m over what happened to me. Am I a weakling?”
“You’re a civilian.”
“Oh. Thanks for clarifying.”
He turned, faced her. “You were abducted, held prisoner for a year and a half, beaten, raped. You weren’t trained to endure that. Getting shot, killing, watching other men die—that’s part of my job description. It’s the downside of what I do for a living.”
“So that was just another bad day at the office?”
He shook his head, muttered something in Spanish, his eyes gone cold. “Just drop it, okay? What happened today wasn’t a big deal. I just . . . got confused.”
But it hadn’t been confusion Laura had seen on his face.
“You’re entitled to be human.”
Without another word, he turned and walked down the hallway toward the guest room. She sipped her coffee and paced the length of the room, debating whether to go after him, to apologize. She’d pushed him, striking some kind of nerve.
But then she heard the sound of guitar music, first just tuning chords, then music so melancholy it made her heart ache.
So this was how he dealt with it—what had happened, his emotions.
And she knew he wanted to be alone.
* * *
THEY HAD A late supper of carryout Thai delivered by the U.S. Marshal Service, neither of them bringing up what had happened earlier. Javier seemed distant, closed off, and Laura knew he was still angry. They watched the news together. Then, pleading a headache, she went to bed and lay awake in the dark, the events of the day running through her mind.
Her interview this morning with the VA flack. Karima and Yusif’s tears. Javier’s reaction to the helicopter and his anger with her.
I’m not some weakling who can’t get his shit together.
Oh, Javi!
She hadn’t realized she’d fallen asleep until the nightmare woke her. Shaking and drenched in cold sweat, she crawled out of bed, slipped into her robe, and walked to the kitchen for a glass of warm milk, only to find Javier still awake, the television on, the volume down low.
He took one look at her face, turned off the TV, and stood. “Bad dream?”
She nodded, the sound of her own screams still echoing in her mind.
He left her then, walked back to the guest room without so much as saying good night, the distance between them leaving an ache behind Laura’s breastbone.
But by the time she put her empty mug in the sink, he was back, wearing only his jeans, gun in one hand. “Come.”
She met his gaze and felt a rush of relief to see warmth in his eyes again.
They walked to her bedroom together. Laura crawled into bed, making room for Javier, who shucked his jeans on her floor before stretching out beside her.
Strong arms closed around her, drawing her close. “I’m sorry, bella. I shouldn’t have gotten angry with you.”
“It was my fault. I pushed you. I’m sorry.”
He kissed her hair. “Sleep.”
She curled up against his bare chest and within minutes fell fast asleep.
* * *
JAVIER WOKE WITH a start the next morning, the whir of helo rotors and reek of burning oil and smoke fading as he came fully awake. Laura lay beside him, still sound asleep, her hair spilling over both of them, her sweet scent surrounding him. He brushed a strand from her cheek, his gaze traveling over her sweet face with its dark lashes and high cheekbones, the satiny curve of her bare shoulder, the soft curves of her breasts, their tips like little pebbles beneath the silky cloth.
Every instinct in him wanted to kiss her awake and pick up where they’d left off in the sauna. But he couldn’t go there.
Instead, he slid out of the bed, drew the covers up to her chin, and left her to sleep. He took a leak, brushed his teeth, and put on his workout clothes and a jacket. He left Laura a quick note to tell her where he was going, checked in with her security detail, then slipped out of the loft, her key in his pocket. With a quick search on his smartphone, he headed up 20th Avenue toward City of Cuernavaca Park and the South Platte River Trail. And then he ran.
He barely noticed the half-frozen river, the early morning cyclists who sped by him, or the sun, which hovered above the eastern horizon, spilling its rays over the drowsy city. He ignored the pain in his thigh, the ache in his ribs, his mind focused on respiration, the beating of his heart, the rhythm of his feet on the concrete.
What do you want to do with them, senior chief? If we let them live, they might warn someone and bring the whole op down around our ears.
No, he wouldn’t go there.
He ran faster, pushed himself harder.
There are more than a hundred fighters up there, senior chief. Somehow they knew we were coming. We need to start our exfil now!
His lungs burned. The muscles in his thigh screamed in protest. He ignored the pain, drove himself harder.
Hear that? Medevac is almost here, buddy. We’re going to be pumped full of morphine and flirting with nurses before you know it.
And still Javier ran.
* * *
LAURA HAD JUST finished with the I-Team meeting when Janet arrived. One of the advantages to working from home was that she could take a break whenever she wanted. She made Janet a cup of coffee, then sat across from her in the living room and told her what she needed her to do—and why.
“I know it’s a lot to ask of you, but I
have to do all I can. It makes even less sense today than it did yesterday.”
Janet met Laura’s gaze. “I don’t know what you think you’re going to discover that FBI investigators won’t.”
“I’m a trained investigator, and a good one. Maybe I won’t find anything. But maybe I will.”
“You give me your word you won’t leak the contents of the file in a news story or reveal where you got the documents?”
“I promise—and I’ve never broken a promise to a source.”
Janet drew a deep breath, clearly considering it. “All right. I can probably get the file to you by this afternoon before we head to the television station. I’m trusting you with my career.”
Laura felt a rush of relief. “Thank you. I won’t let you down.”
“I know you won’t. I know where you live.” Janet smiled, then looked toward the door. “Corbray is on his way up. I didn’t know they made men like him. He is . . .”
Janet didn’t finish the sentence, so Laura finished it for her. “He is strong, thoughtful—and incredibly hot.”
Janet smiled. “Yes. That’s the word I was looking for. Hot.”
Didn’t Laura know it?
Sleeping beside Javier again had left her painfully aware of her own sexual attraction to him, filling her head with fantasies that were going to make it very hard to get any work done today.
“Where did you two meet?” Janet asked.
“In a restaurant in Dubai. He saw a couple of Russian guys bothering me and—”
A key slipped into the lock and Javier entered.
His face was wet with sweat, his expression guarded. He gave them both a nod, his gaze lingering for a moment on Laura before he disappeared down the hallway, probably to take a shower.
Janet stood, her gaze following him. “We’ve got a security briefing in about an hour to prepare for your trip to the news studio tonight. I’ll see you then.”
* * *
JAVIER SAT IN the backseat of a bulletproof Chevy Tahoe beside Laura, who pored over her notes in preparation for her interview, pencil and highlighter in hand. She wore a sweater and jeans, Kevlar beneath her coat. Her face was still free of makeup, a makeup bag the size of a tool chest and a sleek little blue dress in the cargo space behind them. She’d styled her hair the way she’d always done before her abduction—loose and long with lush waves that were drawn away from her face and pinned back with a barrette. One way or another, he was going to find a way to get his fingers into that hair when they got home from this little adventure.
He leaned closer to her and spoke quietly, catching the soft, sweet scent of her skin. “After this is over, you’re going to spend tomorrow and the weekend resting. That’s what you’re supposed to be doing, remember?”
“You can’t give me orders. I may look like one of your men with this on,” she said, glancing up at him and tapping the Kevlar with her knuckles, a slight smile playing on her lips, “but I’m not.”
He leaned closer still and nuzzled her hair, lowering his voice to a near whisper. “Oh, believe me, bella, there’s no way I could mistake you for one of my men, not even in pitch dark.”
She canted her head, looking up at him from beneath her lashes. “Don’t distract me. I’m going on live TV for the first time since . . . I need to be prepared.”
He could tell she was genuinely nervous about this interview—and he knew why. Still, he was doing his best to keep the mood light, hoping to take the edge off her stress. “Were you this grumpy when you reported from Baghdad?”
“Oh, much worse.”
Javier chuckled, turning his gaze back to the street. Ahead of them, an unmarked vehicle carrying two DUSMs turned the corner, another vehicle following behind them, its headlights illuminating the backseat. The Marshal Service had jocked up for a fight. It was the first time since the car bombing that the killer stood a chance of knowing exactly where Laura was going. The idiots at Channel 12 had been plugging the interview all day, clearly trying to drive up ratings, but also giving the killer exactly what he needed—an opportunity to strike and time to plan.
Tonight, Laura Nilsson joins Gary Chapin for an exclusive interview about her new life and the recent car bombing that could have killed her.
There was a chance that someone stupid enough to fuck up would be stupid enough to think that Laura had flown to D.C. to do the interview in person, but there was also a chance the bastard had been watching the Channel 12 studio all day, waiting.
Javier wasn’t officially part of Laura’s security detail. He didn’t get to wear a lip mic and earpiece to keep up with the action, and they hadn’t armed him. But he’d come ready to play rough. He wore his SIG in a shoulder harness beneath his jacket, five spare fifteen-round magazines loaded and ready, the Walther in an ankle holster.
He rubbed his thigh, the muscle still aching from his run. He must have gone six miles before he’d found himself kneeling on the riverbank, breathing hard, his mind filled with images he couldn’t escape, echoes he couldn’t silence—the rattle of AK fire, the cries of wounded men, the blazing orange of the exploding helo.
They had died—Krasinski, Johnson, Grimshaw, the men in the helo—because of a decision he’d made.
He hadn’t been able to outrun his memories, but kneeling there on the riverbank, he’d locked them down once more, shutting them in a part of himself he vowed not to open. He couldn’t change the past, and Laura needed him in the present.
“We’re almost there.” Agent Killeen looked back at Laura, who slipped her notes, pen, and highlighter inside her handbag. “You head straight inside as we discussed. Don’t stop to talk in the doorway. One of us will bring your belongings shortly. There’s already a team at the studio. They’ve been checking IDs, making sure the parking lot is secured. They’ll man the doors while you’re there. We’ll have a team out here watching the vehicles and the building perimeter. I’ll accompany you inside the building and onto the news set. Corbray, I understand you plan to remain close to Ms. Nilsson, also.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
He sure as hell did.
* * *
DEREK TURNED INTO the parking garage north of the Channel 12 studio, pushed a button for his ticket, then drove slowly up to the top level.
Tipped off by the station’s constant ads about the interview, he’d spent yesterday doing recon around the building and knew that the uppermost level offered an unobstructed view of the station’s rear entrance—perfect for getting within striking distance and squeezing off a couple of fatal shots from a high-powered rifle.
He pulled into a parking space, angling his rearview mirror to give himself a view of the entry ramp, his loaded AR-15 beneath his parka on the passenger seat beside him, an HK Mark 23 in his hip holster.
Now there was nothing to do but wait.
CHAPTER
14
BELLY FULL OF butterflies, Laura hurried from the vehicle through the station’s rear entrance, Javier on her right, Agent Killeen on her left, and found herself in a long, brightly lit and crowded hallway, where two deputy marshals motioned her forward, their gazes focused on the entryway behind her.
A man with thick brown hair, a boyish face, and wire-rimmed glasses stepped into her path and shook her hand. “Welcome to Channel Twelve, Ms. Nilsson. I’m Jim Temple, the station manager. We’re so happy to have you here with us. This is John Martin, our news director.”
John Martin looked like every news director Laura had ever met—thin, lines on his face from stress, graying hair. But whereas most news directors were perpetually irritable, he seemed almost giddy. “It’s great to meet you. Having you here on the last day of February sweeps—it means so much to us. I think it’s going to do great things for our ratings. Viewers can’t get enough of you or your amazing story.”
“Thanks for having me.” Laura wasn’t shocked to hear him talk about her appearance in terms of blatant self-interest.
That was TV news. Ratings were everything. If t
he station performed well in the sweeps, they’d be able to demand more money from their advertisers. A good February meant a great start to the year and job security for everyone.
But apparently Javier was shocked. He muttered something in angry Spanish, one of his hands coming to rest protectively against her lower back.
“I’m Special Agent Janet Killeen.” Janet, apparently having forgotten she was temporarily a deputy U.S. Marshal, shook hands with Temple and Martin. “I’ll be accompanying Ms. Nilsson throughout the building to ensure her safety while she’s here at the station. This is Javier Corbray. He’s—”
“I’m Ms. Nilsson’s bodyguard.” Javier held out his hand.
Laura had to fight back a laugh. She could tell from the expressions on Temple’s and Martin’s faces that Javier was all but crushing their fingers as they shook his hand.
Sometimes men could be so predictable.
A young woman with dark curly hair stepped up to them, clipboard in hand. “It’s an honor to meet you, Ms. Nilsson, Agent Killeen, Mr. Corbray. I’m Tania Clarke, the senior producer. I’ll show you to your dressing room, Ms. Nilsson.”
Laura quickly found herself alone staring at her reflection in the lighted mirror. The last time she’d sat in a makeup chair, she’d been about to tape her interview with Diane Sawyer. She’d been nervous then, too, knowing what Diane was going to ask her, well aware that she’d be sharing deeply personal pain with the entire world. But somehow this felt worse, her pulse rapid, her palms damp, her mouth dry.
She hadn’t done live TV since the day she was abducted.
She met her own gaze. “You can do this.”
She was not going to let fear get the better of her. Derek Tower had repeatedly assaulted her reputation in public. It was her turn to speak out—and to show him exactly what she could do given a camera and a microphone.
She reached for her makeup kit, which Janet had brought in for her, and began what had once been her daily routine, taking care to cover the healing nicks on her cheek. She’d always done her own face and hair, in part because she’d spent so much time reporting from abroad where no makeup artists were available, and in part because she preferred a more natural look. As she worked, she went through the interview in her mind again, the act of concentrating on her answers helping her to control her fears.
