by Pamela Clare
Behind her, Stanfield shouted. “Close the kiln doors! Get her!”
She looked over her shoulder to see the men in the fire suits rip off their hoods and throw them to the ground. They were running after her, but she had taken them by surprise and had a head start. She ran, her legs pumping, her feet barely seeming to touch the ground.
A crack of a gunshot. The bite of fire in her shoulder.
And she realized her mistake. She was running in a straight line.
She threw herself to the side, rolled behind a front loader, and then was on her feet and running again through the first open doorway she saw. The inside was a vast cavern filled with pipes, catwalks, conveyor belts, and machinery. And dust—everywhere piles of dust.
The clarity she’d felt began to recede, and in its place was doubt. She wove her way through the machinery, trying to put as much steel as she could between herself and that gun. On she ran, darting past pumps, leaping over pipelines, ducking beneath conveyor belts, through a door, and into a room where a giant drum as big as a house rotated to a deafening racket. She covered her ears, slid behind some kind of waist-high circuit box, coughing from the dust and trying to catch her breath.
If only she knew her way around the plant like they did. If only she knew where she was. They were the hunters, and she was the prey—but only they knew the lay of the land.
Her gaze traveled around the room, searched for a safe path out, and then she saw.
Footprints.
Her own footprints.
The dust was so thick on the floors that it was like running across the surface of the moon or through fresh snow. Her footprints would lead them straight to her.
Unable to hear over the din, she darted out of her hiding place and made for the steel mesh stairs up to the catwalk. At the end of the catwalk was a door. Up and up and up she climbed, only vaguely aware of the burn in her thighs, the ache in her lungs.
Out of the corner of her eye, she saw a flash of yellow. The men in the fire suits had come through the door. They were below her now. They pointed. They’d seen her.
Faster and faster she ran. Along the catwalk. Toward the door.
Toward freedom. Toward life.
A bullet hit the safety rail beside her. She screamed and kept running.
Heavy footfalls rocked the catwalk beneath her feet. They were behind her. They were gaining on her.
She reached the door, grabbed the knob, and jerked.
It was locked. With a desperate sob, she kicked it, yanked at the knob again. And then, miraculously, it opened.
She threw the door wide open and found herself looking into Stanfield’s angry face.
“No!”
She knew one moment of blinding terror, and her knees all but buckled. Then something struck the back of her head and exploded into pain. As she fell into darkness, her last thought was of Reece and Connor and pleasant smells drifting from the kitchen.
Your pretty mommy is awake. Show her how you set the table.
REECE HEARD voices and ducked behind a stack of steel barrels. Four men emerged from the building across from him. Two were dressed in protective yellow suits of some kind—fire suits, perhaps. The other two were dressed for a business meeting—Stanfield and Prentice.
The two in fire suits seemed to be carrying something heavy. Reece shifted position to get a better look, felt his heart explode.
Kara! Her name was an anguished shout inside his mind.
Grief. Regret. Rage.
A torrent of violent emotions washed through him, drove him to his knees.
He was too late. He was too late. He was too late.
He battled back the molten fury that would have sent him flying toward them with nothing but his fists and forced himself to watch and wait.
They carried her past a front loader and around the side of a building toward . . .
The kiln. He’d studied cement kilns before agreeing to sponsor the tire-burning bill. He recognized the structure.
So that was how Stanfield planned to dispose of her body.
No body, no murder.
But Reece wasn’t going to let him get away with it. If nothing else, he would see that Kara got justice.
He followed them carefully, quietly. They stopped at the base of what had to be a preheater tower, dropped Kara roughly onto the ground between them, and reached for their hoods, which for some reason lay on the dusty asphalt as if they’d been carelessly tossed aside. Miguel’s brother sat nearby, clutching what was clearly a broken jaw. Prentice stood, pale as a ghost and shaking, having apparently blown chunks down the front of his expensive suit.
Stanfield was shouting. “Hurry the hell up! I want this over with now! God, Prentice, you stink!”
Reece waited until both men in fire suits were facing away from him to make his move. By the time they knew he was there, he already had his arm locked tightly around Stanfield’s throat. “Drop the gun and get away from her! Now! Or your boss is a dead man!”
The gun fell to the asphalt not far from Kara’s head. The men stepped away.
“Now lie down on your stomachs, hands locked behind your heads! Do it! If you even try to get up, I’ll break his neck!”
Stanfield’s body jerked as he struggled for breath. His hands clawed at Reece’s arm. But old and sedentary, he was no match for Reece’s strength.
Reece squeezed harder, aching to send the bastard to hell. “Surprised to see me alive, old man? You’re in for a lot of unhappy surprises today. The sheriff’s on his way here, and when he gets here he’s going to arrest you for murder.”
“I-I had nothing to do with this!” Prentice began to babble. “I came here to talk over some property mergers, and I—”
“Shut your goddamned mouth, Prentice! She’s the mother of your child! Does that mean nothing to you? You should have given your life for hers!”
Prentice stared at him. “M-my life? But she’s not—”
“I said shut up!” Reece loosened his grip on Stanfield’s throat and allowed the bastard to take a breath. Over Stanfield’s coughing, he heard a moan, a soft, feminine sound.
Kara. She shifted, whimpered, and turned her head toward him. Her eyes were closed, but she was alive!
The warm rush of relief he felt was followed by a sharp blow to his stomach.
Stanfield elbowed him hard and stumbled out of his grasp toward the gun, toward Kara.
Kara heard what sounded like fighting—shuffling feet, grunts, fists striking flesh. It sounded distant, far away, as if perhaps it were a dream.
Then something hard pressed into her temple.
“Don’t do it, Stanfield. The cops are here. The S.W.A.T. team is almost in position. If you kill her, they’ll have you red-handed.”
It was Reece’s voice. Reece! But how could it be Reece’s voice? He was dead, wasn’t he? Oh, God, Reece!
With the flood of grief came awareness—the throbbing of her head, the cold press of asphalt against her back, the tingling burn of the cement kiln dust beneath her palms.
She opened her eyes and saw Reece being held by the two men in fire suits, Stanfield crouching over her, holding a gun to her head.
Reece was alive! But how?
She didn’t need to know that now. What she needed to do was keep them both alive.
Stanfield wasn’t looking at her; he seemed to be scanning the surroundings.
Carefully, Kara gathered a handful of cement kiln dust in her left hand and held it, ignoring her burning skin.
“I don’t see anyone,” Stanfield growled.
She waited until he looked down, then threw the dust in his eyes.
He screamed, pitched away from her, and covered his face with his forearm, the gun still in his hand.
Then all hell broke loose.
“Freeze! Police! Everyone on the ground!”
Shouts. Gunshots. A cry of pain. The crunch of dozens of booted feet.
And Reece was there, on top of her, shielding her with his bo
dy, his sweet weight pressed against her.
And then just voices. Cop voices. Chief Irving swearing.
It was over. It was finally over.
She looked up into Reece’s eyes and saw the worry, the lingering shadows of fear. Relief and joy swelled like the sun inside her. Her eyes blurred with tears. “You’re alive! I thought . . . They told me—”
“Everything’s going to be okay.”
And then she remembered. There was something she had to tell him. “I love you, Reece Sheridan.”
He grinned. “I kinda figured.”
THE NEXT several hours passed in a blur of cops and doctors as Kara and Reece were examined, treated, and questioned. Kara felt ashamed when she learned that Reece had been at the Capitol facing down Senator de la Peña when Stanfield had called her. It had been a recording she’d heard, part of Reece’s last conversation with Stanfield the night before Alexis was killed. He’d never been anywhere near Reece.
“My God! I feel so stupid! I almost got both of us killed.”
Chief Irving put a reassuring hand on her shoulder. “Don’t be so hard on yourself. Men like Stanfield spend their lives manipulating people. You did one hell of a job out there. You used your brain, fought back, and stayed alive. That’s what matters.”
But Kara wasn’t ready to let herself off the hook that easily. “I risked everything for nothing! If I had only hung up on him and called 911—”
Chief Irving interrupted her. “Quit second-guessing yourself. Stanfield is a clever man. He frightened you, pressured you, gave you no time to think. But he miscalculated in two important ways. He underestimated your strength and will to live, and he underestimated Senator de la Peña’s conscience. You’re not an easy victim, and the senator isn’t a cold-blooded killer.”
Reece had a black eye, which seemed to please him, as well as a few scrapes. She had a minor concussion, a shallow wound where a bullet had nicked her shoulder, as well as chemical burns here and there from lying in the caustic dust. Only the burn on her left palm hurt enough to bother her.
But that didn’t stop the doctor from trying to keep her in the hospital overnight.
“Just for observation,” the doctor said.
Kara hopped off the emergency room gurney and glared at him. “Like hell! I have an article to write! There will be lots of people in the newsroom who can observe me. If I keel over, they’ll know.”
Reece shook his head. “Kara, I really think—”
“I know you’re only trying to watch over me, but I almost died for this story. The moment the police reports are final the other newspapers will be all over it. If I don’t get it in tomorrow’s paper, I’ll be playing catch-up on my own investigation!”
Reece looked at her doubtfully for a moment and then his gaze slid down her body. He smiled. “Fine. But tell me, little Miss Hospital Gown, what are you going to wear? Your clothes are saturated with CKD.”
In the end, Kara prevailed. With Chief Irving to escort him, Reece retrieved some clothes from the hotel suite at the Loews and brought them back to her in the ER. Then, frowning the whole way, he drove her to the paper.
He glared at her as he pulled into the parking garage. “I’m staying with you, you know.”
It felt so good to be with him. She smiled. “I kinda figured.”
She walked inside with him, the two of them hand-in-hand. The newsroom was in a state of chaos. IT had set up a new computer at her desk. The health department files sat in neat rows on a table they’d set up nearby.
“There she is—my hero!” Joaquin grinned, then nodded to Reece. “Nice shiner, Senator.”
“Kara!” Holly ran down the hall toward her, threw her arms around her, and hugged her. “Thank God you’re safe!”
Kara was astonished to see tears in Holly’s eyes and felt her own eyes tingle. “I’m fine.”
“When I heard from Tess that you’d disappeared, I—”
But Kara never got to hear what Holly was going to say, because Tessa and Sophie and Matthew crowded in, each of them claiming a hug from her and a handshake from Reece—except for Tessa, who kissed Reece full on the lips.
“I’ve been wanting to do that for a while now,” she said. “Thanks for keeping her safe.”
“Well done, McMillan! Welcome back!” Tom stepped out of his office, coffee in hand. “Welcome to the newsroom, Senator.”
A little knot of worry Kara hadn’t even realized she was carrying inside her melted away. She’d half expected Tom to toss Reece out of the building.
“If you’re all done fawning over McMillan, let’s get this meeting underway,” Tom bellowed. “I want an edit plan in thirty minutes. Senator, you’ll have to excuse us. Maybe you can grab a cup of sludge in the cafeteria.”
“Sounds good to me.”
But Kara didn’t want to let go. She gave his hand one last squeeze.
He grinned, ducked down, and brushed his lips over hers. “I’ll see you soon.”
The staff filed into the conference room—including Holly.
Tom glared at her. “Bradshaw, what are you doing here?”
Holly lifted her chin. “I know you think I’m only good for interviewing celebrities about their love lives and latest trips through rehab, but Kara is my best friend, and they tried to kill her, and I’m going to help with her story, and if you don’t like that, you’ll have to pick me up and throw me out this door!”
For a moment Tom looked utterly surprised. Then he glowered. “Fine. Sit down and shut up!”
Holly sat, looking quite pleased with herself.
And Kara’d thought she’d seen everything.
REECE SAT in the newsroom near Kara’s desk and watched as the news team pulled out the stops to get her investigation to press on time to make the morning paper. He’d never been in a newsroom before and found it to be nothing like the constant hustle and bustle he’d expected to find. Instead, it was more manic, with periods of intense quiet and concentration, during which the only sound to be heard was the clicking of a half dozen keyboards, occasionally interrupted by rushed discussion, dark humor, and profanity.
“Hey, Matthew, grab me some coffee while you’re up.”
“What am I, Tess—your bitch?”
“Yep, says so on your forehead.”
Most entertaining to him was the way they seemed to speak in code. He’d had no idea that journalism was so specialized, and he realized that a well-managed news team had more than a few things in common with a well-trained police unit, including its own jargon.
“What’s your slug?”
“We’re putting a hammer on the main bar. What do you want for the drop?”
“We’re going to start it above the fold, jump it to five, and spread the rest over two columns.”
“Kara, what do you want for that cutline?”
“Production wants a head for the second sidebar.” To which the reply was, “They’re always begging for head down there. Don’t they get any at home?”
Reece left Kara’s side only twice—once when Tessa interviewed him about his being cleared of Alexis’s murder and once when Sophie interviewed him for her story about events at the cement plant today.
“What do you have to say to those who believed you guilty?” Tessa asked.
Reece bit back the words he might otherwise have said and tried to see it from the public’s point of view. “People wanted justice for Ms. Ryan and, understandably, misdirected their anger toward me. I’m ready to move forward with the legislative session, and I hope I have the public’s support.”
Sophie’s interview was much tougher. “You saw them carrying Kara out of the building across from you, is that correct?”
For a moment, Reece found himself back in that horrid, desolate moment. “Yes. I saw her, and I thought she was dead. I thought I was too late, that I was no longer fighting to save her life, but to keep her body from being disposed of like trash. I never want to feel that way again.”
Tears welled up i
n Sophie’s eyes. “Thank God you were there! They would have burned her alive!”
Reece nodded, smiled, and wiped the tears from her cheeks. “Is that part of your interview?”
Sophie laughed. “No. That part is off the record.”
As the evening wore on, Reece noticed the way everyone seemed to be watching over Kara. They got her cups of tea without being asked, ran to fetch files for her, and cast covert glances her way. And he realized that they had come close to losing her, too.
But as the evening wore on toward midnight, Kara began to fade. He knew it was only strength of will that had carried her this far.
She lifted her left hand from the keyboard, shook it, and winced.
Reece took her hand, loosened the bandage. “Let me put more of that prescription cream on it.”
She didn’t argue with him—proof, he supposed, that it must really hurt.
“How are you holding up?” He asked as if he couldn’t see the exhaustion on her face.
“Okay. Just a little more to go.”
She finished at a little past one, her face pale. “I’d read through it again, Tom, but I just can’t. I—”
“Go on, and get some sleep, McMillan. We’ll take it from here.”
Reece guided her back to his Jeep, helped her climb inside, and buckled her seat belt.
“Where are we going?” she asked, half asleep beside him.
“Back to the hotel. The suite is booked through the end of the week. Seems a damned shame to waste it.”
SATURDAY MORNING dawned bright and blue, one of those Colorado mornings where the sky seems impossibly wide and bright. In the streets of Denver and throughout the metro area papers made their way into racks and onto front porches and kitchen tables.
“Greed,” read the headline at the top of the Independent. “Investigation of cement plant reveals environmental crimes, government corruption, murder.”
People walked down the sidewalks reading of the reporter who’d nearly been killed in her search for the truth and of the senator who’d been blamed, betrayed, and redeemed.