by Pamela Clare
Javier shook his head in disgust. “It’s like my sweet abuelita always said—the world is full of assholes.”
Of course, a time or two when she’d said that, she’d been talking about him.
* * *
LAURA OPENED HER office door, almost shaking from frustration, her head throbbing. She walked into the kitchen, got herself a glass of water, and set it down on the counter, not really thirsty.
Javier stood. “Is everything okay?”
“No.” She picked up the glass and drank every drop, then set it down again. “The paper’s publisher and board of trustees don’t want me to come back to work.”
Dark brows bent in a frown. “What?”
She turned, paced the length of the kitchen. “They told me they’re afraid for my safety and the safety of the rest of the staff. They want me to take the rest of the week off to recover, but they don’t want me back in the office on Monday. They think it would be best for everyone if I worked from home for the time being. They’re probably right.”
“Sounds to me like they’re afraid of being sued.”
“They’re not brave enough to say that, so they pretend it’s all out of concern for me.” She pressed her fingers against her throbbing temple. “First my neighbors want me to move out, and now the paper doesn’t want me around. I don’t want anyone to get hurt because of me, but I can’t just run and hide.”
She stiffened in surprise to feel Javier’s big hands on her shoulders.
He turned her toward him, took her into his arms. “I don’t blame you for being angry. But that headache—you need to take it easy. Some time off might not be a bad thing.”
She drew back and met his gaze, perilously close to tears, the pounding of her heart a sign that she wasn’t far from a full-blown panic attack. “I’ve fought so damned hard to put the past behind me, to start over, to build a new life. No one knows how hard it’s been for me to get where I am today. No one. And now . . . Now I’m going to lose it all again—my home, my job, maybe even my life.”
She fought to calm her breathing, her chest tight, her fear spiraling out of control.
Javier cupped her face, his gaze riveted hard on hers. “No! No, you’re not. Your neighbors are cowards, and the newspaper is being run by lawyers. But this won’t last forever. When the investigation is over, you’ll get your life back.”
Conviction was etched into every feature of his face, from the hard line of his jaw to the firm set of his lips to the fierce gleam in his eyes, his certainty giving her something to hold on to, taking the edge off her dread.
From across the room, her cell phone rang, making her jump.
She hurried to the coffee table where she’d left it and got a sinking feeling in her stomach when she saw a restricted number on the screen.
Probably Derek Tower.
She answered but said nothing.
“Ms. Nilsson?” It wasn’t Derek.
She let out a relieved breath. “This is she.”
“This is Chief Deputy U.S. Marshal Zach McBride, Nate’s friend. I met you up at the Cimarron last Saturday.”
The Medal of Honor recipient whose wife, Natalie, wanted to write romance novels.
“I remember.” She hadn’t known he was a chief deputy U.S. Marshal.
He asked how she was doing, passed along Natalie’s regards, and then his tone of voice changed. “I’m calling for a few reasons. First, I wanted to let you know that the U.S. Marshal Service is going to be primary in this case. The Justice Department sees an act of terrorism at a newspaper as falling under our jurisdiction. The FBI and local police will be doing the footwork for a task force that I’ll be heading out of our office. We believe we have the best resources to bring this case together.”
“Oh. I see.” A sense of relief washed through her. The DUSMs who’d protected her before and during the trial had always made her feel safe, whereas the FBI, apart from Agent Killeen, had not. “Thank you. I appreciate everything you’re doing to protect me and get to the bottom of this.”
“Who is it?” Javier whispered, standing nearby.
“Zach McBride,” she mouthed. “U.S. Marshal Service.”
Two dark brows rose, and Javier nodded.
Zach went on. “We’re going to do everything we can to make sure you’re safe from here on out. We’re on our way over to talk about protocols and to set up a trap-and-trace on your phone in case Derek Tower contacts you again. Does that work?”
“Yes.”
“Tower is officially a person of interest in the bombing, and we’ve put our Violent Offender and Fugitive Task Force to work tracking him down for questioning. I’m not saying that we think he’s behind it, but given his recent actions toward you and his background, I’d like to talk to him.”
The idea that Tower might soon be in custody made Laura feel safer. “I haven’t heard from him since the night he accosted me in my car.”
“I’m not surprised. We’ll talk about how we’re going to handle any potential contact from him when I get there.” Zach paused. “I also wanted to let you know the DNA from the car came back as Ali Al Zahrani.”
Laura sank slowly to the couch, the throbbing in her head almost unbearable, the rush of her pulse drowning out whatever Zach was saying, an image of the kid’s smiling face burning in her mind. “Oh, God.”
CHAPTER
9
HEAD STILL THROBBING, Laura sat in the passenger seat of her own car as Javier drove them back up to the Cimarron, the beautiful mountain scenery passing by her window unnoticed. “I want to see his family. I want to tell them in person how sorry I am.”
“You’ll get that chance, but not today. Today, you need to take care of yourself, take it easy.”
Javier was right. They were all right.
When she’d told Zach she wanted to visit Ali Al Zahrani’s parents, he’d told her flat out that she needed to wait at least a few days. They were being questioned by the FBI, their house now considered part of a crime scene, their street swarming with media.
“You don’t want to walk into that,” he’d said.
No, she didn’t.
Still, she couldn’t quit thinking about them, how they must feel, knowing that the entire nation saw them now as the parents of a terrorist.
“Maybe I can call or send flowers or a card—something to let them know I don’t blame them.”
Javier glanced over at her. “What if they’re proud of him?”
Her gaze shot to his. “I don’t believe any mother feels proud when her child dies like that. I talked to women in Afghanistan who were devastated with grief over sons who’d chosen so-called martyrdom or who’d died in the fighting. Most were too afraid to let their grief show because the Taliban would beat them.”
The kid’s parents would now have to live the rest of their lives knowing they raised a son who’d died trying to commit murder. Their child would be reviled across the nation—and so would they. No one would care that they loved their son. They would be isolated in their grief for him. Facebook and Twitter were already teeming with jokes about the suicide bomber who managed to blow up only himself.
Laura couldn’t say she understood exactly how they felt, but she did know how lonely grief could be. Her heart ached every day for Klara, and yet apart from her mother, her grandmother, and Erik, she could speak of her daughter with no one.
“This is really tearing you up, isn’t it?” Javier’s big hand closed, warm and reassuring, over hers. “Give it a rest for today, bella. You can’t do anything now except make this harder on yourself.”
Laura drew a deep breath and stared out her window, finally noticing the snowcapped peaks, the stretches of evergreen forest. It was beautiful up here, reminding her of the mountains in Sweden where her family had gone skiing every year. Of course, the Rockies were much more rugged, rising to staggering h
eights, their snowy summits dazzling under the bright Colorado sun.
It had been Javier’s idea to get away, to leave her neighbors, the prying media, and all of Denver behind for fresh mountain air. He’d suggested she pack a bag and stay up there with him and the West family for a few days. Laura didn’t want to impose on the Wests, but she knew Javier had come here to visit his friends. His decision to help her had taken him away from that. Left with the choice between staying alone at the loft or spending the night up at the Cimarron, she’d chosen the latter, calling Special Agent Killeen, who hadn’t yet been relieved of her duties, to let her know about the change in plans. Janet drove ahead of them in her beige Toyota Corolla, another agent following them in a blue Ford Escort.
Laura relaxed into the seat, let her mind go blank, and watched the scenery.
Another ten minutes found them at the ranch’s main gate. Recessed from the road, its arch was constructed of heavy logs, a wooden sign that read “Cimarron Ranch” hanging from a crossbeam, the gate itself constructed of steel. It stood open, and there, waiting for them beside a white pickup truck, stood Nate, a cowboy hat on his head.
He grinned, waved them through, then climbed into his truck and followed them, the road dipping downward into a valley.
When the ranch house came into view, Laura was just as amazed as she’d been the first time she’d seen it. “It’s so beautiful.”
Like a postcard.
Javier grinned. “Home sweet home.”
Built of rounded river stones and logs, it was as breathtaking as its surroundings, reminding Laura of villas she’d seen in Switzerland and Austria but with some distinct western touches. Its roof was steeply sloped to let snow slide off, smoke curling from one of a half dozen stone chimneys. Rows of wide windows gleamed, reflecting sunlight and blue sky. Beside a row of barns and outbuildings, palomino quarter horses grazed in a large corral, the wind tossing their pale manes and tails.
Javier parked beside Janet’s car, handing Laura her car keys. “It’s pretty cold. You head on inside. I’ll get your bag.”
“Thanks.” Laura stepped out into a biting wind and hugged her peacoat tightly around her, thin mountain air cutting through the thick wool.
Jack West stood face-to-face with Janet, the two of them locked in some kind of argument. “I know every man, woman, and child on my land, SA Killeen. I don’t need you checking IDs or running background on my people. I understand you want to protect Ms. Nilsson. So do I. But I’ve got twenty men here, every single one of whom knows how to use a firearm. They’ve all been made aware of the situation. Laura is safe under my roof. I guarantee you that.”
Looking uncomfortably cold in a navy-blue pantsuit, Janet held her ground, the other agent standing behind her, his eyes hidden behind Ray-Bans. “I have no intention of running background on every person on your property, Mr. West, but I would like to get an idea of the layout of the ranch and the house in case—”
Jack cut across her. “I’m telling you that’s not necessary. There’s nothing you can learn from a map that I can’t tell you if it comes down to it. Now, either come inside for a bite to eat, or get the hell off my property.”
Janet shook her head, handing Jack her card. “Call sooner rather than too late—and thanks so much for your cooperation.”
Then she climbed into her car and headed back toward the highway, the other agent following her just as Nate climbed out of his truck.
Nate looked at his father over the top of his sunglasses. “Looks like you sent that pretty FBI agent packing.”
“Was she pretty? I didn’t notice.” Jack walked over to Laura and took her hand between his. “Good to see you again, Laura. I hear your neighbors don’t want you bringing trouble to their doorstep. Well, you can feel free to bring it to mine. Anyone who comes looking for trouble here is damned well going to find it.”
Laura’s throat went tight. “Thank you.”
* * *
JAVIER PUSHED WITH every bit of remaining strength he had, his muscles maxed, his right pectorals and shoulder screaming, ribs that had recently healed protesting as his body tensed. He ignored the pain, fighting for every inch.
Nate stood over him, spotting. “You got it! You’ve got it! Come on!”
The bar started to dip on the right, his injured muscles struggling to match the strength on his left side.
“Want an assist?”
“No!” He grunted the word from between gritted teeth, fighting to level the barbell, his right arm shaking.
Slowly, so slowly, the bar leveled, inching upward as he finished his last rep.
Nate took the weight and settled the barbell into place. “Way to tough it out, man. I couldn’t manage that on my best day.”
Javier sat up, sweat trickling down his temples, his muscles pumped and burning. He grabbed a towel, wiped his face, and stood. Nate might be impressed, but Javier wasn’t. He still wasn’t benching his max—three-fifteen—and he’d barely made it through this set. Still, he was getting stronger.
He rubbed his shoulder, pressed a hand to his aching ribs. “Who are you fooling, West? You’re the toughest son of a bitch I know.”
Nate hadn’t lost only skin in the fire, but muscle and tendons, too. The fact that he was working out every day, lifting weights, working on the ranch was proof that he had a kind of strength few men possessed.
“I sure as hell can’t bench two-ninety.”
The two of them began to remove weights from the bar.
“How is it being together with Laura again?”
“It’s good. It’s not like it was before, of course. With all she’s been through . . .”
Nate nodded. “A woman who’s been hurt like she was hurt needs a lot of time and love to heal. How is she handling the news about the bomber?”
“It’s shaken her up pretty badly, but she’s hanging in there. She wants to visit his family, express her condolences.”
Nate gave a surprised “Huh.”
“She’s got a big heart. That’s what makes her such a great reporter. I just don’t want to see her get hurt again because of it. The world is full of people ready to fuck other people over. What if this kid’s parents are sorry their son failed?”
“If that’s the case, McBride won’t let her near them.” Nate tightened the clamps on the barbell. “What about you? How are you holding up?”
“I’m going to make damned sure no one gets a second chance at her. They want to hurt her, they have to get through me.”
“I respect that, man, but she gets a lot of media attention. If you get too caught up in this, NSW is bound to get wind of it. Think they’re going to want you hanging around her, playing bodyguard? If your photo ends up on the nightly news beside hers, you’ll find yourself up to your ears in shit.”
Nate settled on the bench for his last set, while Javier got into position to spot.
Nate was right, of course. If Javier was connected with Laura, the brass at NSW wouldn’t like it. They’d have a lot of questions for him. “What the hell am I supposed to do? I can’t turn my back on her and walk away.”
There was more to it than that. Being with Laura, watching over her, made Javier feel needed again. It made him feel like he was doing something. It made him feel like a man. But he couldn’t explain that to Nate.
“Hell, what would you do if you were in my shoes?”
“Probably the same thing you’re doing.”
Nate lay back, worked through his set, then sat and reached for his water bottle, drinking in thirsty gulps. Their workout over, he stood, grabbed a spray bottle and cloth, and began to wipe down the equipment. “You’ve got a lot going on without taking on Laura’s problems, too. JG called. He’s worried about you.”
¡Que mierda! Shit! “Yeah? He’s worse than a mother hen.”
“You’re saying he doesn’t have reason to
worry, that your refusing therapy is somehow not a problem?”
“I passed the psych screening. Why the hell should I go to therapy?”
Nate set the spray bottle and rag aside. “They say you played to the test.”
“What the hell does that even mean?”
“You know what it means. You’ve been through it before, and you gave them the answers you knew they were looking for rather than telling the truth.”
Javier picked up his water and drank, trying not to lose his temper. “I came here to chill and get away from that bullshit.”
“And you’re welcome for as long as you want to stay, but there’s got to be honesty between us. What’s going on, Javier?”
When Javier didn’t have a ready answer, Nate answered for him.
“I know what happened. I know the whole story. I know about the decision you had to make. I know about the ambush and the medevac helo crash. JG isn’t the only one who’s called me. Pretty much every surviving member of the squad has either called or e-mailed asking about you.”
Javier did not want to go there.
“I can’t change what happened. I made the call, and I can’t do a damned thing about how it turned out. Sitting in some stuffy office crying to some therapist who’s never been in combat is not going to change things either.” Javier turned to face Nate. “I’ve been in and out of combat for fourteen years. I know what I can handle, man. I don’t need their help. I’m not some fucking pussy.”
“Are you saying that JG, Wilson, Ross, Zimmerman—all the guys who are getting treatment are pussies?”
“No.” ¡Carajo! That wasn’t what he’d meant. “They’re good operators, hard chargers, hard-core team guys. They get the job done.”
“What’s different about you? Why does it make you a pussy if you get help, but not the rest of the team? Oh, I get it. You’re the Cobra. You get within striking distance of the enemy, and it’s over. But if it all goes sideways and the wrong men die, you don’t need help like the rest of us mere mortals.”