by Pamela Clare
“I’ve called four times. I’ll try again.” Alex sounded irritated.
Then Tom looked directly at Laura. “Are you privy to any info the feds haven’t felt like sharing with the public?”
Laura stiffened. “No. I haven’t spoken with anyone from the FBI or the Marshal Service since last week.”
Surely Tom realized she couldn’t share information from an active investigation just because she worked for the paper.
His gaze shifted back to Alex. “Get me something—an interview with a source close to the investigation, the kid’s parents, witnesses. I want at least ten inches on this, enough for a decent headline.”
“Whatever you say.” Alex was definitely irritated. “There was a gang-related killing in the state pen overnight. The suspected head of one of the Mexican nationalist gangs was found dead in his cell this morning with his throat slit. Word is that the head of the white supremacist group green-lighted the murder from his cell in D-seg. I’d like to report this—maybe ten inches—and use it as a springboard for a bigger piece about gangs in Colorado prisons.”
While Tom and Alex discussed possible angles for Alex’s proposed story, Laura looked over her notes, knowing it was almost her turn in the hot seat. She heard footsteps and looked up to see Javier. Her breath caught, her mind going blank. He stood in her office doorway wearing nothing but a towel. In the sauna, seeing him dressed like this had been one thing. But seeing him standing in her office, daylight highlighting his muscles, making his dark skin gleam . . .
“Can I use your washer?” he asked quietly.
She nodded, unable to keep from raking him with her gaze.
“Nilsson, you there?” Tom looked into the computer screen.
“Yes.” Laura glanced down at her notes. “I need to finish my interview with Ted Hollis, the man I was speaking with when the bomb went off. I’ve got two more soldiers I’d like to interview after that. I’m slated to talk to the local coordinator for the VA’s PTSD program tomorrow. I’d like to talk to the regional VA director, as well, but he keeps shunting me over to the PR flack. I hope to have a story by Friday.”
Laura glanced back over her shoulder, but Javier was gone.
* * *
MCBRIDE SHOWED UP with Callahan at fifteen hundred hours to brief Laura on the investigation. Javier could tell the man was pissed. So was he.
“I’ve never known the Marshal Service to back down like this. Tower must have powerful friends in Washington. He also has an alibi. A friend of his claims he was in D.C. at the time the bomb went off. I’m sure it’s false, but I can’t prove that. He came in voluntarily and answered our questions, even offered to help, which makes him look good. Officially, he’s no longer a person of interest in this case, but unofficially . . .”
Laura nodded. “I understand.”
Javier stood to her right, the tension inside him making it impossible for him to sit. “What about all the phone calls, the way he followed her to her car? What about the bruises he left on her wrists?”
McBride didn’t seem to take Javier’s frustration personally. “The district attorney has declined to prosecute the case. He bought into Tower’s claim that Tower would never have touched Laura if she hadn’t held a gun on him. He says one incident of following Laura to her car doesn’t constitute stalking. But if Tower continues to call you or comes near you again, Laura, we’ll arrest the son of a bitch and charge him with violating the restraining order. He won’t be able to squirm out of that.”
The order, signed by a judge on his lunch hour, thanks to Laura’s very determined attorney, sat on Laura’s coffee table beside half-empty coffee cups.
Tower was making the most of his fifteen minutes of fame to repeat his lies about her being to blame in some way for her own abduction and the deaths of his men, and this time some of the papers had taken the bait, dredging up old news stories, reexamining the State Department’s report. The bastard was a master schemer, and he’d taken advantage of the bombing to manipulate the media.
But Javier was willing to bet Laura knew more about the media than Tower did—and she had her own contacts. She’d already been interviewed by her editor for a piece in tomorrow’s paper, and she’d left a message for her former anchor, who’d been more than happy to give her a segment on Thursday’s primetime broadcast.
Laura reached out, touched McBride’s hand. “Thanks. This isn’t your fault.”
McBride turned to Detective Callahan. “I believe you wanted to update Laura on your investigation.”
Detective Callahan nodded, dark circles beneath his blue eyes proof he’d been putting in long hours. “We’ve collected debris from the bomb site and from the body and have been able to piece together the explosive device.”
“Have you learned anything definite so far?” Laura asked.
Callahan nodded. “We know that the bomber used dynamite stolen from a construction site in Adams County to use as a primer. The dynamite was detonated by cell phone. A call was made to a cell phone connected to an SCR switch.”
When it was clear that this meant nothing to Laura, Javier knelt down beside the coffee table, took her reporter’s notepad and pen, and began to sketch. “A call to the cell phone sends current through the phone. The current passes through a nine-volt battery that is wired into a blasting cap. The blasting cap is what sets off the dynamite, which in turn ignites the ANFO. We saw shit like this all the time in Iraq and Afghanistan.”
She studied the drawing. “Can you trace either cell phone?”
Callahan shook his head. “The one used to make the detonator was a burner bought solely for this purpose. It received only one call—and that call came from a burner phone, too.”
She looked disappointed. “I guess there’s not much to go on.”
Callahan’s brows bent in a frown. “Not true. We’ve got serial numbers and may be able to locate the store where the phones were purchased. Same with some of the detonator’s components. That might give us an idea where this person lives—in Colorado, out of state, Front Range, Western Slope. We might also luck out and get some footage from security cameras. Obviously, this won’t yield results overnight, but we will find him.”
“In the meantime,” said McBride, “we know for certain another person or persons was involved. We know that the materials they used are consistent with the materials used by AQ, the Taliban, and other terrorist groups to build and detonate IEDs. And we know that Ali Al Zahrani wasn’t the shotcaller here. Whoever detonated the explosives probably never intended for Al Zahrani to set off the bomb himself. He probably used Al Zahrani to help mix the ANFO and get the car into position, and then killed him to eliminate witnesses or prevent him from backing out and warning someone.”
“That poor kid!” Laura closed her eyes, then looked up at them. “He was murdered. Someone pumped him full of hatred, brainwashed him into doing their dirty work—and then shot him in the head. What if he had second thoughts? Maybe he remembered at the last moment that killing was wrong. Maybe he realized he wanted to live and—”
“Hey, don’t do this to yourself.” Javier rested his hand on her shoulder. “We don’t know what happened for sure.”
“But we are going to find out.” McBride pressed a finger to his earpiece, then glanced toward the door. “This is going to be fun. Excuse me.”
He walked out the door, closing it behind him. A few seconds passed before Javier heard the sound of arguing.
“This is still a multi-agency operation. I don’t see why I can’t remain a part of Ms. Nilsson’s protection detail.” That was Agent Killeen.
McBride’s voice was so deep he could barely make out what McBride was saying. “The marshals are handling that aspect of the operation. The FBI—”
“With all due respect, sir, I don’t give a rat’s ass where the brass have drawn the lines. I promised to keep her safe, and I want to fulfil
l that promise.”
“You kept that promise, and now you’ve been relieved.”
“Damn it, sir, I don’t want to be relieved! I fought hard to become a part of her protection detail, and now—”
“You’re letting your emotions get the better of you, Agent Killeen.”
Javier knew Laura liked Agent Killeen, trusted her. He knew the moment he looked at Laura’s face what she was going to do. He followed her as she got to her feet, walked to the door, and opened it.
“I know it’s probably unusual, but can’t I request that Agent Killeen remain part of my detail?”
McBride seemed to consider Laura’s words—not altogether cheerfully. “I could deputize you, bring you into the Marshal Service temporarily. It won’t make you popular with your colleagues.”
From the look on Agent Killeen’s face, the idea didn’t appeal much to her either.
And Javier wondered how the government functioned at all when the federal law enforcement agencies spent so much time caught up in dick fights.
Agent Killeen’s chin went up. “Yes. Deputize me.”
“All right.” Zach drew out his cell phone, a frown set on his face. “I’m going to catch hell for this.”
Laura smiled. “Thanks, Zach. I really appreciate it.”
They walked back inside, McBride shutting and locking the door behind them.
Laura offered Agent Killeen a glass of water, then settled back in her chair. “There’s something else I wanted to ask you.”
Javier knew where this was going.
McBride clearly didn’t. “Go ahead.”
“When can I visit Ali Al Zahrani’s parents?”
* * *
MCBRIDE ARRANGED FOR Laura to visit the kid’s family Wednesday night. That gave the security detail two and a half days to plan. They didn’t know it yet, but Javier was determined to be a part of that effort. Not that he didn’t trust the Marshal Service. He did, especially with McBride in the lead. But none of them cared about Laura the way he did. Javier was willing to lose everything for her—including his life.
* * *
JAVIER FINISHED HIS call with McBride, then walked back to the guest room to fold his newly washed and dried clothes, listening to Laura as she interviewed a disabled Marine in her office. From what Javier had been able to piece together, the veteran, a woman who’d served two tours in Iraq, had lost both legs and been badly burned when a suicide bomber had blown up a car at a checkpoint near the Green Zone.
It was a helluva thing to live through.
“What did they say when you told them you were having thoughts of suicide?” Laura asked, periodically injecting “I see,” or “How upsetting,” or “Mmm-hmm,” as she listened to the woman’s answer.
It was interesting to hear her work after watching so many of her broadcasts. She was cool and collected on the air, but in person she was warm, sympathetic, always letting the person she was interviewing know that what they told her mattered to her. Even when the interview was what Javier might consider hostile, like her interview with the VA flack this morning, she was warm and caring—at least until she had them by the jugular.
“I know it’s difficult to talk about this, but it would really help my readers understand the issue better if you could describe for me what you’re experiencing—the nightmares, the flashbacks, the anger you feel.”
Nightmares.
Flashbacks.
Anger.
The words hit Javier, sent ripples through him.
Knock it off, cabrón.
He did not have PTSD. A few post-combat nightmares, a bar fight, and a handful of strange adrenaline surges did not constitute PTSD. If he was on edge all the time, it was only because everyone kept hassling him, as if they expected him to fall the fuck apart. But he was stronger than that. If they would back the hell off and let him get on with an active-duty workup, he’d be fine.
“You jumped out of bed? You mean without your prosthetics? Oh, I’m so sorry. I can only imagine how frightening that was.”
¡Sí, claro!
After what she’d been through, Laura knew damned good and well how bad it could get. Javier knew she’d had another nightmare last night. He’d heard her in the kitchen mixing that milk-and-honey brew of her grandmother’s. He’d almost gone to her, offered to sleep with her again. But after what had happened in the sauna, he’d thought the better of it. She’d been coping without him all of this time. It was better not to fan the flames.
That was probably another reason he was on edge. His mind knew he and Laura were not going to enjoy a repeat of their weekend in Dubai, but his body wasn’t getting the message. He’d tried to blame it on the fact that he hadn’t gotten laid since before his most recent deployment—four months in Afghanistan followed by five months that included a stay in ICU, rehab, and medical leave. He might even have believed that excuse if it hadn’t been for the inconvenient fact that the only woman he wanted was Laura.
But no way in hell did he want to see that same panicked look in her eyes that he’d seen after he’d kissed her in the sauna. He’d be damned before he’d upset her like that again or make her regret spending time with him.
He focused on folding his clothes and squaring his gear away. He’d finished and was in the kitchen making a sandwich as an afternoon snack when she emerged from her office. She walked past him to the fridge, opened the door, and bent down, reaching for something in the back, the sweet curves of her ass outlined in butter-soft denim. He managed to lift his gaze just as she turned to face him, her long-sleeved pink V-neck doing nothing to hide the fact that she wasn’t wearing a bra.
He willed himself to quit gawking.
Mind over balls, bro.
“That sounded like a tough interview.”
“I feel so bad for her. She’s grappling with uncontrolled neuropathy and PTSD at the same time, and no one seems to be helping her.”
He put the lid back on the mayo. “You are. You’re helping her.”
“I just hope the article lights a fire under someone’s butt at the VA.” Laura walked to the fridge, took out a container of yogurt, and grabbed a spoon out of the silverware drawer. “You must be bored out of your mind. It can’t be fun to be stuck inside with me here all day long.”
He grinned, shook his head. “Bored? No way.”
There was still doubt in her eyes.
He carried his plate and a glass of water to the table. “You think life as an operator is all combat and thrashin’ through jungles and shit?”
She sat across from him and popped a spoonful of yogurt in her mouth, her lips curving in a sweet smile. “You mean it’s not?”
“A lot of it is training—predeployment workups. Uphill runs in full combat gear. Jumps, jumps, and more jumps. Night surf landings. That’s all good.” He took a bite of his sandwich, chewed. “But between that and actual combat ops, there’s a lot of waiting. We jock up, then get told the op is off. We jock up again. They call it off again. In the meantime, we hang around the TOC with no running water, sweating or freezing our balls off in our BDUs, living off MREs, checking our gear—and staring at each other’s ugly faces.”
She smiled again, pointed her spoon toward him, a hint of playfulness in her eyes that made his blood heat. “And you love every moment of it.”
Okay, so she had him there. It wasn’t always comfortable, but he loved hanging with Team guys, waiting for the next tasking, letting the adrenaline build.
“Here, I’ve got a real bed, a bathroom with a door that closes, great food, and a hundred channels on the TV. But you know the best thing, bella?”
She took another bite of yogurt, shook her head.
He met her gaze straight on, let his lips curve in a slow grin. “The scenery here is so much better.”
Her pupils dilated—and damned if she didn’t blush.
&nb
sp; CHAPTER
12
JAVIER SAT IN the passenger seat, keeping an eye out for trouble while Laura drove, his SIG Sauer P226 in a shoulder holster hidden beneath his jacket, the Walther in an ankle holster. There was only one reason why he’d gone along with this.
It was important to Laura.
He glanced over at her, could see she was afraid despite her attempts to hide it. She wasn’t wearing any makeup, her skin almost translucent, her face pale. “I respect what you’re trying to do, but I wish you’d let McBride arrange a meeting with them at a neutral site.”
Laura kept her eyes on the road. “I’m tired of sitting around and waiting. Besides, the marshal office is hardly neutral. These people have lost their son. They’ve been raked over the coals by the FBI and the media. Every corner of their lives has been probed. The last thing they need is to be dragged from their home again.”
“You have such a soft heart, but your compassion might be wasted on these people.” Javier knew only too well how an act of compassion could blow up in a person’s face. He’d spared that shepherd’s life and those of his sons, and eighteen men had died as a result. “They raised a son who tried to kill you.”
The FBI had found exactly what Javier had expected they’d find. The kid’s laptop had a secret user identity filled with extremist rants about the U.S., downloaded videos of Osama bin Laden and other terrorist leaders, and photographs of terrorist bombing sites. His browser history showed that he’d made frequent visits over the past two months to Internet sites that gave instructions on how to mix ANFO, build detonators, and buy supplies. The fact that the attempt on Laura’s life had followed so closely after Al-Nassar’s call for her death made it an open-and-shut case as far as Javier could see. But who had put the kid up to this?
That was the critical missing piece of intel.
“Zach told me the parents aren’t religious extremists. He says the FBI believes they had nothing to do with their son’s actions. I can’t imagine how hard this has been for them—loving their son, discovering what he’d done, learning that he’d been murdered. Besides, no one knows we’re here except Janet and the deputy marshals working my detail.”