Striking Distance

by Pamela Clare

  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.

  Gary had e-mailed her a list of questions earlier in the day. It wasn’t something a journalist would normally do. Telling the subject of an interview ahead of time what you planned to ask gave him or her time to prepare, to create canned answers, eliminating the element of surprise and all possibility of controversy, which was so vital to live television news. But this wasn’t an ordinary interview.

  This was one friend doing a favor for another.

  Not that Gary’s agreeing to give her an interview was a selfless act. His career, like that of any other news anchor, depended on ratings. He wouldn’t have agreed to have her on the program if he hadn’t believed it would give him a boost.

  Chaos reigned in the hallway beyond the dressing room as Laura finished putting on her makeup. How familiar the environment felt—and how foreign.

  The door opened and Tania appeared. “There’s the water you asked for. We go live in ten minutes.”

  “Thank you.”

  Laura took a deep drink, then finished her makeup. She studied the results in the mirror, a familiar face from long ago staring back at her, the pearls on her earlobes understated, her blue dress with its princess neckline sexy, but not too revealing. She wanted viewers’ attention on what she was saying, after all, not on her boobs.

  The butterfly sensation in her belly grew more intense. She drew ten deep, calming breaths, then stood.

  She was ready.

  She found Tania waiting for her out in the hallway, Javier and Janet standing beside the door.

  “This way.” Tania led her toward the news set. “You’ll be on for ten minutes with one commercial break. Gary will introduce you, bring our viewers up to date, and then head into the questions. Will you need help with your earpiece or mic?”

  “No.” Laura hadn’t been out of the game for that long. “I can handle it.”

  They entered the studio, which was dark apart from one set—the main news set. It featured a desk with the newspaper’s logo and a backdrop of Denver’s nighttime skyline. A dark-haired woman named Diane introduced herself as the floor director and then left Laura to get settled, while Tania disappeared into the booth.

  Laura quickly clipped the mic to her dress and put in her earpiece, hiding the wire beneath her hair and letting it trail down her back. She nodded in the direction of the booth—bright lights made it impossible to see far beyond the edge of the set—then spoke, enunciating clearly so they could set sound levels. “This is Laura Nilsson. I’m here for my interview with Gary Chapin.”

  “That’s great,” a man’s voice said in her ear.

  Laura glanced over at Javier one last time and saw encouragement in his eyes. He and Janet stood just out of range of the cameras. Beyond them, off the edge of the set, she could just make out the station’s management—Temple, Martin, and others in suits watching her as if she were a celebrity interview. Maybe she was.

  She willed herself to smile, her heartbeat racing as she faced the camera. It stared at her, lens dark, the teleprompter screen blank, the tally light off.

  Gary’s voice came on in her ear as he closed one segment and the station cut to a commercial break.

  “Two minutes,” Diane said.

  Laura’s heart was beating so hard now that she could hear it over the chatter in her earpiece, a rapid thrum.

  Slow breaths. Slow breaths.

  She would not panic on live television. She would hold herself together and show Derek Tower and that son of a bitch Al-Nassar that they could not control her, could not frighten her.

  The director’s voice sounded in Laura’s earpiece, counting down the last few seconds. The tally light blinked red. Diane’s hand dropped beneath the camera.

  And they were live.

  * * *

  JAVIER FELT HIS chest constrict as Laura spoke easily with her former anchor, who introduced her and welcomed her back to the news program. He knew she’d been nervous about this, but she was handling it like a pro, her smile warm, her eyes bright, her voice clear and strong.

  From the moment she’d stepped out of the dressing room, Javier hadn’t been able to take his gaze off her. Her blue dress hugged her sweet curves, its color bringing out her eyes, its neckline giving him a hint of what was hidden beneath. Her long, slender legs were sheathed in sheer panty hose, her feet in dressy heels. She looked sophisticated, polished, good enough to eat.

  It was interesting to see how it was all done. Laura sat alone, looking at the camera, but what viewers saw on the television screens at home was a split-screen image with Gary Chapin, who was in Washington, D.C., on the left and Laura on the right, the two seeming to make eye contact when they weren’t even in the same state.

  “Laura, your abduction happened in the middle of a live broadcast, terrifying the millions of viewers who witnessed it. Let’s go back to that moment. What we are about to see is quite disturbing, so viewer discretion is advised.”

  What the hell?

  The side-by-side image of Laura and Chapin was replaced by footage Javier remembered only too well, Laura’s face in a small frame at the top right of the screen where viewers could see her reaction.

  “In the past five years,” said the Laura from the video footage, “Sabira Mukhari’s organization had documented more than seventy-five hundred cases of women being burned in ‘stove accidents’ within a two-hundred-mile radius around Islamabad and—”

  A nearby door burst open, the room exploding with AK fire.

  Rat-at-at-at-at-at!

  Laura screamed, dropped to the floor.

  Men’s shouts in English and Arabic.

  “Cover her! Cover her!”

  A man in a black T-shirt threw himself over Laura, M16 rifle fire answering the AKs—only to stop short as her security detail was slaughtered.

  Rat-at-at-at-at-at!

  A man cried out, groaned, blood spraying across the camera lens.

  Women’s screams came from the background, gunshots drowning out Laura’s shouts for the women to flee.

  Two men in olive-green jackets with scarves around their heads blocked the camera’s view. They lifted Laura off the floor, dragged her toward the door.

  She kicked, fought, screamed, her desperate cries sending chills down Javier’s spine. “No! No!”

  ¡Puñeta! Son of a bitch!

  This wasn’t supposed to be part of the broadcast. Javier had seen the questions, had heard Laura talk through them with Chapin on the phone. He had agreed that he wouldn’t ask her about her abduction or the shit she’d survived in Afghanistan.

  Chapin had ambushed her.

  The heartless son of a whore.

  Javier’s gaze shifted to the real, live Laura. She was pale, her pupils dilated, her face frozen into an expressionless mask. One of her hands rested lightly on the desk, but from where he was standing, he could see that the other was clenched tight in her lap.

  Chapin’s image returned to the screen. “This is the first time you’ve seen that footage, isn’t it?”

  Somehow she managed to answer. “Yes.”

  “Can you tell us what was running through your mind three and a half years ago when that door burst open and your attackers opened fire?”

  “I was just trying to comprehend what was happening. It was over so quickly.”

  Beside Javier, Martin whispered. “Oh, this is great stuff. Great stuff.”

  It took
every bit of willpower Javier possessed not to turn and slam his fist into Martin’s face. He didn’t give a damn about Chapin’s ratings, the station’s ratings, or the sweeps. If Laura gave him any sign she wanted to leave, he would take her by the hand, and they would go, live broadcast be damned.

  “When they dragged you from the room, you must have been terrified.” The false sympathy in Chapin’s voice sickened Javier.

  If the bastard truly cared about her, he wouldn’t be putting her through this.

  “Of course.”

  “What did you think they would do to you?”

  Laura’s voice held no emotion when she answered. “I assumed I would be killed or held hostage for ransom, as other journalists had been.”

  “But that’s not what happened, is it?”

  “No.”

  No way was he going to make Laura repeat details of her ordeal on live TV.

  “Can you tell our viewers what did happen?”

  ¡Hijo e la gran puta!

  Laura’s voice was calm, steady. “As your viewers already know, I was held captive for eighteen months, beaten, sexually assaulted, and threatened almost daily with beheading. I was eventually rescued by a team of Navy SEALs.”

  Chapin seemed to wait, hoping she’d say more. When she didn’t, he looked gravely at the camera. “Beaten. Raped daily. Threatened with beheading. It’s been a long, hard healing process for you, I’m sure.”

  The man warped Laura’s words. She’d said she was threatened with beheading daily, but he’d said she was raped daily. Obviously, he was trying to titillate his viewers.

  ¡Que clase e cabrón! What a bastard!

  Laura’s chin went up, a glint of anger in her eyes. “I put that behind me when I testified at Al-Nassar’s trial. I have a wonderful life now.”

  When she said nothing more, Chapin went on. “We’ve all just seen that horrifying footage of your abduction. As incredible as it may seem, Derek Tower, CEO of Tower Global Security, says he believes you may be to blame for what we just witnessed. More on this when we return.”

  The moment the broadcast cut away to a commercial, Javier headed straight for Laura, ignoring Martin’s attempts to block him.

  “You can’t go on set!”

  “Try to stop me.” Javier strode over to Laura, who was staring down at the desk, her hand still clenched in a fist. He took it, held it, found it cold. “You okay, bella?”

  She looked up at him, anguish and fury in her eyes. “He promised he wouldn’t do this. He promised. He didn’t even mention the car bomb. This first part was supposed to be about Al-Nassar’s trial and the car bomb.”

  “You don’t have to put up with this. Just say the word, and we’re out of here.”

  She shook her head. “If I leave now, I’ll burn a bridge with the network, and I’ll lose credibility with—”

  “Twenty seconds!” a dark-haired woman called to them.

  Javier squeezed Laura’s hand. “All right. You’re doing great. Just finish it.”

  He stepped off set again as the camera once again went live.

  * * *

  IT WAS ALMOST over.

  “One last question before we go: Is it possible that one of Tower’s men made a fatal mistake that day?”

  Laura heard the one-minute warning in her earpiece.

  She focused on her answer, careful not to rush her words. “I refuse even to speculate. These men were my friends. We’d traveled the world together for more than two years, and they lost their lives trying to save mine. Did security measures fail that day? Yes, but not because any of us were negligent. To paraphrase the State Department report, we were in the wrong neighborhood at the wrong time.”

  “The wrong neighborhood at the wrong time. A dark day.” Gary paused for effect. “Thanks for joining us this evening, Laura. It’s great to have you back. It’s been a long time.”

  “Thank you, Gary. It’s good to be back in the studio.” Laura gave the camera her warmest smile, held it.

  The tally light went dark.

  She shot to her feet, yanked out the earpiece, ripped off the microphone, letting both fall on the desk, her heart still pounding, her stomach in knots.

  “Great show!” Martin walked over to her, his face split by a wide grin. “That was fantastic. I can’t wait to see the numbers. I bet they’re through the roof.”

  Everyone was smiling, laughing, talking.

  But not Laura. She felt sick. Enraged. Hurt.

  She tried not to take her anger at Gary out on them. This wasn’t their fault. She shook hands, people seeming to crowd in on her, names and faces blurring together—Martin, Temple, Diane, Tania. “Thank you. Thanks, everyone.”

  Then Javier was there beside her. He leaned in and spoke for her ears only, his presence giving her something to hold on to. “Do you want to change first, or do you just want to get the hell out of here?”

  She was too upset to think, let alone make a decision, her hand reaching for his. “I . . . I don’t know.”

  “Let’s go.”

  People moved aside for him, seeming to want to get out of his path as Javier led her back to the dressing room, where Janet was waiting for them.

  “We’re going to grab her things and go,” he said to Janet, who passed the message on to the deputy U.S. Marshals in the hallway beyond.

  Laura entered the dressing room and walked over to her clothes, which hung on a hook beside the empty garment bag. “That jerk! He said he wouldn’t show the footage, that he wouldn’t ask for details about my captivity.”

  She hoped no one was listening outside the door, because she couldn’t keep her voice from shaking, repressed anger and adrenaline surging through her.

  “I used to like the guy. He used to be my favorite news dude. Now I want to bust his nuts.” Javier pointed to the vials and tubes of makeup sitting next to her makeup kit on the dressing table. “Are these yours?”

  She nodded, wadding her jeans and shoving them into the garment bag. “He’s never forgiven me for giving that interview to Diane Sawyer. He wanted to be the first one to interview me after I returned to the U.S., but I went with Diane because she agreed to respect my boundaries. He wouldn’t.”

  “Yeah? Well, he’s a grade-A piece of shit if you ask me.” Javier opened her makeup kit, held it edge to edge with the dressing table, and swept everything—every vial, brush, tube, and bottle—into the kit with his forearm.

  Laura gaped at him. “That stuff is worth hundreds of dollars.”

  He shrugged, then shut the kit. “That’s how SEALs pack makeup.”

  The absurdity of his words made her smile.

  Only Javier could do that—make her smile when she felt this shaken.

  She grabbed the rest of her clothes, shoved them into the garment bag, and zipped the bag shut. She turned to find Javier holding her Kevlar vest. He’d just finished helping her fasten it in place when Janet appeared at the dressing room door.

  “There’s a lot of media out there. Ready to go?”

  “Just about.” Javier grabbed Laura’s coat and held it for her.

  She slid her arms into the sleeves, then turned to face him.

  Their gazes met, locked.

  “Thanks for being here, Javi.”

  He ran a finger down her cheek. “You bet.”

  With Janet in front of her and Javier behind her, Laura walked out of the dressing room, down the hallway, and out the back door into the cold night, the two DUSMs who’d watched over the station’s rear entrance following them.

  The night exploded with flashes and the click-click-click of cameras.

  “Did you know Gary Chapin was going to play the footage from your abduction?”

  “Do you plan to sue Derek Tower for slander?”

  “Look this way, Laura! Just one shot!”

 
Thankfully, the engine of the SUV was already running, its back door open for her, a DUSM sitting in the driver’s seat.

  Half blinded by the light, Laura caught the heel of one shoe in a crack in the asphalt and stumbled—just as a distant crack rang out, something whooshing above her head, striking the wall beside her, a spray of what felt like pebbles hitting her face. She didn’t even have time to react before she found herself on the ground, breath knocked from her lungs, Javier on top of her, firearm in his hand.

  “Sniper!” he shouted in a deep voice she’d never heard before. “Nine o’clock!”

  Gunfire. Screams. Running feet.

  It was happening again.

  CHAPTER

  15

  ¡PUÑETA! FUCK!

  On a single inhale, Javier weighed his options. He had no infrared drone overhead to give him the big picture, no radio contact with the DUSMs, and no damned assault rifle. There were ten feet between Laura and the station’s rear entrance and a couple of lateral feet between her and the SUV’s open door. But judging from the hole that first shot had left in the building’s concrete wall, these were armor-piercing rounds. Bulletproofing was not going to stop them from penetrating the vehicle—which meant they couldn’t take shelter inside it—and lying here on the ground and trying to use it for cover was a fucking bad idea.

  They had to move now.

  But moving was risky, too. If this sniper had any training, he’d be watching, waiting for Laura to pop into his sights again in her attempt to flee.

  “Stay low!” Javier caught her hard around the waist and dragged her up with him, lunging for the studio’s back door, Agent Killeen behind them.

  “Get back!” he shouted to the station’s staff, who stood just inside the door staring in horrified surprise. “Get back, goddamn it!”

  Two more shots, and Killeen went down with a cry.

  Javier didn’t stop. He couldn’t.

  Laura would be dead if he did.

  The best thing he could do for Killeen and the others was to get Laura out of the line of fire. As long as she was in the shooter’s sights, he would keep firing, putting every DUSM, reporter, and bystander out here at risk.