Exposing Justice

by Misty Evans

  When she sat, her bones nearly crumbled. Fatigue pressed in on her and a dull throb pulsed behind her eyes. She needed sleep. A few hours to get her mind zipping again. But Jeremy might still call and she couldn’t risk missing him.

  She tapped her mouse and the computer screen lit up, ready for action.

  “Let’s see what we’ve got.”

  Ten minutes later her phone rang.

  Good old Jeremy. She abandoned the internet, checked the caller’s ID on her phone and hit the button.

  “Hey, Jeremy. Thanks for getting back to me.”

  “Anything for you, Hopester. What’s goin’ on? You got something for me on the Chief Justice?”

  “Um, no. Hoping you might have something for me.”

  “Come again?”

  “I listened to the show on the way home tonight. Great work, by the way.”

  “Thank you.”

  A little sucking up to an old school chum never hurt. “In the segment on the Chief Justice it was mentioned the bridge lane was closed for a pothole repair.”

  Jeremy hesitated. “O-kay.”

  By the tone of his response she surmised his arm hairs were now at full attention anticipating that she’d either debunk the report or possibly say something that would give him some other lead to chase.

  “Who told you about the pothole repair?”

  “Why?”

  Hope slouched back for a second. Jeremy might have been her friend, but he loved a constant state of competition. Friend or not, he was as hungry for a good scoop as she and Hawk combined. If she wanted information, she’d have to give some up. Go for it. She sat straight again. “I need this to stay between us. A couple of friends talking. Off the record here, agreed?”

  “Sure.”

  “I have a source that told me the lane was closed for a routine inspection. Then, on my way home, your team says it’s a pothole repair. It can’t be both. Someone got it wrong.”

  “Shit. Hang on.”

  Excellent. She’d surprised him. By doing so, she’d alerted him that his team may have screwed the pooch and gave them an opportunity to correct it while still on the air. It might be enough to get him to pony up anything he knew. Hope punched the speaker button on the screen and set the phone on the desk. Shoulders dipping, she rolled her head back and forth to stretch her neck. Part of her, the part that ached to drop into her nice, soft bed that waited for her twenty feet down the hall, wished that Jeremy would come back with a reasonable explanation. That, hey, they’d blown it and it was a routine inspection. That at least would corroborate what the DDOT guy said and she could go to bed, get a solid five hours of sleep before her alarm went off at five AM.

  “Hope?”

  She snapped to, rested her elbows on the table and stared down at the phone. “I’m here.”

  “I just confirmed that pothole thing. Obviously, I’m not giving you our source, but it’s someone inside DDOT. TOA specifically. We were told the repair was scheduled for this morning.”

  “TOA?”

  “Traffic Operations Administration. Street and bridge maintenance falls under TOA.”

  Now wasn’t this fascinating? Two different sources inside the same department giving two different stories. Someone was a liar, liar with their pants on fire.

  “Okay. Thanks, Jeremy. I appreciate it.”

  “I owed you one.”

  Hope laughed. “You owed me more than one, pal.”

  “Yeah, I know. Gotta run. Let’s grab lunch one day.”

  “Yada, yada,” she said. “Text me some dates and we’ll see if we can pull off a miracle.”

  “Will do.”

  She disconnected and sat back again, eyeballed the hallway leading to the bedroom. That damned bed. She’d saved for months to buy it and hadn’t spent nearly enough time in it. Sleeping or otherwise.

  All because of nights like this when her job kept her curiosity reeling. Something was amiss. And that something could easily be confirmed by a trip out to the bridge. This time of night, traffic would be light and she could hunt down the pothole. From news footage, she knew the general location of where the lane blockage had started. She’d just drive out there and walk it. If she found a giant pothole, the story was credible. If she didn’t find a pothole, well, they’d go with this routine maintenance theory, but it wouldn’t explain why two sources from inside DDOT gave conflicting stories.

  On something this big, DDOT needed to control the spin. And so far they’d done a lousy job.

  Hope pushed back from the table, grabbed her phone and her purse and keys from the counter and an energy drink from the fridge and headed out the door. The massive shot of caffeine would keep her up all night, rather than just the couple of hours she needed, but it would be worth it if she eliminated the pothole. On the way she’d call Hawk and tell him what she’d discovered.

  Once on the road, she dialed Hawk’s number, and given her level of fatigue, put both hands on the wheel while her Bluetooth connected. First ring he picked up—did the man ever sleep?

  “Ms. Denby, you have news for me?”

  Oh that sound, mmm-mmm-mmm, it held a rough, gravelly edge that hadn’t been there earlier and made her think of hearing it only late at night or in the early mornings.

  In bed.

  With him.

  News for him? She had news. And it included revisiting how he felt about cowboy hats and boots. Oooh-wee, something about this man made her feel naughty.

  Risking removing one hand from the wheel, she gulped a shot of her energy drink while keeping her eyes on the quiet road ahead. “It’s Hope. And, yes, I do.”

  Through the phone line, she heard the squeak of a chair. Hawk shifting around and she pictured him in front of some high-tech bank of computers and monitors, working them all at once in search of the next big government cover-up. “Do you ever sleep, Hawk?”

  “Only when I have to.”

  “Tough guy, ay?”

  “Hardly. What have you got, Hope?”

  And, oh, the way he said her name. Chalk it up to a lack of male attention over the last few months, but Hawkeye had it going on.

  Or maybe she was just lonely.

  Which could be the case because most men couldn’t handle her blunt demeanor. She never meant to be hurtful, her mouth just moved faster than her brain sometimes. On her last date she’d asked the guy if he minded being short because she liked that he didn’t tower over her. Her intended compliment failed miserably and the guy never called her again. Welcome to life as Hope Denby.

  So much for giving a damned compliment!

  Whatever. Watch the road. Just ahead, a car screamed out of a convenience store parking lot and she braked, slowing enough that the car would get well ahead of her. Driving had never been her favorite thing. Driving at night, under normal circumstances, never mind when dead tired, left her a tad jittery. Over-cautious, if there could ever be such a thing.

  “Hope?”

  “Sorry. Mind travel. I’m heading out to the bridge.”

  “Now?”

  “Yes.”

  “Uh, no. You can’t go there by yourself.”

  Watch me, big boy. “I can when my contact tells me someone inside DDOT confirmed the pothole repair. What we have here, Mr. Hawk, are conflicting stories. I want to see this pothole for myself and I won’t be able to do that during rush hour tomorrow.”

  “I’ll meet you there.”

  “No. I’ll be fine. I just want to look.”

  “I know. But now I’m curious and you shouldn’t be out alone this late.”

  The man took paranoia to a level far beyond anything she’d ever encountered. “This paranoia,” she said, “has it always been such an issue for you?”

  Hawk laughed. “Honey, go to work at ATF for a few years and then ask me that question. What are you, twenty-five?”

  Well, yikes, he didn’t have to sound so condescending. “Hey, I’m almost 26!”

  “Christ. You’re a damned baby.”
<
br />   “Hey! I’ll have you know I’m working on a Master’s degree.”

  What that had to do with anything, she didn’t know, but falling back on her education to prove her worth didn’t seem like a bad idea. At least at the time. Replaying it in her head, she wasn’t sure. The replayed version sounded too close to desperation.

  Damn, she had to be into hour thirty-five of this day. Fatigue hung on her, begged her mind and body for rest, but she had this one last thing to do. Then she’d go home and sleep for a couple of hours.

  On the other end of the line, Hawk stayed quiet. Probably just as well because she was too tired to argue with a damned blogger. “I’m going to the bridge,” she said. “I’ll call you in the morning and let you know what I found. Goodnight, Hawk.”

  Stupid men. Always getting her tongue-tied. She should be better at this. Men talked to her all the time. She’d had plenty of opportunities to perfect her social skills. Her flirting skills anyway. Mostly though, when they got past the blond-haired-batting-blue-eyes flirting stage, she stunk at it. Men were a puzzle.

  She came to a stop at the traffic light just beyond the bridge. In a few minutes, she’d confirm—or eliminate—the pothole theory and go home to bed.

  Sleep would make everything clearer. It always did.

  While waiting for the light to change, she flipped to her favorite R&B station where Mary J. Blige informed her about not giving up Mr. Wrong.

  “Amen, sister,” Hope muttered.

  The light flipped and she hung a right. Two minutes and she’d be there.

  At nearly three-quarters of a mile long, the Gaynor Bridge spanned the Potomac from Virginia to D.C. Not one of the city’s most attractive bridges because of its plain old concrete base and steel guardrails, it was low enough to the river that tree branches on the Virginia side smacked against the side rails making the incredibly narrow footbridge an interesting stroll. Add to that the cars zipping by at highway speeds and the lack of pedestrians at any given time wasn’t a shock.

  After being closed the majority of the day and causing major headaches for commuters, law enforcement had completed their evidence collecting and all lanes were now open. This late, traffic was light and mostly heading out of D.C. where she was on the side heading in. She’d simply pull over, put her hazards on and walk that lane. For safety, she’d grab her flashlight out of her emergency road kit in the trunk and swing it as she walked. Her own walking billboard alerting drivers to her presence. Towering overhead lights scattered every fifteen feet clearly illuminated the roadway, but an extra layer of here-I-am-don’t-run-me-over wouldn’t hurt.

  “Just please don’t let there be a drunk on the road.”

  Wouldn’t that be a fabulous ending to a career in its infancy? Beyond her windshield the D.C. skyline seemed to rise up and merge with the cloudy sky. A beautiful sight any day, but tonight, she needed to find a pothole and get to bed.

  Hope counted down the mile markers posted on the side rail of the bridge and reached the general area where the closure had been at eight a.m.

  Pulling as close to the rail as she could, she parked and slapped her hazards on. She scooped up her phone in case she needed to snap a few photos and checked over her shoulder—no cars. Perfect. She’d just walk this lane real quick and be done.

  Comfy bed, here I come.

  Traffic in the opposite lane moved at a decent clip, all those D.C. power people making the schlep home after a long day or a night of wining and dining. Good thing she wasn’t on that side of the bridge or she’d be dodging traffic.

  Or getting tattooed to the pavement.

  Flashlight in hand, she hoofed it along the right lane, her ballet flats infinitely more comfortable than the stilettos from earlier. God, those things were demons. Feet everywhere should form a massive protest.

  Twenty yards in and still no pothole. Thirty-four degrees worth of cold air sent a chill straight up the sleeves of her trench. Should have worn gloves.

  “Where the hell is this pothole?”

  If she had to walk the length of this bridge, she wouldn’t be happy. She’d also have to break the trip up by heading back to her car, moving it to the farthest point she’d reached on foot and walk from there to the end. Which meant, she might be here awhile.

  A car flew by her on the left and she sucked a breath. Oohh. That was fast. Her skin puckered and not from the cold. Seriously, this may not have been her best idea ever.

  Another car, a pickup truck this time, drove by moving much slower. It also pulled over thirty yards ahead of her and—uh, oh—what was this now? Could be the shooter coming back. Assuming the Chief Justice hadn’t been targeted.

  Hope stopped walking. Just froze in her spot until she figured out what was happening with this truck. A slow whooshing sounded in her ears and her chest thumped. If she needed to, she could run and would have a nice jump.

  The driver’s side door flew open, a jean clad leg giving it a kick. A man—Hawk—hopped out and stormed toward her.

  Silly, Hope.

  “Hey!” he yelled. “Lunatic! Are you fucking trying to get killed?”

  Oh, terrific. After the day she’d had, he wanted to get nasty? Not happening, pal. “Of course not!”

  Then he started running. Toward her. Waving his arm as he ran and she froze again, that soft whooshing in her head turning to straight-up white noise. She shook it off, focused on Hawk charging straight at her, both arms now arcing through the air, urging her sideways. Why is he running? Even in the dark she saw his mouth moving.

  The white noise drifted off, bringing a sharp, almost painful focus. Car.

  “Car! Move!”

  And then the sound of an engine with an odd tick. Tick, tick, tick, like a loose belt or something. She didn’t know. She turned, squinted against the headlights and the grill of a car. Not a truck. Or SUV.

  “Move!” Hawk yelled, his voice to her back, but getting closer.

  The ticking engine grew louder, those headlights shining right in her eyes, somehow pinning her from twenty yards away.

  Move.

  Tick, tick, tick.

  A jarring weight hit her—Hawk—and sent the flashlight soaring before knocking her sideways onto the narrow footbridge. “Oofff!”

  Over and over they rolled as his arms came around her, stayed tight even after they stopped moving. Hers had encircled him as well. They were both breathing heavily, and even through her trench coat, she could feel his hands against her, pressing into her flesh.

  Her shoulder took the major hit, slamming against the cement as Hawk’s bigger body crushed her half against the rail and half against the roadway. God, that will hurt tomorrow. She sucked huge gulps of air, fought the agonizing pain shooting across her shoulders into her back.

  “You okay? Are you okay?”

  Hawk’s voice. Above her. She opened her eyes, found him staring down at her, his nose close to hers, his eyes wild. He pushed himself up, angling the upper part of his body away, but keeping both hands on either side of her. With each gulping breath, his smell—laundry soap—filled her nose and she focused on it. Took it in, let the clean purity of it drift inside as she readied herself to face the fact she’d almost gotten herself killed.

  Adrenaline was his friend. Always had been. It honed his instincts, sharpened his responses. Hid his emotions.

  Fucking ATF had made sure he never exposed those.

  Already juicing from the adrenaline fix when he climbed out of his truck, Brice had been fuming over Hope Denby’s obvious lack of self-preservation. What was it with this woman? She was damned determined to leave herself open to all sorts of trouble.

  And that’s when trouble flipped its lights on and gunned its engine. The car had been moving onto the bridge with only its running lights. He’d seen it when he climbed out of the truck but absentmindedly figured it was some drunk bastard who’d forgotten to turn on his regular lights. Brice had been too high on irritation over Hope standing on the bridge looking for that dam
n pothole to realize the car was heading right for her.

  Two open lanes but the car was in hers.

  The hot rush of fresh adrenaline shut down his brain and sent his body running. The asshole wasn’t stopping, wasn’t even slowing. He was speeding up. And then ran her down.

  Or at least tried to.

  “What…just…happened?” she gasped.

  Her hair tickled his nose. He turned his head to get the license plate number of the car, but it was long gone. Not a drunk driver, the voice inside his head said. “Someone tried to run you over.”

  “Oh.” The streetlight overhead cast her face in a pale gold that emphasized her freckles. “Can…you…let me go?” Her eyes were wide as saucers. “I can’t…breathe.”

  He immediately released her. “Sorry.”

  He helped her stand and she righted her coat. Her fingers trembled as she brushed dirt from her hip. “No, it’s okay.”

  She was still wearing a skirt but she’d switched out the heels for flat shoes. One of them had come off in the roll and her foot and calf were speckled with tiny rocks and dirt. A trickle of blood ran down the inside of her knee.

  Instinctively, he reached down and gently started wiping off her calf. “So much for your acute senses that detect danger a mile away. Looks like you’re going to need some cleaning up.”

  At his touch, she froze, then stepped back. “I’m okay, really.”

  Her eyes wouldn’t meet his when he glanced up. Was she blushing?

  Brice, you idiot. You may have just saved her from being the second death on this bridge in the past twenty-four hours but you’re practically a stranger. Strangers don’t touch strangers.

  He rose, keeping his hands to himself. It wasn’t the first time his need to protect had been more hindrance than help. Double-checking that there was no other traffic coming, he jogged over and picked up Hope’s shoe from where it had fallen. He returned it to her.

  “Guess this wasn’t the best idea in the middle of the night, huh?” Her fingers seemed to deliberately touch his as she took the shoe from his hand.