Alanna had called the station a few times over the past few weeks, trying to get through to him, presumably not knowing the outcome of his arrest, since the chief had actually kept it out of the press. Alanna had even managed to dig up Tate’s number and had Colter call Chief Hernandez. He’d asked them all to just pass on that he would be fine, without giving any specifics. He didn’t want to give her false hope, didn’t want to open the lines of communication if he was going to spend the next five to ten years behind bars. Didn’t want to say anything at all until he was one hundred percent sure.
Nodding his thanks to the clerk who handed back his card and took his luggage, Peter headed to security, which was light as usual. It was a small airport, mostly jumper flights in and out of Fairbanks.
After passing through the X-ray machine, he went straight for the big window to stare out at the vast snowy expanse that represented Alaska to him. He’d be back, of course. His whole family lived here. When he had told them about his plans, they’d all looked at him like he was out of his mind and then erupted with arguments. Until his mom had simply held up a hand to silence everyone. Staring straight at him, she’d asked, “Are you sure?” When he’d nodded, she’d smiled sadly and said, “I expect you back here every two months, minimum. Got it?”
With the promise secured, he’d headed home and packed enough for a month. Hopefully in that time, he’d know.
Taking a deep breath, he turned his back on the openness of Alaska that he loved.
Then a loud bark made his head swivel and there was Chance, bounding toward him through the airport.
“What the—” Peter knelt down as Chance reached him and almost got knocked over for his trouble. “Easy, boy.” He hugged the dog, looking over his head. “Where’s Alanna?”
Then he spotted her, rounding the corner at a run, her rolling luggage making a thunk thunk thunk sound, her long dark hair trailing behind her.
He stood, running to meet her with Chance on his heels.
She skidded to a stop and he did, too, a foot away from her. Chance plowed in between them, walking through and back, punctuating each turn with a bark.
“Chance, relax,” Alanna admonished, then stared up at Peter. “What are you doing here?”
“What are you doing here? Didn’t you go home weeks ago?”
She settled her luggage next to her, slapped her hands on her hips. “Yes, when Colter and Kensie insisted there was no talking any sense into you, that you were never going to see me.” Her eyes watered over, then she blinked the moisture away. “Why did you do that?”
He reached out, taking her hand. “I didn’t know what my future held. I didn’t want to tie you to it.”
“I was already tied to it. It was my fault—”
“That’s just it,” he cut her off. “It wasn’t your fault. And I don’t want us to be connected by obligation.”
She stared at him a long moment, then asked, “What happened? Last I heard, you’d been arrested.”
“I was. But Tate talked the chief into filing things differently. A police decision without proper documentation, is I think how he framed it. That’s not exactly how it ended up, but he saved me jail time.”
Her shoulders relaxed, a smile lighting up her face. “So, your job is okay?”
“No.” The smile faded and he squeezed her hand a little tighter, feeling awkward reaching across the space between them, but not willing to get any closer. Not yet. “I’ll never be a police officer again.”
This time, the tears did spill over. “Peter, I’m so sorry. I never—”
“Don’t you dare apologize. It hurt, but it’s not the first time I’ve left behind a job I loved. At least this time, it was a conscious decision. I knew what was on the line when I broke Darcy out. I got more than I deserved, because Tate is a damn good friend and Chief Hernandez can be nicer than she seems. And now...”
“Now what?”
He took a deep breath, suddenly nervous and very aware of how much he’d needed those eighteen hours to figure out what he was going to say to her. “I took a new job. It’s a trial period, but I’m going back to reporting.”
“Oh.” Alanna’s fingers twitched in his. “Back into a war zone?”
“No. I’m going to cover crime. With my background as a police officer and a reporter, they thought I’d be the perfect fit. It’s not exactly where I thought I’d be right now, but I’m glad. I’m hoping you’ll be happy about it, too.”
“Well, yes. I’m sorry you can’t be a cop anymore and I wish... Well, I’m glad you’ve found something else that excites you.” She glanced down at their linked hands. “Peter, look, I came back here because I couldn’t take all the silence. No matter what, I had to see you. I know we didn’t have long together, but I...” She took a visible breath and Chance nudged up against her, as if to say, Spit it out, then sat at her side. “In the time we spent together, I’ve developed feelings for you. I want to see where that goes.”
“Alanna—”
“Just hear me out.” She stepped closer, almost close enough to kiss. “I know a cross-country relationship won’t be easy. But I miss Alaska. I want to visit more. And I think you’d like Chicago. I really do. If we each travel to one another a few times a year, I really think—”
“Alanna, stop.”
She looked at her feet, then back up at him. “I know you care for me, Peter. I—”
“I love you,” he said, cutting her off. “I know it’s fast. Too fast, maybe. But it’s there and it’s real and I’m not letting it go.” He took a step closer, until he could kiss her if he just leaned down. “I’m not letting you go. I do want to travel back and forth a bit—my family insists on it, actually—but the job is in Chicago.”
Her mouth dropped open and she just stared at him.
“I know you need to be there,” he said softly. “It’s right that you should get time with the family you were denied for so long. You deserve that. And I want to be where you are.”
She continued to stare until he let out a nervous laugh. “Too much? I know—”
Before he could finish the sentence, she was up on her tiptoes, falling against him, her arms around his neck and her lips on his.
When she finally pulled free, her cheeks flushed and her eyes sparkling, she whispered, “I love you, too, Peter.”
Then Chance pushed his way in between them and Alanna laughed.
Peter took hold of her luggage and her hand, then spun back toward the entrance.
Alanna hurried to keep up. “Where are we going?”
“I’m thinking back to my place. I’m hanging on to it for when we visit here. What do you say we stay here for a few days, then head home to Chicago?”
She stopped abruptly, making him pause, too. “Home to Chicago.” She smiled, grabbing hold of him for one more kiss. “I like the sound of that.”
* * *
Keep reading for an excerpt from Impact Zone by Julie Anne Lindsey.
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Impact Zone
by Julie Anne Lindsey
Prologue
“We’re coming to you live from the scene of our city’s second bombing in just three days,” the tenacious female reporter declared. “I’m standing across the street from what remains of Burger Mania. As you can see, this popular twenty-four-hour fast-food restaurant was all but completely destroyed in the explosion early this morning. Police and bomb-squad officials are combing the wreckage now for clues as to who might’ve done this, and whether or not the culprit was also responsible for the bombing of a Grand Rapids real-estate office earlier this w
eek.”
The bomber coughed into his fist, covering a smile as the reporter rambled on. Law-enforcement officials wouldn’t find a single clue about who’d made that bomb or the previous one. He’d taken great care to be certain of that. Officials would still waste their time looking, of course. They had to. But there was nothing to find.
From his place on the sidelines, he could see the big picture. The reporter couldn’t. She could only see the loss of a building and a few lives. Same for her hapless viewers and the gaggle of lookie-loos gathering at his sides. They didn’t understand the planning and precision that went into something like this. The sheer skill involved in what he’d done. They only saw the aftermath. The wreckage. They missed what truly mattered. The revenge.
Winter in Michigan is starting to heat up, he thought, chuckling internally at the joke.
The reporter twisted at her waist, wide brown eyes jerking between the camera in front of her and the rampant chaos behind. Her deep brown skin flushed slightly as the coroner’s van trundled into position, joining the collection of emergency and first responders in the Burger Mania lot.
So there had been casualties. Just as he’d planned. Pride puffed his chest and satisfaction warmed his gut. He’d created the chaos and the carnage that made the pretty reporter shake in her high-heeled boots. If that wasn’t power, then what was?
A gust of icy wind blew sleek black tendrils across her cheeks and against her glossy red lips. The scents of burning grease, hair and flesh seemed to fan her fear. “Five customers have been escorted from the building so far. Each was taken to a waiting ambulance, and most have already been rushed to local hospitals. Sources on scene are reporting three casualties, all Burger Mania night-shift employees,” she said, her expression comically sad, as if she’d ever met any of those people. As if she’d ever graced a grease-mill like Burger Mania with her upscale, picture-perfect presence. “There’s no word yet as to whether or not this week’s two explosions are related,” she said, “but you can count on us to keep you informed with up-to-the-minute details as they are released.” She held her canned smile a few seconds longer, until the bright light on the camera dimmed, and the cameraman removed the device from his shoulder.
The microphone shook in her trembling grip as she passed it to him. She was right to be afraid. They all were.
The bomber lingered another moment, reveling in the panicked whispers around him. They had no idea how powerful he was. That he alone was responsible for the bombs destroying their comfortable little worlds. He smirked at the flimsy line of yellow plastic fluttering before him, nearly as pathetic as the ones who’d strung it. As if they could keep him back if he wanted to go. As if they could stop him from doing anything he wanted to do.
So far, he’d executed two perfect plans in three short days. He’d even taken a day in between to enjoy the news coverage and watch local police chase their tails.
He hoped his next victims were watching. He hoped they were afraid, too. Afraid to go to work. Afraid to leave their homes. Afraid because he could reach them anywhere. He was just that good.
The bomber watched a few more minutes, until the satisfaction began to slowly fade, and the grip of seething hatred returned. Then he walked away. Fresh churning and burning in his core. Renewed anger begging for release.
Two down, he thought. And two to go.
Time to get back to work.
Chapter One
Tactical Crime Division director Alana Suzuki strode confidently from the elevator onto the seventh floor of the Traverse City, Michigan, FBI building. Her high heels clicked across the hard tile floor, her determination growing with each new step. The TCD would leave on assignment again today, and she never took their deployment lightly. The specialized unit of experts on everything from combat to poisons and hostage negotiation was infinitely capable and collectively unstoppable. But more than that, they were family.
“Good morning,” Alana called, crossing into the oversize boardroom and making her way to the front.
The team was already in place around the massive table, tired eyes instantly on her. She didn’t have to check her watch to know it was barely 5:00 a.m.
“Thank you all for coming in so early and on such little notice.” Alana dragged her gaze over the fatigued faces before her, then rested it briefly on the giant FBI logo clinging to one wall. A sense of pride rolled up her spine. Pride for the Bureau. Pride for the thirty years she’d spent there. And pride for this team. “If you’ve seen the news, you can probably guess why you’re here. There was a second bombing in Grand Rapids early this morning, and their local law enforcement could use our help.”
The group exchanged silent glances, then turned their attention on Max.
Special Agent Max McRay had taken a seat at the front. Brows furrowed and hands folded on the table, he’d likely been there for a while. It was Max who’d woken Alana at half past two this morning, requesting she consider this assignment for their team, or send him alone if necessary. Max was an explosives expert, and there was a bomber in Grand Rapids. A city just two hours away by car and home to Max’s ex-wife and toddler son.
“Grand Rapids detectives suspect a serial bomber,” Alana continued, drawing the team’s focus back to her. “After a long talk with their chief of police, I’ve agreed to send the TCD to their aid.” She nodded to Opaline Lopez, the curvy, bleached-blonde tech guru seated at the back of the room.
Opaline lifted a small remote, and a big screen lowered from the ceiling behind Alana, images already appearing on the white backdrop.
“Thank you.”
Opaline smiled, her brightly colored clothing and hair accessories never a match for her impossibly upbeat personality. She was a much-needed source of light on many dark days in their office, and one more thing Alana appreciated deeply.
“There have been two bombs detonated in three days,” Alana said as photos of the carnage flipped across the screen. “Five people are dead in total. More are injured. The first bomb went off inside a small stand-alone real-estate office three days ago, at seven eighteen a.m. Two of the office’s twelve employees were killed in the blast. A female office manager and a male real-estate agent. No one else was in the building. Official hours are nine to five.”
Alana paused while the slide changed, then went on. “The second blast occurred at approximately two o’clock this morning. This time the target was Burger Mania, and the building was all but destroyed. Three were killed. Two employees in the kitchen and one behind the counter. A night manager and two staff members.”
Selena Lopez lifted the pen from her mouth. “Similarities or connections among the casualties?” she asked. Selena was Opaline’s younger sister and a K-9 handler. As the team’s specialist in surveillance, tracking and suspect apprehension, she rarely missed a beat.
“None that we’re aware of at this time. Two men and one woman at this location. All in their twenties,” Alana answered.
Opaline changed the slide on-screen to one with candids of the deceased from both bombings.
Selena made a note on the paper before her. “Thank you.”
Alana nodded. “Right now, local detectives and bomb-squad members have no leads, and the bombs are the only connections they’ve been able to make between the two attacks.”
Max shifted, catching Alana’s eye. “What links the bombs?”
The slide changed again, and Alana stepped aside, making sure everyone had a good view of the screen. Images of the aftermaths glowed in the dim room. The charred metal remains of the devices were showcased beside snapshots of the damage done in the immediate areas. A list of bomb contents according to a local lab formed a column beside the photos.
Alana folded her hands in front of her, giving her team time to take in the visuals before answering Max’s question verbally. “Both bombs were homemade. Both used pressure cookers and materials available at loc
al stores or online. Both were set off with a cell-phone detonator. The explosive in both was Tannerite.”
Max’s head bobbed slowly, knowingly. He swiveled in his chair to face his teammates. “Tannerite is a material designed for use in long-distance target practice. It creates a small explosion when the target is hit, sending up a puff of white smoke. The result saves the shooter a long walk to see if they landed the shot. If they’re successful, there’s smoke. Used incorrectly, as seen too often on YouTube—” he grimaced “—people lose limbs and lives.”
Alana’s gaze slid unbidden to Max’s black dress pants. It was nearly impossible to tell, but Max had lost a leg, below the knee, to a similar device eight years ago in Afghanistan. Pressure-cooker bombs were widely used by rebel forces and militant groups there. Max’s position in the bomb squad had put him in close proximity to dozens of such devices over the years. She’d recruited him for the TCD a year after the amputation, pulling him straight from the gym at Walter Reed National Military Medical Center before he could sign papers to reenlist. An army superior in her circle had given Max an unparalleled recommendation, and Alana wasn’t in the business of letting opportunity pass her by. Max had intended to return to combat full-time, but she’d persuaded him to accept her challenge instead. Many civilian lives had been saved because of that decision. And he’d never let the loss of his limb or the prosthesis in its place slow him down.
“Tannerite is packed into a pressure cooker,” Max continued. “It’s surrounded with small metal objects meant to become projectiles and shrapnel. Nails and ball bearings, nuts, bolts and BBs are popular choices. A cell phone typically detonates the explosive. The pressure in the cooker amplifies the blast. These are rudimentary bombs with detailed instructions available online. Materials are inexpensive and easy to acquire. No skill is necessary for a successful build.”
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