Pamela Clare - Striking Distance

Around them, chaos reigned. The high-pitched squeal of the fire alarm. Tom, Alex, and Matt shouting to be heard as they tried to figure out how to get the paper out on time. The murmur of voices as those who hadn’t evacuated the building milled about, waiting for the all clear to return to their desks.

It felt surreal, a nightmare.

Sophie lowered the cell phone, her face lined with worry, the bandage on her arm already soaked through with blood. “Are you okay?”

“I’m sorry, Sophie. I’m so sorry.”

“It’s not your fault.” Sophie gave her hand a squeeze, then raised her voice so that everyone could hear her. “Marc said there are undetonated explosives out there. SWAT is coming in to evacuate the building.”

“Shit.” Tom turned to Matt and Alex. “We need to move fast, get everyone’s computers and files moved down here before the cops push us out. If we don’t, we’re fucked. Alton, Nilsson, want to lend us a hand?”

Sophie shook her head. “Marc said to stay here in the cafeteria, and that’s what I’m doing. Didn’t you hear me? There are undetonated—”

Ignoring her, Tom turned with Matt and Alex and disappeared out the door—only to reappear a minute or so later, herded by a group of SWAT officers with Marc in the lead, Julian behind him.

Tom was a big man, but Marc was taller. Wearing Kevlar and carrying SWAT gear, he was also more imposing. His gaze rested a moment on Sophie, taking in the cuts on her right arm and cheek, and Laura could tell that more than anything he wanted to go to her. But he had a job to do.

He faced Tom. “You can get the computers as soon as the bomb squad has done its job. Now cooperate, or you’re going to put me in the awkward position of arresting my wife’s boss.”

Done with Tom, Marc turned to the room and raised his voice. “Listen, everyone! There are still undetonated explosives outside. I need you all to leave by the rear exit. Be calm, but be quick. We’re evacuating the entire block. Follow the police barricades to safety. No one is allowed to remain inside the building.”

While Marc organized the evacuation, Julian walked over to Laura, something in his hand—a Kevlar vest. “Let’s get this on you.”

Laura’s adrenaline spiked. “You think someone’s waiting out there for me?”

His expression gave nothing away. “The vest is just a precaution.”

She raised her arms and let him draw it on over her head.

“I’m glad to see you’re okay.” Julian pulled the Velcro straps tight. “I heard you got a bad bump on the head. How are you feeling?”

“I’m fine. Just a headache, maybe a little dizzy.”

He frowned, seemed to study her. “We’ve got a couple of ambulances standing by. I think it’s best if we get you, Holly, and Sophie to the hospital, get you cleaned up, make sure you really are okay.”

Laura shook her head. She hated hospitals. “I’m fine. I’d rather work to get the paper out. They’re going to need all the help they—”

“I wouldn’t be doing my job as a law officer and a friend if I let you go back to work without first seeing a doctor. Head injuries can take you by surprise. You can refuse treatment if you want, but at least let a doctor check you out.” When she didn’t object, he pushed the button on the radio clipped to his Kevlar. “Eight-twenty-five.”

A voice crackled back. “Eight-twenty-five, go ahead.”

“I need two ambulances at the paper’s rear entrance. Someone will need to shift the barricades to let them through.” He turned his attention to Holly. He drew her close in a careful hug. “It’s going to be okay, honey.”

Holly cried harder.

Marc at last came to stand at Sophie’s side, his hand resting protectively on the small of her back. “Let’s get you out of here. That cut on your arm looks deep.”

Julian looked over at Laura. “Can you walk?”

“I walked down here.” His hand at her elbow, she headed out of the cafeteria and down the hall, the blaring fire alarm louder in the hallway, the shrill sound making her headache worse.

She stepped out the back door and for one dark second found herself back in Baghdad in the aftermath of a terrorist bombing, the air tinged with the reek of burning fuel, rubber, and wires, men armed with high-powered assault rifles on the rooftop of the building next door, the whir of a helicopter mixing with the wail of sirens.

But this wasn’t Baghdad. It was Denver.

How could this have followed her to Denver?

To Laura’s left, two ambulances turned down the alley toward them, steel barricades and police cars with flashing lights holding curious onlookers and the media at a distance, officers guiding the other evacuated employees to safety. To her right stood Marc holding Sophie in a protective embrace.

Sophie looked up at him. “Be careful.”

He cupped the back of her head with a big, gloved hand and kissed her forehead. “You know I will be. You let them take good care of that arm.”

It was an intimate moment, a private moment.

Laura looked away, feeling sick to her stomach to think these good people had been put in harm’s way because of her. She looked up at Julian. “Do you have any idea who did this?”

“We will as soon as we can ID the body.”

“You mean . . . ?”

Julian nodded his head. “Looks like a suicide bomber.”

JAVIER LEANED AGAINST the wall in the emergency room of University Hospital, feeling more restless by the minute. On the television screen, Channel 12 kept going back and forth between the same recycled footage they’d been repeating for the past three hours. The smoking hulk of the car. Firefighters dousing the flames. Police evacuating the area as the bomb squad moved in. An aerial view of the blast site filmed from a news helo. SWAT guys milling around in body armor.

So the FBI hadn’t found Al-Nassar’s threats against Laura credible.

Idiots.

They were damned lucky the bastard who’d tried to kill her today hadn’t known what he was doing. If he had . . .

It had been close, so damned close.

Javier fought the urge to pace, glanced around the waiting area. A thin old man with papery skin and an oxygen tube beneath his nose. A mother and father with a crying baby. A middle-aged woman sitting alone. Two men and a woman who were almost certainly journalists, smartphones out, notepads in hand. They were clearly checking the place out, probably hoping to snag an interview with Laura.

What kind of assholes staked out an ER, for God’s sake? And what was taking so long? Maybe Laura was more seriously injured than they’d realized.

Or maybe she doesn’t want to see you.

Nate had left with Sophie and Holly almost an hour ago. Both women had been cut by flying glass. Sophie had needed stitches, and Holly had seemed pretty shaken up, her perfect face marred by little nicks. But both of them had wanted to get back to work to help get the paper out on time—a reminder to Javier that courage came in all shapes and sizes.

A woman in blue scrubs walked up to him. “You can see Ms. Nilsson now.”

It’s about fucking time.

Javier followed the aide through the double doors, aware that the journalists had gotten to their feet the second they’d heard Laura’s name and were now watching him. Down a corridor to the right, he saw a cop standing guard outside an exam room.

The aide pointed. “She’s in exam room nine.”

“Thanks.” Javier turned down the corridor, drew his wallet out of his back jeans pocket, and showed his driver’s license to the cop, who jotted his name down on a list, then stepped aside.

Javier knocked. “Laura?”

“Come in.”

He found her sitting up in the exam bed, talking on her cell phone.

“Thanks for calling. It means a lot to me. Bye.” She disconnected the call. “Gary Chapin, my former anchor. He called to check on me.”

The left side of her face had a few tiny nicks from flying glass, flecks of blood on her tailored white shirt. A dressing of gauze was taped to the inner elbow of her left arm where they’d hooked her to an IV. Her eyes were swollen, proof she’d been crying.

Seeing her like this—hurt, angry, afraid—made him want to hit someone. How the hell had this been allowed to happen? Al-Nassar, the media, the feds—they’d all played a role in this, through either action or inaction.

But Javier had walked into enough hospital rooms in his life, visited enough wounded men, to know that his anger wouldn’t help Laura.

He put a smile on his face. “You’re looking good. How you feeling?”

“I just want to get out of here.” Her blond brows knitted in irritation. “They say I have a mild concussion. They insisted on doing two MRIs even though I said I was fine. I want to go home, but they’re taking their time discharging me.”

“They’re just trying to take good care of you.”

“I suppose so.” She looked away, the tension inside her palpable. “I don’t like hospitals.”

Neither did Javier.

He walked to the bedside. “When I heard the news, I . . . I’m glad you’re okay.”

“The networks aren’t reporting this yet, but it was a suicide bomber.”

“Yeah.” He’d heard that from Nate, who’d heard it from Marc.

The anger faded from her face, naked fear in its place. “They’re going to do it, aren’t they? They’re going to kill me. I’m going to spend the rest of my life looking over my shoulder, and one day—”

“No, bella.” Javier took her right hand, gave it a squeeze. He wanted to do more. He wanted to wrap his arms around her and hold her tight, but he wasn’t sure she’d feel comfortable being touched like that. “People are going to be asking the feds some tough questions. The FBI is going to have to step up now and do its job. You’re a hero to a lot of folks out there. The feds can’t let anything happen to you.”