Pamela Clare - Striking Distance

“No.” She picked up the glass and drank every drop, then set it down again. “The paper’s publisher and board of trustees don’t want me to come back to work.”

Dark brows bent in a frown. “What?”

She turned, paced the length of the kitchen. “They told me they’re afraid for my safety and the safety of the rest of the staff. They want me to take the rest of the week off to recover, but they don’t want me back in the office on Monday. They think it would be best for everyone if I worked from home for the time being. They’re probably right.”

“Sounds to me like they’re afraid of being sued.”

“They’re not brave enough to say that, so they pretend it’s all out of concern for me.” She pressed her fingers against her throbbing temple. “First my neighbors want me to move out, and now the paper doesn’t want me around. I don’t want anyone to get hurt because of me, but I can’t just run and hide.”

She stiffened in surprise to feel Javier’s big hands on her shoulders.

He turned her toward him, took her into his arms. “I don’t blame you for being angry. But that headache—you need to take it easy. Some time off might not be a bad thing.”

She drew back and met his gaze, perilously close to tears, the pounding of her heart a sign that she wasn’t far from a full-blown panic attack. “I’ve fought so damned hard to put the past behind me, to start over, to build a new life. No one knows how hard it’s been for me to get where I am today. No one. And now . . . Now I’m going to lose it all again—my home, my job, maybe even my life.”

She fought to calm her breathing, her chest tight, her fear spiraling out of control.

Javier cupped her face, his gaze riveted hard on hers. “No! No, you’re not. Your neighbors are cowards, and the newspaper is being run by lawyers. But this won’t last forever. When the investigation is over, you’ll get your life back.”

Conviction was etched into every feature of his face, from the hard line of his jaw to the firm set of his lips to the fierce gleam in his eyes, his certainty giving her something to hold on to, taking the edge off her dread.

From across the room, her cell phone rang, making her jump.

She hurried to the coffee table where she’d left it and got a sinking feeling in her stomach when she saw a restricted number on the screen.

Probably Derek Tower.

She answered but said nothing.

“Ms. Nilsson?” It wasn’t Derek.

She let out a relieved breath. “This is she.”

“This is Chief Deputy U.S. Marshal Zach McBride, Nate’s friend. I met you up at the Cimarron last Saturday.”

The Medal of Honor recipient whose wife, Natalie, wanted to write romance novels.

“I remember.” She hadn’t known he was a chief deputy U.S. Marshal.

He asked how she was doing, passed along Natalie’s regards, and then his tone of voice changed. “I’m calling for a few reasons. First, I wanted to let you know that the U.S. Marshal Service is going to be primary in this case. The Justice Department sees an act of terrorism at a newspaper as falling under our jurisdiction. The FBI and local police will be doing the footwork for a task force that I’ll be heading out of our office. We believe we have the best resources to bring this case together.”

“Oh. I see.” A sense of relief washed through her. The DUSMs who’d protected her before and during the trial had always made her feel safe, whereas the FBI, apart from Agent Killeen, had not. “Thank you. I appreciate everything you’re doing to protect me and get to the bottom of this.”

“Who is it?” Javier whispered, standing nearby.

“Zach McBride,” she mouthed. “U.S. Marshal Service.”

Two dark brows rose, and Javier nodded.

Zach went on. “We’re going to do everything we can to make sure you’re safe from here on out. We’re on our way over to talk about protocols and to set up a trap-and-trace on your phone in case Derek Tower contacts you again. Does that work?”

“Yes.”

“Tower is officially a person of interest in the bombing, and we’ve put our Violent Offender and Fugitive Task Force to work tracking him down for questioning. I’m not saying that we think he’s behind it, but given his recent actions toward you and his background, I’d like to talk to him.”

The idea that Tower might soon be in custody made Laura feel safer. “I haven’t heard from him since the night he accosted me in my car.”

“I’m not surprised. We’ll talk about how we’re going to handle any potential contact from him when I get there.” Zach paused. “I also wanted to let you know the DNA from the car came back as Ali Al Zahrani.”

Laura sank slowly to the couch, the throbbing in her head almost unbearable, the rush of her pulse drowning out whatever Zach was saying, an image of the kid’s smiling face burning in her mind. “Oh, God.”

HEAD STILL THROBBING, Laura sat in the passenger seat of her own car as Javier drove them back up to the Cimarron, the beautiful mountain scenery passing by her window unnoticed. “I want to see his family. I want to tell them in person how sorry I am.”

“You’ll get that chance, but not today. Today, you need to take care of yourself, take it easy.”

Javier was right. They were all right.

When she’d told Zach she wanted to visit Ali Al Zahrani’s parents, he’d told her flat out that she needed to wait at least a few days. They were being questioned by the FBI, their house now considered part of a crime scene, their street swarming with media.

“You don’t want to walk into that,” he’d said.

No, she didn’t.

Still, she couldn’t quit thinking about them, how they must feel, knowing that the entire nation saw them now as the parents of a terrorist.

“Maybe I can call or send flowers or a card—something to let them know I don’t blame them.”

Javier glanced over at her. “What if they’re proud of him?”

Her gaze shot to his. “I don’t believe any mother feels proud when her child dies like that. I talked to women in Afghanistan who were devastated with grief over sons who’d chosen so-called martyrdom or who’d died in the fighting. Most were too afraid to let their grief show because the Taliban would beat them.”

The kid’s parents would now have to live the rest of their lives knowing they raised a son who’d died trying to commit murder. Their child would be reviled across the nation—and so would they. No one would care that they loved their son. They would be isolated in their grief for him. Facebook and Twitter were already teeming with jokes about the suicide bomber who managed to blow up only himself.

Laura couldn’t say she understood exactly how they felt, but she did know how lonely grief could be. Her heart ached every day for Klara, and yet apart from her mother, her grandmother, and Erik, she could speak of her daughter with no one.

“This is really tearing you up, isn’t it?” Javier’s big hand closed, warm and reassuring, over hers. “Give it a rest for today, bella. You can’t do anything now except make this harder on yourself.”

Laura drew a deep breath and stared out her window, finally noticing the snowcapped peaks, the stretches of evergreen forest. It was beautiful up here, reminding her of the mountains in Sweden where her family had gone skiing every year. Of course, the Rockies were much more rugged, rising to staggering heights, their snowy summits dazzling under the bright Colorado sun.

It had been Javier’s idea to get away, to leave her neighbors, the prying media, and all of Denver behind for fresh mountain air. He’d suggested she pack a bag and stay up there with him and the West family for a few days. Laura didn’t want to impose on the Wests, but she knew Javier had come here to visit his friends. His decision to help her had taken him away from that. Left with the choice between staying alone at the loft or spending the night up at the Cimarron, she’d chosen the latter, calling Special Agent Killeen, who hadn’t yet been relieved of her duties, to let her know about the change in plans. Janet drove ahead of them in her beige Toyota Corolla, another agent following them in a blue Ford Escort.

Laura relaxed into the seat, let her mind go blank, and watched the scenery.

Another ten minutes found them at the ranch’s main gate. Recessed from the road, its arch was constructed of heavy logs, a wooden sign that read “Cimarron Ranch” hanging from a crossbeam, the gate itself constructed of steel. It stood open, and there, waiting for them beside a white pickup truck, stood Nate, a cowboy hat on his head.

He grinned, waved them through, then climbed into his truck and followed them, the road dipping downward into a valley.

When the ranch house came into view, Laura was just as amazed as she’d been the first time she’d seen it. “It’s so beautiful.”

Like a postcard.

Javier grinned. “Home sweet home.”

Built of rounded river stones and logs, it was as breathtaking as its surroundings, reminding Laura of villas she’d seen in Switzerland and Austria but with some distinct western touches. Its roof was steeply sloped to let snow slide off, smoke curling from one of a half dozen stone chimneys. Rows of wide windows gleamed, reflecting sunlight and blue sky. Beside a row of barns and outbuildings, palomino quarter horses grazed in a large corral, the wind tossing their pale manes and tails.

Javier parked beside Janet’s car, handing Laura her car keys. “It’s pretty cold. You head on inside. I’ll get your bag.”

“Thanks.” Laura stepped out into a biting wind and hugged her peacoat tightly around her, thin mountain air cutting through the thick wool.