When it was clear that this meant nothing to Laura, Javier knelt down beside the coffee table, took her reporter’s notepad and pen, and began to sketch. “A call to the cell phone sends current through the phone. The current passes through a nine-volt battery that is wired into a blasting cap. The blasting cap is what sets off the dynamite, which in turn ignites the ANFO. We saw shit like this all the time in Iraq and Afghanistan.”

She studied the drawing. “Can you trace either cell phone?”

Callahan shook his head. “The one used to make the detonator was a burner bought solely for this purpose. It received only one call—and that call came from a burner phone, too.”

She looked disappointed. “I guess there’s not much to go on.”

Callahan’s brows bent in a frown. “Not true. We’ve got serial numbers and may be able to locate the store where the phones were purchased. Same with some of the detonator’s components. That might give us an idea where this person lives—in Colorado, out of state, Front Range, Western Slope. We might also luck out and get some footage from security cameras. Obviously, this won’t yield results overnight, but we will find him.”

“In the meantime,” said McBride, “we know for certain another person or persons was involved. We know that the materials they used are consistent with the materials used by AQ, the Taliban, and other terrorist groups to build and detonate IEDs. And we know that Ali Al Zahrani wasn’t the shotcaller here. Whoever detonated the explosives probably never intended for Al Zahrani to set off the bomb himself. He probably used Al Zahrani to help mix the ANFO and get the car into position, and then killed him to eliminate witnesses or prevent him from backing out and warning someone.”

“That poor kid!” Laura closed her eyes, then looked up at them. “He was murdered. Someone pumped him full of hatred, brainwashed him into doing their dirty work—and then shot him in the head. What if he had second thoughts? Maybe he remembered at the last moment that killing was wrong. Maybe he realized he wanted to live and—”

“Hey, don’t do this to yourself.” Javier rested his hand on her shoulder. “We don’t know what happened for sure.”

“But we are going to find out.” McBride pressed a finger to his earpiece, then glanced toward the door. “This is going to be fun. Excuse me.”

He walked out the door, closing it behind him. A few seconds passed before Javier heard the sound of arguing.

“This is still a multi-agency operation. I don’t see why I can’t remain a part of Ms. Nilsson’s protection detail.” That was Agent Killeen.

McBride’s voice was so deep he could barely make out what McBride was saying. “The marshals are handling that aspect of the operation. The FBI—”

“With all due respect, sir, I don’t give a rat’s ass where the brass have drawn the lines. I promised to keep her safe, and I want to fulfill that promise.”

“You kept that promise, and now you’ve been relieved.”

“Damn it, sir, I don’t want to be relieved! I fought hard to become a part of her protection detail, and now—”

“You’re letting your emotions get the better of you, Agent Killeen.”

Javier knew Laura liked Agent Killeen, trusted her. He knew the moment he looked at Laura’s face what she was going to do. He followed her as she got to her feet, walked to the door, and opened it.

“I know it’s probably unusual, but can’t I request that Agent Killeen remain part of my detail?”

McBride seemed to consider Laura’s words—not altogether cheerfully. “I could deputize you, bring you into the Marshal Service temporarily. It won’t make you popular with your colleagues.”

From the look on Agent Killeen’s face, the idea didn’t appeal much to her either.

And Javier wondered how the government functioned at all when the federal law enforcement agencies spent so much time caught up in dick fights.

Agent Killeen’s chin went up. “Yes. Deputize me.”

“All right.” Zach drew out his cell phone, a frown set on his face. “I’m going to catch hell for this.”

Laura smiled. “Thanks, Zach. I really appreciate it.”

They walked back inside, McBride shutting and locking the door behind them.

Laura offered Agent Killeen a glass of water, then settled back in her chair. “There’s something else I wanted to ask you.”

Javier knew where this was going.

McBride clearly didn’t. “Go ahead.”

“When can I visit Ali Al Zahrani’s parents?”

* * *

MCBRIDE ARRANGED FOR Laura to visit the kid’s family Wednesday night. That gave the security detail two and a half days to plan. They didn’t know it yet, but Javier was determined to be a part of that effort. Not that he didn’t trust the Marshal Service. He did, especially with McBride in the lead. But none of them cared about Laura the way he did. Javier was willing to lose everything for her—including his life.

* * *

JAVIER FINISHED HIS call with McBride, then walked back to the guest room to fold his newly washed and dried clothes, listening to Laura as she interviewed a disabled Marine in her office. From what Javier had been able to piece together, the veteran, a woman who’d served two tours in Iraq, had lost both legs and been badly burned when a suicide bomber had blown up a car at a checkpoint near the Green Zone.

It was a helluva thing to live through.

“What did they say when you told them you were having thoughts of suicide?” Laura asked, periodically injecting “I see,” or “How upsetting,” or “Mmm-hmm,” as she listened to the woman’s answer.

It was interesting to hear her work after watching so many of her broadcasts. She was cool and collected on the air, but in person she was warm, sympathetic, always letting the person she was interviewing know that what they told her mattered to her. Even when the interview was what Javier might consider hostile, like her interview with the VA flack this morning, she was warm and caring—at least until she had them by the jugular.

“I know it’s difficult to talk about this, but it would really help my readers understand the issue better if you could describe for me what you’re experiencing—the nightmares, the flashbacks, the anger you feel.”

Nightmares.

Flashbacks.

Anger.

The words hit Javier, sent ripples through him.

Knock it off, cabrón.

He did not have PTSD. A few post-combat nightmares, a bar fight, and a handful of strange adrenaline surges did not constitute PTSD. If he was on edge all the time, it was only because everyone kept hassling him, as if they expected him to fall the fuck apart. But he was stronger than that. If they would back the hell off and let him get on with an active-duty workup, he’d be fine.

“You jumped out of bed? You mean without your prosthetics? Oh, I’m so sorry. I can only imagine how frightening that was.”

¡Sí, claro!

After what she’d been through, Laura knew damned good and well how bad it could get. Javier knew she’d had another nightmare last night. He’d heard her in the kitchen mixing that milk-and-honey brew of her grandmother’s. He’d almost gone to her, offered to sleep with her again. But after what had happened in the sauna, he’d thought the better of it. She’d been coping without him all of this time. It was better not to fan the flames.

That was probably another reason he was on edge. His mind knew he and Laura were not going to enjoy a repeat of their weekend in Dubai, but his body wasn’t getting the message. He’d tried to blame it on the fact that he hadn’t gotten laid since before his most recent deployment—four months in Afghanistan followed by five months that included a stay in ICU, rehab, and medical leave. He might even have believed that excuse if it hadn’t been for the inconvenient fact that the only woman he wanted was Laura.

But no way in hell did he want to see that same panicked look in her eyes that he’d seen after he’d kissed her in the sauna. He’d be damned before he’d upset her like that again or make her regret spending time with him.

He focused on folding his clothes and squaring his gear away. He’d finished and was in the kitchen making a sandwich as an afternoon snack when she emerged from her office. She walked past him to the fridge, opened the door, and bent down, reaching for something in the back, the sweet curves of her ass outlined in butter-soft denim. He managed to lift his gaze just as she turned to face him, her long-sleeved pink V-neck doing nothing to hide the fact that she wasn’t wearing a bra.

He willed himself to quit gawking.

Mind over balls, bro.

“That sounded like a tough interview.”

“I feel so bad for her. She’s grappling with uncontrolled neuropathy and PTSD at the same time, and no one seems to be helping her.”

He put the lid back on the mayo. “You are. You’re helping her.”

“I just hope the article lights a fire under someone’s butt at the VA.” Laura walked to the fridge, took out a container of yogurt, and grabbed a spoon out of the silverware drawer. “You must be bored out of your mind. It can’t be fun to be stuck inside with me here all day long.”

He grinned, shook his head. “Bored? No way.”

There was still doubt in her eyes.

He carried his plate and a glass of water to the table. “You think life as an operator is all combat and thrashin’ through jungles and shit?”

She sat across from him and popped a spoonful of yogurt in her mouth, her lips curving in a sweet smile. “You mean it’s not?”

“A lot of it is training—predeployment workups. Uphill runs in full combat gear. Jumps, jumps, and more jumps. Night surf landings. That’s all good.” He took a bite of his sandwich, chewed. “But between that and actual combat ops, there’s a lot of waiting. We jock up, then get told the op is off. We jock up again. They call it off again. In the meantime, we hang around the TOC with no running water, sweating or freezing our balls off in our BDUs, living off MREs, checking our gear—and staring at each other’s ugly faces.”