Pamela Clare - Striking Distance

She smiled again, pointed her spoon toward him, a hint of playfulness in her eyes that made his blood heat. “And you love every moment of it.”

Okay, so she had him there. It wasn’t always comfortable, but he loved hanging with Team guys, waiting for the next tasking, letting the adrenaline build.

“Here, I’ve got a real bed, a bathroom with a door that closes, great food, and a hundred channels on the TV. But you know the best thing, bella?”

She took another bite of yogurt, shook her head.

He met her gaze straight on, let his lips curve in a slow grin. “The scenery here is so much better.”

Her pupils dilated—and damned if she didn’t blush.

JAVIER SAT IN the passenger seat, keeping an eye out for trouble while Laura drove, his SIG Sauer P226 in a shoulder holster hidden beneath his jacket, the Walther in an ankle holster. There was only one reason why he’d gone along with this.

It was important to Laura.

He glanced over at her, could see she was afraid despite her attempts to hide it. She wasn’t wearing any makeup, her skin almost translucent, her face pale. “I respect what you’re trying to do, but I wish you’d let McBride arrange a meeting with them at a neutral site.”

Laura kept her eyes on the road. “I’m tired of sitting around and waiting. Besides, the marshal office is hardly neutral. These people have lost their son. They’ve been raked over the coals by the FBI and the media. Every corner of their lives has been probed. The last thing they need is to be dragged from their home again.”

“You have such a soft heart, but your compassion might be wasted on these people.” Javier knew only too well how an act of compassion could blow up in a person’s face. He’d spared that shepherd’s life and those of his sons, and eighteen men had died as a result. “They raised a son who tried to kill you.”

The FBI had found exactly what Javier had expected they’d find. The kid’s laptop had a secret user identity filled with extremist rants about the U.S., downloaded videos of Osama bin Laden and other terrorist leaders, and photographs of terrorist bombing sites. His browser history showed that he’d made frequent visits over the past two months to Internet sites that gave instructions on how to mix ANFO, build detonators, and buy supplies. The fact that the attempt on Laura’s life had followed so closely after Al-Nassar’s call for her death made it an open-and-shut case as far as Javier could see. But who had put the kid up to this?

That was the critical missing piece of intel.

“Zach told me the parents aren’t religious extremists. He says the FBI believes they had nothing to do with their son’s actions. I can’t imagine how hard this has been for them—loving their son, discovering what he’d done, learning that he’d been murdered. Besides, no one knows we’re here except Janet and the deputy marshals working my detail.”

“And his family—they know you’re coming.” Javier was willing to bet they hadn’t kept that fact secret. The Baghdad Babe visiting their home? Their relatives in Riyadh probably knew by now.

Ahead of them, Agent Killeen turned right, making her way through a middle-class neighborhood in Aurora. An unmarked car with two deputy U.S. Marshals followed closely behind them, another deputy marshal already at the house.

Laura steered her car around the corner, and Javier watched her expression grow more determined as her headlights spilled over the media vans and reporters that filled the street before them. But the media’s attention was focused on a small brick ranch-style home, where an older man was making his way up the front steps. They didn’t notice Laura drive by, take a right at the alley, and drive up behind the house. Nor did they see Killeen block the far end of the alley with her car, while the two deputy marshals who followed them blocked the other end, effectively sealing the alley from media encroachment.

A deputy marshal stepped out of the backyard through a wooden gate, waiting for Laura, who parked the car and slipped the keys into her handbag. She was dressed entirely in black, a black blazer over black pants and a black shirt, a black scarf tucked into her neckline.

She drew a deep breath, exhaled. “I can’t believe I’m doing this.”

Javier thought she was talking about her visit with Al Zahrani’s parents. He was about to remind her that she could still change her mind when she took the scarf from around her neck and began to draw it over her beautiful hair.

“I swore after I was rescued that I’d never wear cover again.”

Something clenched in Javier’s stomach. He’d ripped that burka off her two years ago. He knew what this must bring back for her, and he didn’t want to see her put herself through this. He reached out, stopped her. “Coming to pay your respects is enough. You don’t need to go that far, bella.”

She looked over at him. “Their son is dead. I’m coming into their home. I’m not so weak that I can’t respect their culture.”

She drew the scarf into place and secured it beneath her chin, veiling both her hair and the last of her emotions, her face expressionless.

They stepped out of the car and followed the deputy marshal through the gate and up a back walk to the rear door, light spilling from the windows. Javier instinctively scanned their surroundings for any hint of danger, possible exits, cover. From overhead came the thrum of a police helo McBride had requisitioned to monitor the neighborhood.

Javier glanced up at it, its lights illuminating the entire block.

Pain in his chest and his leg made him want to puke, his body shaking from shock and blood loss. He reached out, took Krasinski’s hand, squeezed. “Hear that? Medevac is almost here, buddy. We’re going to be pumped full of morphine, and flirting with nurses, before you know it.”

“Y-eah?” Krasinski sounded far away.

“Stay with me, Crazy K. Come on, man. Not long now.”

A helo appeared to the south. He blinked cold sweat out of his eyes and watched it approach, the thrum of its rotors growing louder. “Just a few minutes, bro.”

“Cobra, I . . .”

“Yeah?”

Krasinski started to say something, the word disappearing in a groan and a rattling exhale.

Christ, no!

Javier tried to shout, but couldn’t. He squeezed Krasinski’s hand. “Krasinski? Hey, K, come on, man.”

The helo was looking for a place to land. What was taking them so fucking long? If they didn’t put down fast, more men were to die.

The helo exploded in a ball of flame, shrapnel hitting the ground all around them.

A hand touched Javier’s shoulder.

He gasped, found himself looking into Laura’s worried eyes. “Are you okay?”

Javier nodded, the tang of blood and reek of smoke still in his nostrils, his heart thudding. “Yeah. Of course.”

She watched him for a moment, then turned and headed up the sidewalk.

What the hell had just happened? One minute he’d been here. The next . . .

Lock that shit down, cabrón!

He wouldn’t be any good to Laura if he didn’t.

He sucked air into his lungs and followed her, beating back his memories and the sense of dread that came with them, forcing them out of his mind, the helo’s rotors beating in his memory like the thrum of a pulse.

The back door of the house opened, and a tall, beefy man with short gray hair and a neatly trimmed gray mustache stepped outside. He wasn’t wearing the white robes and red-checked headscarf Javier was used to seeing on Saudi men but was dressed in a dark gray sports jacket, a white shirt, and black trousers. Heavy bags hung beneath his red-rimmed eyes, weariness lining his face.

Laura looked up at him and spoke in Arabic.

He answered, reached for Laura’s hand, and switched to English, speaking with only a faint Arabic accent. “Come in! Come in! Welcome to our home.”

So this was the kid’s father, Yusif Al Zahrani.

Naturalized citizen. Works as a cardiologist. Pays his taxes. Votes. No arrests.

Laura followed Al Zahrani indoors, Javier close behind her.

Apart from the somber mood, what Javier found inside was not what he’d expected. Men sat on chairs and couches in the living room, wearing sports jackets or nice sweaters, some with trimmed beards, others clean-shaven. Women bustled in the kitchen, some wearing scarves over their hair, some not, one clad in a black abaya, her face exposed. He’d been inside a lot of homes in Afghanistan and Iraq, but he’d never seen men and women mingle casually like this.

The dining room table was covered with serving dishes heaped with food—pastries, dates, cheeses, breads, salads, sliced pineapple, grapes, olives, desserts, rice, meats, and a big pot of what looked like lamb stew. The spicy aromas of the different dishes mingled with the exotic scent of incense.

All conversation stopped.

Javier was still on edge from his little flashback, or whatever the hell that had been, and his instincts kicked in hard, his gaze taking in the entire room at once, watching for sudden or suspicious movement as the women turned to face Laura, the men rising to their feet. Still speaking Arabic, Laura was introduced to them one at a time. Some shook her hand, gave her polite nods, the men as well as the women—but not all of them.

An older man with a trimmed beard refused. He spoke to Laura in Arabic, his tone of voice gruff. Javier moved closer to Laura, uneasy about the way the man was looking at her, his eyes cold, rage on his face.