Pamela Clare - Striking Distance

“I’m a trained investigator, and a good one. Maybe I won’t find anything. But maybe I will.”

“You give me your word you won’t leak the contents of the file in a news story or reveal where you got the documents?”

“I promise—and I’ve never broken a promise to a source.”

Janet drew a deep breath, clearly considering it. “All right. I can probably get the file to you by this afternoon before we head to the television station. I’m trusting you with my career.”

Laura felt a rush of relief. “Thank you. I won’t let you down.”

“I know you won’t. I know where you live.” Janet smiled, then looked toward the door. “Corbray is on his way up. I didn’t know they made men like him. He is . . .”

Janet didn’t finish the sentence, so Laura finished it for her. “He is strong, thoughtful—and incredibly hot.”

Janet smiled. “Yes. That’s the word I was looking for. Hot.”

Didn’t Laura know it?

Sleeping beside Javier again had left her painfully aware of her own sexual attraction to him, filling her head with fantasies that were going to make it very hard to get any work done today.

“Where did you two meet?” Janet asked.

“In a restaurant in Dubai. He saw a couple of Russian guys bothering me and—”

A key slipped into the lock and Javier entered.

His face was wet with sweat, his expression guarded. He gave them both a nod, his gaze lingering for a moment on Laura before he disappeared down the hallway, probably to take a shower.

Janet stood, her gaze following him. “We’ve got a security briefing in about an hour to prepare for your trip to the news studio tonight. I’ll see you then.”

JAVIER SAT IN the backseat of a bulletproof Chevy Tahoe beside Laura, who pored over her notes in preparation for her interview, pencil and highlighter in hand. She wore a sweater and jeans, Kevlar beneath her coat. Her face was still free of makeup, a makeup bag the size of a tool chest and a sleek little blue dress in the cargo space behind them. She’d styled her hair the way she’d always done before her abduction—loose and long with lush waves that were drawn away from her face and pinned back with a barrette. One way or another, he was going to find a way to get his fingers into that hair when they got home from this little adventure.

He leaned closer to her and spoke quietly, catching the soft, sweet scent of her skin. “After this is over, you’re going to spend tomorrow and the weekend resting. That’s what you’re supposed to be doing, remember?”

“You can’t give me orders. I may look like one of your men with this on,” she said, glancing up at him and tapping the Kevlar with her knuckles, a slight smile playing on her lips, “but I’m not.”

He leaned closer still and nuzzled her hair, lowering his voice to a near whisper. “Oh, believe me, bella, there’s no way I could mistake you for one of my men, not even in pitch dark.”

She canted her head, looking up at him from beneath her lashes. “Don’t distract me. I’m going on live TV for the first time since . . . I need to be prepared.”

He could tell she was genuinely nervous about this interview—and he knew why. Still, he was doing his best to keep the mood light, hoping to take the edge off her stress. “Were you this grumpy when you reported from Baghdad?”

“Oh, much worse.”

Javier chuckled, turning his gaze back to the street. Ahead of them, an unmarked vehicle carrying two DUSMs turned the corner, another vehicle following behind them, its headlights illuminating the backseat. The Marshal Service had jocked up for a fight. It was the first time since the car bombing that the killer stood a chance of knowing exactly where Laura was going. The idiots at Channel 12 had been plugging the interview all day, clearly trying to drive up ratings, but also giving the killer exactly what he needed—an opportunity to strike and time to plan.

Tonight, Laura Nilsson joins Gary Chapin for an exclusive interview about her new life and the recent car bombing that could have killed her.

There was a chance that someone stupid enough to fuck up would be stupid enough to think that Laura had flown to D.C. to do the interview in person, but there was also a chance the bastard had been watching the Channel 12 studio all day, waiting.

Javier wasn’t officially part of Laura’s security detail. He didn’t get to wear a lip mic and earpiece to keep up with the action, and they hadn’t armed him. But he’d come ready to play rough. He wore his SIG in a shoulder harness beneath his jacket, five spare fifteen-round magazines loaded and ready, the Walther in an ankle holster.

He rubbed his thigh, the muscle still aching from his run. He must have gone six miles before he’d found himself kneeling on the riverbank, breathing hard, his mind filled with images he couldn’t escape, echoes he couldn’t silence—the rattle of AK fire, the cries of wounded men, the blazing orange of the exploding helo.

They had died—Krasinski, Johnson, Grimshaw, the men in the helo—because of a decision he’d made.

He hadn’t been able to outrun his memories, but kneeling there on the riverbank, he’d locked them down once more, shutting them in a part of himself he vowed not to open. He couldn’t change the past, and Laura needed him in the present.

“We’re almost there.” Agent Killeen looked back at Laura, who slipped her notes, pen, and highlighter inside her handbag. “You head straight inside as we discussed. Don’t stop to talk in the doorway. One of us will bring your belongings shortly. There’s already a team at the studio. They’ve been checking IDs, making sure the parking lot is secured. They’ll man the doors while you’re there. We’ll have a team out here watching the vehicles and the building perimeter. I’ll accompany you inside the building and onto the news set. Corbray, I understand you plan to remain close to Ms. Nilsson, also.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

He sure as hell did.

DEREK TURNED INTO the parking garage north of the Channel 12 studio, pushed a button for his ticket, then drove slowly up to the top level.

Tipped off by the station’s constant ads about the interview, he’d spent yesterday doing recon around the building and knew that the uppermost level offered an unobstructed view of the station’s rear entrance—perfect for getting within striking distance and squeezing off a couple of fatal shots from a high-powered rifle.

He pulled into a parking space, angling his rearview mirror to give himself a view of the entry ramp, his loaded AR-15 beneath his parka on the passenger seat beside him, an HK Mark 23 in his hip holster.

Now there was nothing to do but wait.

BELLY FULL OF butterflies, Laura hurried from the vehicle through the station’s rear entrance, Javier on her right, Agent Killeen on her left, and found herself in a long, brightly lit and crowded hallway, where two deputy marshals motioned her forward, their gazes focused on the entryway behind her.

A man with thick brown hair, a boyish face, and wire-rimmed glasses stepped into her path and shook her hand. “Welcome to Channel Twelve, Ms. Nilsson. I’m Jim Temple, the station manager. We’re so happy to have you here with us. This is John Martin, our news director.”

John Martin looked like every news director Laura had ever met—thin, lines on his face from stress, graying hair. But whereas most news directors were perpetually irritable, he seemed almost giddy. “It’s great to meet you. Having you here on the last day of February sweeps—it means so much to us. I think it’s going to do great things for our ratings. Viewers can’t get enough of you or your amazing story.”

“Thanks for having me.” Laura wasn’t shocked to hear him talk about her appearance in terms of blatant self-interest.

That was TV news. Ratings were everything. If the station performed well in the sweeps, they’d be able to demand more money from their advertisers. A good February meant a great start to the year and job security for everyone.

But apparently Javier was shocked. He muttered something in angry Spanish, one of his hands coming to rest protectively against her lower back.

“I’m Special Agent Janet Killeen.” Janet, apparently having forgotten she was temporarily a deputy U.S. Marshal, shook hands with Temple and Martin. “I’ll be accompanying Ms. Nilsson throughout the building to ensure her safety while she’s here at the station. This is Javier Corbray. He’s—”

“I’m Ms. Nilsson’s bodyguard.” Javier held out his hand.

Laura had to fight back a laugh. She could tell from the expressions on Temple’s and Martin’s faces that Javier was all but crushing their fingers as they shook his hand.

Sometimes men could be so predictable.

A young woman with dark curly hair stepped up to them, clipboard in hand. “It’s an honor to meet you, Ms. Nilsson, Agent Killeen, Mr. Corbray. I’m Tania Clarke, the senior producer. I’ll show you to your dressing room, Ms. Nilsson.”

Laura quickly found herself alone staring at her reflection in the lighted mirror. The last time she’d sat in a makeup chair, she’d been about to tape her interview with Diane Sawyer. She’d been nervous then, too, knowing what Diane was going to ask her, well aware that she’d be sharing deeply personal pain with the entire world. But somehow this felt worse, her pulse rapid, her palms damp, her mouth dry.

She hadn’t done live TV since the day she was abducted.

She met her own gaze. “You can do this.”