Pamela Clare - Striking Distance

¡Que clase e cabrón! What a bastard!

Laura’s chin went up, a glint of anger in her eyes. “I put that behind me when I testified at Al-Nassar’s trial. I have a wonderful life now.”

When she said nothing more, Chapin went on. “We’ve all just seen that horrifying footage of your abduction. As incredible as it may seem, Derek Tower, CEO of Tower Global Security, says he believes you may be to blame for what we just witnessed. More on this when we return.”

The moment the broadcast cut away to a commercial, Javier headed straight for Laura, ignoring Martin’s attempts to block him.

“You can’t go on set!”

“Try to stop me.” Javier strode over to Laura, who was staring down at the desk, her hand still clenched in a fist. He took it, held it, found it cold. “You okay, bella?”

She looked up at him, anguish and fury in her eyes. “He promised he wouldn’t do this. He promised. He didn’t even mention the car bomb. This first part was supposed to be about Al-Nassar’s trial and the car bomb.”

“You don’t have to put up with this. Just say the word, and we’re out of here.”

She shook her head. “If I leave now, I’ll burn a bridge with the network, and I’ll lose credibility with—”

“Twenty seconds!” a dark-haired woman called to them.

Javier squeezed Laura’s hand. “All right. You’re doing great. Just finish it.”

He stepped off set again as the camera once again went live.

IT WAS ALMOST over.

“One last question before we go: Is it possible that one of Tower’s men made a fatal mistake that day?”

Laura heard the one-minute warning in her earpiece.

She focused on her answer, careful not to rush her words. “I refuse even to speculate. These men were my friends. We’d traveled the world together for more than two years, and they lost their lives trying to save mine. Did security measures fail that day? Yes, but not because any of us were negligent. To paraphrase the State Department report, we were in the wrong neighborhood at the wrong time.”

“The wrong neighborhood at the wrong time. A dark day.” Gary paused for effect. “Thanks for joining us this evening, Laura. It’s great to have you back. It’s been a long time.”

“Thank you, Gary. It’s good to be back in the studio.” Laura gave the camera her warmest smile, held it.

The tally light went dark.

She shot to her feet, yanked out the earpiece, ripped off the microphone, letting both fall on the desk, her heart still pounding, her stomach in knots.

“Great show!” Martin walked over to her, his face split by a wide grin. “That was fantastic. I can’t wait to see the numbers. I bet they’re through the roof.”

Everyone was smiling, laughing, talking.

But not Laura. She felt sick. Enraged. Hurt.

She tried not to take her anger at Gary out on them. This wasn’t their fault. She shook hands, people seeming to crowd in on her, names and faces blurring together—Martin, Temple, Diane, Tania. “Thank you. Thanks, everyone.”

Then Javier was there beside her. He leaned in and spoke for her ears only, his presence giving her something to hold on to. “Do you want to change first, or do you just want to get the hell out of here?”

She was too upset to think, let alone make a decision, her hand reaching for his. “I . . . I don’t know.”

“Let’s go.”

People moved aside for him, seeming to want to get out of his path as Javier led her back to the dressing room, where Janet was waiting for them.

“We’re going to grab her things and go,” he said to Janet, who passed the message on to the deputy U.S. Marshals in the hallway beyond.

Laura entered the dressing room and walked over to her clothes, which hung on a hook beside the empty garment bag. “That jerk! He said he wouldn’t show the footage, that he wouldn’t ask for details about my captivity.”

She hoped no one was listening outside the door, because she couldn’t keep her voice from shaking, repressed anger and adrenaline surging through her.

“I used to like the guy. He used to be my favorite news dude. Now I want to bust his nuts.” Javier pointed to the vials and tubes of makeup sitting next to her makeup kit on the dressing table. “Are these yours?”

She nodded, wadding her jeans and shoving them into the garment bag. “He’s never forgiven me for giving that interview to Diane Sawyer. He wanted to be the first one to interview me after I returned to the U.S., but I went with Diane because she agreed to respect my boundaries. He wouldn’t.”

“Yeah? Well, he’s a grade-A piece of shit if you ask me.” Javier opened her makeup kit, held it edge to edge with the dressing table, and swept everything—every vial, brush, tube, and bottle—into the kit with his forearm.

Laura gaped at him. “That stuff is worth hundreds of dollars.”

He shrugged, then shut the kit. “That’s how SEALs pack makeup.”

The absurdity of his words made her smile.

Only Javier could do that—make her smile when she felt this shaken.

She grabbed the rest of her clothes, shoved them into the garment bag, and zipped the bag shut. She turned to find Javier holding her Kevlar vest. He’d just finished helping her fasten it in place when Janet appeared at the dressing room door.

“There’s a lot of media out there. Ready to go?”

“Just about.” Javier grabbed Laura’s coat and held it for her.

She slid her arms into the sleeves, then turned to face him.

Their gazes met, locked.

“Thanks for being here, Javi.”

He ran a finger down her cheek. “You bet.”

With Janet in front of her and Javier behind her, Laura walked out of the dressing room, down the hallway, and out the back door into the cold night, the two DUSMs who’d watched over the station’s rear entrance following them.

The night exploded with flashes and the click-click-click of cameras.

“Did you know Gary Chapin was going to play the footage from your abduction?”

“Do you plan to sue Derek Tower for slander?”

“Look this way, Laura! Just one shot!”

Thankfully, the engine of the SUV was already running, its back door open for her, a DUSM sitting in the driver’s seat.

Half blinded by the light, Laura caught the heel of one shoe in a crack in the asphalt and stumbled—just as a distant crack rang out, something whooshing above her head, striking the wall beside her, a spray of what felt like pebbles hitting her face. She didn’t even have time to react before she found herself on the ground, breath knocked from her lungs, Javier on top of her, firearm in his hand.

“Sniper!” he shouted in a deep voice she’d never heard before. “Nine o’clock!”

Gunfire. Screams. Running feet.

It was happening again.

¡PUÑETA! FUCK!

On a single inhale, Javier weighed his options. He had no infrared drone overhead to give him the big picture, no radio contact with the DUSMs, and no damned assault rifle. There were ten feet between Laura and the station’s rear entrance and a couple of lateral feet between her and the SUV’s open door. But judging from the hole that first shot had left in the building’s concrete wall, these were armor-piercing rounds. Bulletproofing was not going to stop them from penetrating the vehicle—which meant they couldn’t take shelter inside it—and lying here on the ground and trying to use it for cover was a fucking bad idea.

They had to move now.

But moving was risky, too. If this sniper had any training, he’d be watching, waiting for Laura to pop into his sights again in her attempt to flee.

“Stay low!” Javier caught her hard around the waist and dragged her up with him, lunging for the studio’s back door, Agent Killeen behind them.

“Get back!” he shouted to the station’s staff, who stood just inside the door staring in horrified surprise. “Get back, goddamn it!”

Two more shots, and Killeen went down with a cry.

Javier didn’t stop. He couldn’t.

Laura would be dead if he did.

The best thing he could do for Killeen and the others was to get Laura out of the line of fire. As long as she was in the shooter’s sights, he would keep firing, putting every DUSM, reporter, and bystander out here at risk.

Javier threw himself and Laura through the open doorway, the two of them landing on their hands and knees just as the shooter opened up on the entrance.

More screams.

Javier jumped up, dragged Laura to her feet again, and hurried her down the hallway. “Everyone get out of the hallway and away from the door! Those rounds can penetrate concrete. Go! Move!”

He didn’t stop moving until they reached the dressing room. Both hands gripping her coat, he pressed her up against the wall. “Are you hurt, bella? Talk to me.”

She looked at him with dazed blue eyes, blood running down her temple, her entire body shaking. “I-I’m fine.”

Shit.

“Like hell you are.”

She was in psychological shock—acute stress reaction.

He quickly removed her coat, checked her for other injuries, and found abrasions on her palms and right knee from hitting the asphalt so hard.

Goddamn, that had been close! If she hadn’t stumbled . . .

His stomach lurched at the very thought.

She reached up, pressed her hand to her bleeding temple, and looked down at the blood on her fingers, as if she couldn’t understand what had happened, the expression on her face reminding him of the expression she’d worn in the helo after he’d carried her out of Al-Nassar’s compound. Slowly, she sank to a sitting position on the floor.