Pamela Clare - Striking Distance

It was enough to hold her, to sleep with her at night, to know that some part of her wanted him. Why else would she have kissed him?

“Yo, Bates, man, you’d better watch your six!” Javier shouted at the TV, surprising himself as much as Laura. “Thomas and O’Brien are going to bury your ass if you don’t. O’Brien, man, she’s one nasty, conniving bitch.”

His outburst made Laura laugh. “You’re getting into this, aren’t you?”

“Hey, don’t tell West. He would never let me live it down.”

She smiled up at him. “I bet Nate watches it, too. I know Megan does.”

That was a revelation.

Laura listened to Javier’s heart beat beneath her ear, her fingers stroking his forearm. They hadn’t talked about the kiss that had been interrupted. It was as if it hadn’t happened. But it had.

She could still feel the heat of it, her lips tingling, her blood warm, her body in a state of heightened awareness. She was mindful of every breath he took, his scent seeming to surround her, the feel of his hard body beside hers so arousing that she could hardly concentrate on the show.

Her thoughts drifted from one sexual scenario to the other, each more titillating than the last. She could take off his shirt, kiss her way down his body, and go down on him. Or lead him by the hand to her bedroom and make love with him. Or ride him like she’d done in Dubai, feeling him thrust into her from below.

All it would take was another kiss, a few words, a touch.

Javi, I changed my mind. I want to be with you.

Or maybe something sexier.

You kept your promise, Javi, but now I really need you to break it.

No, that was stupid, not sexy.

I trust you, Javi. I want you. Make love to me.

Too corny.

But no matter how many times she imagined it, she couldn’t bring herself to act, anxiety like heavy chains, holding her back, leaving her torn between what she desperately wanted and what she desperately feared.

Still, she couldn’t let herself remain stuck in this rut. Soon, Javier would be leaving. If she didn’t at least try to explore the desire she felt for him, she would regret it for the rest of her life.

THEY LAY TOGETHER on Laura’s bed in the dark, her head resting on Javier’s bare chest, her fingers tracing his scars, the outline of his muscles, the veins in his arms. He held her close, caressing her bare skin with his fingertips.

“Is it hard for you to be close to me like this without having sex?” she asked.

“Yeah.”

“It’s hard for me, too. I want so desperately to reclaim that part of my life, to put all the bad memories to rest, to feel like a sexual being again, like a woman and not a victim, but I don’t know how.”

“Maybe we should do something about that.”

THEY SLEPT IN the next day, taking turns in the shower, then making breakfast together. While Javier changed to go for his morning run, Laura carried a cup of coffee into her office and began putting together a list of questions to ask Ali’s parents, uncle, and friends.

Had there been any new friends or new influences in Ali’s life in the past few months? Had he attended any meetings or events where he might have been radicalized? Had he traveled, spent time away from home? Was there any sign that his views had changed? Had he seemed upset or afraid or depressed?

“You working today? It’s Saturday.”

Laura looked up to see Javier wearing a dark blue fleece jacket and a pair of black running pants. “Zach and the task force are working through the weekend. Why shouldn’t I? Besides, I can’t really work on this during the week because I’m too busy with stories for the paper.”

Javier didn’t look convinced. “Childers is sitting in the living room, reading the paper and drinking coffee. I’m headed out. I’ve got a few things to do after my run, so I’ll be gone for at least a couple of hours. Can I pick up anything for you?”

Oh, how she wished she could go with him! It was bright and sunny outside, the crystalline air giving her a perfect view of the Rockies. But she was stuck indoors, and she’d been stuck indoors for what seemed forever.

“How about an order of fresh air and sunshine with springtime on the side?”

“I’ll see what I can do.” Javier bent down, kissed her soft and slow on the mouth, then turned and disappeared down the hallway.

Laura found herself pressing her fingers against her lips where they still tingled, her gaze fixed on the doorway where he’d just stood, the words he’d spoken as they’d fallen asleep coming back to her.

Maybe we should do something about that.

It seemed to her that their relationship was on the brink of turning a sexual corner. She didn’t know whether she should feel excited—or terrified.

She sipped her coffee and willed herself to focus on writing up her list of questions. When she had her list ready, she called Ali’s parents.

They were surprised to hear from her, but gracious, asking about her safety in the wake of the shooting. Still, they were reluctant to speak with her, having been cautioned by their attorneys not to talk to reporters.

“I’m not calling you for an interview. I’m just trying to piece this together, to make sense of what happened. I want to understand why Ali did what he did, and I want to do my part to find the person who killed him. I won’t be writing an article about it.”

After twenty minutes it was clear to her that they didn’t have any information that could be helpful to her—no recollection of new friends or influences in Ali’s life, no knowledge of any meetings or activities where he might have been radicalized, no notion of what might have set him off.

“Ali was a good boy.” In tears, Karima spoke the words with a mother’s undying love. “He got up early every morning and went to school. When he was done with class, he rode his bike to his uncle’s store, where he worked hard every weekday from three in the afternoon until the store closed. He worked weekends, too. He worked at the store every day but Friday.”

Friday was reserved for prayer, Laura knew.

“His uncle, my husband’s brother, was helping him earn money to save for tuition. After work, he came home, ate a late dinner, and studied. He had no time for meetings or making trouble. He would not hurt a fly.”

“Thank you, Karima. Once again, I’m so sorry for your loss.”

Shaken by the depth of Karima’s grief and her unwavering faith in her son, Laura took a minute to compose herself, then went to the kitchen for a fresh cup of coffee. She talked with Childers, then excused herself, steeling herself for a conversation with Ali’s uncle. She wished she could interview him in person. She’d be able to get so much more from his answers if only she could see his face, his body language, his eyes.

She sat at her desk, dialed the number, and he answered. “Mr. Al Zahrani, it’s Laura Nilsson. I’d like to—”

“I am not talking with reporters! I am sorry for your troubles, but please—”

Laura switched to Arabic, speaking quickly. “I am calling on my own behalf, not as a reporter. Please, if I might, I would like to ask a few questions. I am trying to understand what has happened.”

“Why do you need to ask questions, too? The FBI—they came in, tore my store apart, took my computer, asked me questions. The reporters who stand out in the street scaring away my customers try to ask me questions. What do you want with me?”

Laura reminded herself that the man was grieving, just like his brother and sister-in-law. “I want to find the person who killed your nephew. That same person is trying to kill me. Please, if I could just have ten minutes of your time.”

“You are not writing an article?”

“Nothing you say to me will be part of a newspaper article—not one word.”

Taking his silence as consent, Laura asked him her questions one at a time. “Have any new employees come to work for you in the past three months?”

“No. Everyone who works for me has been with me for years.”

“What were his hours?”

“He worked three to nine after school every day but Friday and on the weekends during the daytime. I told the FBI this already.”

“Did anyone—new friends or someone from his college—come to visit Ali at the store and spend time talking with him privately?”

“He worked hard the entire time he was here. No, he had no visitors.”

“Did he ever leave in the middle of a shift for any reason?”

“Leave the store? No! I already told you. He worked very hard. He was my right hand. My nephew was hoping to take over the store when I got too old. Now there is no one.”

“Did he ever ask you about jihad or seem interested in extreme—”

“You are wasting my time. As I told the FBI, my nephew would have nothing to do with such things. I have customers waiting.”

With that, he hung up, leaving Laura with no more information than she’d had before.

JAVIER CUT HIS run short and got busy on his cell phone launching Operation Laura. McBride, Nate, Megan, and Sophie constituted Javier’s intelligence collection, but he had no on-call support assets, no tactical operations center. He was going in alone.

It was a high-risk op with significant potential for failure. He couldn’t mitigate the risk factors by running scenarios, training, or bringing in a combat support package. He would have to improvise.

To complicate the situation further, this operation would be carried out on what most men found to be treacherous and unfamiliar terrain—a woman’s heart. A wounded heart at that. Once he stepped off, anything could happen.