Pamela Clare - Striking Distance

She glared at him. “That’s impossible.”

“Is it? How many nights did you hang out with all the other reporters at that ex-pat bar in the hotel? Maybe you got a little tipsy and said more than you should have. Maybe you picked some guy up and let him fuck the intel out of you. Either way, my men paid with their lives. My company probably won’t recover from the loss of reputation caused by your disappearance—”

“Loss of reputation? Your company?” Her voice quavered. “I spent eighteen months of my life trapped in a living hell!”

“You don’t look any worse for wear.” He knew what had happened to her, but she had survived, hadn’t she? “My men are dead. I want answers from you, and I’m going to get them. Now, put the pistol away.”

She tightened her grip, fear and rage in her eyes. “You’re insane! Get out, and stay away from me, or I’ll get a restraining order!”

As if that would stop him.

Tired of the bullshit, he grabbed her wrist, angled the barrel away from his body, and wrenched the weapon from her grasp. He held the little pistol for a moment, let her sweat it out. “Nice bit a steel. SIG makes a good pistol, but it won’t do you a damned bit of good if you’re not willing to fire. Don’t draw if you don’t plan to kill.”

She rubbed her wrist, defiance on her face, only her rapid breathing betraying her fear. “That was assault.”

He removed the magazine and racked the slide to expel the round from the chamber, then tossed the firearm in her lap. “You told someone, Laura. Who was it?”

She stared warily at him, still rubbing her wrist. “You really are crazy. I never disclosed my travel plans, not even to my own mother. I certainly never talked about them in the bar. As for guys, I wasn’t seeing anyone.”

Derek was an expert at reading people. It had been part of his training, part of what had kept him alive behind enemy lines for so long. Her shock seemed genuine, nothing on her face to suggest she was lying. Then again, she might not remember.

He deliberately softened the tone of his voice. “I know some of your memories are vague, but you need—”

The shrieking of a car alarm interrupted him.

Her car alarm.

She watched him, a look of dark triumph on her face, the panic button on her keychain gripped in bloodless fingers. “Get out!”

He should have taken the damn keys from her. “You’re a journalist, Ms. Nilsson. Don’t you care about the truth?”

Out of time, he unlocked the door and opened it. “And, hey, not such a great idea to unlock your car till you’re near the door. Those flashing hazard lights give you away, tell an assailant right where you’re headed. If I’d been one of Al-Nassar’s followers come to kill you, I’d have slit your throat before you even knew I was here.”

Ignoring the horror on her face, he climbed out of the car, shut the door behind him, and did his best to disappear.

JAVIER SHOOK ZACH McBride’s hand. “It’s an honor to meet you. It’s not every day a man gets to drink beer with a Medal of Honor recipient.”

Javier had read about McBride’s heroism and the catastrophic mission that had claimed the lives of McBride’s men and had left him gravely wounded. Every SEAL had.

Tall with short, dark hair and a strong handshake, McBride met Javier’s gaze through sharp gray eyes. “The honor is mutual. West told me how you were there for him, how you pulled him out of the burning debris, stayed with him.”

And Javier knew that McBride and Nate were close. That wasn’t a story Nate shared with everyone.

Javier grinned. “He talks too damned much.”

McBride chuckled. “How long have you been with the Teams?”

“Fourteen years.”

“Going for twenty?”

“That’s the plan.”

For a while the two of them traded stories—instructors they’d both had in BUD/S, the joys of eating sand with their MREs in Iraq, the scorching heat and freezing cold of Afghanistan. It was always like this when Javier met another SEAL. Each and every one of them was like a brother, the bond between them forged from the unique challenges, risks, and deprivations that came with wearing the Trident.

And for a moment Javier forgot about Laura.

Women’s laughter drew McBride’s gaze. He gestured with a nod of his head toward a pretty dark-haired woman who was sitting next to Megan, the two of them reading something. “That’s my wife, Natalie. She’s decided she wants to write fiction—romance novels. I hope that means I get to help with the research.”

Two heads came up, and Natalie glared at McBride. “The books are not just about sex.”

Javier lowered his voice. “I guess you said the wrong thing, man.”

The doorbell rang again, and Megan rose to answer it.

Javier’s pulse skipped.

You’re excited to see her, chacho. Admit it.

Sure, he was. Not a day had gone by since Dubai when he hadn’t thought of her. Yeah, he was excited to see her again. And more than a little tense.

When Megan returned, it wasn’t Laura walking beside her. Instead, Javier was introduced to Julian Darcangelo, a tall son of a gun with a dark ponytail who’d once worked with the FBI but was now head of Denver’s vice unit. He’d brought his family—his wife, Tessa, a sweet thing with long, curly blond hair and a mother’s soft curves, and a little girl and a baby boy.

The doorbell rang again.

This time it was Reece Sheridan, the state’s newly sworn-in lieutenant governor, his wife Kara McMillan, and their three school-aged kids. They were followed not two minutes later by Kat James, a pretty Navajo woman, her husband Gabe Rossiter, and two little ones under the age of two. Then Nate’s brother-in-law, Marc Hunter, Denver’s SWAT captain, and his wife, Sophie, arrived with their two kids.

Between the adults talking and children running and squealing, it was chaos. It might have bothered some guys, but Javier felt right at home. He came from a big family with two brothers, three sisters, six nephews, and nine nieces, not to mention aunts, uncles, and a few dozen cousins, most of whom had kids. When they got the whole family together—which they did whenever Javier was on leave—the laughter, music, and conversation were loud and lasted late into the night.

He found himself outside on the deck shooting the shit with Hunter and Rossiter, while everyone got ready for an afternoon of skiing, snowshoeing, and sleigh rides.

Rossiter, who was a climber and former park ranger, was talking about his grand plan for the afternoon. “You can ski some incredible places with a paragliding sail strapped to your back. It’s like flying, BASE jumping, and skiing combined.”

Ski paragliding wasn’t a sport that interested Javier, in part because he couldn’t see the point. He shook his head. “I don’t know—strapping some kind of ’chute to your back and letting the wind pull you down the mountain? Either ski or jump.”

Hunter chuckled, pointing to Rossiter. “You wouldn’t believe the sick shit I’ve seen this guy do. If a sport involves gravity, snow in any form, and a high likelihood of death, he’s in.”

A flash of short platinum-blond hair—and a body that could kill.

It wasn’t Laura Nilsson, but . . .

Javier gave a low whistle.

Hunter and Rossiter looked over their shoulders, then back at Javier.

Hunter shook his head. “Oh, no. No, no. Don’t even think about it.”

“He’s human. He’s male. He’s going to think about it.” Rossiter grinned. “That’s Holly Bradshaw. She’s one of the paper’s entertainment writers. She’ll chew you up and spit you out.”

That didn’t sound so bad.

Hunter looked over at her. “What she needs is to fall for a man who refuses to sleep with her.”

Javier was about to say a guy would have to be gay as a daisy to turn down a woman like Holly, when suddenly she was there.

His heart skipped again—and gave a thud.

Wearing jeans and a white blouse beneath a blue angora cardigan, Laura shook hands with Nate and McBride, then Natalie, her pale blond hair catching the light, the smile on her face hitting Javier in the gut. She shook Megan’s hand, then knelt down to talk to Emily, giving the little girl her full attention.

¡Ea Diablo! She was beautiful!

Hunter and Rossiter saw her, too.

“Oh, hey, she came.” Hunter sounded surprised to see her. He lowered his voice. “Sophie said she didn’t think Laura was going to make it. Derek Tower—the asshole who owns the security company that was supposed to have kept her safe in Pakistan—accosted her in the parking lot outside the paper last night. He forced his way into her car. She drew on him—a double deuce—but he tore the weapon out of her hands, even left bruises. She filed a report with DPD last night. Uniforms went looking for him but haven’t found him.”

Javier had heard of Derek Tower, hadn’t known what to think of him. Now he hated the bastard. His gaze snapped back to Hunter. “Doesn’t she have protection—a bodyguard?”

Hunter shook his head. “Sophie says the FBI doesn’t believe she’s in any real danger, and she can’t afford to pay for protection herself. Sophie wants me to talk to Old Man Irving—Denver’s chief of police—and have our local boys fill in.”

“Not a bad idea.” Javier had never understood how the federal agencies worked. It all seemed like red tape and bullshit to him.

“Let’s go say hello.” Hunter opened the sliding patio door and walked inside, Rossiter behind him.

Javier followed the two men indoors but hung back, watching while the others introduced themselves.