by Pamela Clare
McBride paused once more. “Does anything seem familiar to you?”
Laura watched intently, then shook her head. “No. I’m sorry.”
“Here’s where it gets interesting.” McBride pushed Play again. “If this gets too difficult for you, let me know, okay, Laura?”
McBride fast-forwarded through an hour’s worth of footage, the image getting darker as the sun set. When it slowed again, there was a split-screen image, one side showing Tower, the other showing the shooter.
Tower stepped out of his Beemer, looked around, then walked to the southern side of the garage and looked in the direction of the television station, the AR-15 in hand. He glanced at his watch, then looked down at the television station again through his night scope. Meanwhile, one floor down, the shooter got into position with an M110 sniper rifle equipped with a bipod—and a suppressor. He flipped out the bipod, rested the weapon on the concrete ledge, and began adjusting his sights.
It sickened Javier to think the shooter was about to focus on Laura.
Minutes ticked by, both men in position, Tower periodically checking his watch.
“Here’s where the shooting began,” McBride said.
A knot of dread in her stomach, Laura watched as the shooter, with his eerie ball of light for a head, held absolutely still—and pulled the trigger. That was the shot that had nearly killed her and sent concrete fragments spraying into her face. It was quickly followed by four more.
On the other side of the screen, Tower turned and ran for the stairs, while the shooter kept firing, the jerk of the rifle the only sign that he’d pulled the trigger. One of those bullets had hit Janet, Laura realized, dread turning to nausea.
Abruptly, the shooter stood and began to pack his gear. He froze and glanced toward the stairwell.
“He’s made Tower. He can see him there.” Javier pointed to a section of the stairway that was exposed. “See?”
The split-screen image became one as Tower reached the fourth floor, his weapon raised. But the shooter was ready for him, squeezing off two shots just as Tower fired. Tower fell back, arched and writhed on the concrete, then went still, a pool of blood spreading around him, while the shooter got quickly into his car and drove away, leaving Tower for dead.
“Stop, please!” Laura had seen enough, the sight of Tower’s suffering and the memories it roused too much. “I can’t.”
Zach stopped the DVD and retrieved it from Laura’s machine. “I’m sorry, Laura. I was hoping that you might recognize something about him.”
Laura wished she had, but without so much as a glimpse of his face, the man who’d tried to kill her was nothing more than a ghostly headless body.
Javier sat in silence for a moment, seeming lost in thought. “So we know Tower knew what was going to happen, and we know he wasn’t the shooter.”
Zach took a gulp of his coffee. “Like I said, the footage raised more questions than it answered.”
“Was he there to take the shooter out and clean up loose ends?”
“If he was, why did he do such a bad job of it?”
While the two men discussed the footage, Laura found herself reliving her last conversation with Tower.
I want the truth about why my men are dead. Since you’re the key to my getting that info, terminating you wouldn’t make much sense, would it?
Laura spoke, interrupting Javier and Zach. “What if he was trying to stop the shooter? What if he was trying to protect me?”
Zach seemed to consider this. “I suppose anything is possible, but the best way to protect you would’ve been for him to share what he knew with law enforcement. He’s in extremely critical condition. Apparently the wound and blood loss were so severe that he was thrown into something called adult respiratory distress syndrome and is close to pulmonary failure. But we’ve got him under guard. If he survives, we may get some answers. If not, we’ll have to find those answers ourselves.”
For a time there was silence, each of them lost in thought, the puzzle pieces shifting in Laura’s mind without coming together. Most of the time, the details of an investigation fascinated her. This time, she just felt overwhelmed.
Javier broke the silence. “Whoever the shooter is, he moves like a man with military training.”
“Interesting you should say that. I got the same impression. So did Hunter.” Zach held up the plastic bag with the spent casings once more. “Whoever our terrorist is, the rounds he used all had U.S. military headstamps.”
“Headstamps?” Laura had never heard the term before.
Zach pointed to the flat bottom of one of the casings. “Those are the markings pressed into the bottom of a casing showing when and where it was manufactured.”
Javier shrugged. “That doesn’t tell us a damned thing. He could’ve bought the ammo anywhere—online, at a gun show, on the black market. He could have stolen it. Someone could have bought or stolen it for him. But why would a skilled sniper or hired gun leave his shell casings behind? That’s just sloppy.”
“The casings were clear of prints, so perhaps he didn’t think they mattered. Or maybe the firefight with Tower made him rush. Like I said, lots of questions, not a lot of answers.” Zach pulled out a notepad and glanced through it. “As for the bombing investigation, the FBI has confirmed that all of the bomb components were purchased in the Denver metro area, so our guess is we’re talking someone local, perhaps Al Zahrani.”
Laura had a hard time believing it could be Ali, but she didn’t say that. She knew Zach and all the members of the task force had been working tirelessly to solve this case. “Thank you, Zach. I appreciate everything you’ve done.”
Zach stood, concern in his gray eyes. “I can’t imagine how hard this has been for you, Laura, but we are doing our best to catch the guys responsible for this and put them behind bars. We’re all working through the weekend, and we won’t stop until you’re safe again.”
Javier held out his hand, and the two men shook. “Thanks.”
“Thank you. Call if anything comes up.”
Laura watched as Javier locked the door behind Zach, then stood and, without saying a word, walked into his embrace.
* * *
JAVIER HELPED LAURA finish making supper, keeping the conversation light. She was quiet, almost withdrawn, understandably upset by what she had seen. But she didn’t want to be alone. She came easily into his arms when he reached for her, holding his hand while they ate, as if his touch alone made her feel safer.
The surveillance footage had upset him, too. But he wasn’t afraid—he was pissed off. Whoever that son of a bitch was, Javier wanted him dead. If he was the one to put a bullet through the bastard’s skull, so much the better.
After supper, they did the dishes, then stretched out together on the sofa to watch another episode from season one of Downton Abbey, one of Laura’s favorite shows. He stroked Laura’s hair, her head pillowed on his chest, the fingers of his other hand twined with hers. Being close to her like this was the most natural thing in the world, and yet it wasn’t easy. The silky feel of her hair, the scent of her skin, the soft press of her body against his, triggered memories of this afternoon’s kiss, made him burn for her.
What a strange kind of intimacy they shared. It was like nothing he’d had with a woman before. They were closer than they’d been in Dubai, and yet they hadn’t done more than hold each other at night and kiss a couple of times. Granted, that last kiss had blown his mind, but the longing for more was there.
Oh, hell, yes, it was.
She’d taken a big step today, but he didn’t want to push things and make her uncomfortable. Of course, she had nothing to worry about. Javier had been a special operator for most of his adult life. He’d gone long stretches without a woman, making do with the occasional combat jack to take the edge off. He could handle this.
It was enough to hold her, to sl
eep 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.”
CHAPTER
19
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.
Unfortunately, the one who was most likely to get hurt should the whole thing go sideways was the woman he was hoping to help. Still, he had to try.
He knew his dick wasn’t a magic wand, and he realized there was a selfish element to this—if it went the way he hoped it would. But he and Laura had a connection. He knew she felt it every bit as much as he did.