Pamela Clare - Striking Distance

“When I recognized that the language they were speaking was American English, I felt terrified. I didn’t know why I was afraid. But I think now that hearing their words made me aware again that I was a captive. It was like waking up to discover that what you thought was only a bad dream was actually real. It took time for me to understand what was happening and find the words to speak out.”

“So after months of wanting desperately to escape, you waited till the last possible second to reveal yourself?”

Marie had warned her the defense might take the position that Laura had actually wanted to stay in the compound and had told Laura not to let it rattle her. It was nothing more than a bid to undermine the jury’s sympathy for her.

“I didn’t wait. It just took time for me to comprehend what was happening.”

“I see.” The defense attorney shrugged. “Is it possible that you delayed revealing yourself for so long because you took your marriage to the defendant seriously and wanted to remain with—what did you call his other wives?—your ‘sisters’?”

U.S. Attorney Robert Black stood as if to object, but Laura cut him off.

“No! Absolutely not. I was never that man’s wife! He kidnapped me, raped me, brutalized me. You want to know why I didn’t run straight to the SEALs and beg them to rescue me? I’d been living in terror for so long that I barely knew my own name!”

The courtroom was silent.

Throat tight, tears pricking her eyes, Laura fought to rein in her emotion.

The defense attorney seemed to study her for a moment, what might have been regret in his eyes, then turned to the magistrate. “No further questions, Your Honor.”

“You may step down, Ms. Nilsson.”

It was over. Finally, it was over.

Thank God!

Laura had just gotten to her feet when Al-Nassar began to shout at her in English.

“I am in chains, but I shall be free in Paradise, while you will always live in fear. You will never be safe, nor will anyone you love. I curse you and call upon the Faithful, all who walk the righteous path, to seek to kill you and all—”

The magistrate cut him off. “Counsel, silence your client before I hold him in contempt! Bailiff, remove this man from the courtroom!”

Bailiffs rushed forward, took Al-Nassar, and began to drag him from the room.

But something inside Laura snapped.

She shouted Al-Nassar down, her fury incandescent. “You are evil, nothing but a murderer, an animal who abused me and tried to steal my life! The moment I walk from this room, I’ll be free. Before the door to your prison cell has closed behind you, I’ll have forgotten your name.”

It was only later, after she’d spent ten minutes throwing up in the bathroom, that it struck her.

Al-Nassar had commanded his followers to hunt her down—and kill her.

JAVIER SAT ON the back deck with a bottle of stout, washing down a lunch of Jack West’s three-alarm chili with good, cold beer. The mountains rose all around him, stretching their jagged white-capped peaks toward an endless blue sky. Nearby, a herd of elk foraged in the snow, a hawk wheeling overhead.

Everything was so beautiful, so peaceful, so quiet.

He and Nate had spent the day driving hay out to snowbound cattle and seeing to the horses. Despite the near-constant ache in his thigh, it had felt good to get physical. Lifting hay bales and trudging through deep snow had gotten his heart pumping and filled his lungs with fresh mountain air. He’d felt alive again, strong. But the best part about it had been working side by side with Nate.

And still something felt . . . wrong.

Javier thrust the feeling aside, refused to let himself go there. If it hadn’t been so cold out, he’d have gone back inside to grab his guitar. He’d been playing a lot since getting wounded. Something about it cleared his mind, helped him focus, gave him an outlet for whatever was gnawing at him.

Behind him, the sliding glass door opened and closed, Nate’s boots crunching in a foot of new snowfall. He shook off a chair and sat beside Javier.

Javier looked over at him. “Nice view.”

“Thanks.” Nate grinned from behind his sunglasses, bundled in a fleece and leather barn jacket, cowboy hat still on his head. “It’s home.”

Javier could see that. Nate belonged here.

Where do you belong?

Why the hell was he asking himself that question? He already knew where he belonged. He belonged downrange with his men.

He took another swig, savoring the bitterness. “Is the fishing good around here?”

“Yeah. Cutthroat trout. Brook trout. Bass.”

“Might have to come back.”

Nate leaned his head back and tilted his hat over his eyes, a grin lurking on his face. “Door’s always open.”

Nate smiled a lot these days. It did Javier good to see him so happy.

Most of the reason for that happiness glanced at them through the sliding glass door, then opened the door a crack, a smile on her pretty face. “I thought I might find the two of you chilling somewhere together. Comfortable?”

Nate raised his head, eyeing his wife from beneath the brim of his hat. “Why don’t you come on over here, sit on my lap, and warm me up, honey?”

“Thanks, but I think I’ll stay inside where it’s warmer. Brrr!” Megan pretended to shiver. “Sophie e-mailed to ask whether she and Marc should bring some elk steaks to share tomorrow.”

“If they want to do that, it’s fine by me, but he’s still not touching the grill.”

Megan ducked back inside, laughing to herself.

Nate looked over at Javier. “Ever tried elk?”

Javier shook his head.

“My brother-in-law goes elk hunting with a crossbow every fall. It’s good eatin’—nice and lean.” Nate took a swallow of his beer. “He and McBride brought down a five-hundred-pound cow this year. That’s what we call female elk, by the way—cows.”

“You’re not letting that go, are you?”

“Nope.”

But Javier was only half-listening, talk of the barbecue putting his mind back on Laura Nilsson. Would she come? Would she recognize him? If she did, would she be glad to see him—or would she feel blindsided?

And what will you say to her?

What could he say to the woman who’d been in his thoughts for so long?

He had no idea.

Emily, Megan’s five-year-old daughter whom Nate had adopted, stuck her blond head out the door, then disappeared inside, her high little voice drifting back to them. “Grandpa Jack, they’re not shoveling. They’re just sitting on their asses like you said.”

“Hey, old man, quit nagging!” Nate shouted toward the door, a grin on his face.

From inside, Javier could just make out Jack’s voice. “Now, Miss Emily, you know there are words that only grown-ups can say, and ass is one of them.”

Javier chuckled. “Your dad is something else.”

“Yeah, he is, and he’s teaching Emily to talk like a soldier.” Nate took another drink. “Truth is, she’s been good for him. He loves that little girl. You should have seen the pride on his face when the adoption was final and her name became Emily West. She and Megan—they’ve helped fill the emptiness my mother’s death left inside him.”

Javier could remember the day Nate’s mother had died. They’d been in Afghanistan, and Nate had gotten a call from his father. She’d passed suddenly and unexpectedly of an aneurysm. Nate never had a chance to say good-bye.

“You thinking of giving Emily a little brother or sister?”

Nate nodded. “Megan applied to law school. If she gets accepted, we might decide to wait till she graduates. If she doesn’t . . . Well, she’ll be pretty disappointed. She wants to help young women who get into trouble. She had a rough life and wants to make sure other girls have a better chance.”

“That’s a worthy goal.” Javier knew next to nothing about Megan, but he didn’t like the idea that she’d had a hard time of it growing up. Whatever her past was, she certainly seemed to have moved beyond it.

“How about you? You ever going to get married again, raise a few kids?”

Javier glared at Nate. “Are you my mother? She asked me the same thing when I was home.”

She wanted him to buy a house somewhere nearby, marry a sweet Puerto Rican wife, and give her more grandkids while she was still alive to enjoy them. But he’d had a wife, and she’d run off with some cabrón from Silicon Valley midway through their first married deployment—less than a year after they’d tied the knot. Why would he want to go through that again?

Nate studied him for a moment, then took one last swill. “Well, I guess we’d best get to work if we want to get the patio shoveled in time to get back to the horses.”

It was a big patio with a built-in gas grill, a fire pit, stone benches, a few outdoor propane heaters, and a couple of picnic tables.

Javier got to his feet, pain shooting through his left thigh. “Tell me again why you have barbecues in the middle of the winter, bro?”

Nate looked at him like he was an idiot. “We like steak.”

* * *

LAURA MET SOPHIE in the cafeteria for a late lunch, both of them opting for the salad bar over the burgers. They made their way to a table in the back of the nearly empty room, Laura grabbing a bottle of mineral water on the way.

“I can’t believe the FBI isn’t going to do anything to help you.” Sophie stirred sugar into her iced tea.

“That’s not exactly what they said.” It was close enough from Laura’s point of view, but she was a journalist and had to be fair—even if she was furious. “The special agent in charge—Agent Petras—said they had no evidence that Al-Nassar’s threats were credible or that I was in any danger. He said they were monitoring the situation and that they would act if they found evidence that a threat existed.”

“Having a terrorist leader put a fatwa on your head doesn’t count as credible?” Sophie jabbed her fork into her salad. “Good grief! What does?”

What Al-Nassar had done didn’t constitute a fatwa, but Laura didn’t feel like explaining. Besides, it wasn’t what the FBI agent had said, but how he’d said it.

“Petras was smug, so condescending. He talked down to me as if I were a nuisance, as if I’d cried wolf or something—when he wasn’t staring at my boobs.”

Sophie rolled her eyes. “Why do men do that? Do they think we don’t notice?”

Laura had no idea. “What’s so infuriating is that I didn’t contact the FBI. I wasn’t the one who asked them to come.”

Sophie frowned. “Who did?”

“The U.S. Marshal Service.” Laura wished they hadn’t.

Sophie got a knowing look on her face. “I bet that’s the problem. There’s no love lost between the FBI and the Marshal Service.”

Then Sophie told her how her husband, Marc, the SWAT captain, had been deputized by the U.S. Marshal for Colorado a couple years back when Natalie Benoit, a friend and former I-Team member, was in danger from a Mexican drug cartel. She’d just started telling Laura how the cartel had abducted Natalie off a bus, when she caught herself. “Oh, God! Sorry! I’m sure you didn’t need to hear that.”

“Don’t apologize.” For a moment, Laura had forgotten about her own situation. “I’m not the only journalist who—”

Her cell phone rang. She glanced down at the display.

Him again.

Something of her feelings must have shown on her face, because when Sophie spoke again, she sounded worried. “Who is it?”

“Derek Tower, the man who owns the company that handled my security detail.” Laura told Sophie about him—his phone calls, the accusations he’d fed to the press, his demand that she meet with him. “When I got out of the meeting with the FBI, I had another message from him. That makes three today.”

“Have you considered getting a restraining order against him?”

Laura had thought about that. “I’m not sure he’s done anything that could be considered threatening. If pestering people with phone calls and e-mails were an actionable offense, you and I and everyone else in the newsroom would be in jail.”

“You’ve got a point there.”

For a while they ate in silence.

Sophie set her fork aside. “Can I ask you a personal question?”

“Yes.” Laura could always refuse to answer.

“How do you stay so calm? If I were in your shoes, I’d be scared to death.”