Текст книги "Striking Distance"
Автор книги: Pamela Clare
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Текущая страница: 9 (всего у книги 23 страниц)
“When does terrorism ever make sense?” Javier watched Laura battle with her emotions while she attempted to make coffee, her mind distracted, her movements wooden. Truth be told, he felt more than a little shaken up, too.
First, whatever had happened when he’d seen that helo, and then . . .
He’d been to more funerals than he cared to count, lost men who were like brothers to him, and yet something about today had hit him hard. The kid had died for nothing, the life he’d been given wasted, his parents’ lives destroyed by his actions.
Now Javier understood why this had been so important to Laura. Somehow she’d realized how terrible his parents must feel about what their son had tried to do. She’d let them see that she held no grudge against them or their religion or culture, bringing them a sense of redemption. She’d enabled them to grieve without guilt.
“You did a good thing tonight. You were right. It
was
important.”
“I didn’t do anything. Their son is gone. They’ll never see him again, hug him again, hear his voice again. It’s not even their fault.” She pushed the brew button on her coffeemaker and turned to face him, fingers pressed to one temple. “They have to live with what he did and what was done to him, but they didn’t teach him to hate.”
“What about the kid’s uncle? I didn’t like the way he looked at you. What did he say to you? He seemed so angry.”
“He was upset because Ali’s body hadn’t yet been returned. He—”
It was then Javier noticed her mistake. He pointed, but it was too late.
“You forgot . . .”
The coffeepot.
Coffee hissed as it poured straight onto the burner, steaming liquid spilling onto the granite countertop and the floor.
“Helvete!”
Laura seemed to freeze for a moment before flying in all directions at once, unplugging the machine and grabbing an entire roll of paper towels.
Javier rounded the counter, picked up the glass coffeepot, and slid it into place on the burner, where it could catch the rest of the coffee.
Laura stared at the mess on the counter and the floor, then dropped to her knees and began to wipe it up. “God, what’s wrong with me?”
He knelt down in front of her, caught her wrists. “You’re upset. Why don’t you go sit by the fire for a minute while I clean this up?”
Her gaze slid to his, her eyes filled with despair that had nothing to do with spilled coffee. “It’s my mess. I made it. I should clean it up.”
“I came here to help you,
bella
. Now let me help. That’s an order.”
She stood and backtracked out of the kitchen, careful not to step in the puddle.
Javier made quick work of it, then washed his hands and started heating milk. If he was going to make the coffee, he’d make it the
Boricua
way.
He carried the steaming mugs to the living room, where he found Laura curled up on the sofa and clutching a small pillow to her chest. He set her mug down on the coffee table and sat near her feet.
“Thank you.” She sat up, picked up the mug, and sipped, closing her eyes and making an “mmm” noise that sent Javier’s thoughts running in the wrong direction.
Get your mind out of your pants, Corbray.
When she opened her eyes again, her gaze was fixed on the fire. “They have to find him. They have to find the person behind this. Not just to keep me safe, but for Karima and Yusif’s sake—and Ali’s.”
“They will.” And when they
did
get him, Javier hoped it was with a high-caliber weapon. “Tearing yourself apart over this isn’t going to help anyone.”
He got to his feet, moved to stand behind her. “Lean back.”
She looked over her shoulder at him but did as he asked.
“You’ve got a headache again, don’t you?” He moved the silk of her hair aside, baring the graceful length of her neck. He couldn’t touch her in a sexual way, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t touch her.
“What are you—the Headache Whisperer?”
“Just relax.”
Laura closed her eyes as Javier began to knead the muscles of her shoulders. “Mmm. Don’t tell me this is something they teach you in BUD/S.”
“Nah.” He chuckled, the sound deep and warm. “It’s something I learned as a personal trainer. Your upper trapezius and scalene muscles are tight. It makes your headache worse.”
She sank into his touch as he searched out knots and sore spots she didn’t know she had, his fingers working their way along her nape, raising tingles on her skin. And the pain inside her skull began to lessen.
She decided to ask him. “What happened in the backyard tonight?”
His fingers stilled for a moment. “What do you mean?”
“I heard you gasp like you’d been hurt, and when I turned to look, you were staring up at that helicopter as if it were about to crash or something.” She’d never seen fear on his face before.
No, not just fear. Terror.
His fingers began to move again. “The sound of it . . . For a second, it reminded me of the day I was wounded.”
A flashback?
She turned her head to look back at him. “You told me you’d been ambushed. Did they attack by helicopter?”
“No.” He withdrew his hands.
“I’m sorry. I don’t mean to pry. If it’s too hard for you to talk about—”
“It’s not a problem.” He rounded the sofa and sat in a chair across from her, elbows resting on his knees, his hands folded together. “We ran across a shepherd and his sons on our way to infiltrate a village outside Ghazni. I had to decide whether to let them live or to kill them to prevent them from warning anyone. We gave them food, water, a little medical help. We tried to show them we weren’t the enemy. They promised not to give us away. I let them live. They warned the Taliban anyway. Taliban fighters ambushed us. We called for exfil. The medevac helo sent to retrieve the wounded was hit by an RPG and blew up before it could land.”
“Oh, God.” Laura stood and took a few steps toward the fire, the memory of the narrow escape from Al-Nassar’s compound coming back to her. She turned to Javier and asked the question, pretty sure she knew the answer. “What happened to the medics?”
A muscle clenched in his jaw. “Everyone on board was killed.”
“That’s terrible.” She found it appalling that anyone would attack medical personnel.
Then the truth of what Javier must be dealing with dawned on her. A decision he’d made had resulted in an ambush that had ended in the deaths of some of his men—and the crew of the medevac chopper, too. Did he blame himself?
“It wasn’t your fault—those men’s deaths, the medevac chopper.”
“I know that. I don’t sit around lamenting my choice.” His denial came too quickly, and Laura wasn’t sure she believed him.
She sank into a chair, an image of his scars in her mind. “All of you who were wounded—you had to wait for another chopper, didn’t you?”
He gave a single wooden nod. “Not everyone made it.”
“I’m so sorry.” Her words seemed empty, inadequate. “It must have been horrible to lie there in so much pain and to watch those men get shot out of the sky, knowing it meant some of you would probably die, too.”
He stood, walked over to the window. “We all knew the risks when we signed on, even the medics. Besides, it’s over.”
She rose, followed him, slid her arms around him, rested her cheek against his back, his body tense, rigid. “It’s not over, not if it still affects you like it did today. Are you getting therapy?”
“I passed the post-combat psych screening. I don’t need therapy.” He drew her hands away and stepped out of her embrace. “I’m not some weakling who can’t get his shit together.”
“I saw a therapist every day for almost a year, and I still can’t say I’m over what happened to me. Am I a weakling?”
“You’re a civilian.”
“Oh. Thanks for clarifying.”
He turned, faced her. “You were abducted, held prisoner for a year and a half, beaten, raped. You weren’t trained to endure that. Getting shot, killing, watching other men die—that’s part of my job description. It’s the downside of what I do for a living.”
“So that was just another bad day at the office?”
He shook his head, muttered something in Spanish, his eyes gone cold. “Just drop it, okay? What happened today wasn’t a big deal. I just . . . got confused.”
But it hadn’t been confusion Laura had seen on his face.
“You’re entitled to be human.”
Without another word, he turned and walked down the hallway toward the guest room. She sipped her coffee and paced the length of the room, debating whether to go after him, to apologize. She’d pushed him, striking some kind of nerve.
But then she heard the sound of guitar music, first just tuning chords, then music so melancholy it made her heart ache.
So this was how he dealt with it—what had happened, his emotions.
And she knew he wanted to be alone.
* * *
THEY HAD A late supper of carryout Thai delivered by the U.S. Marshal Service, neither of them bringing up what had happened earlier. Javier seemed distant, closed off, and Laura knew he was still angry. They watched the news together. Then, pleading a headache, she went to bed and lay awake in the dark, the events of the day running through her mind.
Her interview this morning with the VA flack. Karima and Yusif’s tears. Javier’s reaction to the helicopter and his anger with her.
I’m not some weakling who can’t get his shit together.
Oh, Javi!
She hadn’t realized she’d fallen asleep until the nightmare woke her. Shaking and drenched in cold sweat, she crawled out of bed, slipped into her robe, and walked to the kitchen for a glass of warm milk, only to find Javier still awake, the television on, the volume down low.
He took one look at her face, turned off the TV, and stood. “Bad dream?”
She nodded, the sound of her own screams still echoing in her mind.
He left her then, walked back to the guest room without so much as saying good night, the distance between them leaving an ache behind Laura’s breastbone.
But by the time she put her empty mug in the sink, he was back, wearing only his jeans, gun in one hand. “Come.”
She met his gaze and felt a rush of relief to see warmth in his eyes again.
They walked to her bedroom together. Laura crawled into bed, making room for Javier, who shucked his jeans on her floor before stretching out beside her.
Strong arms closed around her, drawing her close. “I’m sorry,
bella
. I shouldn’t have gotten angry with you.”
“It was my fault. I pushed you. I’m sorry.”
He kissed her hair. “Sleep.”
She curled up against his bare chest and within minutes fell fast asleep.
* * *
JAVIER WOKE WITH a start the next morning, the whir of helo rotors and reek of burning oil and smoke fading as he came fully awake. Laura lay beside him, still sound asleep, her hair spilling over both of them, her sweet scent surrounding him. He brushed a strand from her cheek, his gaze traveling over her sweet face with its dark lashes and high cheekbones, the satiny curve of her bare shoulder, the soft curves of her breasts, their tips like little pebbles beneath the silky cloth.
Every instinct in him wanted to kiss her awake and pick up where they’d left off in the sauna. But he couldn’t go there.
Instead, he slid out of the bed, drew the covers up to her chin, and left her to sleep. He took a leak, brushed his teeth, and put on his workout clothes and a jacket. He left Laura a quick note to tell her where he was going, checked in with her security detail, then slipped out of the loft, her key in his pocket. With a quick search on his smartphone, he headed up 20th Avenue toward City of Cuernavaca Park and the South Platte River Trail. And then he ran.
He barely noticed the half-frozen river, the early morning cyclists who sped by him, or the sun, which hovered above the eastern horizon, spilling its rays over the drowsy city. He ignored the pain in his thigh, the ache in his ribs, his mind focused on respiration, the beating of his heart, the rhythm of his feet on the concrete.
What do you want to do with them, senior chief? If we let them live, they might warn someone and bring the whole op down around our ears.
No, he wouldn’t go there.
He ran faster, pushed himself harder.
There are more than a hundred fighters up there, senior chief. Somehow they knew we were coming. We need to start our exfil now!
His lungs burned. The muscles in his thigh screamed in protest. He ignored the pain, drove himself harder.
Hear that? Medevac is almost here, buddy. We’re going to be pumped full of morphine and flirting with nurses before you know it.
And still Javier ran.
* * *
LAURA HAD JUST finished with the I-Team meeting when Janet arrived. One of the advantages to working from home was that she could take a break whenever she wanted. She made Janet a cup of coffee, then sat across from her in the living room and told her what she needed her to do—and why.
“I know it’s a lot to ask of you, but I have to do all I can. It makes even less sense today than it did yesterday.”
Janet met Laura’s gaze. “I don’t know what you think you’re going to discover that FBI investigators won’t.”
“I’m a trained investigator, and a good one. Maybe I won’t find anything. But maybe I will.”
“You give me your word you won’t leak the contents of the file in a news story or reveal where you got the documents?”
“I promise—and I’ve never broken a promise to a source.”
Janet drew a deep breath, clearly considering it. “All right. I can probably get the file to you by this afternoon before we head to the television station. I’m trusting you with my career.”
Laura felt a rush of relief. “Thank you. I won’t let you down.”
“I know you won’t. I know where you live.” Janet smiled, then looked toward the door. “Corbray is on his way up. I didn’t know they made men like him. He is . . .”
Janet didn’t finish the sentence, so Laura finished it for her. “He is strong, thoughtful—and incredibly hot.”
Janet smiled. “Yes. That’s the word I was looking for. Hot.”
Didn’t Laura know it?
Sleeping beside Javier again had left her painfully aware of her own sexual attraction to him, filling her head with fantasies that were going to make it very hard to get any work done today.
“Where did you two meet?” Janet asked.
“In a restaurant in Dubai. He saw a couple of Russian guys bothering me and—”
A key slipped into the lock and Javier entered.
His face was wet with sweat, his expression guarded. He gave them both a nod, his gaze lingering for a moment on Laura before he disappeared down the hallway, probably to take a shower.
Janet stood, her gaze following him. “We’ve got a security briefing in about an hour to prepare for your trip to the news studio tonight. I’ll see you then.”
* * *
JAVIER SAT IN the backseat of a bulletproof Chevy Tahoe beside Laura, who pored over her notes in preparation for her interview, pencil and highlighter in hand. She wore a sweater and jeans, Kevlar beneath her coat. Her face was still free of makeup, a makeup bag the size of a tool chest and a sleek little blue dress in the cargo space behind them. She’d styled her hair the way she’d always done before her abduction—loose and long with lush waves that were drawn away from her face and pinned back with a barrette. One way or another, he was going to find a way to get his fingers into that hair when they got home from this little adventure.
He leaned closer to her and spoke quietly, catching the soft, sweet scent of her skin. “After this is over, you’re going to spend tomorrow and the weekend resting. That’s what you’re supposed to be doing, remember?”
“You can’t give me orders. I may look like one of your men with this on,” she said, glancing up at him and tapping the Kevlar with her knuckles, a slight smile playing on her lips, “but I’m not.”
He leaned closer still and nuzzled her hair, lowering his voice to a near whisper. “Oh, believe me,
bella
, there’s no way I could mistake you for one of my men, not even in pitch dark.”
She canted her head, looking up at him from beneath her lashes. “Don’t distract me. I’m going on live TV for the first time since . . . I need to be prepared.”
He could tell she was genuinely nervous about this interview—and he knew why. Still, he was doing his best to keep the mood light, hoping to take the edge off her stress. “Were you this grumpy when you reported from Baghdad?”
“Oh, much worse.”
Javier chuckled, turning his gaze back to the street. Ahead of them, an unmarked vehicle carrying two DUSMs turned the corner, another vehicle following behind them, its headlights illuminating the backseat. The Marshal Service had jocked up for a fight. It was the first time since the car bombing that the killer stood a chance of knowing
exactly
where Laura was going. The idiots at Channel 12 had been plugging the interview all day, clearly trying to drive up ratings, but also giving the killer exactly what he needed—an opportunity to strike and time to plan.
Tonight, Laura Nilsson joins Gary Chapin for an exclusive interview about her new life and the recent car bombing that could have killed her.
There was a chance that someone stupid enough to fuck up would be stupid enough to think that Laura had flown to D.C. to do the interview in person, but there was also a chance the bastard had been watching the Channel 12 studio all day, waiting.
Javier wasn’t officially part of Laura’s security detail. He didn’t get to wear a lip mic and earpiece to keep up with the action, and they hadn’t armed him. But he’d come ready to play rough. He wore his SIG in a shoulder harness beneath his jacket, five spare fifteen-round magazines loaded and ready, the Walther in an ankle holster.
He rubbed his thigh, the muscle still aching from his run. He must have gone six miles before he’d found himself kneeling on the riverbank, breathing hard, his mind filled with images he couldn’t escape, echoes he couldn’t silence—the rattle of AK fire, the cries of wounded men, the blazing orange of the exploding helo.
They had died—Krasinski, Johnson, Grimshaw, the men in the helo—because of a decision he’d made.
He hadn’t been able to outrun his memories, but kneeling there on the riverbank, he’d locked them down once more, shutting them in a part of himself he vowed not to open. He couldn’t change the past, and Laura needed him in the present.
“We’re almost there.” Agent Killeen looked back at Laura, who slipped her notes, pen, and highlighter inside her handbag. “You head straight inside as we discussed. Don’t stop to talk in the doorway. One of us will bring your belongings shortly. There’s already a team at the studio. They’ve been checking IDs, making sure the parking lot is secured. They’ll man the doors while you’re there. We’ll have a team out here watching the vehicles and the building perimeter. I’ll accompany you inside the building and onto the news set. Corbray, I understand you plan to remain close to Ms. Nilsson, also.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
He sure as hell did.
* * *
DEREK TURNED INTO the parking garage north of the Channel 12 studio, pushed a button for his ticket, then drove slowly up to the top level.
Tipped off by the station’s constant ads about the interview, he’d spent yesterday doing recon around the building and knew that the uppermost level offered an unobstructed view of the station’s rear entrance—perfect for getting within striking distance and squeezing off a couple of fatal shots from a high-powered rifle.
He pulled into a parking space, angling his rearview mirror to give himself a view of the entry ramp, his loaded AR-15 beneath his parka on the passenger seat beside him, an HK Mark 23 in his hip holster.
Now there was nothing to do but wait.
CHAPTER
14
BELLY FULL OF butterflies, Laura hurried from the vehicle through the station’s rear entrance, Javier on her right, Agent Killeen on her left, and found herself in a long, brightly lit and crowded hallway, where two deputy marshals motioned her forward, their gazes focused on the entryway behind her.
A man with thick brown hair, a boyish face, and wire-rimmed glasses stepped into her path and shook her hand. “Welcome to Channel Twelve, Ms. Nilsson. I’m Jim Temple, the station manager. We’re so happy to have you here with us. This is John Martin, our news director.”
John Martin looked like every news director Laura had ever met—thin, lines on his face from stress, graying hair. But whereas most news directors were perpetually irritable, he seemed almost giddy. “It’s great to meet you. Having you here on the last day of February sweeps—it means so much to us. I think it’s going to do great things for our ratings. Viewers can’t get enough of you or your amazing story.”
“Thanks for having me.” Laura wasn’t shocked to hear him talk about her appearance in terms of blatant self-interest.
That was TV news. Ratings were everything. If the station performed well in the sweeps, they’d be able to demand more money from their advertisers. A good February meant a great start to the year and job security for everyone.
But apparently Javier
was
shocked. He muttered something in angry Spanish, one of his hands coming to rest protectively against her lower back.
“I’m Special Agent Janet Killeen.” Janet, apparently having forgotten she was temporarily a deputy U.S. Marshal, shook hands with Temple and Martin. “I’ll be accompanying Ms. Nilsson throughout the building to ensure her safety while she’s here at the station. This is Javier Corbray. He’s—”
“I’m Ms. Nilsson’s bodyguard.” Javier held out his hand.
Laura had to fight back a laugh. She could tell from the expressions on Temple’s and Martin’s faces that Javier was all but crushing their fingers as they shook his hand.
Sometimes men could be so predictable.
A young woman with dark curly hair stepped up to them, clipboard in hand. “It’s an honor to meet you, Ms. Nilsson, Agent Killeen, Mr. Corbray. I’m Tania Clarke, the senior producer. I’ll show you to your dressing room, Ms. Nilsson.”
Laura quickly found herself alone staring at her reflection in the lighted mirror. The last time she’d sat in a makeup chair, she’d been about to tape her interview with Diane Sawyer. She’d been nervous then, too, knowing what Diane was going to ask her, well aware that she’d be sharing deeply personal pain with the entire world. But somehow this felt worse, her pulse rapid, her palms damp, her mouth dry.
She hadn’t done
live
TV since the day she was abducted.
She met her own gaze. “You can do this.”
She was
not
going to let fear get the better of her. Derek Tower had repeatedly assaulted her reputation in public. It was her turn to speak out—and to show him exactly what she could do given a camera and a microphone.
She reached for her makeup kit, which Janet had brought in for her, and began what had once been her daily routine, taking care to cover the healing nicks on her cheek. She’d always done her own face and hair, in part because she’d spent so much time reporting from abroad where no makeup artists were available, and in part because she preferred a more natural look. As she worked, she went through the interview in her mind again, the act of concentrating on her answers helping her to control her fears.
Gary had e-mailed her a list of questions earlier in the day. It wasn’t something a journalist would normally do. Telling the subject of an interview ahead of time what you planned to ask gave him or her time to prepare, to create canned answers, eliminating the element of surprise and all possibility of controversy, which was so vital to live television news. But this wasn’t an ordinary interview.
This was one friend doing a favor for another.
Not that Gary’s agreeing to give her an interview was a selfless act. His career, like that of any other news anchor, depended on ratings. He wouldn’t have agreed to have her on the program if he hadn’t believed it would give him a boost.
Chaos reigned in the hallway beyond the dressing room as Laura finished putting on her makeup. How familiar the environment felt—and how foreign.
The door opened and Tania appeared. “There’s the water you asked for. We go live in ten minutes.”
“Thank you.”
Laura took a deep drink, then finished her makeup. She studied the results in the mirror, a familiar face from long ago staring back at her, the pearls on her earlobes understated, her blue dress with its princess neckline sexy, but not too revealing. She wanted viewers’ attention on what she was saying, after all, not on her boobs.
The butterfly sensation in her belly grew more intense. She drew ten deep, calming breaths, then stood.
She was ready.
She found Tania waiting for her out in the hallway, Javier and Janet standing beside the door.
“This way.” Tania led her toward the news set. “You’ll be on for ten minutes with one commercial break. Gary will introduce you, bring our viewers up to date, and then head into the questions. Will you need help with your earpiece or mic?”
“No.” Laura hadn’t been out of the game for that long. “I can handle it.”
They entered the studio, which was dark apart from one set—the main news set. It featured a desk with the newspaper’s logo and a backdrop of Denver’s nighttime skyline. A dark-haired woman named Diane introduced herself as the floor director and then left Laura to get settled, while Tania disappeared into the booth.
Laura quickly clipped the mic to her dress and put in her earpiece, hiding the wire beneath her hair and letting it trail down her back. She nodded in the direction of the booth—bright lights made it impossible to see far beyond the edge of the set—then spoke, enunciating clearly so they could set sound levels. “This is Laura Nilsson. I’m here for my interview with Gary Chapin.”
“That’s great,” a man’s voice said in her ear.
Laura glanced over at Javier one last time and saw encouragement in his eyes. He and Janet stood just out of range of the cameras. Beyond them, off the edge of the set, she could just make out the station’s management—Temple, Martin, and others in suits watching her as if she were a celebrity interview. Maybe she was.
She willed herself to smile, her heartbeat racing as she faced the camera. It stared at her, lens dark, the teleprompter screen blank, the tally light off.
Gary’s voice came on in her ear as he closed one segment and the station cut to a commercial break.
“Two minutes,” Diane said.
Laura’s heart was beating so hard now that she could hear it over the chatter in her earpiece, a rapid thrum.
Slow breaths. Slow breaths.
She would
not
panic on live television. She would hold herself together and show Derek Tower and that son of a bitch Al-Nassar that they could not control her, could not frighten her.
The director’s voice sounded in Laura’s earpiece, counting down the last few seconds. The tally light blinked red. Diane’s hand dropped beneath the camera.
And they were live.
* * *
JAVIER FELT HIS chest constrict as Laura spoke easily with her former anchor, who introduced her and welcomed her back to the news program. He knew she’d been nervous about this, but she was handling it like a pro, her smile warm, her eyes bright, her voice clear and strong.
From the moment she’d stepped out of the dressing room, Javier hadn’t been able to take his gaze off her. Her blue dress hugged her sweet curves, its color bringing out her eyes, its neckline giving him a hint of what was hidden beneath. Her long, slender legs were sheathed in sheer panty hose, her feet in dressy heels. She looked sophisticated, polished, good enough to eat.
It was interesting to see how it was all done. Laura sat alone, looking at the camera, but what viewers saw on the television screens at home was a split-screen image with Gary Chapin, who was in Washington, D.C., on the left and Laura on the right, the two seeming to make eye contact when they weren’t even in the same state.
“Laura, your abduction happened in the middle of a live broadcast, terrifying the millions of viewers who witnessed it. Let’s go back to that moment. What we are about to see is quite disturbing, so viewer discretion is advised.”
What the hell?
The side-by-side image of Laura and Chapin was replaced by footage Javier remembered only too well, Laura’s face in a small frame at the top right of the screen where viewers could see her reaction.
“In the past five years,” said the Laura from the video footage, “Sabira Mukhari’s organization had documented more than seventy-five hundred cases of women being burned in ‘stove accidents’ within a two-hundred-mile radius around Islamabad and—”
A nearby door burst open, the room exploding with AK fire.
Rat-at-at-at-at-at!
Laura screamed, dropped to the floor.
Men’s shouts in English and Arabic.
“Cover her! Cover her!”
A man in a black T-shirt threw himself over Laura, M16 rifle fire answering the AKs—only to stop short as her security detail was slaughtered.
Rat-at-at-at-at-at!
A man cried out, groaned, blood spraying across the camera lens.
Women’s screams came from the background, gunshots drowning out Laura’s shouts for the women to flee.
Two men in olive-green jackets with scarves around their heads blocked the camera’s view. They lifted Laura off the floor, dragged her toward the door.
She kicked, fought, screamed, her desperate cries sending chills down Javier’s spine. “No! No!”
¡Puñeta!
Son of a bitch!
This wasn’t supposed to be part of the broadcast. Javier had seen the questions, had heard Laura talk through them with Chapin on the phone. He had agreed that he wouldn’t ask her about her abduction or the shit she’d survived in Afghanistan.
Chapin had ambushed her.
The heartless son of a whore.
Javier’s gaze shifted to the real, live Laura. She was pale, her pupils dilated, her face frozen into an expressionless mask. One of her hands rested lightly on the desk, but from where he was standing, he could see that the other was clenched tight in her lap.
Chapin’s image returned to the screen. “This is the first time you’ve seen that footage, isn’t it?”
Somehow she managed to answer. “Yes.”
“Can you tell us what was running through your mind three and a half years ago when that door burst open and your attackers opened fire?”
“I was just trying to comprehend what was happening. It was over so quickly.”
Beside Javier, Martin whispered. “Oh, this is great stuff. Great stuff.”
It took every bit of willpower Javier possessed not to turn and slam his fist into Martin’s face. He didn’t give a damn about Chapin’s ratings, the station’s ratings, or the sweeps. If Laura gave him any sign she wanted to leave, he would take her by the hand, and they would go, live broadcast be damned.
