Striking Distance

CHAPTER

6

JAVIER LEANED AGAINST the wall in the emergency room of University Hospital, feeling more restless by the minute. On the television screen, Channel 12 kept going back and forth between the same recycled footage they’d been repeating for the past three hours. The smoking hulk of the car. Firefighters dousing the flames. Police evacuating the area as the bomb squad moved in. An aerial view of the blast site filmed from a news helo. SWAT guys milling around in body armor.

So the FBI hadn’t found Al-Nassar’s threats against Laura credible.

Idiots.

They were damned lucky the bastard who’d tried to kill her today hadn’t known what he was doing. If he had . . .

It had been close, so damned close.

Javier fought the urge to pace, glanced around the waiting area. A thin old man with papery skin and an oxygen tube beneath his nose. A mother and father with a crying baby. A middle-aged woman sitting alone. Two men and a woman who were almost certainly journalists, smartphones out, notepads in hand. They were clearly checking the place out, probably hoping to snag an interview with Laura.

What kind of assholes staked out an ER, for God’s sake? And what was taking so long? Maybe Laura was more seriously injured than they’d realized.

Or maybe she doesn’t want to see you.

Nate had left with Sophie and Holly almost an hour ago. Both women had been cut by flying glass. Sophie had needed stitches, and Holly had seemed pretty shaken up, her perfect face marred by little nicks. But both of them had wanted to get back to work to help get the paper out on time—a reminder to Javier that courage came in all shapes and sizes.

A woman in blue scrubs walked up to him. “You can see Ms. Nilsson now.”

It’s about fucking time.

Javier followed the aide through the double doors, aware that the journalists had gotten to their feet the second they’d heard Laura’s name and were now watching him. Down a corridor to the right, he saw a cop standing guard outside an exam room.

The aide pointed. “She’s in exam room nine.”

“Thanks.” Javier turned down the corridor, drew his wallet out of his back jeans pocket, and showed his driver’s license to the cop, who jotted his name down on a list, then stepped aside.

Javier knocked. “Laura?”

“Come in.”

He found her sitting up in the exam bed, talking on her cell phone.

“Thanks for calling. It means a lot to me. Bye.” She disconnected the call. “Gary Chapin, my former anchor. He called to check on me.”

The left side of her face had a few tiny nicks from flying glass, flecks of blood on her tailored white shirt. A dressing of gauze was taped to the inner elbow of her left arm where they’d hooked her to an IV. Her eyes were swollen, proof she’d been crying.

Seeing her like this—hurt, angry, afraid—made him want to hit someone. How the hell had this been allowed to happen? Al-Nassar, the media, the feds—they’d all played a role in this, through either action or inaction.

But Javier had walked into enough hospital rooms in his life, visited enough wounded men, to know that his anger wouldn’t help Laura.

He put a smile on his face. “You’re looking good. How you feeling?”

“I just want to get out of here.” Her blond brows knitted in irritation. “They say I have a mild concussion. They insisted on doing two MRIs even though I said I was fine. I want to go home, but they’re taking their time discharging me.”

“They’re just trying to take good care of you.”

“I suppose so.” She looked away, the tension inside her palpable. “I don’t like hospitals.”

Neither did Javier.

He walked to the bedside. “When I heard the news, I . . . I’m glad you’re okay.”

“The networks aren’t reporting this yet, but it was a suicide bomber.”

“Yeah.” He’d heard that from Nate, who’d heard it from Marc.

The anger faded from her face, naked fear in its place. “They’re going to do it, aren’t they? They’re going to kill me. I’m going to spend the rest of my life looking over my shoulder, and one day—”

“No, bella.” Javier took her right hand, gave it a squeeze. He wanted to do more. He wanted to wrap his arms around her and hold her tight, but he wasn’t sure she’d feel comfortable being touched like that. “People are going to be asking the feds some tough questions. The FBI is going to have to step up now and do its job. You’re a hero to a lot of folks out there. The feds can’t let anything happen to you.”

“Tell them that. I spoke to them Friday. They blew me off.”

Javier hoped whoever she’d spoken to had been handed his ass today. “They won’t be able to blow you off now.”

“Al-Nassar told me I would live the rest of my life in fear. I told him I would forget him. Now look at me. I’m shaking, terrified. Damn it!” She looked up at him, a kind of desperate fury in her eyes. “I don’t want to be afraid anymore. He’s stolen so much from me. So much. I can’t give him that satisfaction. I just can’t.”

Javier couldn’t begin to understand what she was feeling. He’d never been a prisoner, never been raped. He’d never had control of his body and life ripped away from him. Even when he’d been shot, he’d at least been armed and able to fight back. “You look like you’re holding up pretty well to me.”

She let out a gust of breath, then shook her head as if he’d just said something ridiculous. “I spent an hour crying on the phone to my mother.”

“I’d say you’re entitled.” If only she could see herself through his eyes.

“She and my grandmother want me to give up my job and move back to Sweden to live a quiet life in some small town up north where everyone knows everyone and there’s no place for strangers to hide, but—”

The door opened behind him and two men in suits entered. The first was in his mid-forties, shorter than Javier by a good few inches, his dark hair cut conservatively, his brows dark and bushy, his face round. The man behind him was taller and blander with brown hair and eyes to match, his face expressionless.

It was about time they showed up.

Javier crossed his arms over his chest. “Don’t they teach you FBI boys to knock?”

“Ms. Nilsson.” The bastard’s gaze fixed for a moment on Laura’s chest before shifting to his partner. “This is Special Agent Spiteri. We need to ask you a few questions.”

Laura’s gaze went cold. “Do you find Al-Nassar’s threats credible now, Agent Petras?”

“You might believe that you’re the center of the terrorists’ universe, Ms. Nilsson, but the truth is there are other more tangible threats.”

“Whoa, there, buddy.” Javier stepped forward. “You’re in the emergency room, and regardless of what your priorities are, someone tried to kill Ms. Nilsson today. Show some respect, man.”

Petras turned to Javier. “You’re Javier Corbray.”

It was a trick meant to impress, but Javier knew Petras had simply gotten his name from the cop outside the door.

“I’m an old friend of Laura’s.”

“You’ll need to wait out in the hallway.”

Petras could go fuck himself as far as Javier was concerned. He turned to Laura. “Is that what you want, bella?”

“No.” Laura looked over at Petras. “Javier stays.”

Petras glanced from Javier to Laura, cold indifference on his face. He reached into his pocket, drew out a photograph, and handed it to her. “Do you recognize him?”

Laura looked down at the photo, the blood slowly draining from her face. “No. Is he the one who . . . ?”