Striking Distance

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.