High-Risk Investigation. Jane M. ChoateЧитать онлайн книгу.
Scout McAdams was rarely dishonest with herself, but right now, she recognized that she was indulging in a moment of being just that.
“You’re certain you have nothing else to add, Ms. McAdams?” the detective asked for the fifth time.
Nicco Santonni hovered nearby. His presence was a comfort, and though she didn’t want to admit it, she welcomed it.
“I’m certain.” Irritation at the repetitive questions and a large dose of residual fear sharpened her voice.
“If you think of anything...”
“I know where to find you.”
The detective nodded curtly and turned his attention elsewhere.
* * *
Red-gold hair swung past her shoulders, framing a heart-shaped face with intelligent eyes and a full mouth. Her girl-next-door looks were far more appealing than the elaborate hair and makeup favored by many of the women present. But it wasn’t her beauty that demanded and held attention; it was the determination that sparked in her eyes.
Scout McAdams had a reputation for doing whatever it took to get a story.
Deliberately, Nicco pushed back memories of another reporter with the same tenacity and shook his head to clear the images that had taken up residence there. He had a client to protect. It was one thing to bring up a bittersweet memory, another to let it interfere with his ability to do the job.
He noticed that she was rubbing her right arm. “Did I hurt you?”
“Are you kidding? You saved my life.”
“You think the shot was meant for you?” Nicco already knew she was a target, but he was interested in her response.
Her face blanked of all expression.
“I really don’t know.”
He watched as Scout walked away, and after making sure that she was all right, he headed to the balcony, zeroed in on the detective in charge, and identified himself. “Nicco Santonni with S&J Security/Protection, assigned to Scout McAdams. She doesn’t know I was hired to protect her, and I’d just as soon keep it that way for as long as I can.”
“Gotcha.”
Whenever possible, S&J tried to play nice with law enforcement. It made things easier for both sides.
“Wagner,” the man said and ignored Nicco’s outstretched hand. He pointed to the weapon the shooter had left behind. “Probably didn’t want to take the time to break it down and carry it out of here. The number’s been filed off, though we’ve had pretty good success with raising numbers in the past using an acid wash.”
Nicco moved closer. “An M110, Knight’s Armament semiautomatic with a bipod. Effective range 800 meters.”
Wagner looked impressed. “You know your weapons.”
“You could say that. Rangers. Six years in the Stand,” Nicco said, using the military’s slang for Afghanistan.
The detective gave a low whistle. “Not too shabby.” He tapped his chest. “Marine Force Recon. Eight in Fallujah.” He gestured to his right leg. “Took a round in my thigh. Still aches in the rain.” He grimaced. “I’d give anything to be back fighting the good fight.”
Nicco felt a thaw in the air. “Know what you mean.”
The two men regarded each other with fresh respect.
“Glad to have you on board,” Wagner said and this time held out his hand.
Nicco took the detective’s hand, found it ridged with calluses. “Thanks.” He inspected the weapon further. “This bad boy’s military issue. A very nice and very expensive toy.”
“Some toy.” Wagner eyed Nicco with a shrewd gaze. “You think your client was the intended victim.”
“Had to be,” Nicco said frankly, wincing when he thought of just how close the shots had come to Scout. “She’s been receiving threats.” Curiosity over the reporter buzzed in his head like an insistent gnat.
“She neglected to tell me that.” Wagner scowled. “Reporters are a pain...” He bit off whatever he’d been about to add.
Nicco grinned. “Tell me about it.”
In perfect accord, they fixed their gazes once more on the weapon. It was the only lead they had to the shooter.
Nicco had been facetious when he’d referred to it as a toy. It was a serious weapon intended to kill with cold and ruthless efficiency.
Whoever wanted Scout McAdams dead was playing for keeps. It was up to him to make sure they didn’t succeed.
Scout woke up sick to her stomach. Her skin was clammy, her heart racing as though she’d just finished a marathon. Invisible hands tightened around her throat, constricting her ability to breathe. Salt rimmed her skin where she’d sweated through her nightshirt.
Gently, she massaged her neck, trying to loosen the bands that were closing in with every second and prevent an attack that would leave her gasping for air. The effort to breathe had turned her mouth cottony, and she swallowed in a vain attempt to rid herself of the dryness.
She’d thrashed through the night, unable to suck in sufficient air, gasping hoarsely as she fought off unseen assailants. In the end, the bad guys won.
They always did.
Not last night, she thought. The good guys, in the form of one very appealing man, had saved the day. Nicco Santonni. She tasted the words on her lips, found them intriguing and surprisingly sweet.
Enough. She had a job to do, one which didn’t include mooning over last night’s rescuer, no matter how ruggedly handsome he was.
Not even the memory of the good-looking man, however, could banish the aftereffects of the nightmare, including the sensation that she was choking. She swallowed harshly in an attempt to combat it.
It had been a month since she’d had the nightmare but it had returned last night. With a vengeance. Bitter bile rose in her throat. She willed it down.
Breathe.
In.
Out.
She repeated the breathing exercises, slowly inhaling and exhaling, until she could feel the terrifying panic subside. You’re okay. Her therapist’s voice slid into her mind.
I’m okay. She repeated the words until she started to believe them.
Scout turned to her side where she could gaze at the picture of her parents and herself on the day of her graduation from college. We were all so happy. Four years after the picture had been taken, her world had shattered into pieces and she was left alone.
The memory of the night her parents had been murdered a scant year ago pierced her heart, a lethally-tipped arrow that never failed to hit its mark. Someday, maybe, the pain would lessen, but it remained as poisonous as ever. She squeezed back tears of frustration and anger.
When was she going to be able to put the attack behind her, those toxic reminders that she wasn’t normal? They had burrowed under her skin and into her heart with a tenacity that wouldn’t be shaken. She’d dealt with them before. She’d do it again, but, oh, how she wished she didn’t have to.
Prayer was her first and best defense. Lord, I need Your help. I can’t do it on my own. I know that You and You alone have the power to heal me. I give myself into Your hands.
Within seconds, His love washed over her, and the panic slowly edged away. The Lord had not yet banished the nightmares, but He had given her the precious gift of peace when the memories threatened to overwhelm her.