Personal Protector. Debra WebbЧитать онлайн книгу.
construction in this swiftly growing area of downtown Atlanta only magnified the undesirable situation. The fact that it was nearly ninety degrees at 9:00 a.m. didn’t help. August dog days were as hot as Hades in the good old South. A little much-needed rain would be nice about now. Anything to cool things off. She had to admit that the one saving grace of this time of year was the beautiful blooming crepe myrtles. And the glossy-leafed magnolias, she added on second thought. They were still lovely, too. A few blooms managed to hang on here and there.
She glanced at her rearview mirror in search of a much more unattractive feature of her life these days. The dark, nondescript sedan that shadowed her every move was three cars back and in the right-hand lane. Piper doubted she was the only one complaining about traffic this morning. The two FBI agents assigned as her security detail were likely less than happy at the moment, as well. Knowing they were there was definitely a comfort, even if she didn’t want to admit it.
Puffing out a burst of frustration, she relaxed more fully into her seat and watched the stalled cluster of disorganization in front of her. Life in the big city, she mused. Wasn’t it just the other day that she had boasted on how she thrived on the excitement and energy of living in one of the fastest growing cities in America today?
Discounting traffic, she should have qualified.
Maybe she would finally get to inch forward when the flagman snapped out of his trance. Assuming he ever did. Piper was relatively certain it was past time for this side of the street to have a turn at moving forward. Anytime now, horns would start blowing and angry shouts would erupt among the sweltering, impatient drivers. Engines weren’t the only things heating up on days like these.
The sound of someone attempting to open her car door jerked Piper’s attention to the driver’s side window. Her gaze collided with the black barrel of a pistol. She blinked, uncertain for a moment that she was actually seeing what her brain told her she was. Seemingly in slow motion she lifted her gaze up to the cold, determined eyes of a man who stared at her with complete, unadulterated hatred.
Before the scream could rip from her throat, a big body, unidentifiable but decidedly male, slammed into the man holding the gun. The loud report of the weapon and the shattering of glass echoed around Piper. Fear wrapped around her and squeezed the air out of her lungs.
“Go!” a male voice commanded.
Without thought, her foot slammed onto the accelerator and her car lurched forward. Expecting to hear the crunch of metal as she plowed into the next vehicle, Piper snapped her attention to the cars in front of her. They were moving. Thank God.
Her heart pounded so hard she could hardly catch her breath. Blood roared in her ears. She glanced down at her side mirror and saw the two men struggling on the pavement’s center line between the two lanes of moving traffic. What if the man who saved her was hit by a car? And who the hell was he? He definitely wasn’t one of the Feds who shadowed her. Just as she reached for her cell phone to call 9-1-1, a charcoal-gray sedan screeched to a sideways halt a couple of cars behind her, stopping the flow of traffic in the two inside lanes.
The FBI agents, easily recognized by their trademark dark suits and sunglasses, bounded out of the car and moved in on the men still rolling around on the pavement.
It was okay now. Piper released a long, shaky breath. You’re okay, she told herself as she drove on. Damn, that was too close. Her uncle Lucas would have a cow when he heard about this.
She wanted to scream. She couldn’t even drive to work without someone approaching her. Of course, if there hadn’t been so much construction and such a lack of organization, she wouldn’t have been stalled in that spot long enough for the incident to occur.
The image of the flagman who’d held up her side of the street so long, and the possibility that he’d been a part of it broadsided her.
“Stay calm, girl,” she said aloud, reaching for any remaining inner strength she could find. But the last month had taken its toll on her ability to face this insanity. There was no way to recognize her enemy. It could be anyone. She shivered. “Don’t let them win,” she murmured fiercely, and clenched her teeth against the fear. She would not fall apart now. Later, when she was at home and alone she would let it out. But not now. She had a job to do.
As she slowed to turn into WYBN-TV’s lot, Piper felt the rage begin to boil inside her, temporarily burning away her gripping terror. She would not let them win. She would not be a prisoner in her own home or in some safe house the way her uncle wanted.
No one was going to take her life away from her.
No one.
The blistering anger fueling her shaky bravado, Piper parked in the secure parking garage beneath the station and emerged from her car. She sighed, disgusted, at the shattered window. She did love her little red sports car. Calling the insurance company and a repair shop would be the first order of business this morning. But at least she wasn’t in an ambulance on her way to the emergency room. The memory of her unknown savior filled her mind. She hoped he wasn’t hurt.
Now, if only there was a way to keep this harrowing event from her uncle and her boss, she considered as she strode toward the stairwell and the security guard waiting there.
But there was no point in trying to keep it a secret. One of her relentless FBI agents had likely already called in the incident to her uncle. Dave probably already knew, as well, considering the guard waiting patiently for her.
Smiling, the man politely opened the door and then followed her in. Defeat weighed heavy on her shoulders as she climbed the stairs leading into the newsroom. Three of the reporters who had attended the doomed press conference were dead already; she and two others remained. Maybe Uncle Lucas was right. The image of that long black barrel flickered before her eyes. Maybe she should go into hiding until it was over.
“No way,” she muttered. Piper lifted her chin and squared her shoulders. “No damn way.”
“STOP RIGHT THERE,” Piper instructed as she studied the images on the monitor. “Now go to the skyline and fade.”
“You got it.” Ned’s nimble fingers flew over the keys and the scene ended just as Piper had envisioned it, complete with her voice-over. The story was timed and ready for broadcast.
“Perfect.” She pushed out of her seat, satisfaction sighing through her. “Dave wants to run that package at noon today. Kind of as a teaser for tonight’s prime-time spot.”
“I’ll get it to him ASAP.” Ned smiled up at her. “Great job, Piper. The audience is going to eat it up.”
“Thanks.” She gave Ned an appreciative pat on the shoulder. “I’ll tell Jones you approve. I couldn’t have done it without him.”
“Jones is definitely top-notch,” Ned agreed. “And so are you.”
Pride welled in Piper as she strode across the WYBN-TV newsroom. Jones was the best cameraman, videographer, he would remind her, in the business. They had worked as a team since her first day as a naive but hungry reporter almost four years ago. Dave, the news director, had made a good choice when he’d teamed the two of them, and Piper would be forever grateful. No matter how hard a good reporter worked, if she and her cameraman weren’t in synch or if they simply didn’t mesh, the results could be disastrous for a fledgling media career.
If this piece on the problems with the ever-growing local gangs garnered the attention she felt certain it would, Piper would owe Jones dinner at Ray’s. She smiled. A table at Ray’s with a view of the Chattahoochee River would be a far cry from the drive-through cuisine they usually grabbed on the run to a breaking news scene. There was never time to waste in this business. Dave’s motto was News Happens Now, and he was a firm believer in not allowing the moment to pass.
Ringing telephones and the buzz of conversation underscored the steady hum of newsroom activity. Several twenty-four-hour news shows were currently showing on the overhead monitors. The new desk assistant raced around with his notepad delivering phone messages and instructions from the news director. Reporters shuffled