Killer Countdown (Man on a Mission) Read online

  Tension ebbed out of his body. “Niall is...he’s the best brother a man could have—and my best friend. I can’t think of anyone I’d rather have at my back than him—and I’ve served with some damned fine fellow marines. You wouldn’t want Niall as your enemy, but as a friend there’s none better.” He started to add something to this, but changed his mind at the last minute. Not because he didn’t trust Carly, but because it wasn’t his secret to share.

  “So your brother lives here...when he’s in town.”

  “Yeah.”

  “If he’s letting you stay here, that means he’s not in town now.”

  Carly hadn’t posed a question...and Shane wasn’t volunteering anything. Niall’s whereabouts were a closely guarded secret—even Shane never knew from one day to the next where his brother would be. He could reach him in any one of three ways...but not all at the same time—cell phone, email and Facebook. And of the three, Facebook was the most reliable, although response times could vary and coded messages were a must.

  Shane had often wondered—but had never asked Niall—if Niall’s email and social media accounts were monitored by someone within his agency, someone who made it a point to contact Niall some other way when there was an urgent communication from his family, like this last time, when Shane had desperately needed to reach Niall. Some people might think that smacked too much of cloak and dagger work, but Shane had been on the receiving end of military intel gathered through the most unlikely sources. He didn’t care how his messages to Niall got through...just that they did.

  “Too bad,” Carly continued, having no idea how far Shane’s thoughts had wandered. “I would like to meet your brother. He sounds fascinating. I’ve never met anyone in his line of work...at least I don’t think I have.”

  He laughed softly. “You know what they say, don’t you?” he teased. “I could tell you about him...but then I’d have to kill you.”

  “Ha ha ha.” Carly’s dry tone and the expression on her face said she wasn’t amused. “Seriously, though, does he really need to live in a fortress?”

  Shane’s humor fled. “Probably not. But at the moment I’m grateful he does. There’s no way anyone could break in to plant a bomb here, so at least we can get a decent night’s sleep without worrying about that.”

  “What about the FBI? Why can’t they keep us safe?”

  “They could...if they could spare agents to babysit us indefinitely, which they can’t.” He thought about how to put it. “I know why the guy who tried to kill me in Phoenix is trying to kill you—you can identify him, or he thinks you can. But I still have no idea why he wants me dead in the first place. Do you?” Carly shook her head. “If the FBI or the ATF or the Phoenix police have any clue, they’re not sharing it with me. Which means it’s open season, and I might as well be walking around with a bull’s-eye target on my back.”

  A stricken expression entered Carly’s eyes, but she didn’t say anything, and Shane continued implacably. “I can’t just hole up here for the duration—I have a job to do. For all I know, this could be some kind of campaign to intimidate me into hiding out, and the hell with my job. But if I do that, he wins even without killing me.”

  Carly dropped her purse on the coffee table and held up one hand, an arrested look on her face. “Stop right there,” she told him. She pursed her lips and her eyes creased thoughtfully. “Why would someone want to kill you?”

  Shane started to speak, but she waved him to silence. “I’m an idiot,” she said finally. “I should have asked that question from day one. It’s Homicide 101—cui bono? Who benefits?”

  “It can’t be money—I don’t have any. At least, not enough to kill for.”

  Carly kicked her shoes off and curled up on the leather sofa with her feet beneath her before flashing a cynical smile Shane’s way. “You’d be surprised how little money is necessary to turn someone into a killer.” Then her smile dimmed. “But in this case, I think you’re right. But if it’s not money someone is after, what else could it be?”

  Shane perched on the arm of the couch facing Carly. “I wasn’t sleeping with any man’s wife or girlfriend,” he volunteered.

  “Are you sure?”

  The pointed question took him aback for a moment, but all he said was, “I’m sure.”

  “How can you know?”

  * * *

  Carly was surprised when she blurted out the question, and all of a sudden she realized she wasn’t asking as a reporter, she was asking as a woman. A woman who wanted to know the answer, but at the same time didn’t.

  One corner of Shane’s mouth twitched into a half smile. “Because before you it had been months since I slept with anyone.”

  She wanted to believe him. She really did. But a tiny corner of her mind insisted it wasn’t possible. Shane was an incredibly sensual man with no reason to abstain from sex. So why would he?

  When she didn’t respond, just gave him a questioning look, he stated quietly, “I have no need to lie about this, Carly. And I wouldn’t anyway.”

  “Why?”

  He gave a little huff of laughter. “Why wouldn’t I lie?”

  “No.” All at once his answer mattered to her more than she ever thought possible. “Why would you...abstain?” She almost asked him if it was related to his epilepsy, but then she knew the answer was no. She already had ample proof neither the seizures nor the medication he was taking affected him sexually.

  His smile deepened. “Now that sounds like a sexist question if I ever heard one. You wouldn’t ask a woman, would you?”

  He was right. She knew he was right, damn it, and she hated that she’d asked the question in the first place. But since she had... “Please tell me. It’s important.”

  He didn’t answer for the longest time. Then, “Because I have to care about a woman in order to sleep with her, okay? Is that a crime?”

  The question tacked on at the end was delivered with deliberate lightness, but there were overtones that told Carly it bothered Shane—a lot—that he had to justify himself to her this way. “I’m sorry,” she whispered. “That was unforgivable. And none of my business.”

  Shane’s expression became shuttered. “It is your business...if you want it to be. But that’s your call.”

  He didn’t say the words emotional distance, but she knew he was laying that out there. If she wanted it to be her business, she’d have to admit there wasn’t a snowball’s chance she could distance herself from Shane emotionally. In which case it would be important for her to know she wasn’t a fling to him. That she wasn’t merely an itch he wanted to scratch. That he...cared about her.

  But if she didn’t want it to be her business, if what was between them was “just sex,” as she’d insisted last night, then she had no right to force him to reveal something personal and private about the man he was. If she wasn’t willing to admit to him that she cared, she had no right to insist he admit he did, either.

  Carly didn’t say anything because she couldn’t. She couldn’t answer Shane’s unspoken question. Because she was just coming to terms with what she felt herself, and she wasn’t ready to expose those vulnerabilities. Not yet.

  But he obviously took her silence as a rejection of the verbal hand he’d outstretched to her, and he returned to their original discussion. “Since I wasn’t sleeping with anyone’s wife or lover,” he said matter-of-factly, “it can’t be someone in a jealous rage. Besides, the man targeting me is too professional. Too calculating. Three attempts. Three different ways. Yes, twice it was a bomb, but one was in my car—remote detonation, by the way—and the other was a timed device in my home. And before you ask how I know, the ATF confirmed both points this afternoon.”

  “That’s more than they told me.”

  Shane’s smile held a trace of cynicism. “A US senator has a little more clout than an investiga
tive reporter. Even with the power of your network behind you.”

  “Okay, so we rule out jealousy. Do you have any enemies that you know of?”

  He shook his head. “Not to my knowledge. It could be someone who disagrees with my politics, I suppose,” he said doubtfully. “Or someone with a mental problem,” he added.

  Carly ran a finger over her bottom teeth as she considered this possibility. “Maybe. But again, the attacks on you are too well thought out. Too meticulous. I could buy that the first attempt was a crazy with a rifle—anyone who could get their hands on a gun could take shots at you. But the bombs? Uh-uh.” She shook her head vehemently. “Building and planting a bomb is a specialized skill, just as disarming them is. I knew this guy when I was covering the war in Afghanistan—a sergeant—who used to disarm roadside bombs. It was fascinating, and I wanted to do a piece on him,” she said as an aside, “but he flat out refused.

  “Anyway,” she continued, “he told me it’s not all that difficult to learn how to build a bomb, and you’d be surprised how relatively easy it is to acquire the component parts. But building a bomb safely, so you don’t blow yourself up in the process, isn’t as easy as you’d think. So whoever built and planted those bombs knows what he’s doing. Which means he’s done this before. Which means he’s a professional.”

  “Which means,” Shane said slowly, “he’s a hit man. A hired gun.”

  She nodded. “Probably. Which brings us right back to why. Why would someone hire a hit man to kill you? What does killing you accomplish?”

  He hesitated. “The only thing I can think of is... No. It can’t be that.”

  Carly pounced. “Can’t be what?”

  “It was five years ago. And besides, last I heard, that organization was teetering on the brink of collapse.”

  “What organization?”

  He bent a hard stare on her. “I can’t tell you as a reporter. Only as—”

  “Someone you’re sleeping with?” she tossed off with forced insouciance.

  He stood abruptly. “Don’t.” His voice was low but there was an angry edge that had come out of nowhere. “Don’t be flippant about what’s between us, Carly. Okay, I get you don’t want to be emotionally involved. I get that. And I’m doing my best to do as you ask. But don’t treat it as casual sex. Because I don’t do casual sex. I haven’t for a long, long time.”

  With that he stalked out.

  Carly followed Shane and found him in the kitchen pulling a bottle of water from the fridge. He half emptied it in one long gulp, then turned when she said his name.

  “I don’t do casual sex, either,” she admitted. Knowing what else she was admitting to.

  “I know you don’t.”

  She tilted her head to one side as she considered this. “Then why did you agree?”

  He took another long swig of water before answering. “Because you’d backed yourself into a corner last night. And no,” he assured her, “I wasn’t humoring you. At least, not in a condescending way. I wanted to give you space. Well,” he amended, smiling a little, “not physical space. Because this thing we’ve got going? I don’t see that burning out anytime soon. I wanted in your bed in the worst way. And you wanted me there, too.”

  Carly flushed at the wicked light in his eyes.

  “We’re not kids,” he said, finishing off the bottle and dumping it in the recycle bin. “Although around you I feel like one sometimes.” He tugged her gently into his embrace and kissed her forehead. “That’s why I agreed. Because I’ll take whatever part of you I can get. Even if it’s ‘just sex.’”

  “You’re making me feel... I don’t know. Silly, I guess. And guilty.” His arms tightened around her infinitesimally, but she felt it. “I wasn’t using you, Shane. Honest. But I’ve never experienced some of the things you make me feel when we... That is, when we’re in bed together I can’t think of anything else except the next time.” Her voice dropped a notch. “I didn’t want to give that up.”

  “Same here.”

  They stayed in each other’s arms for a minute, then Carly reluctantly drew back. “Let’s finish our other discussion before we forget where we were, okay?”

  “Okay.” He nodded. “Let’s see about dinner while we talk.”

  * * *

  Over lasagna and cauliflower florets, courtesy of Niall’s freezer, and a bottle of Italian Chianti from a large wine rack in the kitchen pantry, Carly said, “Earlier you brought up an organization that might have something against you.” She smiled reassuringly. “Deep background, you have my word.”

  He considered this for a moment. “The New World Militia, an anarchist paramilitary organization,” he said finally. “They believed that any government—federal, state, or local—was inherently bad and should be overthrown. They were fanatically dedicated to bringing that about in this country. A while back my sister and the man who’s now her husband were instrumental in uncovering a link between them, a political action committee called NOANC founded by a man named Michael Vishenko, and the Russian Mafia.”

  “Vishenko. I know that name.”

  “I’m sure you do. Michael Vishenko is Aleksandrov Vishenko’s nephew. The uncle was initially one of the defendants in the human trafficking conspiracy case you covered.”

  Carly’s forehead wrinkled. “Yes, but I’ve heard the name Michael Vishenko, too. Isn’t he in prison for murder and bribery? And wasn’t his Political Action Committee—”

  “NOANC.”

  “Right, NOANC.” She took a sip of wine. “Wasn’t that exposed as a front funneling money to corrupt politicians?”

  “Give the lady a gold star.”

  “Nothing special about me knowing that,” she pointed out. “It was a huge political scandal. I’d just moved from war correspondent to covering Capitol Hill, so of course I remember. But how does the New World Militia come into it?”

  “That domestic terrorist organization actually predates NOANC and Michael Vishenko. Long story short, the New World Militia had been dismantled at one point, and the federal agencies responsible for bringing it down thought it had been destroyed. But Michael Vishenko revived it, as a way to fund his PAC so NOANC could fly under the radar of the Federal Election Committee.”

  “I see.”

  “Yeah, but the problem was, no one realized that when the New World Militia was brought back to life, its members were true believers in the cause it espoused. Several splinter groups formed, including one in Denver. The bomb that exploded outside that bookstore five years ago...”

  She caught her breath. “The New World Militia? They set off the bomb that almost killed you?”

  Chapter 12

  Shane nodded. “They were trying to make a political statement, but it backfired on them. And no, I wasn’t able to help in the investigation. I don’t even remember actually saving that woman. The last thing I remember is shopping with my sister the day after Christmas, heading for the bookstore and seeing the woman walking in a little ahead of us. Everything else is a blank—Keira had to tell me what I did beyond that point. But after all the media hype about me, several people came forward with what they knew about the New World Militia, saying I’d inspired them to have the courage to speak up. The bomber and many in his splinter group were identified, arrested, tried and convicted.”

  “So that organization—or at least some of its members—holds you responsible.”

  “Yeah, but it was five years ago. And since then the agency—you know the one I’m talking about, right?” Carly nodded. “The agency has quietly put most of the New World Militia members out of commission permanently.”

  “Most, but not all.”

  “No,” he agreed. “Not all.” Finished with dinner, he rose from the table, carrying his plate and utensils to the sink. Carly hurriedly ate the last bite of her lasagna—
surprisingly good, given that it had come out of the freezer—and brought her own plate to the sink. Shane took it from her, saying, “I’ve got this. Why don’t you top off our wineglasses and take them into the living room? I’ll just be a minute.”

  Carly did as he asked, pouring the last of the bottle of Castello di Monsanto Chianti Classico Riserva into her own wineglass, because Shane’s had hardly been touched. He obviously wasn’t drinking much because of the medication he was taking—even though he wasn’t driving anymore tonight—and that abstention impressed her. Just like his abstention from sex.

  Carly admired self-control in a man, because in her experience it wasn’t all that common. Especially when it came to sex. She didn’t believe all men were animals, but she’d seen enough of what they could do to women when war loosened the social bounds of acceptable behavior to not take her safety for granted. Which was why she carried her .22 with her most of the time now, either in her purse or—when her purse was too small, such as the night of the reception at the Zakharian embassy—strapped to her thigh.

  She rinsed the empty wine bottle at the kitchen sink—Shane silently made room for her when she approached—then placed it in the recycle bin, thinking abstractedly, Niall has good taste in wine. She’d perused his wine rack before picking the Chianti earlier and had been impressed. Not by how expensive the wine was—she didn’t think any bottle there cost more than twenty dollars—but by the array of lesser-known but highly regarded vintages from all over the world. And she wondered now if Shane was a connoisseur as his brother was, admitting to herself, There’s so much you don’t know about Shane.

  But she knew the important things. She knew he was a gentleman...and a protector. She knew he had a strict moral code—probably higher than your own, if truth be told, she acknowledged. She knew he cared deeply for his family—not just by the things he said, but by the way he said them.

  And let’s not forget the way he treats a woman in bed, she reminded herself. That told her a hell of a lot about him, the way he put her needs above his own. The way he wasn’t satisfied until she was satisfied.