Killer Countdown (Man on a Mission) Read online

  And she needed to do it without letting him see her.

  * * *

  Shane and his brother parted company once Niall had escorted him to the building adjacent to Adams Hall. As arranged, the five panel members debating whether or not climate change actually existed, and the cadre of university students from the debate club sponsoring this event, were assembling there an hour ahead of time. But Shane had arrived very early to allow Niall enough time to do his thing in Adams Hall.

  He ran through his notes while he waited. He considered rehearsing his opening speech once more, then heard Carly’s voice in the back of his mind saying at breakfast, You’ve practiced your speech until you’re word perfect. And frankly, I’m sick of hearing it. I’ve posed mock questions for you until you could answer questions on this topic in your sleep, and you have...if that mumbling I heard last night means anything.

  He’d laughed at her dry tone and her words this morning, but now he acknowledged she was right. That control thing he had going extended to just about everything in his life, including his need to be hyper prepared for any contingency.

  It had been a mistake letting himself think of Carly, though, because now he couldn’t get her out of his mind. He sat facing the door—you always faced the door unless you wanted to be taken unawares—but he wasn’t really seeing it. He was seeing Carly as she’d looked the first time he’d made love to her. God, he hadn’t even gotten his pants off. Hadn’t even undressed her. He’d been a Hellfire missile locked on target, and he could still remember the explosion that had rocked his world.

  Did she love him? That was the sixty-four-thousand-dollar question. Niall thought she did, and Shane knew his brother was rarely wrong. But there was always a chance she didn’t love him. In which case he’d have to be a gentleman about it, even though that was the last thing he wanted to do. Despite the possessiveness that dug its talons into him whenever he thought about any other man touching Carly, he’d have to find a way to let her go.

  * * *

  The panel moderator made introductions all around, then ran through the agenda and the order of the opening speeches, which had been decided by lottery that morning. “You will be seated at a table stage right—that’s the left side from the audience’s perspective. I’ll be standing at the lectern stage left. I’ll introduce you in order to the audience with the short bios you provided. Please remain seated, but feel free to acknowledge any applause.

  “After the initial introduction, when I call your name, please move to the lectern for your opening remarks. As was already communicated to you or your staff, you will each have up to six minutes. I’m afraid we must strictly adhere to this limitation in order to have time for the prepared questions and for the open-mic questions from the audience.”

  He then went on to explain how the prepared questions had been chosen from the dozens submitted by members of the debate club. “I’ll pose the questions from the lectern, but to save time your answers should be delivered from the table—we have microphones set up at the table for this purpose,” the moderator said to Shane and the other four panelists. “We would like each of you to have an opportunity to answer every question, but in order to do that, we ask that you keep your answers to one minute or less. If you go over ninety seconds, I will politely interrupt and ask you to wrap up your comments. If you choose not to answer a particular question, just say ‘pass’ and I’ll move on to the next panelist. Is all that clear?”

  Shane glanced around, but all he saw were heads nodding, so he said for all of them, “Crystal clear.”

  “Are there any questions?” When none were forthcoming, the moderator said, “Thank you all in advance for participating. We’re looking forward to a lively discussion.” He smiled and held out a hand, indicating one of the debate club members who’d been introduced earlier. “Please follow Sandra Beckett. She’ll take you where you need to go. I’ll be there shortly.”

  Shane’s eyes were watchfully alert as the panelists followed Sandra into Adams Hall through a door from outside that led directly onto the stage. Just because he and Niall had anticipated he’d be targeted on the stage didn’t mean the hit man might not try something they hadn’t planned on. But all was serene, and Shane brought up the rear of their little group, then closed the door behind him.

  The panel took their assigned places at a long table covered with a red tablecloth—name tents made it easy to find who sat where. Microphones, pitchers of water, glasses, notepads and pens were all neatly arranged at each place. Shane noted they’d been seated in the order in which they would speak, with the first speaker at the far end of the table. Which meant Shane was closest to the lectern.

  * * *

  The cab stopped, and the driver said, “This is as close as I can get, ma’am.”

  Carly handed him the two bills she already had in her hand, saying, “No change. Thanks.”

  She slid out of the cab, buttoned her coat against the wind that was still blowing, and wrapped her scarf around the lower portion of her face. Then she pulled her hat brim lower, and joined the throng of people hurrying into Adams Hall.

  * * *

  As he took his seat on the stage, Shane sought out the four men on his staff he’d asked to be present this afternoon—Bobby, Hank, Miguel and Terry. They were all sitting together, third row back, right on the aisle. He smiled and nodded when he caught their eyes, although smiling was the last thing he wanted to do. One of them had sold him out. Which one?

  Then he searched for his brother. At first he couldn’t see him—Shane made two full passes over the balcony and was on the third circuit before he spotted Niall, dressed like a workman in faded jeans and a worn jacket, leaning casually against one of the pillars in the far back on the left side. At least, he appeared to be leaning casually to the uninformed eye. But Shane knew his brother. And he knew that air was misleading.

  Shane let his gaze pass on by as if he’d never seen Niall, completing the circuit he’d begun. He did nothing to acknowledge he got the message his brother was sending him, but his heartbeat accelerated with a kick of adrenaline. All the pieces were falling into place.

  Stragglers were still filing in and taking seats in the rows in the back, but a few came down the aisles to the front where one or two empty single seats could still be found. A trickle of disappointed people made their way up the front staircase on Shane’s left and found places in the balcony.

  Then the house lights dimmed.

  Chapter 21

  Saying excuse me, Carly sidled her way past two men and a woman—Old Town students by the looks of them. She didn’t know why they were standing in the back—the hall was fairly full, but not standing room only—and she needed to get by them to mount the staircase.

  She’d already scoped out the first floor, and the hit man wasn’t there. At least...she was fairly confident he wasn’t there. She couldn’t be absolutely positive, but she didn’t have any more time to waste because the third speaker had already taken the lectern. That meant in a few minutes, Shane would be standing there. Unprotected. And that was unacceptable.

  * * *

  Marsh was slouched in his chair—the only way he could sit unnoticed with the rifle strapped to his right shoulder. He glanced around to see if anyone was watching, and was reassured no one seemed to be paying any attention to him. Exactly what he wanted. Everyone seemed to be focused on the lawyer now at the lectern. One more speaker after this, and then it would be the senator’s turn.

  He could have taken the shot earlier. All five of the panelists had been lined up at the table like targets in a carnival booth when the initial introductions had been made. But too many people had still been moving around the balcony, searching for seats at the last minute, and the risk had been too great. Not so much that one of them could have gotten in the way of his shot, but that one or more of them might have seen him as
he took aim. And he wanted no more witnesses he would have to kill.

  Then, when each speaker had risen and crossed to the lectern for his or her opening remarks, the moderator had politely backed away to one side—right in Marsh’s line of sight to the senator. Every frigging time. He’d cursed internally the first time it had happened, because he’d already unbuttoned his raincoat, preparatory to taking the shot. Then he’d berated himself for being too eager. Patience, he’d reminded himself. Patience was one of his bywords. Patience. Practice. Planning. Preparation. The senator would eventually take the lectern. And Marsh would be ready.

  * * *

  The twitch between Shane’s shoulder blades was getting worse with each passing minute, and he gritted his teeth. What’s taking so long? he fumed silently. He wanted this over, one way or the other. Take the shot, damn it, he told the sniper in his mind. Take the damned shot!

  Then he saw a woman in a coat and hat that resembled Carly’s rapidly climbing one of the staircases in the back, and his brain stuttered as his heartbeat quickened. It looks like...no, it can’t be... The woman disappeared from view, and he told himself he was imagining things. She might look like Carly from a distance, but it couldn’t be her. Carly was safe in Niall’s condo.

  Then the woman’s head and shoulders appeared atop the balcony, and though her hat was pulled low and her scarf obscured the bottom half of her face, his heart recognized her even before his brain did. Son of a bitch! The anger and fear curling through him at the sight of Carly—here...at risk—far eclipsed anything he’d ever experienced with the seizures. His lack of control over the situation...his inability to do anything except pray the sniper didn’t see her, didn’t target her instead of him...

  Shane had drawn his Beretta and was racing toward the wooden staircase at the front long before he realized what he was doing, his legs pumping like pistons as he ascended the stairs. The speaker stopped in midsentence and gawked. The crowd gasped and turned to watch in stupefaction. But Shane heard nothing. Saw nothing except Carly at the far end of the balcony, kitty-corner from him...too far away. One thought pounded through his consciousness. Oh, God. Oh, God. Oh, God. As if prayer could keep her safe until he could reach her.

  Time slowed to a crawl, although it could only have been a few seconds. Movement at the back of the balcony on his left was followed immediately by Carly’s cry of “No! No!” Then Carly’s .22 was in her hands as she squared up and took aim at the corner of the balcony farthest from her. The crack of a rifle preceded another gunshot by a fraction of a second, so close together one appeared to be the echo of the other.

  Screams split the air. Panicked bodies blocked Shane’s view for a moment as most of the crowd frantically clawed its way toward the exits. He grasped the railing with his right hand and clutched his gun with his left as he pushed and shoved and stumbled over dozens of feet in his mad haste to reach Carly.

  He neared the far end and made the turn around the curving balcony, then saw two men struggling for possession of a rifle. Bright blood stained the left arm of the shorter man. The other was Niall. Shane didn’t consciously decide his brother didn’t need his help incapacitating the sniper—he just knew. His gaze swung right, and despite the press of bodies jostling Carly as they surged toward the staircase, he could see her standing frozen, as if in a state of shock. He followed the crowd until he reached her side, then wrapped his arms tightly around her, shielding her with his body against the buffeting tide of humanity that threatened to sweep her away.

  He dragged her—without resistance—to one side. He thrust his Beretta into his pants pocket, took Carly’s .22 from her unresisting grasp and stashed that in his pocket, too, then pressed her head against his shoulder. She was saying something over and over, and he bent his head to hear her above the noise of the mob. “No,” she whispered, her eyes wide and dark in the dim light as she clung to him, her body trembling uncontrollably. “No, no, no.”

  “It’s okay,” he told her roughly. “You’re okay.” He didn’t know what else to say. Then he realized he’d used the exact same words she’d used toward him during his last episode. “It’s okay. You’re okay.” The helpless words of someone who couldn’t bear to be helpless.

  All of a sudden a half dozen FBI agents—part of the contingent Niall had arranged to be there—swarmed them with their guns drawn. “You okay, Senator Jones?” one man barked at him. “You weren’t hit?”

  “No,” he confirmed. “I’m fine.” He angled his head toward the far corner of the balcony. “The shooter’s up there. But I don’t think he’s a threat anymore.”

  He glanced over his shoulder and saw exactly what he’d expected to see. Niall had the sniper pinned to the wall, incapacitated, the man’s right arm at a sharp angle behind his back. The left arm hung uselessly, the bloodstain there much larger now.

  He turned back to Carly. “You got him,” he said in a low voice, his heart squeezing at the aftereffects of the shooting still holding her in their cruel grip. The shakes, his brain processed, remembering the first time he’d shot someone, and the reaction that had immediately followed. “It’s okay, sweetheart. I’m okay. You got him.”

  * * *

  The hours following the shooting dragged endlessly. As they’d been after the first sniper attack, as they’d been following the discovery of the car bomb, Shane and Carly were separated. Shane repeated his story endless times, each time identical to the first. But in between he kept asking about Carly. “She’s in shock,” he insisted. “You can’t question her when she’s in shock. I don’t need a lawyer, but she does.”

  The third time he said it—to the third team of interrogators—one of the FBI agents laughed, but not unkindly. “Don’t worry, Senator Jones. She’s fine. And her recounting of the incident is as precise and detailed as yours is.”

  “Is she under arrest? Because if she’s under arrest, she’s entitled to a lawyer before you—”

  “Relax, sir. She’s not under arrest. We have no intention of arresting her. Two of our agents in the balcony witnessed the entire thing from start to finish. Her story matches what they saw. It also matches your story. And your brother’s.”

  “If she’s not under arrest, how long are you going to keep us here?” He couldn’t help the tone of command in his voice—he’d been a marine too long to break the habit.

  The two FBI agents glanced at each other, then back at Shane, and the one who appeared to be the man in charge smiled briefly. “Not much longer. We’re just waiting on the results of the ballistics and GSR tests,” he said, referring to those done on the rifle and Carly’s .22 as well as his own Beretta, and the gunshot residue tests on both shooters—Carly and the sniper—and him. His weapon hadn’t been fired, and there were plenty of witnesses to back up his story, but the FBI had to go through its complete routine—too many trials had been lost because something hadn’t been tested.

  “Has the sniper said anything?”

  “Not so far. He’s standing mute, but he hasn’t asked for a lawyer yet, which makes me hopeful. I think he’s weighing his options.”

  “Have you identified him?”

  Again the two FBI agents shared a look. “Marsh Anderson. Does the name ring a bell?” When Shane shook his head, the agent said, “Retired military. Navy SEAL. Chest full of medals, too.”

  Shane grimaced. “Damn.”

  “Yeah. This isn’t going to go over well in the press.”

  The grimace morphed into a faint smile. “I happen to know a hell of an investigative reporter who can put the right spin on the story if you want. Especially seeing as how she’s the one who took a rogue former Navy SEAL down.”

  * * *

  Carly was still shaking inside, but she was sure her interrogators would never know it from the calm way she answered their questions. And no one—not even Shane—would ever know the desperate fear that had gri
pped her when the sniper had stood, shrugged off his raincoat and pulled his rifle up in one smooth move. And she’d known in an instant it was him—the man she’d seen in Phoenix. No hat. No beard. But she’d known.

  And no one would ever know the despair that had swamped her when she’d thought she was a split second too late. When the sniper had taken aim at Shane and fired before she could pull the trigger.

  But then Shane had reached her, alive and whole, wrapping his sheltering arms around her and she could breathe again—she hadn’t been too late after all.

  This time the man she loved hadn’t died.

  * * *

  Shane, Carly and Niall were enjoying a little R & R in Niall’s condo late that night. At first Carly had wanted to go home to her town house, but Shane had reminded her they still had clothes at his brother’s place. “Besides,” he told her, “just because the hit man has been caught, doesn’t mean I’m entirely in the clear. Not until Tuesday’s vote.” Her immediate concerned reaction and insistence they return to the safety of Niall’s home had been music to his ears—Carly cared. A lot.

  Shane had made a pot of coffee for Carly, and she was curled up next to him on the sofa, sipping her favorite beverage. Every so often she rested her head against his shoulder, and every time she did that, his arm tightened around her. He would never forget those terror-filled moments this afternoon, when he thought he might not reach her in time.

  In the recliner across from them, Niall stretched his arms above his head, then rolled his shoulders as if to remove the kinks, before leaning back and saying, “I’m not sure if I should tell you...”

  Shane wasn’t really paying attention to his brother. He was looking at Carly, at the gentle sweep of her dark hair, the delicate curve of her cheek. He was thinking about how soft and warm she felt beside him, the way her breasts rose and fell with her breathing. Quietly exulting that she was alive, which meant he could go on living, too. But he replied absently, “Tell us what?”