Killer Countdown (Man on a Mission) Page 7

  * * *

  “Buy American,” Shane told Carly as he retrieved his Beretta from the guard at the front door and holstered it, handed Carly her .22, then helped her on with her coat before donning his own. He turned over his valet ticket outside the Zakharian embassy, but kept a watchful eye on their environs as they waited for his car to be brought around. “That’s the first thing my political advisors insisted on when I ran for Congress. Buy American.”

  She pointed toward the pistol already tucked away. “A Beretta isn’t American made.”

  “No, but it’s standard issue for the US Marine Corps, and I’m familiar with it. I do own a Smith & Wesson I inherited from my dad—I just prefer the Beretta I’m used to. I figure if the Corps uses it, the public can’t complain.” He smiled. “Besides, a gun isn’t in the public eye the way a car is. So I used the ‘Buy American’ dictum as an excuse to buy my dream car—a Mustang GT.”

  “What had you been driving?”

  He laughed. “A Toyota Corolla. I’d wanted a Mustang ever since I was a kid. But for one reason or another, I’d always driven practical cars, even before I was married.”

  He stopped abruptly. He hadn’t talked about his deceased wife in years. At first he hadn’t mentioned Wendy’s name because it made his friends uncomfortable—they didn’t know what to say to him. Then it had gotten to be a habit. Not that he didn’t think about her. He did. Especially on certain days, such as her birthday, their anniversary and the anniversary of the day she’d been murdered. And at Christmastime. He always thought of Wendy at Christmas.

  “Her name was Wendy, wasn’t it?” Carly asked. “What was she like?”

  Their eyes met, and Shane knew the question wasn’t just idle curiosity on Carly’s part—she really wanted to know. He automatically turned his gaze back to the street, on the alert for any betraying movement while he thought about what to tell her. “She was special to me. To everyone who knew her, really. We were high school sweethearts—stereotypical, I know. I joined the Corps out of high school while Wendy went to college. And when I realized I wanted to make the Corps my career, she supported my decision, even though she was scared to death whenever I was deployed. We were married the day after I graduated from OCS. That’s—”

  “Officer Candidates School,” Carly finished for him. “Yes, I know.”

  He glanced at her, then focused on the street again. “It’s funny,” he said. “Wendy was always worried about me, but I was never injured in combat. All the theaters of war I served in, and not a single scratch. But Wendy...” He trailed off.

  “I know what happened, Shane,” Carly said softly. “You don’t have to tell me.”

  A pang went through him as it always did when he remembered the details. When he remembered having to identify his wife’s mutilated corpse. “She was seven months pregnant,” he rasped. “What kind of twisted monsters kidnap a pregnant woman, then use her to send a political message?”

  “Subhumans,” she stated. “Not sick. Not twisted. Not even men. Just subhuman.”

  That’s the perfect word for them, Shane thought. Subhuman. He’d tracked down Wendy’s murderers—a terrorist cell operating from Belgium. He’d wanted so badly to take them down himself, to avenge Wendy and their unborn son by wiping their murderers from the face of the earth. But he hadn’t been able to do it. Some spark of humanity had remained, and he’d called in the Belgian army instead.

  But he hadn’t shed a tear when the terrorists had blown themselves up rather than be captured.

  Shane was relieved when he saw his black Mustang pull up in front of the embassy. Not that he was in a hurry for his evening with Carly to end, but because he really didn’t want to think about Wendy anymore tonight.

  He’d been involved with a few women in the fifteen years since Wendy’s death. But none who touched his emotions the way Carly did. He’d gone from admiration—and, okay, lust—to anger at how careless she was with her safety in the blink of an eye. Then the pendulum had swung back to admiration and—yeah, yeah, yeah—lust again. She was a complex woman with more facets than a diamond, and he wanted to delve beneath the surface to discover what kind of woman she was at heart.

  Tonight when she’d opened the door to her town house, he’d been blown away at how beautiful she was in that shimmering blue dress, and all he’d wanted to do was take it off her. Okay, rip it off her, but he’d settle for unzipping it and gently sliding it from her body. A body that was a challenge he wasn’t strong enough to resist. And yet, she didn’t seem to have any idea how much he wanted her.

  He automatically took Carly’s arm and guided her down the stairs, a gesture that wasn’t strictly necessary since the embassy stairway and the sidewalk in front of it had been meticulously cleaned of every vestige of snow and ice. But he’d had his manners drummed into him by his parents, who’d taught him a gentleman always helped a lady. Always. Old-fashioned? Yeah. Condescending toward women, who could manage for themselves in this day and age? Not at all.

  Shane had quickly learned in the Marine Corps that his father’s attitude toward women was outdated and sexist. He’d served alongside women who deserved—and got—respect from him. And when his baby sister, Keira, had joined the Corps when she turned eighteen, as all four of her older brothers had done, he’d adjusted the way he thought of her, too.

  But respect was one thing. Courtesy was another. Just as he used sir and ma’am when addressing the older generation, he would continue to treat his date with the courtesy she deserved—including taking her arm in any situation where she might conceivably need his assistance.

  Shane accepted the Mustang’s keys from the valet and slipped him a generous tip, then superseded him when the man would have opened the passenger door for Carly. “I’ve got this,” he told the valet.

  He didn’t make a big deal out of it, just made sure Carly was comfortably seated before closing the door and walking around the front toward the driver’s side. Then he stopped abruptly when he saw something that shouldn’t be there. “Son of a bitch,” he whispered under his breath, completely forgetting to place a curb on his tongue. His body was already moving back to the passenger side, tugging Carly out of the seat and away from the Mustang without conscious thought. “Clear the street if you can,” he barked at the two valets who approached him. “And if you can’t, keep everyone away from the car. I think it’s wired to explode.”

  “Shane, what—” Carly began breathlessly as he hustled her back up the stairs and into the embassy.

  “I’ll tell you in a minute,” he assured her. To the guards on the door he said, “Call the DC police and the FBI. Tell them to send the bomb squad. And don’t let anyone leave the embassy until they get here.” Such was Shane’s air of command that one of the guards immediately turned to the nearest phone to do his bidding. Shane quickly explained to the other guard, “If I’m right, my car has been wired with explosives. I don’t know if it’s rigged to explode at a certain time or if it’s radio controlled, but either way it’s a threat to anyone out there. Can you see if the embassy can somehow cordon off the street until the police and FBI get here?”

  * * *

  Marsh hadn’t hung around when he saw his targets slip through his fingers. He hadn’t been prepared for the senator’s sudden suspicion and quick reaction. By the time he grabbed the remote control device on the seat next to him, the senator and the reporter were already near the top of the embassy stairs—too late to set off the bomb with any certainty of killing them. Marsh had cursed under his breath, then hightailed it out of the vicinity.

  He didn’t waste time bemoaning fate. He didn’t believe in it. Fate was an excuse used by lesser men for inadequate preparation or improper execution. As he drove, Marsh mercilessly analyzed his actions tonight, from start to finish, and came to the conclusion that his preparation had been flawless. Which meant his mistake was in execu
tion. Something had set off alarm bells in the senator’s head this time, same as last time.

  A flash of admiration for the other man’s instincts in no way mitigated Marsh’s determination that next time he would succeed in killing his targets. Hopefully the man on the inside would be able to tell Marsh exactly how he’d screwed up. This was twice now that Marsh had underestimated the senator. He wouldn’t make that mistake again.

  * * *

  It was after two in the morning before Carly’s FBI and ATF interrogators reluctantly agreed with her assertion that she’d told them everything she knew—which wasn’t much—and she’d be happy to continue if she wasn’t falling asleep. Which she was. Twice now she’d ignored the agents in the interrogation room with her and had put her head down on the table for a five-minute catnap.

  She hadn’t gotten much sleep the previous night. And though she’d accepted Shane’s invitation to the reception at the Zakharian embassy, the gala affair was to have ended at ten. Which meant Carly would have been asleep by eleven at the latest. Unless you brought Shane home with you, a tiny corner of her mind reminded her. But she had no intention of telling the FBI and ATF agents that.

  “We must ask you to keep what you know to yourself, Ms. Edwards,” one of the men said. “This is an ongoing investigation.”

  Carly shook her head. “Not going to happen. You can’t muzzle the press. But,” she added, when one of the men looked as if he was going to argue—and she was too tired to argue—”I don’t know anything. So you don’t have to worry.” Which is true, she reminded herself. I don’t even know what Shane saw that tipped him off to the bomb. And there had been a bomb. Her interrogators had refused to say yes or no, but the participation of the ATF agents in the interview was a dead giveaway.

  The reminder of Shane and how long the questioning had gone on made her worry about him. He’d already had one seizure in her town house—what if it happened again?

  She stood, shrugged into her coat and tucked her evening bag under her arm. “I must ask you to return my gun. I have a valid carry permit, and my gun is in no way evidence in this investigation.”

  “No problem,” one of the FBI agents told her. “You can pick it up as you leave.”

  She nodded. “Okay. Can someone call a cab for me? I went to the embassy with the senator, and—”

  The agents looked at each other. “Someone will drive you home, Ms. Edwards. We appreciate your cooperation. We’ll be in touch if we have any more questions.”

  * * *

  Shane glanced at his watch. He’d been here for nearly four hours, and for the last two he’d done nothing but repeat the same facts he’d already recounted during the first two. Endlessly. The FBI and ATF agents had been deferential—he was a US senator, after all—but their questions had changed slightly with each round, as if they were trying to trip him up somehow. It would almost have been funny—if he wasn’t so damned tired. If he wasn’t worrying about Carly. If he wasn’t feeling so guilty for having put her through this again—the same kind of monotonous and probably just as pointless interrogation they’d both gone through after the assassination attempt in Arizona.

  “We’re done here, gentlemen,” he said now, standing abruptly. He picked up his tuxedo jacket, which he’d hung on the back of his chair a few hours ago, and shrugged it on. Then he retrieved his overcoat from the chair beside him. “I’ve answered your questions to the best of my ability. I have nothing more to offer. I don’t know who’s trying to kill me, or why. Do I have enemies? Professionally, maybe, but none that I’m aware of. And no enemies in my personal life, as far as I know. As for tonight’s incident, if you’re thinking it was some kind of publicity stunt—think again. I don’t operate that way. I never have.”

  The four agents in the room glanced at each other, then back at Shane. “Why would you bring that up, Senator?” the lead FBI agent asked in silky tones.

  Shane smiled cynically. “I can read between the lines. All I can say is it happened, whether you believe it or not. All I can tell you is what I’ve said a dozen times already—the car was speckled with dried slush from the streets...except for that tiny patch on the panel below the driver’s side door, which had been smudged. The light from the streetlamp just happened to hit it at an angle where I could see it when I came around the corner of the car.”

  “The valet could have touched that spot with his leg when he got in or out of the car.”

  Shane shook his head. “It wasn’t that kind of a smudge. This was dried dirt. There was no reason for that area to be smudged when the rest of the car was still clearly speckled, unless someone had grasped the panel. I can’t tell you how I knew in that instant my car had been tampered with, I just did. That’s the only conscious thought I had. And I knew I had to get Ms. Edwards out of the car and far away from it as soon as possible.”

  Shane fought off a wave of tiredness, praying he wouldn’t experience a seizure in front of these FBI and ATF agents. It wasn’t likely—he rarely had more than one a day, and he’d already had one in Carly’s town house this evening. Could he hide the symptoms? Hell yeah, he’d been doing it for months. Still...it was a concern. Even though he’d already given Carly the interview this afternoon—which would have aired tonight—he wasn’t about to let strangers see him as anything less than perfectly healthy. Especially men who were already suspicious of him for God knew what reason.

  The reminder of Carly made him ask, “Has Ms. Edwards been released yet? I’m responsible for her, and I need to make sure she gets home safely.”

  “We’ll check, Senator,” one of the agents replied before he headed out of the room. He returned a minute later. “She’s just leaving now—signing for the release of her weapon. One of our agents will be driving her home. Did you—”

  Shane interrupted him. “I want to talk with her. And I need my Beretta back, too.”

  * * *

  Carly turned and saw Shane approaching. And despite being so sleepy she could barely keep her eyes open, warmth suffused her at the expression in his eyes. An expression that conveyed how worried he’d been on her behalf. Worry that was only partially lessened by seeing her. Something about that protective attitude appealed to her far more than she’d ever thought it would.

  Long before her parents died when she was seventeen, Carly had always been the one doing the protecting. Looking out for her little sister, Tahra. Fighting battles for every underdog who came into her orbit. Standing up to bullies. Challenging the status quo when that meant someone else’s suffering.

  After her parents died and Carly assumed sole responsibility for Tahra, she’d only grown more protective of her sister...and everyone she knew. Which was one of the reasons she’d blamed herself for Jack’s death—how many times had she told herself she should have been on the lookout for the warning signs?

  Carly had never stopped to think that protection was a two-way street. That in a strong, healthy relationship, both parties should have each other’s back. No one had looked out for Carly in so long she’d forgotten what it felt like.

  And what it felt like with Shane was incredibly...comforting.

  “You okay?” he asked softly as he came up to her.

  “Fine,” she answered automatically. Then amended, “Tired. Really, really tired.”

  “Yeah, me, too.” He grinned suddenly. “Want to blow this hotdog stand?”

  That idiomatic expression from her childhood made her laugh, and she responded in kind with a phrase her father had often used. “I’ll give you a bright, shiny nickel to get me out of here.”

  “Deal,” he said promptly. “Let’s get a cab.”

  “The FBI offered me a ride home.”

  “That’s more than they offered me.” He let his gaze slide over her, and teased, “Maybe I should have worn blue.”

  She laughed again, wanting to hug him for
making her see the humor in an otherwise tense and trying situation, and her eyes twinkled at him. “Maybe you should have.”

  He shook his head with mock regret. “Nah, I can’t compete with you in the evening dress portion of the competition.” His lips twitched as if he were holding back a smile. “And I doubt I’d be able to win the swimsuit competition, either.”

  Carly caught her breath, because suddenly the expression in Shane’s eyes changed from teasing to something else. Something hot. Something tempting. Heat flashed between them, and her knees did that little wobbly thing she’d already noticed he could engender in her without half trying.

  “Take me home, Shane,” she whispered, her eyes answering yes! to the question his eyes were asking. “Please.”

  * * *

  Carly fell asleep in the cab on the way home. Shane cradled her against his shoulder, enjoying the simple pleasure of having her in his arms, even in such a chaste way. It was obvious she’d invited him home because she wanted him the way he wanted her. Because desire flared between them with only a look. A touch. But the only sleeping done tonight would be sleeping. And strangely enough, he didn’t mind. He’d forgotten how good it felt to hold a woman when the ultimate goal wasn’t sex. When the ultimate goal was merely...holding her.

  He breathed deeply, luxuriating in the soft, delicate scent of Carly’s hair, her skin. And he smiled to himself at the slightly wistful expression on her face in repose. Carly liked to think of herself as invulnerable, and maybe she was. But not when she was sleeping.

  When they arrived at Carly’s town house, he was torn between waking her and carrying her. He could carry her...she was tall for a woman, but she didn’t weigh all that much, despite the voluptuousness of her body that she usually tried to disguise. But carrying her on a sidewalk that might be icy held its own risks. And besides, he’d still have to wake her once they got to her front door.