In his rush to get to the airport that last morning, he’d left the postcard in Laura’s hotel room. He’d written a message in Spanish on the back of the postcard, intending to mail it to his Puerto Rican grandmother, who collected postcards from his travels. Laura had tucked it in her handbag, thinking she might use it as an excuse to connect with him again. There it had remained until after her abduction, when the U.S. State Department had shipped her belongings from Pakistan to her mother. Although her mother had given most of Laura’s belongings to charity, she’d kept the postcard, a memento of the daughter she thought she’d lost.
Now it belonged to Laura again—one of the few possessions she owned from the time before her abduction, a reminder of the life that had been hers, of an exciting weekend, of a man she wished she’d gotten to know better.
Did Javier remember her? Did he ever think of her? Never in the past two years had he tried to contact her. Surely he knew she was alive and back in the U.S. Maybe what had happened to her was too much for him. Then again, she hadn’t tried to find him either. They’d promised each other no strings, and she had honored that.
She carried her mug of warm milk into her office, sat at her desk, and reached for the phone, dialing the number from memory. As a dual Swedish-U.S. citizen, she had access to help from both the U.S. State Department and the Swedish Ministry for Foreign Affairs, but she’d opted to go through the Swedish government, believing that its more cordial relationship with Islamabad—and its more stringent privacy laws—would serve her better. It was just after eleven in the morning in Stockholm, early enough for her to catch Erik at his desk. Her call was answered on the second ring by a woman whose Swedish carried an unpleasant Skåne accent.
“Foreign Affairs.”
“Erik Berg, please.”
Her call was put through, Erik’s deep voice answering.
Laura set her mug aside, sat up straighter. “Good day, Erik. It is Laura Nilsson. How are you? How are Heidi and the girls?”
Erik loved to talk about his twin daughters, Stella and Anette. He and Heidi had tried for years to have children before turning to in vitro. Now four years old, the girls were his life, and he and Heidi were talking about trying in vitro again or adopting. “We are all doing well. What are you doing calling at this hour? It must be two in the morning.”
“I couldn’t sleep.”
“I understand. We’ve been following the story. I’m glad testifying is behind you. When is the trial expected to conclude?”
“I was the last witness. They’re making closing arguments today.” Then they’d have to wait for the jury’s verdict. After that, only the sentencing hearing would remain. “I just wanted to check in. Have you heard anything?”
“It so happens that I have good news. I’d planned to call you later today.”
Laura’s pulse skipped.
He paused for a moment, as if she needed the added drama. “Pakistani officials have finally admitted they know where Klara is. They say she’s with Al-Nassar’s wives at his brother’s compound outside Islamabad.”
Oh, thank God!
Klara was alive! They’d found her!
She fought to control the emotion in her voice. “Wh-what happens now?”
“We’re hoping to arrange a welfare check. We’ve asked to be allowed to send in representatives from the Swedish consulate along with a doctor to check on Klara’s well-being, and, if we can manage it, to collect DNA to compare with the sample you left with us. We’ve only begun negotiating the details, but I hope to have an answer within the next few weeks. I’ll forward the communiqués to you in an e-mail.”
“Many thanks. I am so happy to hear this.” She found herself smiling, tears welling in her eyes.
“You must remember that this doesn’t change anything.”
Her joy dimmed. “I understand.”
“Traditional courts are quite strict about these matters, and you, as an unmarried woman, foreign national, and non-Muslim, are in the weakest possible position. As we told you during the initial briefing, your chances of getting the ruling you want are slim to nonexistent.”
Laura heard Erik’s words but refused to accept what he was telling her. “I will do whatever it takes. I won’t give up. I can’t give up.”
If she did, she would never be whole again. And poor little Klara . . .
“Klara is as much of a victim in this as I am. I will not abandon my daughter to be raised in a den of terrorists.”
As she finished the conversation and hung up, a voice whispered in her mind.
You already did.
* * *
JAVIER RODE SHOTGUN in Nate’s Ford F-150, a load of hay bales in the back, the sun barely up, the temp fifteen below. “Are you sure the cows are going to be awake?”
Cowboy hat on his head, Nate grinned. “These are steers, not cows.”
“What’s the difference?”
Nate raised an eyebrow. “Seriously, bro? Cows are female. We breed them to grow our herd. Steers are castrated males grown for beef.”
“So first you cut off their nuts, and then you fatten them up and eat them.” That was a hell of a life. “I shouldn’t have asked.”
Nate laughed.
“You think there’s any real chance Laura Nilsson will come to this barbecue you’re having?”
Nate eyed him. “You nervous?”
“Hell, no, I’m not nervous.” Okay, so maybe he was.
“It must have been one hell of a weekend if you’re anxious to see her all these years later.”
It had been.
* * *
THE NEWS ABOUT Klara kept Laura awake for the rest of the night. She’d called her mother and grandmother, who’d shared her fragile joy. Now, groggy from lack of sleep, she arrived at the newspaper to find a handful of reporters already waiting for her. Unable to avoid them, she handled it the same way she’d handled it yesterday—ignoring their questions but giving them a quote to take back to their papers and networks.
“I have put this behind me now and am moving on with my life. I thank you all for your concern and ask that you respect my privacy.”
She walked inside with deliberate, measured steps, grateful to Gil Cormac, the paper’s lone security guard, who held the door open for her. “Thank you, Gil.”
“You’re welcome. A bunch of vultures is what they are. I don’t know why they can’t leave you in peace.” He looked past her toward the throng, a frown weighing down his round face.
“They’re just doing their jobs.” If she’d been assigned to cover this story, it would have been her job.
She made her way to the elevator and up to the newsroom on the third floor. She’d missed a day and a half of work and wanted to get organized before the I-Team meeting at nine. It was a new day, and she was determined to face it head-on no matter how tired she felt. She’d just go to bed early tonight.
She caught up on e-mail and started in on her messages. There, amid a dozen voice mails, many from reporters hoping to snare an interview with her, was yet another message from Derek Tower.
You’re not taking me seriously, Ms. Nilsson. That’s a mistake. If you don’t contact me, I’m going to find new ways to contact you.
She’d all but forgotten about him and the stunt he’d pulled with the reporter yesterday. He was trying to intimidate her, trying to manipulate her. But she couldn’t change the fact that the Pentagon and a host of U.S. contractors had lost confidence in Tower Global Security after her abduction, canceling their contracts and sending the company spiraling into bankruptcy.
Did he truly believe she was to blame for what had happened? Was it possible he knew something she didn’t, that he’d seen something in the State Department’s report that she’d missed? Had she done something she couldn’t remember, something that had put them all at risk?
No! No.
&nbs
p; She pushed the twisting thread of doubt aside and willed herself to focus on her work, putting together a list of people she needed to interview to finish her article on the long treatment delays that veterans suffering from PTSD faced at the Denver VA hospital. She couldn’t imagine what would have become of her if she’d been forced to wait so long for therapy. Her mental anguish had been every bit as unbearable as physical pain. The thought that men and women who’d served their country were being neglected like this sickened her.
She’d made a point of covering veterans’ issues since she’d come back to work. It was a small thing, she knew—little more than a gesture, really—but it was one way to thank the men who’d saved her life.
She didn’t know the names of the special operators who’d rescued her or what had become of them since that night. When the choppers had landed at the tactical operations center in Afghanistan, she’d been taken away in a military ambulance, then flown to Germany the next day to be reunited with her mother. She hadn’t seen the men again. When she’d asked for their contact information so she could thank them, she’d been told their identities and the mission were classified. Still, there wasn’t a day when she didn’t find herself thinking about them, especially the tall one.
She hadn’t been able to see his face. He’d been wearing a heavy helmet and face camouflage, night vision gear covering his eyes. But he’d saved her life, killing Zainab to protect her and carrying her to freedom. He’d even punched Al-Nassar in the face for harassing her and wrapped a blanket around her shoulders. He’d made her feel safe.
She wasn’t a religious person and didn’t go to church, but she prayed for him and his men every night, just as she prayed for Klara.
The other I-Team members began drifting in around her. Alex Carmichael, who’d been hired last month to cover cops and courts. Matt Harker, who’d held down the city beat for most of a decade. Sophie Alton-Hunter, who split the environmental beat with Navajo reporter Katherine James, each of them working half time so that they could spend more time at home with their children. Joaquin Ramirez, the photographer whose skill had earned him a Pulitzer.
She was so focused on her work she barely noticed them, their voices and conversation drifting outside the sphere of her concentration. She heard someone cough—and looked up to find them surrounding her desk, Sophie holding a bouquet of pink, yellow, and white roses.
“I was supposed to get here before you did so I could put this on your desk.” Sophie set the flowers down. “Welcome back. We’re all so glad this is behind you now. We wanted to start today out right for you.”
Laura slowly got to her feet, unable to speak, her throat tight. She took the bouquet, inhaled the bright, sweet scent of roses, and then set the vase down on her desk.
“It took a lot of guts to do what you did, Nilsson.” Alex reached out a hand, shook hers. Tall with tousled dark hair and blue eyes, he had a reputation for being relentless when on a story. He’d been arrested five times, shot, and knifed, all in the line of duty. “We’re all glad it’s behind you now.”
Matt, looking as rumpled as ever, pointed to Alex. “What Carmichael said.”
Joaquin plucked a pink rose from the bouquet and handed it to her. “You’re a hero to a lot of people out there—not just women.”
Laura took the flower and looked away, uncomfortable with their praise. “Thank you. I . . . I don’t know what to say.”
She’d never spoken of her captivity or rescue with anyone on the I-Team. She assumed they’d read the articles. The whole world seemed to know what had happened to her, apart from the most horrific, intimate details—and Klara. Only her doctors, her therapist, her mother and grandmother, the U.S. Attorney’s Office, and certain Swedish government officials knew about her daughter. If her coworkers knew, they’d quit thinking of her as a hero.
What kind of woman could trade her helpless two-month-old baby for her freedom?
Sophie beamed. “You don’t have to say anything.”
“Congratulations, Nilsson.”
Heads turned.
Tom Trent, the newspaper’s hard-boiled editor in chief, walked up beside them. A few inches over six feet, he was big and beefy and had a temper that intimidated most people, though not Laura. As much of an asshat as he could be, he seemed warm and fuzzy compared to some of the personalities she’d had to contend with in broadcast news.
He met Laura’s gaze from beneath a shock of gray curls. “Way to walk tall, Nilsson. But we’ve got a newspaper to make, and sometime today would be good. Everyone to the conference room.”
Laura got to her feet and started down the hallway, notepad and pencil in hand.
Tom held her back. “Not you, Nilsson. Some suits want to speak with you.”
And then she saw them. Two men in suits and ties.
FBI.
CHAPTER
3
JAVIER SAT ON the back deck with a bottle of stout, washing down a lunch of Jack West’s three-alarm chili with good, cold beer. The mountains rose all around him, stretching their jagged white-capped peaks toward an endless blue sky. Nearby, a herd of elk foraged in the snow, a hawk wheeling overhead.
Everything was so beautiful, so peaceful, so quiet.
He and Nate had spent the day driving hay out to snowbound cattle and seeing to the horses. Despite the near-constant ache in his thigh, it had felt good to get physical. Lifting hay bales and trudging through deep snow had gotten his heart pumping and filled his lungs with fresh mountain air. He’d felt alive again, strong. But the best part about it had been working side by side with Nate.
And still something felt . . . wrong.
Javier thrust the feeling aside, refused to let himself go there. If it hadn’t been so cold out, he’d have gone back inside to grab his guitar. He’d been playing a lot since getting wounded. Something about it cleared his mind, helped him focus, gave him an outlet for whatever was gnawing at him.
Behind him, the sliding glass door opened and closed, Nate’s boots crunching in a foot of new snowfall. He shook off a chair and sat beside Javier.
Javier looked over at him. “Nice view.”
“Thanks.” Nate grinned from behind his sunglasses, bundled in a fleece and leather barn jacket, cowboy hat still on his head. “It’s home.”
Javier could see that. Nate belonged here.
Where do you belong?
Why the hell was he asking himself that question? He already knew where he belonged. He belonged downrange with his men.
He took another swig, savoring the bitterness. “Is the fishing good around here?”
“Yeah. Cutthroat trout. Brook trout. Bass.”
“Might have to come back.”
Nate leaned his head back and tilted his hat over his eyes, a grin lurking on his face. “Door’s always open.”
Nate smiled a lot these days. It did Javier good to see him so happy.
Most of the reason for that happiness glanced at them through the sliding glass door, then opened the door a crack, a smile on her pretty face. “I thought I might find the two of you chilling somewhere together. Comfortable?”
Nate raised his head, eyeing his wife from beneath the brim of his hat. “Why don’t you come on over here, sit on my lap, and warm me up, honey?”
“Thanks, but I think I’ll stay inside where it’s warmer. Brrr!” Megan pretended to shiver. “Sophie e-mailed to ask whether she and Marc should bring some elk steaks to share tomorrow.”
“If they want to do that, it’s fine by me, but he’s still not touching the grill.”
Megan ducked back inside, laughing to herself.
Nate looked over at Javier. “Ever tried elk?”
Javier shook his head.
“My brother-in-law goes elk hunting with a crossbow every fall. It’s good eatin’—nice and lean.” Nate took a swallow of his beer. “He and McBride
brought down a five-hundred-pound cow this year. That’s what we call female elk, by the way—cows.”
“You’re not letting that go, are you?”
“Nope.”
But Javier was only half-listening, talk of the barbecue putting his mind back on Laura Nilsson. Would she come? Would she recognize him? If she did, would she be glad to see him—or would she feel blindsided?
And what will you say to her?
What could he say to the woman who’d been in his thoughts for so long?
He had no idea.
Emily, Megan’s five-year-old daughter whom Nate had adopted, stuck her blond head out the door, then disappeared inside, her high little voice drifting back to them. “Grandpa Jack, they’re not shoveling. They’re just sitting on their asses like you said.”
“Hey, old man, quit nagging!” Nate shouted toward the door, a grin on his face.
From inside, Javier could just make out Jack’s voice. “Now, Miss Emily, you know there are words that only grown-ups can say, and ass is one of them.”
Javier chuckled. “Your dad is something else.”
“Yeah, he is, and he’s teaching Emily to talk like a soldier.” Nate took another drink. “Truth is, she’s been good for him. He loves that little girl. You should have seen the pride on his face when the adoption was final and her name became Emily West. She and Megan—they’ve helped fill the emptiness my mother’s death left inside him.”
Javier could remember the day Nate’s mother had died. They’d been in Afghanistan, and Nate had gotten a call from his father. She’d passed suddenly and unexpectedly of an aneurysm. Nate never had a chance to say good-bye.