Pamela Clare - Striking Distance

“Let’s load your shit in the truck and get you up to the ranch.” Nate reached for Javier’s duffel, but something on the television caught his eye.

Javier followed his gaze.

The recycled news footage of Laura again.

“I wish the media would leave her the hell alone,” Nate grumbled, slinging the duffel over his shoulder. “She’s been through enough.”

“You got that right.” Javier wanted to say more but couldn’t.

No one who wasn’t part of that op would ever know that Javier had been the one to find and recover her. OPSEC—operational security—was just a part of his job. He didn’t talk about his missions with anyone who hadn’t also been a part of them.

“She works at the Denver Independent with Megan’s sister-in-law, Sophie. We’re having a barbecue this weekend to introduce you to some of our friends, and we’ve invited her. She mostly keeps to herself, but we’re hoping she’ll show.”

Laura Nilsson? At Nate’s ranch?

¡Anda pal carajo! Holy shit!

Javier stared after Nate for a moment, then grabbed his guitar and, ignoring the ache in his thigh, followed him out into the chilly morning.

HANDS CLASPED IN her lap to stop them from shaking, Laura did her best to hold herself together. No matter that the queasiness in her stomach had become a sharp ache or that she’d dissolved into tears twice or that she couldn’t stop shaking. She’d come here to bear witness to Al-Nassar’s crimes against her, to stand up to his cruelty, to make certain that he went to prison for the rest of his life.

She’d made it through two hours of grueling testimony so far, her secret still intact, her composure less so. She’d tried to prepare herself emotionally to see Al-Nassar’s face again, to feel his gaze on her, to hear his voice. But what she hadn’t prepared for—what she hadn’t even known to prepare for—was her body’s response. She could almost feel his hands on her, smell his breath, hear his heavy breathing as he used her, violated her, hurt her. It left her feeling sick.

“When the special operator opened the door to your room and began speaking American English, you did not reveal yourself to him and tell him you were a prisoner. Instead, you remained covered with the burka and kept silent. Why is that?”

Laura had struggled to understand this herself. How could she explain to anyone who hadn’t endured captivity what it was like to lose one’s identity?

“When I recognized that the language they were speaking was American English, I felt terrified. I didn’t know why I was afraid. But I think now that hearing their words made me aware again that I was a captive. It was like waking up to discover that what you thought was only a bad dream was actually real. It took time for me to understand what was happening and find the words to speak out.”

“So after months of wanting desperately to escape, you waited till the last possible second to reveal yourself?”

Marie had warned her the defense might take the position that Laura had actually wanted to stay in the compound and had told Laura not to let it rattle her. It was nothing more than a bid to undermine the jury’s sympathy for her.

“I didn’t wait . It just took time for me to comprehend what was happening.”

“I see.” The defense attorney shrugged. “Is it possible that you delayed revealing yourself for so long because you took your marriage to the defendant seriously and wanted to remain with—what did you call his other wives?—your ‘sisters’?”

U.S. Attorney Robert Black stood as if to object, but Laura cut him off.

“No! Absolutely not. I was never that man’s wife ! He kidnapped me, raped me, brutalized me. You want to know why I didn’t run straight to the SEALs and beg them to rescue me? I’d been living in terror for so long that I barely knew my own name!”

The courtroom was silent.

Throat tight, tears pricking her eyes, Laura fought to rein in her emotion.

The defense attorney seemed to study her for a moment, what might have been regret in his eyes, then turned to the magistrate. “No further questions, Your Honor.”

“You may step down, Ms. Nilsson.”

It was over. Finally, it was over.

Thank God!

Laura had just gotten to her feet when Al-Nassar began to shout at her in English.

“I am in chains, but I shall be free in Paradise, while you will always live in fear. You will never be safe, nor will anyone you love. I curse you and call upon the Faithful, all who walk the righteous path, to seek to kill you and all—”

The magistrate cut him off. “Counsel, silence your client before I hold him in contempt! Bailiff, remove this man from the courtroom!”

Bailiffs rushed forward, took Al-Nassar, and began to drag him from the room.

But something inside Laura snapped.

She shouted Al-Nassar down, her fury incandescent. “You are evil, nothing but a murderer, an animal who abused me and tried to steal my life! The moment I walk from this room, I’ll be free. Before the door to your prison cell has closed behind you, I’ll have forgotten your name.”

It was only later, after she’d spent ten minutes throwing up in the bathroom, that it struck her.

Al-Nassar had commanded his followers to hunt her down—and kill her.

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?”