Jane M. Choate - High-Risk Investigation

“Same goes.”

He met another S&J operative outside Scout’s office for the handoff. The agent looked over Nicco’s shoulder. “She’s heading this way.”

Scout paused, lifting her head as though sensing something. Fortunately, Nicco knew how to blend in with a crowd, and she didn’t make him.

He’d seen Scout McAdams in a dark pantsuit when he’d followed her to the courthouse where she’d gone to cover a story two days ago. Last night, he’d seen her in an evening gown. But this was the first time he’d seen her in jeans and a white T-shirt, with her hair pulled back in a simple ponytail.

She looked smaller, somehow, and younger. More fragile. He doubted she’d appreciate the description. Everything he’d learned about the reporter told him that she was independent to a fault and prided herself on being able to handle anything.

Look at how she’d reacted last night: she hadn’t fallen apart when shot at, and, in fact, had tried to comfort others. The lady was pure steel, but that didn’t mean she was invincible. He settled down to the routine of making himself invisible.

The trick was to not try too hard. Fortunately, Nicco had had years of experience blending into the background, first in the mountain villages of Afghanistan for the Rangers, and now in the far more civilized streets of his hometown.

He’d protect her, whether she knew it or not.

* * *

She was being followed.

Scout felt it as surely as she felt the early afternoon sun warm the back of her neck. She didn’t turn around to see who was tailing her. Instead of heading directly to her car as she’d intended, she walked to a coffee shop, deliberately taking her time. Every few minutes, she paused, pretending to gaze into a window. No one jumped into a doorway or suddenly pulled out a newspaper to cover his face.

At the coffee shop, she ordered her coffee, black. Fancy coffee drinks baffled her. If all you wanted was a shot of sugar, there were easier—and cheaper—ways to get it. She nursed the coffee as she made her way to her car. After she climbed inside, she took advantage of adjusting her rearview mirror to scan the sidewalk behind her.

Had she imagined it? She couldn’t detect anyone tailing her, but she couldn’t shake the feeling that she was under surveillance.

She was new to the cloak-and-dagger business. Okay. Play it cool. She kept an eye out as she drove to the docks. Either her tail was really good, or he’d peeled off.

At the docks, she parked her car and walked to the spot the caller had told her was the best vantage point to witness the goings-on of the dock in question. A quick glance around told her that she was not alone. She glanced up at workmen on scaffolding above her hiding spot as they struggled to balance a replacement panel to a warehouse that looked like it should have been condemned during the Carter administration.

The clanging of steel beams grated along her nerves; the smell—a brew of garbage and fish—had her taking shallow breaths through her mouth.

Scout remained where she was and hoped the men didn’t spot her. The grumbling and muttering coming from them told her they were fully occupied with their task and not at all concerned with her.

Still, she didn’t like the vibe she was getting. An anonymous call that Leonard Crane would be at a certain dock receiving a payoff was too good to pass up.

The docks were controlled by the mob. Organized crime had its hand in everything that passed in and out of Savannah’s port, one of the busiest in the United States. No one moved anything without it being approved by the mob bosses.

City fathers made noises about cleaning up the docks and surrounding area. Speeches were given. Raids were staged. And nothing changed. Those in charge maintained that they had done everything possible to end the corruption. And those who had their nose to the street, as Scout did, knew differently. The mob had infiltrated every area of government, from the mayor’s office to the police, making any effort to wipe out the corruption impossible.

Crane didn’t arrive at the time she’d been given. She wasn’t surprised. If he was connected to the murders, he’d be understandably cautious. The pep talk delivered, she should have felt better, but the uneasiness persisted.

The hair at the nape of her neck hackled. Warily, she looked about but didn’t see anything to cause the sensation. Despite that, she couldn’t shake the inkling of danger. Over the years, she’d learned to pay attention to such impressions.

The clank of metal against metal ratcheted up the tension building inside her as though she had a crank attached to her, tightening every nerve notch by notch.

Crane and another man showed up at that moment. From their angry gestures, they appeared to be arguing.

Abruptly, the men stopped talking and now seemed to be waiting. If she could only get closer...but she didn’t want to give away her location. A big part of a reporter’s work involved waiting and watching. In many ways, it was like a cop’s job. She had friends on the force who reported that boredom was often more deadly than any threat of gunfire.

A rumbling sound alerted her. Before she could move, muscular arms pushed her aside, and a large body fell on top of her, shielding her.

The scaffolding she’d noted earlier tumbled to the ground. If she’d been where she was only a moment ago, she’d have been crushed beneath its weight. Shock rendered her unable to function. Her mouth went dry, her limbs stiff. She couldn’t make her legs work.

Strong hands reached down to pull her to her feet. “We’ve got to stop meeting like this.”

Nicco Santonni. “You saved my life. Again.”

THREE

Nicco called the police and asked for Wagner, though he didn’t expect the detective to find anything more than he had.

Within ten minutes, Wagner showed up. After examining the scene, he shook his head. “You were right. Nothing to indicate it was anything but an accident. But you don’t think so.” He didn’t make it a question, and Nicco didn’t treat it as such.

“I don’t believe in coincidences,” he said. “First, she’s targeted last night, then a pile of scaffolding barely misses her today. You do the math.”

“I get what you’re saying, but there’s no proof that today was anything more than an accident.” Wagner held up a hand to forestall Nicco’s objections. He turned to Scout. “What do you have to say about it, Ms. McAdams?”

“I...I don’t know.” Her eyes remained cool, her expression neutral, but Nicco noted the clenching and unclenching of her hands. Fear always found an outlet, as did adrenaline.

He felt it coursing through his bloodstream as well, his heartbeat at double-time as he processed the near miss.

“What were you doing here?” Wagner asked.

“I received a tip.”

“Care to share?”

She shook her head. “Reporter’s privilege.”

Wagner scowled but didn’t press the matter. “If you—either of you—think of anything, you know where to find me.” After slanting one last glance at Scout, he took off.

Nicco was more concerned about Scout than he’d let on. Though the day was unseasonably hot, even for a Georgia summer, she shivered. Reaction. The lady had nearly been reduced to a bug-splat on the ground beneath thousands of pounds of processed wood and metal. That came on the heels of last night’s shooting. “You okay?”

“Yeah.” She brushed herself off. He watched as she pulled herself together, her shoulders squaring as though bracing for another blow. “Did you tail me here?”

He raised a brow. “What? No thank-you?”

“Sorry. My manners tend to go MIA when I’m almost killed for the second time in two days.”