Читать книгу Protection Detail - Julie Miller - Страница 11

Chapter Two

Why had she reached for Thomas’s hand?

Jane scooted the au gratin potatoes around in their dish, wondering if she could stomach another bite to justify ordering the special side with her barbecue brisket. At least she’d had the good sense to pass on the dessert that everyone else at the table had ordered.

She’d turned her hand into Thomas’s this afternoon because she was a frightened fool who’d dealt with the past three years on her own for so long that clinging to the strength and compassion he’d offered had given her a rare respite, and the first taste of normal relations with a man she’d known since her life had been turned so completely upside down that it wasn’t her own anymore.

But normal wasn’t truly an option for her since she’d been put into WITSEC and transferred to Kansas City. Until the man who’d murdered her federal agent husband—and believed he’d murdered her, too—could be captured and she could finally testify against what she’d witnessed that horrible night her home had been invaded and Freddie had been taken from her, she needed to remain unattached, alert, able to stand on her own two feet. She had to be strong enough to stand alone.

Most of the time, she was. Her training as a critical-care nurse required her to be able to make quick decisions and handle problems that arose on her own. She no longer worked in a hospital setting as she had back in DC, but her new career as a private nurse demanded she function independently—that she rely on her own experience and skill set to deal with whatever her patient needed. She kept contact with coworkers to a minimum, and with friends even less. She wasn’t going to risk the man who carved up her husband finding her through even a casual conversation or picture that could end up posted online. She was already on emotional thin ice by developing a bond with Seamus. He reminded her so much of her own grandfather that she knew she hadn’t kept herself as professionally distant as she should, and that gave her a weakness, leverage that sociopath wouldn’t hesitate to use against her if he ever found her. It would be far too easy to lean against a man like Thomas and surrender to his strength and authority. Once she did that, however, she’d be completely vulnerable. Easy prey for the stalking skills her husband’s killer possessed.

She couldn’t drop her guard like that again. Ever. No matter how the fear and loneliness wore her down.

She’d have to be more careful. Jane slipped a glance over at the tall, powerfully built man sitting across the table from her, forcing herself to take another bite of the cold potatoes when she saw him watching her, his eyes narrowed with an unspoken question. Thomas Watson seemed gentle and unassuming at first, a mature man at ease in his own skin—a police officer, former military man and single father used to command, used to taking action and fixing problems, even if they weren’t his own.

That man had eyes in the back of his head. Or ESP. Or the training to read people and know when something was off, just as her late husband had when he’d worked with the violent crimes unit at the FBI. She curled her fingers into her palm beneath the table, remembering how the simple touch of his hand had grounded her, calmed her for a few precious seconds. Thomas generated the kind of heat she hadn’t felt since that last morning she and Fred had embraced and each had gone off to their respective jobs in Washington, DC. She missed that kind of contact—a hug, holding hands, a kiss. But she couldn’t give in to that kind of need anymore. She had to stay strong. She had to survive. She owed Freddie that much.

Even as Thomas ordered four decaf coffees from the waitress, his moss-colored eyes managed to make contact with hers, silently asking for the umpteenth time if anything was wrong. Jane gave up the pretense of having any appetite and set down her fork.

Fortunately, they had the buffer of Millie’s chatting and Seamus’s determined responses to keep Thomas from following up with any more pointed questions about the messages she’d been receiving. Some of the calls were friendly checkups from one of her husband’s friends at the Bureau back in Washington, DC. Levi Hunt wasn’t supposed to know where she’d relocated after leaving DC. She supposed he had the reputation as a skilled investigator for a reason. And as a member of her husband’s former violent crimes team, he felt personally responsible for making sure she was okay. But her goal had been to leave that whole life, and the dreadful night it had ended, behind her. The fact that he was able to contact her might mean others from that period in her life—when she’d been Fred Davis’s wife—would try to contact her, too. More of the messages had been routine checkups from the one man who was supposed to know about her new life in Kansas City.

And it was that last text from Conor Wildman that had her delicious barbecue dinner sitting like a rock in her stomach. Had something broken on the investigation? Had her new identity been compromised? Had the killer left another victim with a badge carved in his chest?

At your old house. Come see me. Urgent.

She’d texted back when she’d left the hospital and gotten into the back seat of Thomas’s crew cab truck. With the family. At work. Can’t get away.

Conor had been quick to answer. He’s surfaced. Can’t go into detail on phone. Must meet.

WITSEC had a code word and a visual signal to alert her to a sighting of a man matching the suspect’s description near her location. Then there was an escape protocol in place. Since Marshal Wildman hadn’t used the coded alert in his text, that meant she wasn’t in imminent danger of being discovered. Typically, she’d been taught to lie low and not draw any attention to herself, even when there was a new development on the case. The whole idea behind witness protection was for her to disappear off the world’s radar. But words like urgent and must meet indicated the threat level had increased for some reason. That meant she needed to be more on guard, too. But against what? Who?

A deep-pitched laugh from Seamus pulled Jane from her troubling thoughts. He held up a forkful of cobbler and toasted Millie. “Not as good as yours. But good.”

Millie’s cheeks turned a deep shade of pink as he stuffed the peach cobbler into his mouth. Jane felt the beginnings of a smile relax the strain around her mouth. Her patient was an unapologetic flirt. When he was feeling good. When he wasn’t—either physically or mentally—Seamus could be a pain in the behind. And dear, sweet Millie—she ate up the attention when offered, and didn’t put up with any guff from Seamus when it wasn’t. One trait she’d noticed about all of the Watson family: the strength of their commitment—to the people they loved, to a cause they believed in. She believed that, despite his age, given enough time, Seamus would make a significant recovery. Some of the damage the bullet and stroke had done to his brain would never heal, but eventually he’d be able to live independently, and he’d have a good quality of life.

She was certain Thomas would see to it.

Personality-wise, father and son couldn’t be more different. While Seamus liked to tease, Thomas was as serious as a heart attack. She supposed some women might describe him as stodgy or maybe even boring, compared with his outgoing dad. But she couldn’t imagine anything more attractive than a man who put his family first, a man who was rock solid in his strength and demeanor, a man who noticed much, said little, did whatever needed to be done without much of a fuss. Such masculine traits. Maybe that’s what she found most attractive about Detective Lieutenant Thomas Watson—despite a few shots of silver in his close-cropped hair, there was no mistaking that he was anything but a seasoned, savvy, sexy man.

All the more reason not to give in to the temptation of sharing her secrets with her employer. He wasn’t hers to lean on. Seamus needed him. His family needed him. Kansas City needed him. She couldn’t.

The sun had set and the lights had come on in the parking lot by the time they’d finished their coffee and Thomas had paid the bill. She noticed how Thomas’s limp was more pronounced at the end of the day as he strode across the parking lot to retrieve his pickup truck. Not for the first time, she wondered what injury he’d sustained to leave him with that chronic pain she sometimes saw on his face, but he never once complained about. She wondered what medicine and treatments he used to combat the pain, or if he even did more than simply tough it out.

Not your problem. He’s not your patient.

Concern for her boss wasn’t allowed. Concern implied caring. Involvement. Maintaining a professional working relationship and keeping her personal distance meant no concern, no magnetic draw to body heat and strength, and no hand-holding. Period.

Focusing her attention on the man she was supposed to be taking care of, Jane walked with Millie beside Seamus to the edge of the parking lot and waited. While Millie sat on a nearby bench and Seamus braced himself against his walker and stretched out some of the kinks in his shoulders and back, Jane scanned the parking lot.

So the nameless killer known to the FBI simply as Badge Man for the emblem he carved into the chest of each of his victims had surfaced. Where? How? The profile on him said he shadowed his victims, mostly law enforcement professionals or collateral damage as she’d nearly been. He’d watch for days, weeks even, as if he were a cop on a stakeout. Then he’d up his game like he had with Freddie, inserting himself into their lives to learn more about them, playing a dangerous game of cat and mouse—finally cornering his targets like prey, forcing them to either run or fight before he collected them, killed them and left his mark on them.

Was he watching her right now? Following her? Jane couldn’t stop the shiver that raised goose bumps across her skin, even on this warm September night. If Conor Wildman suspected the killer was on her trail, he’d have alerted her with the code word and she’d already be gone. She’d had the extraction scenario drilled into her time and time again. He’d call or text her the code word. She’d drop everything instantly and either make her way to the appointed safe house or he’d pick her up and move her to a secure location outside the city. But Badge Man must be somewhere in the country watching, tracking, toying with his next intended victim.

The restaurant near Union Station was immensely popular. There was a rehearsal dinner going on outside on the patio behind them, with clinking glasses and cutlery, loud laughter and enough overlapping conversations to make talking to Millie and Seamus difficult. So Jane stood silently beside the bench, studying the parking lot for any signs of something or someone out of place. The cars in the lot were parked close together, as the business tried to fit as many customers into the fixed space between the railroad tracks and remodeled old buildings as possible. The cars were packed tightly enough that it was difficult to see between them. Plus, the decorative train signal lights overhead cast impenetrable shadows that masked the traffic beyond the second row of vehicles.

Her late husband had taught her to always be aware of her surroundings. It was safety rule number one for living in a metropolitan area as heavily populated as DC. Of course, she hadn’t counted on the threat coming right into her own home. Since Freddie’s death, she’d gotten into tip-top physical shape, taken self-defense courses and become hypervigilant to the dangers that lurked out there in the world.

That’s why she was frowning at the noise of squealing tires and the smell of burned rubber wafting across the parking lot as Thomas pulled his truck up in front of the sidewalk. But she couldn’t pinpoint the source at this distance through all the cars and shadows.

Thomas had noticed something suspicious, too. When he climbed out of his truck on the side away from the curb, he was slow to close the door. He turned his head to the right and to the left before heading toward the back of the truck. Seamus had noticed something, too. He’d gone over to stand with his hand on Millie’s shoulder.

“What is it?” Millie asked.

Urgent. Conor’s text had been trying to warn her. No! Danger wasn’t supposed to find her here.

A powerful engine revved and a beat-up white van raced out of the shadows, barreling straight toward the truck.

“Thomas!” Seamus shouted.

“Look out!” Jane ran toward Thomas. He was standing right in the van’s path. “Move!”

“Everybody back!” Thomas snapped his arm around her waist as she reached for him. “Get down!”

Thomas lifted her off her feet and dived for the sidewalk. Jane caught a brief glimpse of an open passenger-side window and several small flashes of light a split second before she heard an explosion of gunshots. Thomas grunted against her ear and they were falling, rolling. The points of her knee and elbow burned as she hit concrete. She heard people screaming. Maybe she was one of them. She slammed into Thomas’s chest when he came to an abrupt stop against the curb.

Then he was on his feet, pulling his gun, running after the car in his awkward, rolling gait. “KCPD! Stop the vehicle!”

He fired one shot, but the van skidded around the corner of the building into the street and sped away into the night.

Shouts of panic and crashes of dishes and furniture echoed in her ears as Jane pushed to her feet. Ignoring her own voice of panic screaming inside her head, she stumbled over the fallen walker and hurried to the bench where Seamus had collapsed on top of Millie. “Are you two all right?” She touched Seamus’s shoulder. Had he fallen? Had he been shot? Freddie’s killer had tormented him for weeks before the home invasion, threatening the people around him. Threatening her. “Seamus?”

“I’m all right.” He leaned heavily against her as she helped him turn and sit on the bench beside Millie. “We’re all right.”

Jane swept her gaze over them both to confirm his claim. “Millie?”

“It’s happening again, isn’t it? Why does someone want to hurt this family?” She sobbed once, but quickly pinched her nose and held off the threat of tears. Seamus pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and pushed it into her fingers. “I’m all right. I don’t understand, but I’m all right.” She pushed to her feet and swayed. “Where’s Thomas?”

“Millie?” Jane caught the older woman by the arm and urged her to sit before she fainted.

“Thomas?”

“I’m right here.” Jane turned at the deep voice behind her. His chest and shoulders expanding with deep breaths, Thomas strode up to them, pulling his badge off his belt as he stuffed his phone into his pocket. “Are they okay?”

“Yes. Frightened out of their minds. Millie is a little shocky, but no one was hurt.”

“Good.” He held his badge over his head and shouted to the crowd. “I’m KCPD. Detective Lieutenant Watson. I need it quiet.”

Except for a few lingering whimpers, everyone in the doorway or on the patio stopped talking to listen. Even Jane’s panic stopped. For a split second.

“I’ve already called the incident in. Officers are on their way. Is anyone hurt?”

There was a smattering of conversations as friends and family checked in with each other, but then the group quieted again. Thank goodness. No one had been shot.

“That’s good. I need everybody to take a seat.” While chairs were righted and people got up off the ground where they’d taken cover, Thomas spoke to one of the waiters. “I need everyone to stay put inside the restaurant, as well. Let me know ASAP if anyone in there is injured. And I need to talk to your manager.”

While the young man hurried inside to do Thomas’s bidding, Jane turned to inspect Millie again. She caught the older woman’s wrist and timed her pulse. Her heart was still racing, or maybe that was her own, but Millie’s color was better. Jane picked up Seamus’s walker and set it in front of him. She appealed to the cop in him. “I need you to make sure she stays seated. She’s a little light-headed and I don’t want her to pass out. Can you do that for me?” He took Millie’s hand and nodded. She wanted him to stay put, too, so he wouldn’t fall and injure himself, either. “I’m going to check around to see if anyone needs medical attention.”

She barely had time to finish her sentence when a strong hand clamped around her arm and pulled her away. “What are you...? Thomas.”

Without releasing her, he backed her against the door of his truck, his broad shoulders blocking out the lights and chatter of the restaurant behind him. “What the hell were you doing, running into the path of that van? I told you to stay back.”

“He was going to run you over!” She tugged her arm free of his grip and pushed him back a step. Into the light. Where she saw the red streak of blood seeping into the forearm of his soiled shirt. “You’ve been shot.” She unbuttoned his cuff and gently pushed the plaid chambray up his arm to inspect the graze across his skin. It wouldn’t need stitches, but it could still get infected if the wound wasn’t treated. The cloth at his elbow was torn and bloody, too, indicating he’d scraped up a chunk of skin when they’d hit the concrete. “I’m so sorry you got hurt. I never meant—”

As she turned the wounds into the light, their heated words topped each other’s. “You could have been run down. You could have been shot. When I give you an order, I expect you to—”

“Screw your order. I won’t let anyone else get hurt. He was after me.”

“—do what I say and stay safe. He was after me.”

Jane froze as they blurted the exact same words. She tipped her chin up to see the shocked look in his eyes that she imagined mirrored her own.

Of course. Duh. She’d overreacted. She’d nearly given her secret away.

This could have been a random drive-by shooting.

Anyone in this crowded restaurant could have been the target.

Tragic as any senseless violence might be, Freddie’s killer hadn’t found her. This incident wasn’t part of his sick game.

She covered the slip of the tongue induced by panic by falling back on the thing she did best. Healing people. She spun around to open the truck door and pull out the first-aid kit from the glove compartment. She opened the contents on the seat and ripped open a couple of gauze pads, buying herself a few seconds to regain her composure. Her voice sounded surprisingly normal when she turned back to press the gauze against Thomas’s open wound. “I’ll need to debride that gash on your elbow before infection sets in. But I’m more concerned about the blood loss with this graze. Millie’s right. This could be related to the shooting at your daughter’s wedding. Or could it be related to one of the cases you’re working? I know you’ve been consulting—”

“I’m a cop. Bad guys don’t like me.” Thomas spread his fingers over hers, stopping her work. He dipped his head to put his face in front of hers and demand she look him in the eye. “But why would someone want to hurt you?”