An Eye for Danger (51 page)

"Still stirring his coffee," noted Sam. "Meditative. He's getting into his zone. Shoes are covered in mud, so he's actually been on shift a while. Middle of third watch, the night shift, I suspect. Tuckered is right. And what's he got going on right now? His break, that's what. A little peace, a little silence. He's earned it. We're in his territory, his joint. And he doesn't want to be disturbed."

"So."

"So, that's your answer, Miss Journalist. Let him be, and he'll let you be. If he was looking for a perp, he wouldn't buy a three-dollar paper. He's gonna read that sucker front to back. Get his money's worth. He works hard dealing with assholes all day long and gets shit for pay or respect. And right now he's got just enough energy to focus on one thing. And it ain't you. Men don't multitask well. Not even cops."

"He scanned everyone in the room when he came in," I said.

"Sure, and most waved back. Noting the old crowd from the new, that's normal. Any local would do that. But he's not jumping up to ask for your ID just because you're a stranger. Most cops are looking for the top ten percent of offenders. Not newlyweds digging into a stack of flapjacks." Sam squeezed me closer, and I basked in the fantasy that we were on an actual date.

"I thought I could only understand people through a camera lens." I watched as Sam's eyes discreetly covered the room, and I touched his cheek. "You make me see the world so clearly." I leaned in, nuzzled his fresh-shaved cheek. "You're my hero. But you know that, don't you."

The moment caught him off guard, and he blushed with a nervous grunt. Sam never took compliments well, and I'd noted how deeply mine could cut him.

He stroked my arm with his thumb. Why did my world have to be so cruel?

"Stay here," he whispered. Then he crossed the room, circumventing the deputy, who never looked up to see the wind direction shift as Sam breezed through the exit.

Suddenly, I was alone. With an exuberant waitress.

"Fresh pot." Her full carafe sloshed hot coffee as she barreled toward me and poured two cupfuls as her multiple rings twinkled under the light. "Bet you're heading north on your honeymoon." Before I could answer, her head started dancing up and down. "Doing Niagara Falls, I know. Did that with my third husband, Rick. Of course, he took off a month later." She leaned nearer. "That man could do things with his lips you'd have to pay me to divulge. God, that was the best month of my life. Never regretted ol' Rick." She winked at me. "Just don't go jumping over the falls in one of them wooden barrels. Kinda spoils the point, you know." She bounced away, happy with her own joke, or the memory of good ol' Rick.

Minutes tapping my finger on my pant leg nearly dug a hole in my skin, but I made sure not to let the deputy see my spirits failing. Sam could have taken off, be playing with Max. Be dead. These were exactly the type of crazy-making thoughts our separation promised to eradicate.

Finally, Sam waltzed back into the restaurant and plopped onto the bench across from me, his back to the deputy. "Let me know when he gets up. Man's gotta piss eventually." Sam set aside a plastic bag printed with the mini-mart's happy-face logo. He took up his coffee, frowning at the filmy liquid.

"I didn't know if you wanted cream or—" My breath hitched. "God, I don't even know how you like your coffee." My eyes watered of their own volition, and I clutched my half-empty mug with both hands. "Shit."

"It's just coffee, Jules No one's grading your waitressing skills." He pinched off the tops of two sugar packs, waving off the cream. "Do me a favor. Take a break from perfection duty."

I let the cream pitcher down hard. "It's not just coffee." That pang hit my chest as soon as I glanced to the clock over the hostess desk. The second hand seemed to be flying faster and faster.

"Hey, we've got time." Sam squeezed my hand, brought me back to the present, far from the state line. He knew. He always knew what demons were gnawing at me before I did.

The deputy stood and headed for the restroom.

"Now's your chance," I said.

Waiting a beat, Sam then glided to the front, where he dug through a basket full of spent newspapers. He detoured past the deputy's booth, holding his paper over the man's paper, as if comparing his front page with the deputy's. Sam shrugged and returned to our booth.

Sitting by my side again, Sam lifted the newspaper, hiding our faces, and shoved a box of laxatives into his pocket. "Secret weapon," he whispered. "For a little extra peace of mind."

I laughed into my hand. "Delay and detour tactics."

"More like shock and awe for him." Sam stretched the paper wider, scanning headlines. He wrapped his arm over my shoulders, pulled me into his sphere with a peck to my lips, and went back to reading, those parentheses permanently etched. "Hmph. Politics, murder, kidnapping, corruption. Different day, same stories."

I brushed the coffee drip from his chin and watched his smile lines deepen. Coffee warmed my throat, and I began to melt into Sam's hold, the quaint environment, the cheerful waitress, the anticipation of hot flapjacks with butter and syrup on a cold night. Comfort food, comfort people. Sam.

"Someday I'll open a quiet café like this on a Caribbean beach." I caressed his arm, raising the hairs to attention. "I'll serve midnight flapjacks in your honor." My head rested on Sam's shoulder, and I thought of the languorous breakfasts honeymooners were enjoying in their suites above Niagara Falls. "Two sugars, no cream. I'll remember."

***

With Max loaded into the truck after another potty break, Sam slammed the hatch, glancing at Deputy Burke's SUV, which the officer had parked near our truck. "I'll change plates at the next stop, just in case." He caught me eyeing him. "James gave us a stash box for a reason. What, I'm not hiding dog treats in there."

I shook my head. "You should let me drive. And no, I won't leave without you. Or Max."

He fisted the keys. "We might hit trouble. Evasive driving is a learned skill. You're not trained for it."

"Actually, I am." I laughed at Sam's double-take. "Combat tour. Journalists were getting kidnapped overseas, so my publisher insisted on special training for every crew member. Granted, I'm a little out of practice, but I was pretty good. And I know my truck. He's not very fast, but he can take a beating."

"
She's
a lot faster than she used to be." Sam scrubbed his hair, as if he'd realized he could have been sleeping all along. "Thanks, but I'll drive. Relax while you can. You need to be fresh for the last leg."

Like I could relax knowing he was about to ditch me on the side of the road. Not that he was at fault, considering the hard line I'd taken against a permanent relationship. Some naïve part of me considered changing the plan, finding a way for us to stick together. I squared my shoulders with the woods, remembering how many times I'd taken the solitary road when trouble brewed. And how much lonelier that prospect felt now. Alone no longer seemed easier. But old habits were hard to break. And the alternative scared the shit out of me.

"Sam, I need you..." I bit my lip, remembering how sensitive we both were to the issue. He froze and stared at me. "I need you to teach me to shoot a gun."

CHAPTER 35

My feet sank into a mossy patch as I stepped into position and faced the pine tree I was about to shred. Hopefully. Silhouettes of tree stumps littered the meadow, proving someone else had been here to kill trees long before me. Night seemed a foolish time for an amateur to shoot a loaded weapon, but Sam clearly liked to live on the edge.

"Pretty big weapon, Jules. Heavy, bulky. Your hands are small, so it's harder to get your wrist and arm aligned when you aim. And harder to squeeze the trigger while maintaining that aim. You'll have to use both hands just to keep steady. You could start with lighter firepower." He lifted his left pant leg and the moonlight revealed a silver handgun in an ankle harness. He pulled the weapon, tossed it into his other hand. "Glock 27, smaller grip, shorter trigger reach, less kick."

"I forgot you had another weapon on you."

"Baby, I got all kinds of secrets. This BUG is my clinch piece." BUG, as in backup gun, I remembered. Opening his coat revealed yet another weapon. "And then there's Stone's little friend. Standard NYPD issue Glock 19. Serves him right for losing his weapon in the line of duty. Explain that to brass."

The moonlight reflected off his teeth when he smiled. One day, he and Stone would duke it out face to face. And I wanted to be nowhere near them.

I weighed Sam's Glock 17 in my palm, looked at the other two pistols. "Yours is bigger."

"Yes, dear." Sam holstered his BUG and pulled down his pant leg.

Standing behind me, he held my arms, keeping me warm despite sharp winds. My muscles were plenty solid from all those exercise videos Sam cursed, so I could handle the physical thrust, but my mind was screaming 'dear God, help us all.'

"There's no trick," he said. "Shooting is about muscle memory and alignment. And that starts with posture. Feet shoulder width apart." He kicked my feet wider, pressed against my leg, and mumbled, "This will be rough."

"Ready yet, or do you need a minute to adjust yourself?" I awaited his comeback:
Baby,
I'm always ready
.

Instead he cleared his throat. "Let's try a test fire. Don't move your hips." Of course, his hands cupped them tightly. He'd chosen the tallest pine in the clearing and attached to its trunk a white napkin from Malta's snack bag. But all I could think about was his touch, how much I'd miss that warmth, that arousal. "Ready means raise your arms. Aim, barrel down. Aim..."

I dropped my arms. "Maybe this isn't a good idea. I'm a pacifist."

"And this is a peacemaker." He lifted my arms and spoke at my ear. "Clear your mind."

"I can barely focus with you this close."

"Told you it would be rough." His low-grade chuckle rumbled through me. "I'll make it up to you later." He bit my ear, shocking my body to attention. The idea of having a "later" with Sam deeply appealed to me, picked away at my resolve. "Focus now. Ready. Good. Aim. That's right. Fire."

The first shot kicked my arms and shoulders skyward. I'd forgotten how intense the gunfire sounded and felt this close. Sam latched to my wrists and brought me back to center. A tree limb snapped above, echoing my nerves cracking down my spine.

"Now you know what to expect." He pulled my arms toward my chest a fraction. "Don't hold your arms too stiff. They're built to flex. Absorb the recoil into your muscles, like this. But don't let the force jam you up either. Once you start to squeeze the trigger, keep your pressure constant and keep firing. You drift right, so compensate by pushing left. Just a little. And don't jerk the trigger. You don't want to pull the grip back when you shoot. You want to push the bullet to its target. Like this." His hands covered mine and pushed on the pistol, like a jockey pumping reins over his horse. "Feel your way to the target. As if there's a string from you to the tree."

"I wish there was a string, 'cause I can hardly see a thing."

"Even better. You'll have to use instinct, not just your eyes. Mental aim counts."

I nodded, trying to keep Sam's myriad instructions straight in my jumbled mind. My mouth was parched, my brow damp. I wiped my face with my coat sleeve, rubbing out the images nagging me. Already my heart was slamming into my chest.

"Jules, you there?"

"Ready as always." I took position, planted my feet.

"Let's try something different. Look at the center mass in that tree. Now close your eyes. See it in your mind. Got it? Now take aim. Not with your arms. With your feet, like I told you. Don't make me have to come over there and kick your legs open. That'll get us in trouble."

I dropped my arms. "Quit taunting me, Agent Fields. I have a gun in my hand." I pointed my front foot toward the target, closed my eyes and raised my arms again.

"Try to fire with your breathing," he said, stepping behind me. "That's your best rhythm. Snipers use this trick." The word
sniper
brought back the image of Daniels, his brains scrambled on the Berber carpet. "Now inhale deeply. Exhale halfway. Good. Now fire."

Boom
. I jerked with the kickback, exhaling a burst of air. My eyes popped open, darted over the range of stumps, searching for a solid image in the dark.

"Jules."

Dizziness swung me sideways. I bent over my knees, gasping for life. The shot felt intense, like being slapped awake. We were under fire, enemy in pursuit. Damn it, that's not real, I told myself, my mind fumbling to get its hooks back into reality.

Sam's hand landed on my back and I flinched.

"It's nothing," I said. "Just got startled. Don't baby me."

He crouched at my side. "You heard the weapon fire already. How was this shot any different?"

I was already pushing back to my feet, holding onto a stump for balance. "You're right. The gun's in my control. I won't flinch again." I was panting like a racehorse, which meant I couldn't keep my arms still, but I hoped he couldn't see my shaking in the dark. I straightened, found my stance, raised my arms, took aim.

"Stop." He dropped a hand over the barrel, pulling the weapon free of my grip in one swift movement. "You think this is about control of your responses."

"I thought that's what you're trying to teach me."

"Nope." He walked toward the truck, checking the chamber. "I was wrong. We shouldn't be doing this."

"You're not giving me a fair chance." I stopped. "Damn it, Sam, I can do this."

He U-turned, came at me. "Did you see Daniels in your mind, or the apartment exploding, or Troy attacking you? Or something else I don't know about?"

"I'm not crazy. I just need to get over the sound of gunfire. I need to feel in control. I need this, Sam. You know I do."

"Control is an illusion. This is about being honest with yourself, being in sync with your own body, your own reflexes. You can't force them into submission, Jules. They'll come back and bite you when you least expect it." He pointed at his chest. "When I least expect it."