Killer Countdown. Amelia Autin
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Whoever had been shooting at him and then at Carly had too great a lead. The highway was only two stoplights and a few blocks away, and since it was the weekend, there wouldn’t be rush-hour traffic to impede the getaway.
Shane picked himself up off the ground and helped Carly to her feet, first making sure she wasn’t hurt. Then he grasped her upper arms and shook her. Hard. In a voice he hadn’t used since his Marine Corps days he demanded, “What the hell did you think you were doing?”
Carly shook Shane’s hands off her arms and darted into the roadway. She retrieved her smartphone, which miraculously hadn’t been run over by the pursuing police car. The case had protected it against most of the damage that could have occurred, but there was a scratch across the touchpad. She swiped and pressed, then heaved a sigh of relief. “It’s not broken,” she exulted under her breath. Her eyes caught Shane’s. “And I got him.”
“You got him?” Throttled temper made him rigid, and he towered over her like the USMC officer he’d once been. “You think that was worth risking your life for?”
“I wasn’t in any real danger,” she replied calmly.
“The hell you weren’t!”
“The hell I was.” She lifted her chin. “You think I’m stupid? I’ve covered two wars and three ‘police actions,’” she said, referring to a military conflict in an undeclared war. “I know how to keep my head down. There was no point at which I was completely exposed.”
“You think a saguaro would block a high-velocity bullet?” He snorted. “It would slice through that like a hot knife through butter. Then go right through you.”
Carly opened her mouth to retort, but hesitated as she acknowledged there was some truth to what Shane was saying. She had been a tad reckless. True, she’d never been injured covering a story. In fact, she’d never been wounded at all, no matter what happened to her. She’d fallen from the top of a jungle gym when she was ten with nothing but brush burns and bruises to show for it. The helicopter she’d ridden in during her first foray as a war correspondent had been caught in a hot LZ—a landing zone where the helicopter came under enemy gunfire—and she’d been untouched. She’d even walked away physically unscathed from the horrific car crash that had caused such devastating damage to Jack.
She’d led a charmed life physically...had she grown overconfident? “You’re right,” she admitted now. She drew a deep breath. “And I apologize for putting you in the position of having to rescue me.” Then her natural ebullience returned, and she held up her smartphone. “But I got him.”
* * *
The police had whisked them all away before the TV news cameras showed up, for which Shane was grateful. He hadn’t wanted to be confronted by a reporter asking what he was doing at the Mayo Clinic or theorizing as to why he’d been an assassin’s target. Those questions would be posed soon enough, but at least he’d have a little time to come up with suitably noncommittal answers.
The Phoenix police, who’d been joined by FBI agents from the city office, finally let Shane and his entourage go four hours later. Four hours during which he’d been grilled relentlessly—albeit respectfully—with questions that, for the most part, he couldn’t answer. He hadn’t really seen much of anything except the glint of the rifle scope and a stocky figure running away. The man was white—he knew that much. And he was pretty sure the shooter’s hair was that indeterminable shade between blond and brown, although the ball cap the man had been wearing had concealed most of it. The shooter might have sported a close-cropped beard—but Shane couldn’t swear to it because he hadn’t really seen the man’s face. Yes, he’d seen the getaway vehicle, but he hadn’t caught the license plate number. And there were probably a million white pickup trucks out there.
He didn’t even struggle over the decision to disclose what Carly had said, that she’d caught the man on camera, although she wouldn’t thank him for it. Yes, she’d earned her scoop—by risking her life—but public safety trumped it. The shooter had been aiming at Shane, but anyone in the vicinity could have been gravely injured or killed. It was a miracle no one had been. Carly’s camera footage was critical evidence, and whatever the police and the FBI could glean from viewing it was more important than an exclusive news report...even if it meant confiscating her iPhone.
Shane didn’t see Carly again before he left for the airport, although he thought of her constantly as the limo ferried his aides and him from the police station to Phoenix’s Sky Harbor International Airport through the Saturday afternoon traffic. He caught his flight by the skin of his teeth, dashing through the hallways once he got past the TSA checkpoint, his aides scurrying to keep up. “Last call for flight...” was just being announced when he arrived at the gate, and Shane heaved a sigh of relief. There were later flights to DC out of Sky Harbor, but this one was nonstop.
Carly’s face rose in his mind once more as he handed his ticket to the smiling airline attendant and moved down the jet bridge before he tried to banish her from his mind. He quickly stowed his carry-on in the overhead compartment and took his seat in coach, his entourage settling in around him. Used to be members of Congress flew first-class as a matter of course, but Shane had never thought that was a proper use of taxpayer money, so he always traveled economy. And he was paying for this flight for himself and his aides out of his own pocket—no way could he justify this as anything other than a personal expense.
He chuckled softly to himself as the plane took off. And that’s another thing, he thought. One of the Phoenix policemen questioning him this afternoon had asked why Shane didn’t have a bodyguard or two keeping him safe, but the FBI agent had dismissed that question out of hand, already knowing the answer. Members of the Senate and the House of Representatives didn’t have taxpayer-provided bodyguards—that was a public misconception. Only the president, vice president and presidential candidates had Secret Service bodyguards. Any bodyguard Shane had, he would have to pay for himself. And since he wasn’t independently wealthy, that wasn’t an expense he’d wanted to incur.
But he might have to rethink that position, at least temporarily. He had no idea why anyone would want to kill him, but there didn’t need to be a reason most people would understand. He wouldn’t be the first politician targeted by a crazed gunman with a perceived grievance. Not to mention the successful and unsuccessful assassination attempts on several US presidents over the years, despite the best protection the Secret Service could offer.
His own sister, Keira, had taken a bullet meant for another man who’d been targeted for elimination. And all because he’d brought down the New World Militia and its founder, David Pennington, years ago.
That thought gave him pause. Could this attempt on him have anything to do with that organization or a similar one? His public stance on terrorism—both foreign and domestic—had made him a few enemies, he had to admit. Was that the reason?
I wonder if Niall has any vacation time coming to him. The brother closest to him in age was a black-ops warrior—not really the name for it, but that’s how it was referred to by the public. Niall had been a marine sniper years ago before he’d left the Corps to take up an even more dangerous calling. But that didn’t really qualify him as a bodyguard. If you need a bodyguard, Alec or Liam would be better suited to the task, he reminded himself. Both of his younger brothers had been Diplomatic Security Service—DSS—special agents for years, although only Liam still worked as a bodyguard now. Alec was the regional security officer at the United States embassy in Zakhar.
But Alec and Liam were both married. Niall wasn’t. Shane might call on Niall to help him out in this crisis, but he’d have to think long and hard before he put one of his baby brothers—married baby brothers, each with a baby of his own—in harm’s way.
Shane laughed beneath his breath, imagining what Alec and Liam would say to that. He was so caught up in his inner musings that it barely registered when the seat-belt light was turned off and the announcement was made that portable electronic devices could now be used. It wasn’t