High-Risk Investigation. Jane M. Choate
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cool calm. His breathing slowed, steadied, as he assessed the possible risks.
Protecting the client came first. Always. He did not make a move for the Walther that he wore in a custom-fit shoulder holster. It was enough to know that it was within reach should he need it. A backup piece fit snugly at his ankle.
The weapons were a far cry from the M249 SAW, a light machine gun, and the 9 mm Berretta he’d carried as an Army Ranger, but they did the job. A half smile tipped the corners of his lips as he pictured the probable reaction of tonight’s well-heeled crowd if he’d appeared with the submachine gun cradled in his arms.
Whether in the mountains of Afghanistan or the ballroom of a glitzy hotel, preparation was key. For Nicco, that meant being ready to do whatever it took to get the job done, including using deadly force if necessary.
Violence didn’t solve problems. Too often, it created them. But to assume that the world’s wrongs could be fixed with a bunch of talk was not only naive, it was dangerous.
He moved closer to McAdams, observing the ebb and flow of people closest to his client as well as any place where a sniper might take position. A glint of metal from the balcony caught his eye. He didn’t need to see the gun to know that a shooter was taking aim.
Nicco was in the cold zone now, the state that allowed him to be part of the moment without being in the moment. Instinct and training took over.
“Everybody down.” He didn’t wait to see if people obeyed but sprang toward his client just as two shots fired in rapid succession. He knocked her down and covered her body with his own.
Screams and cries echoed throughout the cavernous room. Nicco ignored those, his concern for only the woman he’d flattened. He hoped he hadn’t injured her, but he’d had to get her out of the range of fire as quickly as possible.
Cautiously, he rolled off her, then motioned for her to crawl beneath one of the high-top tables set up in the ballroom. Though his instincts told him to go after the shooter, his first duty lay with the client.
When no other shots sounded, he climbed out from under the table, looked about, then offered his hand to Scout McAdams. “Are you all right?”
“Yes,” she said, placing her hand in his. “I think you just saved my life.”
* * *
“Rachel Scout McAdams,” she said, sticking out her hand.
“Nicco Santonni.”
“Thank you, Mr. Santonni. I owe you.”
“You don’t owe me a thing.”
The brusqueness of the response startled her. Maybe, she reasoned, he was as shaken by the shots as she had been. She snuck a glance at him and dismissed that thought. The big man standing in front of her didn’t appear to be the kind to be rattled by anything or anyone.
Scout took inventory of her injuries. Throbbing hip and shoulder. Sore chest, probably bruised ribs. No doubt about it—she was going to hurt tomorrow. For now, the rush of adrenaline kept the worst of the pain at bay. Resigning herself to the nightmares the sound of gunshots would trigger, she did her best to ignore the prospect of a sleepless night.
Breathe.
She shoved aside images from the past and focused on the here and now. Delayed panic swept through the ballroom, sobs and cries punctuating the overall confusion. Sirens screeched in the distance, but the immediate danger appeared to be over. At least she hoped so.
Brushing herself off, she eyed the man who had pushed her down and covered her body with his own when the shots had pierced the buzz of party chatter. She’d hugged the floor, concentrating on breathing, not an easy task when a two-hundred-pound man had just flattened her with the force of a battering ram.
Not that she was complaining. He’d saved her life.
Only when the big man had rolled off her had she been able to move and seek protection beneath a table as he’d ordered. Her pulse had still been in overdrive, her legs shaking when she’d gotten to her feet. Annoyance at herself poured through her. She wasn’t some weak-kneed wimp who fainted at the first hint of violence. She stiffened her shoulders and took stock of her surroundings.
The rancid smells of fear and panic overrode the perfumed air of the ballroom as people scrambled for exits.
Breathe.
“It’s all right,” she murmured to a bleating woman who had collapsed in a nearby chair. “Nobody was hurt.” She prayed that was true. She stayed by the lady’s side until her husband found her and took her in his arms.
Scout turned and felt her rescuer’s gaze on her, considering.
“You’ve had a shock, but you took the time to help someone else.”
After the coldness of his tone, the warmth in the words surprised her. “She was frightened. I didn’t want her to be alone.” Scout had more reason than most to know what that felt like.
“What about you? You had to be scared.”
“I was plenty scared.” Goose bumps puckered her arms in confirmation.
She studied the man, not bothering trying to hide her interest. He looked as out of place at this yawn-fest as she felt. As a reporter, she was accustomed to expecting the unexpected. Being thrown to the ground by a man who looked as though he could have stepped right out of a romance novel definitely qualified as unexpected.
Tall, rangy, with dark good looks that hinted at Italian ancestry, he had some impressive moves. Ex-military, she guessed. Maybe special ops. He resembled the cops and soldiers she’d come across while hunting down stories: clean-cut, physically fit, with experience sharpening his gaze.
Nearly black eyes, a sharp blade of a nose and lips on the full side made for an arresting face, one too unique for mere handsomeness. The dark tux, pristine white shirt and precisely knotted tie should have detracted from the air of controlled power that he wore so easily, but the elegance had the opposite effect. He looked dangerous.
Get it together, girl. She had no business cataloging the man’s features, no matter how attractive he might be.
She’d been making her way to Leonard Crane, the man she’d been trying to interview for the last couple of weeks, when the shots had ripped through the air. Crane was the boss of Savannah’s sanitation/waste union.
Scout knew she was running a risk in continuing where her mother, a true-crime writer with eleven bestsellers to her credit, had left off in investigating murders in the labor unions. Though she couldn’t prove it, she believed her mother had been killed because of her research. Scout and her father had been collateral damage. Scout had recovered from the bullet to her shoulder, but her father had died. The police had called it a carjacking gone wrong.
Scout knew differently.
According to her mother’s notes, Crane had known the four bosses who had been murdered in the last two years. Her mother had believed that he was connected to the murders, either directly or indirectly. Scout wasn’t about to let go of the best lead she had.
Finding out that Crane was going to be present at the Homes for Everyone fund-raiser had been a bonus. It made up—almost—for shelling out a week’s pay for a dress she’d probably never wear again. Being assigned to cover the affair still rankled.
Her nose wrinkled. Give her a juicy case of corruption to investigate and she was there. She’d paid her dues in covering rubber-chicken dinners and was now slowly working her way up from the society page to the city page, from fluff to hard news. It felt like a demotion to be assigned to something like this.
The police arrived. She figured they’d surround the hotel, block exits, and forbid anyone from entering or leaving. It was too bad the gunman had probably already made his escape, rendering such procedures useless.
Scout answered the questions a detective fired at her as briefly as she could and kept her thoughts to herself.