Dark ambitions, p.16
Dark Ambitions, page 16
Huh.
He must have read her body language wrong.
Course correction.
“In that case . . . I take back my apology. Because I am interested in whatever happened to you.”
She dipped her chin and focused on her clamped knuckles. “There was an incident near the end of my tenure that left a bad taste in some people’s mouth—including mine.”
“It must have been traumatic, if it can still tie you up in knots.” Better to comment than interrogate. Too many questions could give her cold feet.
“It was.” She drew in a lungful of air. Slowly released it. “One of my colleagues and I were tracking down a suspect in a drug-ring case. We went to his last known address. He wasn’t there—but several other bad actors were. None of them were receptive to our presence . . . or our questions.”
Rick tried to imagine the woman beside him walking into such a volatile, dangerous setting.
Squelched the images strobing through his mind of all the things that could have gone wrong.
They were too terrifying.
“I take it the encounter didn’t go well.” He did his best to maintain a conversational manner despite the roiling in his stomach.
“No. The situation deteriorated fast. We went outside to call for backup, and as we walked toward our car, one of the players came out and started yelling obscenities at us. His rage was almost palpable. We didn’t stop, but I kept him in my sights while my colleague pulled out his phone to call headquarters.” She uncrimped her fingers and flexed her white knuckles.
The temptation to fold her hand into his was strong.
Too strong.
He picked up his mug and wrapped his fingers around it to keep them out of trouble.
When she continued, her voice wasn’t quite as steady. “All at once, the guy reached inside his jacket. My gut told me he was going for a gun. I drew my Sig. There was only a split second to make a choice—wait and see . . . or t-take him out.”
He swallowed at the all-too-familiar nightmare scenario. During his Night Stalker days, lives had often hung in the balance during missions, and an error in judgment could be a death sentence. The weight of responsibility had been horrendous, the pressure mind-bending, the consequences—
“I made the wrong choice.”
Heather’s whispered admission was like a punch in the gut.
He had to call up every ounce of his willpower to hang on to the mug when all he wanted to do was pull her into his arms. Hold her. Comfort her.
“What happened?” There were several possible tragic outcomes in the situation she’d described.
“While I hesitated, he whipped out a gun and used it before I got off a shot.” She looked at him, her hazel irises awash with tears. “I took him down—but my colleague was already critically wounded.”
He stifled the word that sprang to the tip of his tongue. An incident like that could leave permanent scars—deep ones if the other person died.
“Did your partner survive?”
“Yes—no thanks to me.”
“Did he blame you?”
“No. But it was a bad mistake. I blamed me.”
“Heather . . . it was a high-stress situation. Easy to misread. I think you’re being too hard on yourself. If you’d made a different call, you could have ended up shooting an unarmed man.”
“That was the problem.” Anguish seared her eyes. “I was afraid of doing exactly that—and for all the wrong reasons. Law enforcement is under intense scrutiny these days. Patrol officers and detectives have to analyze every move. I hesitated because I was worried about the consequences of overreacting—disciplinary action, being fired, lawsuits. None of those concerns should have been on my mind at that moment.”
He wasn’t going to dispute that.
However . . . the scrutiny she’d mentioned was very real for law enforcement—and it wasn’t hard to see how that could color a person’s judgment. Slow their reflexes. Make them doubt their instincts.
Thank heaven he’d never had to worry much about red tape in the heat of battle—or public backlash over mistakes.
“Did your higher-ups think you made a mistake?”
She exhaled, and her shoulders drooped. “No. There were no professional repercussions. I was put on administrative leave—normal protocol after a shooting incident—but I was cleared of any fault.”
“Yet that incident convinced you to leave law enforcement.”
“Yes. I may have been absolved of guilt officially, but I know I should have pulled the trigger sooner. Would have pulled it if I’d trusted my gut. Instead, I second-guessed myself. And cops or detectives whose fear of the personal consequences of a mistake make them falter are a danger to their colleagues and put their own life on the line.”
There was no rebuttal to that.
She was right.
And her decision to leave spoke volumes about her character.
“I’m not going to argue with your rationale for walking away. I think it’s sound. I also think you made a smart—and honorable—choice.”
She searched his face, her expression skeptical. “But a man almost died because of me.”
“Heather . . . factoring in all the pressures you mentioned, don’t you think a fair number of your colleagues could have faltered for the same reason in a similar situation? You’re human. Flawed, like we all are. But I’m confident you did the best you were capable of under the circumstances. That’s all anyone—including God—can ask.”
Her eyes began to shimmer again. “Thank you for saying that.”
“It’s the truth—and I doubt I’m the first to point it out. I’m sure your father was supportive.”
She picked a piece of fuzz off the couch. “I’ve never told him the details of that story. I’ve never told anyone outside law enforcement that story.”
Pressure built in his throat as the implications of her admissions registered. “In that case, it’s my turn to thank you. I’m honored by your trust. And can I be honest? For selfish reasons, I’m glad you left that high-risk life behind.”
“So am I. I like PI work, and the Phoenix crew is stellar. They all treat me as an equal. There are a few things I miss about being a detective—but my sergeant isn’t one of them.” She grimaced.
“He was one of the chauvinists?”
“The worst one. His wife never worked outside the home, and he thought women’s contributions to society should be limited to baking and babies.”
“Did he actually say that?”
“No—but actions speak louder than words. One Christmas, he gave me an apron.”
He cringed. “Ouch.”
“Yeah. But I learned to let that kind of garbage roll off my back. Most of the guys were—” She cocked her ear, then checked her watch. “Oh my gosh! It’s midnight!” She vaulted to her feet and dashed toward the closet.
He stood. “What are you doing?”
“Oh.” She froze, hand on her coat, while a faint flush crept across her cheeks. “Dad and I always go outside at midnight to listen to the bells and whistles and watch for fireworks. When I was younger, we also threw homemade confetti—which we were still cleaning up in June.” She offered him a self-conscious smile and sent a yearning glance toward the door as the volume of the din increased. “Sorry. It’s a silly custom. No sane person would stand on the porch in freezing weather just to listen to a bunch of noise.”
“I think it’s a charming custom—and traditions should always be honored.” He crossed the room in a few long strides and pulled his own coat off the hanger. “Let’s go.”
“Seriously?” She was already shoving her arms into the sleeves of her coat.
“I wouldn’t kid about a New Year’s Eve tradition.” He donned his own jacket and took her arm. “Let’s hurry or we’ll miss the show.”
They stepped outside, into a wonderland of glistening ice, in time to catch a short burst of fireworks and listen to the cacophony of banging pots, blowing horns, and muted shouts of “Happy New Year.”
If Heather noticed the biting nip of the glacial wind, she gave no indication of it as she lifted a luminous face toward the inky sky. Only her red cheeks and frosty breath suggested she wasn’t immune to the cold.
The arctic air didn’t bother him in the least, either. Not with her standing close beside him, filling his heart with warmth.
But all too soon, the revelry died down.
“Some years, the racket goes on for ten minutes. The cold must be forcing people inside.” She sighed and tucked her hands under her arms as she scanned the frozen scene. “I guess the celebrations are over.”
“Oh, I don’t know. I think they’re just beginning.”
She sent him a cautious look. “What do you m-mean?”
He wasn’t certain if the catch in her voice was due to the cold or a sudden case of nerves—but she had no reason to worry. He wasn’t going to overstep.
Not much, anyway.
He simply wanted to ensure they launched the new year on the right note—and the message he was about to send should do the trick.
“We should toast the new year.” He turned toward her.
“We don’t have any champagne.”
“I can think of something more intoxicating.” He grasped her arms in a gentle clasp. “Happy New Year, Heather. Here’s to the next twelve months—may they be filled with possibilities.”
Before she could balk, he leaned down and brushed a kiss over her forehead.
Her breath hitched as he straightened up—and this time he had no doubt about the cause.
“Sleep well.” With a squeeze of her fingers, he plunged into the darkness and traversed the brittle, ice-encrusted grass to her father’s unit.
Removing himself as fast as possible from temptation.
When he looked back, she was standing motionless where he’d left her, watching him, fingers pressed to her lips.
Like the simple kiss had shaken her world.
He could relate.
And if all went as he expected, that kiss would be the first of many in this new year.
15
Why was someone calling her at . . . Heather squinted at the clock on her nightstand . . . eight in the morning on New Year’s Day?
Usually she and her dad didn’t eat breakfast until at least nine.
Of course, any other year, she’d be up by now.
But she’d never spent a New Year’s Eve night tossing after a surprise kiss and an alluring toast that had—as Rick predicted—been far more intoxicating than champagne.
Now that she was awake, however, she intended to join him next door ASAP.
She grabbed her phone, skimmed caller ID, and sat up. “Morning, Dad.”
“Happy New Year. Did I wake you?”
“Uh . . . I was about to get up.”
“Sorry to disturb your beauty sleep. I thought you’d be wide awake and primping for breakfast.”
She ignored his insinuation. “When are we eating?”
“Nine o’clock. I heard Rick come in not long after midnight, so I didn’t think that would be too early. I guess you two didn’t make a late night of it.”
“No.”
“Pity.”
She ignored that too as she stood. “I’ll be over in fifteen minutes.”
“Don’t hurry on my account—or your friend’s. He took off early.”
“What?” She tried to stem the tsunami of disappointment that swept over her. “Didn’t you invite him to stay for breakfast?”
“Of course I did. I left a note on the pillow in the guest bedroom. He left me one in return, on the kitchen counter. That man moves like a shadow. I didn’t hear a sound this morning—and you know I’m a light sleeper.”
“What did he say?”
“A work issue came up that required his immediate attention. He wrote a very gracious thank-you for my hospitality, and asked me to have you call his cell.”
She rummaged around in her closet for her oldest, most comfortable jeans. No reason to dress up for breakfast after all.
“I’ll give him a ring as soon as we hang up. Expect me in ten minutes.” It wouldn’t take long to get ready, since no primping was involved.
“Don’t rush the conversation with your friend on my account. We’re not eating for almost an hour.”
“Okay. See you soon.” She sat back on the edge of the bed and tapped in Rick’s speed dial number.
A work issue on New Year’s Day.
The septic tank again?
She wrinkled her nose.
Not the pleasantest kind of news to wake up to on a holiday.
Three rings in, Rick picked up and wished her Happy New Year—although she could barely hear his greeting over the sound of voices and . . . engines?
“The same to you—but you may have to talk louder. It’s hard to hear with all the background noise.”
“I know. I’m walking to a quieter place as we speak. Give me a minute.”
As she waited, the din diminished—but wherever he was, there was a lot of activity.
Much more than a septic problem should entail.
Curious.
“Sorry to leave without any warning this morning.” Rick came through loud and clear now. “I take it your dad got my note.”
“Yes. Are you at the camp?”
“No.” A beat ticked by. “Do you remember asking me not long after we met if I missed flying?”
“Yes.” That early conversation was etched in her memory. “You said you haven’t given it up entirely.”
“As a matter of fact . . . I haven’t given it up at all. I don’t fly much in the summer, but during the camp’s off-season I spend most of my free hours in the air.”
“For work . . . or fun?”
“Work. I fly for a charter company out of Spirit Airport, and I train pilots for an aviation search and rescue firm. I’m also on call with the Highway Patrol when they need a pilot experienced in fast-rope tactical insertions, difficult short-haul rescues—or anything that requires precision flying. They’re responsible for my early exit this morning.”
She might not know what a fast-rope tactical insertion or short-haul rescue was, but apparently her ex–Night Stalker client was still piloting dicey—and dangerous—missions.
A spurt of adrenaline jacked up her pulse.
“Is it safe to fly in this kind of weather?” She darted over to the window and lifted a slat in the blinds. The sleet had stopped, but it was a sheet of ice out there.
“Safer than driving. Getting to the hangar was the hard part. The rest will be easy.”
Was that true—or was he trying to downplay the hazards?
“What kind of job are you doing for them today?”
“Rescue. A couple of hikers got surprised by the early arrival of last night’s storm. In their rush to get out of the backcountry, one of them slipped and fell into a ravine. His buddy made it out and gave us the location, but in these conditions a land rescue would take too long. Besides, the ravine is dangerous to descend on foot in any weather, let alone after an ice storm. We’re going to pick up the injured friend and deliver him to an ambulance that will be waiting on the main road, a mile or two away.”
“You make it sound simple.”
“Not simple—but I’ve been on far riskier missions. And no one will be shooting at us on this one. That’s always a plus.”
He was trying to position a dramatic helicopter rescue in frozen terrain as no big deal.
And it may not be—to him.
But it was miles outside her comfort zone.
Better get used to it, though. If she and Rick became a couple after this case was over, there would be frequent moments like this in her future.
“Be careful.”
“Always.”
“I’m sorry you’ll miss breakfast.”
“No sorrier than I am. Maybe your dad will invite me again.” The background noise picked up again.
“I think that could be arranged.” She turned her back on the frozen landscape. “Would you text me later? I’ll feel better if I know you’re home safe and sound.”
“I’ll be happy to.” Now the noise was almost drowning him out. “I have to run. You caught me as we were about to take off.”
He’d delayed his liftoff to talk to her?
Sweet.
“I’ll be waiting to hear from you.”
He said something else, but his words were drowned out by what sounded like the thwump of rotor blades. Then the line went dead.
Heather slowly lowered the phone from her ear, her lips curving up.
It was mind-boggling how life could change in the blink of an eye.
One week ago, she hadn’t even known Rick Jordan.
Yet already she was beginning to think he could be The One—and unless her intuition was off, he was thinking the same.
Funny.
She’d never been the impetuous type.
All her life, she’d preferred to take her time and methodically gather as much evidence as possible before making up her mind about anything.
But despite their short acquaintance, she’d amassed a fair amount of intel about Rick. And every scrap of it led to the same conclusion.
The ex–Night Stalker who ran a camp for foster kids, cared about his friends, and flew rescue missions was the real deal.
So unless some less-flattering piece of data surfaced, she was all in on this relationship—as soon as they figured out why two people had died under mysterious circumstances . . . and what a perplexing flash drive had to do with their demise.
The press conference had gone well.
Even better than he’d expected.
While Chuck made a few closing comments and the cameras clicked off, Brad scanned the company conference room, homing in on Lindsey. She was talking with one of the reporters, but she glanced at him, as if she’d sensed his gaze.
He gave her a thumbs-up.
They’d have much to celebrate tonight.
That was why he’d made dinner reservations at Tony’s. A momentous day like this deserved to be celebrated in high style.
