later, glass shattered as the bartender dropped the empty beer pitcher he’d been drying with a dishrag.
“Oh, blessed mother,” the man said in Spanish.
Nick sucked in a breath and watched the scene in horror. “Oh, Jesus.” He shot to his feet, nearly dropping the phone. “Tate, I’ll call you back.”
Flames. Orange flames. Filling the screen.
Nick’s heart hammered out a frenetic rhythm. The camera was no longer aimed on Rebecca. It had clattered to the ground, tilted at an awkward angle that made it hard to decipher what was happening.
A familiar female voice cried out in terror. “Jesse! Jesse! ”
Rebecca.
With trembling palms, Nick glanced at the bartender and said, “Turn it up!”
The man did as he was ordered, and Rebecca’s voice got louder. She was panicked. Freaking out. Nick couldn’t see her, but he could hear her. He suspected everyone in the world was hanging on Rebecca Parker’s every word.
“The van’s been hit! It’s on fire! Jesse’s down! Oh God, Jesse! ”
A blur of movement flashed past the lens, followed by a second explosion that yet again altered the camera angle.
Sneakers. Nick made out a pair of women’s sneakers, a soot-covered hand whizzing past the camera.
“Jesse, open your eyes! Look at me!”
And then the screen went black.
“Go to a different channel,” Nick snapped. “Now!”
Again, no hesitation on the bartender’s part. The second news channel they tuned in to was already covering this latest catastrophe, and they caught the male anchor midsentence.
“—several incendiary devices thrown at the American Broadcast News van.”
The anchor was sitting behind a news desk in the studio, and a picture of Rebecca appeared on the screen next to his head.
Nick’s pulse sped up at the sight of her familiar green eyes and tousled red hair.
“We’ve just received confirmation that the driver was killed in the explosion. Parker’s cameraman has been badly injured—we’re getting reports that he’s being rushed to the hospital with third-degree burns. There is no word on Parker yet. We simply do not know if she—” The man halted, touched his earpiece. “Wait, we’ve got an update. Rebecca Parker, award-winning correspondent for ABN, was not injured in the explosions. She just departed the scene in the ambulance with her cameraman, who has been identified as Jesse Williams.”
Relief crashed over him like a tidal wave. Rebecca wasn’t hurt. Thank God.
But her driver was dead. Her cameraman with third-degree burns.
Because a few protesters had thrown Molotov cocktails at the ABN crew.
Why?
Nick’s gut went rigid as the question floated into his head. Why would the protesters try to harm the very people who were shedding light on their cause?
On the TV, the news anchor was attempting to make sense of it, as well. “Officials on the scene suspect that the explosive devices were intended for the tactical team that had just pulled up near the ABN van. The three Molotov cocktails, however, missed their mark.”
Three Molotov cocktails?
And all three had failed to hit the intended target? Either those protesters had the crappiest aim on the planet, or...
Or the SWAT team hadn’t been the intended target.
Rebecca.
As the alarming thought sliced into his head, Nick glanced at the bartender and said, “Is there a back door I can leave out of?”
The man nodded, his shocked gaze still glued to the screen. He absently pointed to the corridor leading to the restrooms. “Emergency exit, back there.”
With a nod of gratitude, Nick hurried to the corridor. He’d all but forgotten about the trigger-happy mercenaries who were currently pursuing him; all he could focus on was Rebecca. Her cry of horror. Her shaky pleas for her cameraman to open his eyes and look at her.
The hospital. He had to get to the hospital ASAP. His inner alarms were ringing, his instincts screaming for him to get to Rebecca—and fast.
She was in danger. Whatever went
“Oh, blessed mother,” the man said in Spanish.
Nick sucked in a breath and watched the scene in horror. “Oh, Jesus.” He shot to his feet, nearly dropping the phone. “Tate, I’ll call you back.”
Flames. Orange flames. Filling the screen.
Nick’s heart hammered out a frenetic rhythm. The camera was no longer aimed on Rebecca. It had clattered to the ground, tilted at an awkward angle that made it hard to decipher what was happening.
A familiar female voice cried out in terror. “Jesse! Jesse! ”
Rebecca.
With trembling palms, Nick glanced at the bartender and said, “Turn it up!”
The man did as he was ordered, and Rebecca’s voice got louder. She was panicked. Freaking out. Nick couldn’t see her, but he could hear her. He suspected everyone in the world was hanging on Rebecca Parker’s every word.
“The van’s been hit! It’s on fire! Jesse’s down! Oh God, Jesse! ”
A blur of movement flashed past the lens, followed by a second explosion that yet again altered the camera angle.
Sneakers. Nick made out a pair of women’s sneakers, a soot-covered hand whizzing past the camera.
“Jesse, open your eyes! Look at me!”
And then the screen went black.
“Go to a different channel,” Nick snapped. “Now!”
Again, no hesitation on the bartender’s part. The second news channel they tuned in to was already covering this latest catastrophe, and they caught the male anchor midsentence.
“—several incendiary devices thrown at the American Broadcast News van.”
The anchor was sitting behind a news desk in the studio, and a picture of Rebecca appeared on the screen next to his head.
Nick’s pulse sped up at the sight of her familiar green eyes and tousled red hair.
“We’ve just received confirmation that the driver was killed in the explosion. Parker’s cameraman has been badly injured—we’re getting reports that he’s being rushed to the hospital with third-degree burns. There is no word on Parker yet. We simply do not know if she—” The man halted, touched his earpiece. “Wait, we’ve got an update. Rebecca Parker, award-winning correspondent for ABN, was not injured in the explosions. She just departed the scene in the ambulance with her cameraman, who has been identified as Jesse Williams.”
Relief crashed over him like a tidal wave. Rebecca wasn’t hurt. Thank God.
But her driver was dead. Her cameraman with third-degree burns.
Because a few protesters had thrown Molotov cocktails at the ABN crew.
Why?
Nick’s gut went rigid as the question floated into his head. Why would the protesters try to harm the very people who were shedding light on their cause?
On the TV, the news anchor was attempting to make sense of it, as well. “Officials on the scene suspect that the explosive devices were intended for the tactical team that had just pulled up near the ABN van. The three Molotov cocktails, however, missed their mark.”
Three Molotov cocktails?
And all three had failed to hit the intended target? Either those protesters had the crappiest aim on the planet, or...
Or the SWAT team hadn’t been the intended target.
Rebecca.
As the alarming thought sliced into his head, Nick glanced at the bartender and said, “Is there a back door I can leave out of?”
The man nodded, his shocked gaze still glued to the screen. He absently pointed to the corridor leading to the restrooms. “Emergency exit, back there.”
With a nod of gratitude, Nick hurried to the corridor. He’d all but forgotten about the trigger-happy mercenaries who were currently pursuing him; all he could focus on was Rebecca. Her cry of horror. Her shaky pleas for her cameraman to open his eyes and look at her.
The hospital. He had to get to the hospital ASAP. His inner alarms were ringing, his instincts screaming for him to get to Rebecca—and fast.
She was in danger. Whatever went
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