eyes. But he’d saved her life, killing Zainab to protect her and carrying her to freedom. He’d even punched Al-Nassar in the face for harassing her and wrapped a blanket around her shoulders. He’d made her feel safe.
She wasn’t a religious person and didn’t go to church, but she prayed for him and his men every night, just as she prayed for Klara.
The other I-Team members began drifting in around her. Alex Carmichael, who’d been hired last month to cover cops and courts. Matt Harker, who’d held down the city beat for most of a decade. Sophie Alton-Hunter, who split the environmental beat with Navajo reporter Katherine James, each of them working half time so that they could spend more time at home with their children. Joaquin Ramirez, the photographer whose skill had earned him a Pulitzer.
She was so focused on her work she barely noticed them, their voices and conversation drifting outside the sphere of her concentration. She heard someone cough—and looked up to find them surrounding her desk, Sophie holding a bouquet of pink, yellow, and white roses.
“I was supposed to get here before you did so I could put this on your desk.” Sophie set the flowers down. “Welcome back. We’re all so glad this is behind you now. We wanted to start today out right for you.”
Laura slowly got to her feet, unable to speak, her throat tight. She took the bouquet, inhaled the bright, sweet scent of roses, and then set the vase down on her desk.
“It took a lot of guts to do what you did, Nilsson.” Alex reached out a hand, shook hers. Tall with tousled dark hair and blue eyes, he had a reputation for being relentless when on a story. He’d been arrested five times, shot, and knifed, all in the line of duty. “We’re all glad it’s behind you now.”
Matt, looking as rumpled as ever, pointed to Alex. “What Carmichael said.”
Joaquin plucked a pink rose from the bouquet and handed it to her. “You’re a hero to a lot of people out there—not just women.”
Laura took the flower and looked away, uncomfortable with their praise. “Thank you. I . . . I don’t know what to say.”
She’d never spoken of her captivity or rescue with anyone on the I-Team. She assumed they’d read the articles. The whole world seemed to know what had happened to her, apart from the most horrific, intimate details—and Klara. Only her doctors, her therapist, her mother and grandmother, the U.S. Attorney’s Office, and certain Swedish government officials knew about her daughter. If her coworkers knew, they’d quit thinking of her as a hero.
What kind of woman could trade her helpless two-month-old baby for her freedom?
Sophie beamed. “You don’t have to say anything.”
“Congratulations, Nilsson.”
Heads turned.
Tom Trent, the newspaper’s hard-boiled editor in chief, walked up beside them. A few inches over six feet, he was big and beefy and had a temper that intimidated most people, though not Laura. As much of an asshat as he could be, he seemed warm and fuzzy compared to some of the personalities she’d had to contend with in broadcast news.
He met Laura’s gaze from beneath a shock of gray curls. “Way to walk tall, Nilsson. But we’ve got a newspaper to make, and sometime today would be good. Everyone to the conference room.”
Laura got to her feet and started down the hallway, notepad and pencil in hand.
Tom held her back. “Not you, Nilsson. Some suits want to speak with you.”
And then she saw them. Two men in suits and ties.
FBI.
CHAPTER
3
JAVIER SAT ON the back deck with a bottle of stout, washing down a lunch of Jack West’s three-alarm chili with good, cold beer. The mountains rose all around him, stretching their jagged white-capped peaks toward an endless blue sky. Nearby, a herd of elk foraged in the snow, a hawk wheeling overhead.
Everything was so beautiful, so peaceful, so quiet.
He and Nate had spent the day driving hay out to snowbound cattle and seeing to the horses.
She wasn’t a religious person and didn’t go to church, but she prayed for him and his men every night, just as she prayed for Klara.
The other I-Team members began drifting in around her. Alex Carmichael, who’d been hired last month to cover cops and courts. Matt Harker, who’d held down the city beat for most of a decade. Sophie Alton-Hunter, who split the environmental beat with Navajo reporter Katherine James, each of them working half time so that they could spend more time at home with their children. Joaquin Ramirez, the photographer whose skill had earned him a Pulitzer.
She was so focused on her work she barely noticed them, their voices and conversation drifting outside the sphere of her concentration. She heard someone cough—and looked up to find them surrounding her desk, Sophie holding a bouquet of pink, yellow, and white roses.
“I was supposed to get here before you did so I could put this on your desk.” Sophie set the flowers down. “Welcome back. We’re all so glad this is behind you now. We wanted to start today out right for you.”
Laura slowly got to her feet, unable to speak, her throat tight. She took the bouquet, inhaled the bright, sweet scent of roses, and then set the vase down on her desk.
“It took a lot of guts to do what you did, Nilsson.” Alex reached out a hand, shook hers. Tall with tousled dark hair and blue eyes, he had a reputation for being relentless when on a story. He’d been arrested five times, shot, and knifed, all in the line of duty. “We’re all glad it’s behind you now.”
Matt, looking as rumpled as ever, pointed to Alex. “What Carmichael said.”
Joaquin plucked a pink rose from the bouquet and handed it to her. “You’re a hero to a lot of people out there—not just women.”
Laura took the flower and looked away, uncomfortable with their praise. “Thank you. I . . . I don’t know what to say.”
She’d never spoken of her captivity or rescue with anyone on the I-Team. She assumed they’d read the articles. The whole world seemed to know what had happened to her, apart from the most horrific, intimate details—and Klara. Only her doctors, her therapist, her mother and grandmother, the U.S. Attorney’s Office, and certain Swedish government officials knew about her daughter. If her coworkers knew, they’d quit thinking of her as a hero.
What kind of woman could trade her helpless two-month-old baby for her freedom?
Sophie beamed. “You don’t have to say anything.”
“Congratulations, Nilsson.”
Heads turned.
Tom Trent, the newspaper’s hard-boiled editor in chief, walked up beside them. A few inches over six feet, he was big and beefy and had a temper that intimidated most people, though not Laura. As much of an asshat as he could be, he seemed warm and fuzzy compared to some of the personalities she’d had to contend with in broadcast news.
He met Laura’s gaze from beneath a shock of gray curls. “Way to walk tall, Nilsson. But we’ve got a newspaper to make, and sometime today would be good. Everyone to the conference room.”
Laura got to her feet and started down the hallway, notepad and pencil in hand.
Tom held her back. “Not you, Nilsson. Some suits want to speak with you.”
And then she saw them. Two men in suits and ties.
FBI.
CHAPTER
3
JAVIER SAT ON the back deck with a bottle of stout, washing down a lunch of Jack West’s three-alarm chili with good, cold beer. The mountains rose all around him, stretching their jagged white-capped peaks toward an endless blue sky. Nearby, a herd of elk foraged in the snow, a hawk wheeling overhead.
Everything was so beautiful, so peaceful, so quiet.
He and Nate had spent the day driving hay out to snowbound cattle and seeing to the horses.
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