Lawman Protection

“You’re sure there was a passenger?”

“We’re not sure about anything. But someone shot your friend, and someone took the cargo that was in the plane. And we found fresh tracks that looked like a truck or another big vehicle pulled up alongside the wreckage.” He clamped his mouth shut. He was telling her too much.

“I saw the busted-up crate,” she said. “What was in it?”

“We don’t know that, either.” Though Marco Cruz, the DEA agent who’d been patrolling with Randall, had recognized the markings on the crate.

“Do you think this is connected with Richard Prentice?” she asked. “Is he running a smuggling operation?”

“We don’t know. How well do you know him? You said you wrote a profile for the paper?”

“I spent two weeks visiting his home and shadowing him as he conducted business. He was charming. Arrogant, but when you have as much money as he does, maybe it comes with the territory.”

So she thought Prentice was charming? The idea annoyed him, probably more than it should, but he wasn’t going to waste any more time playing the polite card. “I’ll need you to tell me everything you know about Richard Prentice. And I want to see all your notes, recordings and any other material you collected while researching your article.”

“I’m not one of your officers who you can boss around, Captain,” she said. “If you really want that information, you can get a subpoena.” She stood, her face flushed, eyes practically snapping with fury. “And if you want to know about Richard Prentice, read the article.” She stalked out of his office, slamming the door hard behind her.

He stared after her, stomach churning. So much for his attempt to not be a jerk around her. But the thought of her and that arrogant billionaire...

“Captain! Wait ’til you hear this.” Marco Cruz, trailed by Randall Knightbridge, burst into the headquarters trailer. Lean and muscular, with skin the color of honey, Marco was the epitome of the strong, silent type. But at the moment, his face was more animated than Graham could remember ever seeing it.

“What’s up?” he asked, rising to meet them.

“I made some calls to some people I know,” Marco said. “I think my hunch about what was in that crate was right.”

“So what was in it?” Graham had no patience for top secret time-wasting, not when the agencies were supposed to be working together.

“I thought the crate looked just like the ones the military uses to ship Hellfire missiles. My sources in the army tell me they’ve had a few come up missing the last couple of years.”

“What, they just lost track?” Graham asked.

“That’s what I said,” Randall said. “But I guess people steal them to sell on the black market.”

“So what was a Hellfire missile doing in that plane?” Graham asked. “Provided that’s what was really in that box.”

“Hellfire missiles are what they use to arm unmanned drones,” Marco said.

The hairs on the back of Graham’s neck stood up. “Anybody with enough money can buy a drone from a private company. It’s not illegal.”

“But only someone with a Hellfire missile can arm that drone,” Marco said.

“Who around here owns a drone?” Graham asked.

Marco nodded. “That’s what we need to find out. And fast.”

* * *

FORGET GRAHAM ELLISON, Emma told herself as she unlocked the door to her house in a quiet suburb on Montrose’s south side. She didn’t need him to get to the bottom of this story. Safely inside, she dumped her purse and the day’s mail on the kitchen table.

“Meow!” A silver-gray tabby emerged from the bedroom and leaned against her ankles.

“Hello, Janey, darling.” Emma bent and scooped the cat into her arms. As she rubbed a finger beneath the furry chin Janey—for Jane Austen—purred loudly.

“How was your day?” Emma asked. “I had to deal with the most frustrating man.”

“Meow!” Janey said—though whether in sympathy, or simply because she wanted to be fed, Emma couldn’t say.

But she opened a can of Salmon Supreme and dumped it into Janey’s dish, then poured herself a glass of wine and sat at the table to try to organize her notes. She didn’t have that much, but she had enough to write a story about the plane crash. For a painful moment the image of Bobby’s lifeless body slumped in the pilot’s seat of his destroyed plane flashed into her mind and she felt a sharp pang of grief for her friend.

She swallowed her tears and opened her notebook. All the more reason to do everything she could to find his killer. Bobby had been a great guy—not a man she could fall in love with, but a good friend, and he deserved better.

Her doorbell rang, the loud chimes startling her. She hurried to the door and checked the peephole, and sucked in a breath when she saw Graham Ellison standing there. He was still in uniform, but he held a large bouquet of flowers in his hand, wrapped in green tissue paper.

She unlocked the door and opened it. “Captain, what are you doing here?” she asked.

“It seems like I’m always apologizing to you,” he said. “We got off on the wrong foot. Can we try again?”

She regarded him warily, trying hard not to notice how he towered over her, or how his shoulders were almost wide enough to fill the doorway. A man who made her feel dainty was a rarity, and she usually liked to savor the experience. But she had trouble relaxing around Captain Ellison. “Why should I give you another chance?” she asked.

“Because we both want to find out who killed your friend.”

It was the one answer that was sure to sway her. She held the door open wider. “Come in.”

He moved past her into the foyer, and handed her the flowers. “Peace offering,” he said.

“Come in here.” She led the way into the kitchen, and motioned to the table. “I was just going over my notes.” She found a vase in a cabinet and filled it at the sink.

“I’m not going to make the mistake of asking to see them.”

She flushed. “I don’t like being ordered around. Also—I have my own system for organizing my research material. It’s messy and it probably wouldn’t make sense to anyone else.”

“I shouldn’t have barked at you like you were one of my junior officers.”

She arranged the flowers in the vase and set it on the counter, then looked him in the eye, ignoring the way her heart sped up when she did so. “What is it about me you don’t like?” she asked. “Is it just because I’m a reporter? Because we’re on the same side here. I want to know who killed Bobby, and I want to see them brought to justice.”

He grimaced, as if in pain. “You’ve got it all wrong. Our problems aren’t because I don’t like you—they’re because I’m so attracted to you.”

Now her heart was really racing, and she felt as if she’d swallowed battling hummingbirds. So she wasn’t the only one who’d noticed the heat between them. “I’m intrigued. Tell me more.”

He looked around the apartment, everywhere but at her. His gaze finally focused on the cat, who had finished eating and was meticulously grooming herself. “When I saw you in that crowd of reporters, I had a hard time not staring.” He hazarded a glance her way. “Is this going to get me into trouble?”

“That depends on your definition of trouble.”

He shoved both hands in his pockets. “We’re both professionals. Maybe we should keep it that way.”

“Or maybe we should be more honest.” She stepped out from behind the kitchen counter, moving toward him. “I’m an adult. I think I can handle my job and my personal life without ruining either.”

“What are you saying?”