Into the Crossfire (20 page)

"That better, Dad?"

"Oh, yes, darling. Thank you." He reached up and placed his hand on hers.

"You're so good to me."

The one thing left to him was his voice--deep, strong, steady. Tears pricked

her eyes. She squeezed his shoulder lightly and opened her mouth to ask how he

was getting on in reading through the definitive history of medieval Japan, when

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the doorbell rang.

Frowning, Nicole went out into the hallway to the front door. Through the

side windows she could see a police car parked in front of her house.

Oh God. What now?

The man who stood on her porch had been staring at the house across the

street. He turned and took off aviator sunglasses to reveal piercing blue eyes.

Fiercely intelligent eyes. He was dressed in a dark blue police uniform, with--oh

my gosh--body armor. And about a ton of hardware on his belt, some of which

looked suspiciously like weaponry. And a big side holster strapped to his thigh

carrying a big black gun that definitely was weaponry.

She opened the door.

He wasn't much taller than she was, but she'd never seen shoulders as broad

as his. Everything about him was broad and strong and unyielding.

"Are you Nicole Pearce?"

"Yes," she replied. "Yes, I am. Is there something wrong, Officer?"

"No, ma'am, not at all. My name is Mike Keillor, with the San Diego PD. I

was asked by a mutual friend of ours, Sam Reston, to stop by. Make my presence

felt." He stopped, looking at her so intently it was as if he were walking around

inside her head.

The mention of Sam's name jolted her, threw her off her stride so much she

barely heard the rest of his sentence. She hit rewind and heard what he'd said all

over again, puzzling over it.

Sam had said-"Oh!" Of course! Sam had sent over his policeman friend, the man who was

like a brother to him, to intimidate the creeps across the street. Though the entire

effect was wasted if they weren't home. "Yes, thank you so much." He wasn't

answering, just standing there, looking at her. Nicole resisted the urge to wring her

hands. She'd been trained from childhood to deal with unexpected, even awkward

encounters, but all her savoir-faire deserted her.

Just the mention of Sam Reston flustered her so much that manners went

straight out the window.

She backed up, holding the door open. "Please come in, Officer. Or would

that be Sergeant?" A lifetime in the diplomatic corps had taught her the

importance of getting titles right.

"That would be Sergeant, yes ma'am. But please just call me Mike."

"Okay, Mike. Would you like to come into the living room?"

He ducked his head. "Thank you, ma'am. But first, I'm going to walk back

to the patrol car and get my long gun. I'm going to do it slowly, so whoever's

watching across the street will realize I mean business."

"Sam--" God, it was hard just to say his name. "Sam said that these two

men who are...who are bothering me will be deterred by you. I hope so. I also

hope they're watching right now, or else it's an exercise in futility."

"They're watching, all right." Mike's voice was grim. "Second floor, third

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window from the right."

Nicole's eyes flew to the window in question. She blinked. There were

closed grungy-looking Venetian blinds over the window. And--yes--a tiny

peephole created by someone holding the slats slightly open. You had to look

carefully to see it.

He turned and walked slowly back to the patrol car. Across that extra-wide

bodybuilder's blue back were stenciled big white letters. SWAT.

He reached into the car and brought out a rifle. A big, bad-looking weapon

that looked like cool, deadly business. Once he'd closed the car door, he just stood

with his back to her, staring across at the house of her nemeses. Holding that big

gun with complete familiarity, like a mother holds a child.

Finally, he turned around and walked back up to the house, following her

in. Once the door was closed, he stored the gun, upright, in a corner, said, "It's not

loaded, ma'am. But they won't know that," and stood at rest, impossibly wide

shoulders back, hands folded neatly over his crotch.

She'd seen a thousand Marine guards in embassies all over the world

assume that stance. Sam had mentioned that Mike had been a Marine, but even if

he hadn't, it was unmistakeable.

"Were you in the Marines, Sergeant Keillor? Mike?"

He looked startled. "Yes, ma'am. Six years."

She smiled faintly. She'd loved the embassy Marines, always so polite and

no-nonsense and utterly, completely competent. Unlike most of the political

officers.

"Can you stay for a cup of coffee, Ser--Mike?"

He fixed her with a ferocious light blue gaze. "Yes, ma'am, thank you,

ma'am. I need to stay long enough to establish that we're friends, that you've got a

police officer looking after you."

She called the housekeeper. Manuela appeared in the doorway, smiling,

wiping her hands on her apron. "Manuela, could we have coffee served in the

living room, please?"

"Yes, ma'am."

She turned to Mike. "Come into the living room, then, and we'll have our

coffee."

Her father had dozed off in his wheelchair. The officer looked a question at

her. Nicole smiled. "Don't worry about my father. We won't bother him.

Household noises don't wake him up." Pain would eventually wake him up, as it

did regularly. For now, if he was sleeping, the pain had subsided. He needed his

rest.

She watched his sleeping face. The skin now hung off his beautiful bones

like a too-large garment. His once magnificent head of black hair was bald, with

only a few tufts clinging here and there, the effect of the last course of radiation

therapy to the head.

During the day, her father put on a brave face, but what he felt was there,

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not hidden, in the sleeping man. He was exhausted and in pain and it showed.

Dying, she thought with a pang.

Nicole turned to her guest and indicated a chair. Mike Keillor sat stiffly,

back upright, hands on knees. Nicole sat on the sofa, facing him.

It had to be faced. "So. Um. Sam sent you?"

"Yes, ma'am. He said you were having trouble with two fu--guys who were

escalating."

"I beg your pardon?"

"Escalating. Becoming violent. It's a process, and it's always the same. I'll

bet they started bothering you by staring, then shouting insults or lewd invitations.

Am I right?"

She sighed. "Yes, since the day they moved across the street. Every time I

left the house, it seemed they were there."

"Because they were watching out for you. But after a while it wasn't just

words, was it? There were probably gestures. And the gestures got cruder and

cruder. Then they walked down the porch steps. Then they came to the edge of the

property."

Nicole stared. "Yes. Exactly that. How did you know?" She thought back to

her conversation with Sam. "Sam told you."

"No, ma'am, he didn't have to. It's behavior as predictable as the seasons.

Sam said they touched your car. Is that correct?"

Nicole shivered at the memory. "Yes. I mean, one of them did. Just

knocked on the window of the car, but it--it scared me." She gave a half laugh.

"I've lived in third-world countries, I'm not usually such a wuss."

His jaw tightened. "You're not a wuss, ma'am. Not at all. The next step is

touching you, and once they do, they won't stop. Sam recognized that. It's why he

sent me. Believe me, we've seen this behavior over and over. They're bullies when

they sense someone is weaker than them. But deep down, they're cowards. They

won't want to mess with the police. I'll keep coming around. Might actually have a

little heart to heart, in full gear. Scare the shit out of them." He bowed his head.

"Pardon the language."

Scaring the shit out of them sounded just fine. Fantastic, in fact.

He sat there, broad and square and tough as hell, actually frightening to

look at. Dangerous. Not to her, but to anyone he might deem an enemy. Those

heavy muscles moved with athletic grace. He was SWAT. He more than knew

how to handle weapons. Creepy and Creepier might very well try to attack a

woman, but not one with this level of protection. He'd put himself and all the

resources of the police department at her disposal.

He'd just made her safe.

A deep-seated tension dissolved. She hadn't even admitted to herself how

much Creepy and Creepier frightened her. How she'd had to steel herself to walk

out her front door every morning.

Nicole smiled. "Well, thank you very, very much, Mike. I must say I feel

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relieved. So far, they haven't done anything I would report, and half the time I

thought I was exaggerating their importance in my mind, but you're right. I guess I

felt that one day they might do something...violent."

"They would have done something violent, and soon. Count on it. But I'll

make sure they get the message. Mess with you and they're in deep sh--trouble."

His blue eyes fixed on hers. "And don't thank me, ma'am. Thank Sam. He's the

one who sent me. He's the one making you safe."

Nicole's heart thumped as a wave of heat washed over her. Oh my God. Did

he know? Did she have something on her face that showed she'd spent the night

making frantic love with Sam Reston? And that she'd been avoiding him all

morning?

"Ah--" she began, her voice a croak.

"Senora. El cafe esta listo."

Nicole turned gratefully. Manuela stood in the doorway with a tray holding

a pot of her world-class coffee and three cups, bless her. If her father woke up, he

would enjoy a cup.

Manuela put the tray down on the coffee table and Nicole leaned forward,

looking a question at Mike.

"Black, no sugar, ma'am."

She smiled. "Manuela's coffee is strong enough to wake the dead, Mike.

Are you sure you don't want sugar? And please call me Nicole."

"No. The stronger the better. I like the taste of bitter coffee. Reminds me of

the field."

His shoulders relaxed just a little as he accepted the small cup. It looked

tiny in his huge hands.

Well, she wasn't a Marine. She added two heaping teaspoonfuls of sugar

and stirred, watching as he downed the coffee in one gulp.

His eyes widened. She couldn't say it would put hair on his chest, he

already had that. There were thick tufts of dark hair showing in the V of his open

collar, but no doubt that hair just got thicker.

"Yes, indeed," she said, smiling. "Manuela's Cuban, and her corto is famous

in a couple of countries."

Maybe it was the smell of Manuela's coffee, maybe the sun that had shifted

in the sky, shooting a hot beam of light into his lap. For whatever reason, her

father snorted slightly and woke up. His head lifted, turned.

"Darling?"

Nicole's heart sank. His voice had turned weak, shaky, a sign that the pain

was coming. Not immediately, but soon.

She rose, coffee cup in hand. "Here, Dad." She put the cup in his hand, her

own hand cupped under his in case he spilled it, her other hand lightly on his

shoulder, in reassurance. His grasping strength was erratic. At times, he couldn't

hold on to things. "Manuela's finest. Drink up. If you ask nicely, I imagine she's

got some pasteles in the kitchen."

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Nicole plastered a smile on her face, pretending not to notice the bird-like

bones of his shoulder under her hand. Or his trembling hand as he brought the cup

to his mouth. Or the sound of his breathing, loud in the quiet room. The effort of

holding a cup to his mouth was enormous.

Her father had been such a handsome man. People turned their heads when

he walked by, even when they didn't know who he was. He had had such a regal

bearing, one of nature's aristocrats.

Now he was crunched in a wheelchair, often in pain, barely able to feed

himself.

Dying.

This was breaking her heart.

Mike had stood, doing that straight-shouldered hands-over-crotch thing

again. Her father took one look and nailed him immediately.

"Marine, young man?"

Nicole rushed to make introductions. "Daddy, this is Mike Keillor, former

Marine--good call, you still have a fantastic eye. He's with the San Diego Police

Department now. He's the friend of a friend of mine. Mike, this is my father,

Ambassador Nicholas Pearce." She shot Mike a hard glance. Don't you dare say

the real reason you're here. She would kill him with her bare hands, body armor or

no body armor, if he said he was here to ward off troublemakers. The very last

thing her father needed was to worry about her and her safety

Mike gave an imperceptible nod. "Pleased to meet you, sir. I just stopped

by to say hello to Nicole."

Her father brought the cup to his mouth again with shaking hands, Nicole's

hand under his so he could sip. He loved Manuela's coffee. She'd asked the doctors

what he could eat and drink. His oncologist, a wise and humane man, told her to

let him have his pleasures for as long as possible.

Nicole had understood quite well what the gentle oncologist was saying. It

won't make any difference. He'll die soon, anyway. Let him enjoy what he can