The Soldier's Mission (3 page)

“Of course. Anyone who stands out in your mind?”

She put her head down, bringing her right arm up to settle on the table, then leaned her chin against her fist, a dark thought creeping into her mind. In that brief moment, Laura thought of only one possible suspect.

“About a month ago, we had a teenager come to the clinic. He was upset about something his father had done.”

“Go on.”

Not wanting to divulge the particulars, she shook her head. “I can't talk about it—except that the teen was traumatized by what had happened. I counseled him, told him how to get help from the authorities next time it happened. He didn't want to report the incident, but I could tell he was afraid. He was a lot stronger and calmer after our first couple of sessions, though. Then he didn't come back.”

“Did he seem angry at you?”

“No, he was angry at the world.” And his father. The man had been extremely demanding and controlling. How could she tell Paco this without getting upset or giving away personal information? Or her acute sense
of failure. “The young man killed himself about two weeks after he'd talked to me.”

Paco scribbled some notes. “What was his name?”

“Is this necessary?”

“We have to assume, yes.”

“Kyle Henner. He was sixteen.”

She watched as Paco pulled up a number on his phone. “Kissie, it's Paco. Yeah, I'm okay. I need you to run a name for me. See what you can find out about a kid from Phoenix named Kyle Henner.” He held the phone away. “Father's name?”

Laura hesitated then said, “Lawrence Henner. He's a big-time developer of some sort. He owns a lot of different companies. Lots of money and lots of power. He was devastated about what happened.”

She didn't add that the man was also a walking time bomb who'd verbally abused not only his son but his wife, too. His wife left him after Kyle's suicide. And now that she thought about it, Lawrence Henner was just the kind of man to blame someone else for his son's death.

Someone like her, maybe?

Paco finished his conversation with Kissie then turned to Laura. “She'll get back to us. And if you think about anything else you can tell me about this kid, let me know.”

“His father is ruthless,” she said, her nerves sparkling with apprehension. “But I don't think he'd try to shoot me. He'd just find a way to ruin my life, probably.”

“Or if he's that powerful, he could send someone else to shoot you.”

She swallowed back her worries. “Last I heard, Mr. Henner had left the country.”

“That could be a red flag.”

“Or maybe he needed to get away from everything in the same way you did?”

He gave her a hard stare. “Maybe. Only I'm not the one out there in the hills with a gun, now, am I?”

Laura shivered at his words. No, he wasn't out there trying to shoot people. But if he didn't unload some of his own grief soon, he could be the next one.

How in the world could she help Paco Martinez deal with post-traumatic stress if someone was trying to finish her off before she even got started? That thought caused her to gasp and grab at Paco's hand.

“Did you remember something else?”

“No, but I just realized something.”

His dark eyes swirled with questions. “Spit it out.”

“What if that person out there was trying to
stop
me from talking to
you?
”

S
he had a point there. And she had already suggested he might be the target. But killing her for talking to him—or to keep her from talking to him—that was a different twist. Paco couldn't deny he had people gunning for him on so many levels. But to try and take out a pretty, innocent woman just because she was trying to help him. Who would want to do that? Maybe the shooter
had
been after
him
to begin with. That made more sense.

But he'd gone on a long run early this morning. It would have been easy for someone to spot him and take him out there in the desert. And by the time anybody found him, the vultures and other predators would have finished him off, anyway. No, this shooting had been timed for her arrival, by Paco's way of thinking.

“So maybe I should be asking you all these questions,” she said, her expression bordering on smug. “I've read your case file. You've had quite a career in both special ops and with CHAIM. Both classified, of course, but I know things went bad on your last mission in Afghanistan. That's a lot of stress for any one man.”

Paco wanted to laugh out loud, except a burning rage
kept him from cracking a smile. That and the way she'd changed from timid to tempest by turning the tables on him. “You have no idea, darlin'.”

Her expression turned sympathetic, which only made things worse. He could handle anything but pity. “I think I do. That's why you called me that night.”

He got up, stomping around the small café, his gaze hitting on an old shelf full of several carved wooden figurines of warriors astride horses his grandfather had created to sell right along refrigerator magnets, greasy hamburgers and ice-cold soft drinks. Grandfather Rainwater was content with his life.

Paco, however, was still struggling with his.

And this perky little counselor lady wasn't helping matters. Neither was being shot at so early in the day.

Remembering his midnight-hour shout-out, he said, “I shouldn't have called the hotline that night. False alarm.”

“You called for a reason. Maybe someone else out there thinks you have a problem.”

Paco turned to lean over the table, glad when she slid into the corner of the booth. Glad and a little ashamed that he'd stoop to a frowning intimidation to make her go away. “You wanna know why I called that night? Really want to know?” He didn't wait for her to nod. Pushing so close he could see the swirling violet-blue of her eyes, he said, “I wanted to take a drink. I wanted to get so drunk I could sleep for a week without nightmares or guilt or regret.”

He lifted up and sank back down, the shock in her vivid eyes undoing him. “But I promised that old man in the kitchen back there that I was done with drunken brawls and feeling sorry for myself. I respect him and I
didn't want to let him down. You see, he lost his son—in-law—my father—to the Vietnam War. And you probably know about my brother—he's in a wheelchair, compliments of Desert Storm. But…it's hard sometimes, in the middle of the night. So I wanted a drink, okay. But I didn't take that drink. Instead I prayed really hard and in a moment of sheer desperation, I dialed the number on the card Warwick gave me and blurted out all of my frustrations to you.”

Hitting a finger hard on the table, he said, “I hope you're satisfied now. All clear?”

“Do you still want to drink?” she asked in a silky-strong whisper, her wide-eyed expression daring him to deny it.

Paco looked down at her, saw the strength pushing away the fear in her eyes, the solid concern out-maneuvering the shock on her face. He had to admire her spunk. His grandfather was the only person in the world who never backed down when it came to Paco and his moods.

Maybe he's finally met someone else worthy of that kind of status. Someone else he could learn to respect. And someone else who was willing to go the distance with him.

“Yes, I still want a drink,” he said, surprised at this whole conversation. “But I won't take another one. I go to my AA meetings on a regular basis. I'm better now, I told you. So let's focus on the problem we have here, right now.”

The doubtful stare she gave him implied she didn't believe him but she nodded her head in understanding. And right now, Paco couldn't worry about what she thought.

“Are you driving back to Phoenix today?” he asked, pulling her up out of the booth.

The confusion in her eyes slammed head-on into his own conflicting feelings. “No. I have a hotel room at the foot of the Grand Canyon.” Looking sheepish, she said, “I thought if I couldn't find you I'd do a little hiking.”

He drew in air, thinking it a blessing she'd found him. Just the thought of her alone near the Canyon with a lunatic tracking her sent fingers of dread racing across his spine. “Does anyone know where you are?”

“My parents and my supervisor at the clinic.”

“Would they tell anyone else?”

“They might mention I'm at the Canyon. I didn't exactly post what I was doing. Just told them I'd be gone for a few days on a trip to locate a client.”

A knock at the restaurant door caused Paco to spin around. His grandfather came out of the kitchen. “It's a delivery man bringing fresh produce,” Walter said, waving Paco away. “Sorry. They usually pull around to the back.”

Paco watched as Walter headed to open the door, the hair on the back of his neck bristling. His gaze hit Laura's, both of them realizing too late—

“Grandfather!”

Paco went into motion, rushing toward the door. But Walter already had it open, a smile on his face. “Joseph, why didn't you—”

A fist in Walter's face knocked the old man back onto the floor. Walter hit his head on the corner of a bench as he went down. Then he didn't move.

Paco heard Laura's scream even while he rushed the man at the door, taking the intruder by surprise, one hand pressing down on the man's weapon hand and the
other one on his throat. With a grunt and heavy pressure on the wrist, Paco forced the man to drop the handgun he was carrying. But his opponent didn't let that stop him. He reached around with his other hand and tried to bring Paco down. Paco countered with an uppercut to the man's chin. Then they went down with fists popping against skin. The man was big and solid but Paco didn't let up until he had him rolled over faceup. Struggling to hold the man down, Paco memorized his face—scarred and brutal—just before he slammed his fist back into it.

 

Laura ran to Walter. “Mr. Rainwater? Are you all right?” Paco's grandfather didn't respond. Blood poured out of his nose and his breathing was shallow. Deciding the best thing she could do right now was to help Paco, she searched for a weapon and saw Walter's rifle leaning against the kitchen door. Without thinking, Laura grabbed it, trying to focus on the man who'd managed to get in and knock out Paco's grandfather. When Paco rolled the man over and begin hitting him in the face, she waited, her pulse flat-lining then spurting into overdrive. But the stranger reached up and managed to get his hands around Paco's neck. Paco grunted, working to flip the man over. When that didn't work, he tried hitting at the man again but he couldn't break away. Pushing at the man's thick arms, Paco finally managed to get his own fingers around the other man's throat.

Then it became a battle of wills as both held tight, each trying to squeeze the life out of the other. She had to do something. If she didn't stop this, Paco might not make it.

Laura raised the gun, her heart beating a prayer for
strength. And a prayer for good eyesight. She'd come across the state to save Paco, not watch him die. She would have to shoot the intruder.

 

Paco knew he wouldn't be able to hold out much longer. Matched in sheer strength by the other man, he fought for control—and his life. With each grunt, each surge of renewed energy, he wrestled and pushed his fingers against the stranger's thick throat muscles. If he could just find the right amount of pressure—

The room shook with a thundering roar and then the man holding Paco in a death grip went limp, his hands loosening and falling away, his expression going from determined and enraged to a surprised tranquility. Paco watched while the intruder's bulging, hate-filled eyes closed and he fell back on the floor with a heavy thud. For a minute, Paco didn't let go of his own frozen grip on the man's throat. But the silence and his own fast-moving breath brought him out of his stupor.

Looking up and around, he caught at a hitched breath. “Laura?”

She stood with the shotgun aimed high, her whole body trembling. “I'm okay.”

Paco hopped up and stared down at the blood flowing from the stranger's side. The man wasn't breathing. Then he hurried to her. “Laura?”

“Your grandfather,” she said, pointing a shaking hand toward the floor. “Go check on him!”

Paco took the gun, prying it away from her white-knuckled fingers to carefully lower it to a table. Then he went into action.

“Grandfather?” Paco felt for a pulse, relief washing through him when he found a faint beat pumping inside
his grandfather's wrinkled neck. “Wíago, talk to me!” Turning Walter's head, he saw blood on the floor then felt around until he found the deep gash on the old man's skull. “He's bleeding from his nose and he hit his head. We need to get him to a doctor.”

“I'll call 911.”

Paco lifted up, torn between getting the dead man out of the way and taking care of his grandfather. He didn't have a choice. His grandfather could die. They had to call for help.

“I'll do it,” he told Laura. Thinking about the implications of the scene, he said, “I'll have to explain this was self-defense.” He pulled out his phone and dialed, telling the operator to hurry. “My grandfather was attacked by an intruder and when he fell, he hit his head. He's not responding. Yes, he has a pulse, but it's weak.” He hurried to the man lying near the door and felt his pulse.

“And the intruder is dead. Yes, from a gunshot wound. Can you please send someone?”

After giving the dispatcher their location, he brought a blanket from the small den in the back and wrapped it around his grandfather, then checked him over again to be sure there were no other injuries. After doing everything he could to make Walter comfortable, Paco left the dead man where he was—afraid to disturb the scene. Then he finally turned to Laura.

And saw that she was about to fall into a heap on the floor.

“Laura,” he said, hurrying to her, wishing the nearest hospital wasn't so far away. “Laura, are you sure you're all right?”

She bobbed her head, her arms crossed around her
midsection, her gaze locked on the gruesome site of the man by the door. “Is that man dead?”

He pulled her close, leveling his gaze on her until she looked at him. “Yes, he is. You saved my life.” He was as amazed by that as she seemed to be.

“I…I didn't know what to do. I had to stop him…and I thought I'd shot you at first. Is your grandfather going to be okay?”

With each word, tears brimmed in her eyes until one lone drop moved down her right cheek. Paco reached up and caught the tear, keeping his gaze locked on her. “I hope so. I think he's got a concussion and he'll need stitches for the gash on his head. I've made him comfortable and the paramedics are on the way. But it'll take them a few minutes. Let me check you over.”

She tried to push away and stumbled, her face deadly pale. “I'm okay. I…Paco, I think I'm going to be sick.”

Paco hurried her to the tiny bathroom in the back and waited at the door, keeping watch on his grandfather while he paced. When she came out a few minutes later, her skin was whitewashed with shock and she held a damp paper towel to her mouth.

“Better?” he asked, guiding her to a chair.

“I think so.” She looked up at him, her eyes as blue as a desert sky at midnight. “I've never killed anyone before. Now I know how you must feel.”

That statement punctured Paco's heart. How could such an innocent woman ever know or understand the way he felt? How could she be so brave, coming here to find him simply because she was worried about him? How could she get herself caught up in something that
was probably of his making, put herself on the line like that for him, when she didn't even know him?

Before he could speak, she touched a trembling hand toward his heart. “I know what you were searching for that night, Paco.”

Paco swallowed back the lump in his throat, the sound of distant sirens echoing inside his head right along with the rising echo of his pulse. She'd called him Paco. That meant she trusted him now, meant he'd allowed her to get that close already.

“What then?” he asked, unable to stay quiet, unable to comprehend this whole morning.

“You were looking for your heart. You wanted your soul back.” She cleared her throat, her delicate hand warm on his chest, her gaze full of understanding and redemption. “I read a poem once where there was this heart hunter. He was searching for his own heart. He wanted to feel that warmth in his soul again. You know, that warmth that comes from faith and love and grace. And forgiveness. And so do you, I think. That's something we can all understand, something everyone longs for.”

Paco lifted away, his head down. Grandfather always said there were no coincidences in life. He believed the Father knew all and saw all. Had God seen Paco's pain that night, the struggle for his soul, the struggle he'd battled through between the Bible he'd clutched and the bottle that was trying to clutch him, all night long and well into the early light?

Had God sent Laura to him?

“We have to get you out of here,” he said in response, his thoughts too raw and fresh to express right now. He didn't know how to voice his thoughts, even on a good
day. “They'll want a statement. Let me do all the talking. If they do ask you questions, just answer as briefly as possible. And be completely honest.”