Striking Distance

Laura was no longer the terrorized, shattered woman the SEALs had rescued, a woman who barely remembered her own name. A year and a half of living with her mother and grandmother in Stockholm, together with intensive daily therapy, had helped her begin to heal. She might not feel like her old self, but she was slowly defining her

new

self. Or so her therapist had said when she’d burst into tears of frustration one afternoon, angry at herself for still being so pathetically weak, so fearful, so broken.

Her time as a captive made up only eighteen months out of thirty-two

years

of her life, and yet it seemed to define her. There were still days when the pain inside her was so strong she feared that if she started to cry, she would never be able to stop.

Still, she had so many reasons to be grateful.

She’d regained all the weight she’d lost and was no longer anemic. She was sleeping at night—most of the time. She was back in the States and had a nice loft in lower downtown Denver, or LoDo as locals called it. She had a seat on the I-Team—the award-wi

Denver Independent

newspaper. She’d even been on a few dates, though nothing had come of them.

It was a new begi

One precious, important piece was still missing.

“Sorry about the mob outside.” Marie gave her hand another squeeze, then turned with the two deputies toward the elevators.

The media were the least of Laura’s worries today. “They’re just doing their job.”

She waited in silence with the others for the elevator car to arrive. When the doors closed, Marie spoke again.

“I’m taking you to a private witness room where you’ll stay until it’s time for you to testify. We’ll view the live footage of your abduction first. You’re still certain you don’t want to see that?”

Laura nodded. “I’m certain.”

She didn’t want to watch her friends die all over again or hear her own screams. Besides, she didn’t need to see it. That moment lived in her nightmares.

“I understand.” Marie’s brown eyes held no judgment, only sympathy. “When that’s done, we’ll bring you in.”

As Marie went over Laura’s testimony, Laura began to feel queasy. By the time they’d reached the private witness room, she felt the first trill of panic.

Marie glanced down at her watch. “Is there anything you need—coffee, water?”

There was just one thing. “Mr. Black has assured me that a certain topic will not be mentioned or discussed in the courtroom.”

There was one matter Laura refused to discuss, even in a court of law, a matter she intended to keep secret, private.

“Mr. Black and the team are aware of your concerns, and I want to assure you that every step has been taken to ensure your privacy in that regard. We can’t control the defendant, of course. If he chooses to mention it . . .”

Laura nodded, aware of that risk. “Thank you.”

Marie took both her hands. “You hang in there. This will be over soon. Thanks in part to you, that bastard is going to spend the rest of his life in prison.”

Although the U.S. attorney had an unshakable case against Al-Nassar, Laura had volunteered to testify, certain that confronting Al-Nassar would help her put the past behind her and take the next step in healing. She would see him for what he truly was—a prisoner, a despicable old man, weak and alone. He would no longer loom in her mind as the all-powerful warlord who had controlled her body, her mind, her life. But now that she was here, now that the day had come, she found herself wondering whether she’d made a terrible mistake.

“We’ll be right outside the door,” one of the deputy U.S. Marshals assured her.

Laura nodded, her mouth suddenly dry.

And then she was alone.

* * *

JAVIER CORBRAY SAT in baggage claim at Denver International Airport, his back to the wall, his duffel and guitar case beside him, a cup of coffee from the coffee Automat in his hand. He took a sip, grimaced.

¡Carajo!

This shit was worse than the swill they served on submarines. How was that even possible?

He took another swallow, his gaze moving back and forth along the crowded terminal, some part of him on edge. Then again, he was always on edge these days.

It had been five months since he’d decided to let that Pashtun shepherd and his sons live, five months of living with the consequences of that one decision. Warned by the shepherd, the Taliban had ambushed Delta Platoon outside Ghazni with heavy casualties. Javier had taken four rounds. Surgeons had saved his leg, patched up his shoulder, liver, and lung, giving him fourteen units of blood to keep him alive.

Still, he’d gotten off easy. In all, eighteen men had died that day.

Javier had been up and around much faster than they’d expected, pushing himself through the pain of rehab, determined to help his body heal to the best of its ability, regain his strength, and get back with the teams. He’d moved from rehab to PT, passed the post-deployment psych test, and thought he was about to start an active-duty workup. Instead, one of the shrinks had accused him of “playing to the test,” whatever the hell that meant, and had benched him.

Post-combat trauma.

It was bureaucratic bullshit. How could he

pass

the test and still get flagged? The screening was useless anyway. They’d borrowed it from a psych test created for the army. But he wasn’t some green kid back from his first tour of duty, a young soldier fresh out of boot camp who’d seen his first dead body. Javier had been deploying as a special operator for fourteen years now. He knew the realities of combat, knew his limits, knew what he could handle. He didn’t need to talk about his feelings. He sure as hell didn’t need some shrink’s shoulder to cry on.

Fortunately, Boss had persuaded Naval Special Warfare Command to back Javier, and a compromise had been reached. Javier’s medical leave had been extended for another two months, at which time he’d take the psych screening again. If he passed, he passed. He’d move on to an active-duty workup and be back with the teams by summer. If he didn’t pass . . .

That won’t happen,

chacho

.

A voice coming from the flat-screen TV overhead caught his ear.

“The trial of accused al Qaeda terrorist Abu Nayef Al-Nassar continued this morning when journalist Laura Nilsson took the stand.”

Javier looked up as the broadcast cut away to footage of Laura being waylaid by media outside the federal court building. Flanked by two officers from the U.S. Marshal Service, she made her way up the steps, then turned and smiled.

Javier felt a tug in his chest. He knew testifying wouldn’t be easy for her—sitting in a courtroom with Al-Nassar, reliving the horror he’d put her through—but Javier respected the hell out of her for doing it.

“Today marks for me the final chapter of an ordeal that began three and a half years ago,” she said into the microphones. “I know that justice will be served not only on my behalf, but also on behalf of the hundreds of others around the world who have suffered as a result of Al-Nassar’s terrible actions.”

Gone was the trembling, terrified woman he’d carried on board the Chinook. In her place stood the Laura he’d met in Dubai—confident, polished, beautiful.