Striking Distance

Nothing he’d done in his career as a special operator had felt more rewarding than getting her out of that hellhole. Sure, he’d pulled his team out of some pretty tight scrapes, played medic to wounded men, taken out a bad guy or two, earned his share of medals. But the night he’d found her was the only time he’d directly saved the life of an American civilian. The fact that it had been Laura, that she’d been

alive

, had only made it sweeter. He’d gone to bed that night feeling like a hero.

He’d followed the news articles about her as well as he could between back-to-back deployments, and he knew what she’d endured. Repeated rape. Beatings. Daily threats of decapitation. Reading the news stories and watching her interview with Diane Sawyer had made him wish he’d kicked the shit out of Al-Nassar when he’d had the chance, maybe shot the fucker in the balls.

It had also made Javier want to reach out to her, to help her however he could, to let her know that he was there, that he cared. But he’d been downrange in Afghanistan for most of the past two years, and when he’d been home, he’d spent those few precious weeks with his family and his Mamá Andreína, who was ninety-two and had been in and out of the hospital. He hadn’t been sure Laura would want to see him or whether she even remembered their time in Dubai City.

Watching her now, he had to give her a world of credit. To go through what she’d gone through and to come out of it in one piece took strength.

“¡Oye, cabrón!” Hey, motherfucker!

Javier turned toward the familiar voice to find Nathaniel West striding toward him.

“¿Que pasa, cabrón?” What’s up, motherfucker?

The last time he’d seen Nate—whose MSOT, or Marine Special Operations Team, had worked alongside Delta Platoon in Afghanistan—the man had been clinging to life in the burn ward at the Brooke Army Medical Center in San Antonio, the right side of his face and body a mess of second– and third-degree burns from an IED blast. Scars now covered Nate’s nose, right cheek, and jaw, disappearing down his neck and beneath his winter coat, but he was alive. More than that, he seemed . . .

happy

.

Javier held out his hand, the lump in his throat making it hard to speak. “Damn, brother, you look good!”

Nate gri

They clasped hands—one hand dark, the other scarred—and drew together, slapping each other hard on the back while they embraced.

Nate was the reason Javier had come. Javier had wanted to see for himself that his brother in arms had recovered and was doing as well as his e-mails said he was. He’d gotten married this past summer to some sweet

mami

, but Javier had been downrange and had missed the wedding. He hoped to make up for that now.

They drew apart, both of them gri

Nate broke the silence. “I heard you got hit pretty bad.”

“Yeah.” There was no denying it. “I pulled through.”

Not all of his men had been as lucky.

“Thank God for that.” Nate studied him for a moment, a frown on his face, then gave a nod. “How long can you stay?”

Javier had spent three weeks of his two extra months of leave with his family, and had a little over four weeks left. “Trying to get rid of me already?”

Nate laughed, pointed at Javier’s guitar case. “If you play that thing, Megan might just throw you out.”

“Hey, I’ve gotten better, man.” But Nate’s ribbing didn’t bother him.

The smile on his buddy’s face lifted a weight from Javier’s shoulders that he’d carried for three long years. He’d been the first to reach the burning wreck of the transport truck, had pulled Nate out of the wreckage, held his uninjured hand, waiting with him for what seemed an eternity for evac. It had crushed Javier to see him in such agony, his body charred and shaking, his eyes wild with pain and shock.

Nate West had been a natural leader, one hell of a warrior, and a true friend. Now he was Javier’s hero.

“Let’s load your shit in the truck and get you up to the ranch.” Nate reached for Javier’s duffel, but something on the television caught his eye.

Javier followed his gaze.

The recycled news footage of Laura again.

“I wish the media would leave her the hell alone,” Nate grumbled, slinging the duffel over his shoulder. “She’s been through enough.”

“You got that right.” Javier wanted to say more but couldn’t.

No one who wasn’t part of that op would ever know that Javier had been the one to find and recover her. OPSEC—operational security—was just a part of his job. He didn’t talk about his missions with anyone who hadn’t also been a part of them.

“She works at the

Denver Independent

with Megan’s sister-in-law, Sophie. We’re having a barbecue this weekend to introduce you to some of our friends, and we’ve invited her. She mostly keeps to herself, but we’re hoping she’ll show.”

Laura Nilsson? At Nate’s ranch?

¡Anda pal carajo! Holy shit!

Javier stared after Nate for a moment, then grabbed his guitar and, ignoring the ache in his thigh, followed him out into the chilly morning.

* * *

HANDS CLASPED IN her lap to stop them from shaking, Laura did her best to hold herself together. No matter that the queasiness in her stomach had become a sharp ache or that she’d dissolved into tears twice or that she couldn’t stop shaking. She’d come here to bear witness to Al-Nassar’s crimes against her, to stand up to his cruelty, to make certain that he went to prison for the rest of his life.

She’d made it through two hours of grueling testimony so far, her secret still intact, her composure less so. She’d tried to prepare herself emotionally to see Al-Nassar’s face again, to feel his gaze on her, to hear his voice. But what she hadn’t prepared for—what she hadn’t even

known

to prepare for—was her

body’s

response. She could almost feel his hands on her, smell his breath, hear his heavy breathing as he used her, violated her, hurt her. It left her feeling sick.

“When the special operator opened the door to your room and began speaking American English, you did not reveal yourself to him and tell him you were a prisoner. Instead, you remained covered with the burka and kept silent. Why is that?”

Laura had struggled to understand this herself. How could she explain to anyone who hadn’t endured captivity what it was like to lose one’s identity?

“When I recognized that the language they were speaking was American English, I felt terrified. I didn’t know why I was afraid. But I think now that hearing their words made me aware again that I was a captive. It was like waking up to discover that what you thought was only a bad dream was actually real. It took time for me to understand what was happening and find the words to speak out.”

“So after months of wanting desperately to escape, you waited till the last possible second to reveal yourself?”

Marie had warned her the defense might take the position that Laura had actually wanted to stay in the compound and had told Laura not to let it rattle her. It was nothing more than a bid to undermine the jury’s sympathy for her.

“I didn’t

wait

. It just took time for me to comprehend what was happening.”

“I see.” The defense attorney shrugged. “Is it possible that you delayed revealing yourself for so long because you took your marriage to the defendant seriously and wanted to remain with—what did you call his other wives?—your ‘sisters’?”