Running Blind (15 page)

“That depends on whether we want to go home in my car or in body bags.”

“I guess that means no.”

“We can't know if there are explosives in it, and we can't know if the next movement will set it off. Call 911. I'm going to make sure the owner of this car doesn't come out of the diner and run over the grenade.” He scooted forward on his belly, trying to get a better look. It looked Army issue and old, but he couldn't see enough details to say for sure. What he could see was that the pin had been removed. The person who'd tossed it had meant to do serious harm. By the grace of God, he hadn't been successful.

Jenna's voice spilled into his thoughts, her frantic words barely registering as Nikolai stood and paced the length of the car. Just the night before, Officer Daniels had said that Jenna was no longer being targeted by the Panthers. Either he'd been wrong or someone else was determined to do her harm.

Who?

Why?

Nikolai didn't know, but he did know that Jenna hadn't survived the Panthers' stronghold to die on the streets of Houston. He believed that as firmly as he believed it was his job, maybe even his duty to make sure whoever was coming after her was caught and that that person paid the price.

“T
here's a grenade under a car!” Jenna shouted into the phone, repeating the words for what seemed like the hundredth time.

“You're saying someone threw a grenade at you and it rolled under a car, and you need the police?” the operator asked, her tone reflecting her disbelief.

“That is exactly what I'm saying.”

“Tell her the pin has been pulled out of the grenade.” Nikolai's voice was calm, and he seemed completely comfortable with the idea that they were standing just a few feet away from a live grenade.

Jenna was not.

She relayed the information to the operator, her pulse pounding behind her eyes, the headache that never seemed far away, rearing up again.

A police car sped into the parking lot, lights flashing, sirens blaring. The door swung open and an officer jumped out, his salt-and-pepper hair and lined face giving him a kind and comforting appearance.

“I'm Officer Desmond. Is there a problem here, folks?”

“We explained the situation to the 911 operator.” Nikolai walked toward him, and the officer nodded.

“A grenade under a car, right?”

“That's right.”

“You're sure? Those things aren't so easy to get your hands on.”

“I was in the Marines for years. I've seen my fair share of them. It looks old. Maybe from World War II.”

“That's a possibility. I've seen them being sold as collectibles. Of course, none of them are live. Where is it?”

“It's here. Behind the back left tire of the car.” Nikolai gestured to a beat-up Toyota, and the officer dropped down onto his hands and knees and peered beneath the car.

“You're right. Looks like we've got ourselves a grenade. Won't know if it has explosives in it until we attempt a detonation.” The officer stood, his green eyes settling on Jenna. Did she look as sick as she felt? As terrified?

“Does Houston have a bomb squad?” Nikolai asked, and the officer nodded.

“They've already been notified. Should be here any minute. In the meantime, I'm going to start clearing out the diner. If this thing does have explosives in it and it goes off, the car'll explode. That could take out a huge chunk of the parking lot and the building.” He opened the trunk of his cruiser and pulled out crime scene tape, cordoning off the area surrounding the grenade and shooing away the small crowd of people who'd begun to gather.

“You folks can wait across the street, too,” he said as he finished with the crime scene tape. “Don't disappear, though. We'll have some questions for you once we get things under control.”

Jenna nodded, then wished she hadn't. Lights exploded in front of her eyes, and her stomach heaved. She was going to be sick. Really sick. Right there in the parking lot of the diner with Nikolai, Officer Desmond and a small crowd of people looking on.

She put a hand out, felt warm muscle beneath soft knit, and realized that she'd closed her eyes, was reaching blindly. She opened them, looked into Nikolai's deep brown eyes. Her
hand rested against his chest, her fingers curving into the soft fabric of his shirt. “Sorry.”

She tried to pull away, but he pressed her hand closer, his palm rough and calloused, his heartbeat a subtle vibration beneath her hand. He was nervous, too. She could feel it in his taut muscles and rapid pulse, but it didn't show on his face.

“It's okay,” he said, his voice rumbling out, deep and soothing as he wrapped his free arm around her waist, pulled her close so that their hands were sandwiched between their bodies.

She could have stepped back easily. His hold was that light, his touch that tentative. Instead, she moved even closer, her hand slipping from beneath his, her arms wrapping around his waist. Firm muscles and warm skin and a solid presence that she couldn't help but hold onto.

She took a steadying breath, inhaling mint and masculinity before she eased away from Nikolai. Her stomach pitched again, but she ignored that, and the pain that was rocketing through her head.

“We'd better move back and give the police some room to work.” Her voice sounded dull and lifeless, but at least she was talking, moving, thinking.

They walked across the lot, merging into the crowd that had formed across the street. Excited voices, whispered speculations and high-pitched exclamations rose above the sound of sirens and shouted orders to stay back.

“Ma'am? Sir?” A tall, well-built police officer approached, his eyes as black as pitch, his skin deeply tanned.

“I'm Sergeant Anderson. I'd like to ask you a few questions. Would you mind coming with me?” He turned before they could respond, leading them away from the crowd and to a dark SUV parked on the street. They were nearly a half block away from the diner, but Jenna could clearly see the bomb squad van and half a dozen police cars that had converged on the parking lot.

Sergeant Anderson opened the back door of the SUV and
motioned for Jenna to climb in. “We can talk here or down at the station. Whichever is more comfortable for you.”

“Here is fine,” she responded without giving it much thought. What did it matter where they answered his questions? The results would be the same. There was no way the police were going to be able to find the guy on the motorcycle. Jenna had barely had time to see him before he'd lobbed the grenade. What little she had to offer by way of information would give the police absolutely nothing to go on.

She got in the backseat of the SUV, scooting over as Nikolai climbed in beside her.

“Can I have both of your names?” the sergeant asked, glancing up from a notebook he was writing in.

“Jenna Dougherty,” Jenna responded, and he paused, frowning.

“Have you had contact with the Houston Police Department recently?”

“Someone attempted to shoot her yesterday. He was taken into custody yesterday afternoon.” Nikolai offered the information, and Sergeant Anderson nodded.

“I remember hearing about the case. It's connected to the Mexican Panthers, right?”

“That's what we're being told.”

“Who's the officer in charge?”

“Daniels.”

“He's in narcotics. I'll give him a call. You two wait here, and we'll finish the interview when I'm done.” It sounded more like an order than a suggestion, and Jenna had the feeling she'd been downgraded from victim to suspect in the time it took for her to say her name.

Sergeant Anderson took a few steps away, turning so that his back was to Jenna and Nikolai as he spoke on the phone.

“Why do I suddenly feel like a criminal?” she asked.

“Guilt by association, I guess. You were friends with a woman the DEA is investigating. You were with her in Mexico
when she was abducted and killed. The Mexican Panthers are pursuing you.”

“Apparently, so are the police and the DEA. I need to call my brother. See if he's heard anything about a search warrant on my house.” She pulled out her cell phone, but Nikolai gestured toward Sergeant Anderson.

“You may want to wait. It looks like Anderson is coming back. I have a feeling he'll be able to tell you everything you want to know about the search warrant.”

He'd barely finished speaking when the door opened and Sergeant Anderson got in the SUV. He shifted so that he was facing Jenna, and he didn't look happy. “I spoke to Officer Daniels. He'll be here in fifteen minutes. We also have some DEA and FBI agents coming over. We need to trace how the hand grenade made its way to Houston, and we need to find out who was carrying it. If you wouldn't mind waiting outside of the car, Mr. Jansen, I'll interview you one at a time and see if either of you have information that can help the investigation.”

“Are you up to being questioned, Jenna?” Nikolai asked, as if Jenna actually had a choice in the matter.

“It's now or later, so I guess it may as well be now.” She tried to smile but failed miserably.

“I'll be right outside if you need me.” He got out, shooting a quick, hard glance in Sergeant Anderson's direction. No doubt there was an unspoken message in it. Some warning about not pushing too hard or asking too much.

Or maybe not.

As much as Nikolai seemed determined to protect Jenna, he treated her like she was perfectly capable of protecting herself. There was no fawning over or pandering to her, and she appreciated that. She'd spent two years of her life looking into the eyes of people who pitied her. She'd spent that same amount of time trying to maintain her independence and prove to her friends and family that she was still the strong, tough person she'd been before her diagnosis.

“Ms. Dougherty? Are you ready?” Sergeant Anderson asked, and Jenna blinked. Had he asked the question before?

She didn't know, and her face heated. “I'm sorry. It's been a long few days, and I'm not quite myself.”

“You've been under a lot of stress since your friend's death. Magdalena Romero was her name, right?”

“That's right.”

“I'm sorry for your loss. I lost a close friend a year ago, and I know how difficult it is to say goodbye.” He spoke quietly, and Jenna didn't doubt the sincerity in his gaze. “Thank you.”

“I also understand that a lot of things have been happening since your return from Mexico. Things that are completely out of your control. Whatever you've done, Jenna, you don't deserve to die for it.” He said it so calmly, Jenna almost missed the point. When she got it, really got it, she straightened in her seat and leaned toward him.

“What do you mean? What do you think I've done?”

“It's not what I think. It's what the narcotics unit thinks. You know they've just obtained a search warrant to enter your home in Washington, right? What do you think they'll find when they search it?”

“An old tomcat, and a couple of bags of mini–chocolate bars. There may also be a dead mouse. I was feeding one who lived in the wall, but Dante—my cat—wasn't too fond of that, and he may have dispatched the poor little thing while I was gone.”

“This isn't a time for jokes, Jenna.”

“You asked what they'd find. I'm telling you.”

“If they find something else, then you're going to be in some very serious trouble.”

“You mean like a stockpile of drugs or weapons or cash? Do I look like the sort of person who'd get involved in that stuff?”

“You'd be surprised at what the average drug runner looks like.”

“I've been to Mexico one time. You know that, right? It would be a little difficult for me to be a master drug trafficker when I never go anywhere.”

“I only know what I've been told. The DEA is investigating you and your friend. There's been an influx of drugs into Texas border towns over the past four or five years. That coincides with the timing of your friend's first mission trip to Mexico.”

“That's circumstantial.”

“It's compelling when you consider that she was executed by one of the most notorious drug cartels in Mexico. Compelling when you know that drugs were found with her belongings and in her home.”

“I—” But what could she say that she hadn't said before? “I thought you were going to question me about the guy who tossed the hand grenade.”

“I will. I just wanted things to be clear between us before we began. By the time the DEA arrives, your house will have been searched. Whatever is there will be in their hands. If you're up front with me now, maybe we can strike a deal with the prosecutor—”

“Are you arresting me?”

“That isn't what I said.”

“You're talking about a prosecuting attorney and plea bargaining.”

“In the event that something is found in your house—”

“Nothing will be.”

“Then you have nothing to worry about. Now, how about you tell me about the guy who threw the hand grenade?” And as quickly as that, he changed the subject.

Jenna should have been relieved, but she wasn't. Someone had framed Magdalena and made it seem as if a loving, compassionate woman was a coldhearted criminal. Jenna didn't
know why or how, but she knew it had happened, and if it had happened to Magdalena, it could happen to her.

Fear coursed through her, adding to the pounding pain in her head and the roiling nausea in her gut. She needed cool, fresh Washington air to clear her head. She needed the sweet little cottage on the edge of the Centennial Trail that she'd bought a year ago. She needed her church family and her brother and his wife and son.

And maybe, just maybe, she needed Nikolai to get back in the car and play macho protector while she did what she wanted to and let all her fear and sadness and anger overflow into a waterfall of tears.