at Italian ancestry, he had some impressive moves. Ex-military, she guessed. Maybe special ops. He resembled the cops and soldiers she’d come across while hunting down stories: clean-cut, physically fit, with experience sharpening his gaze.
Nearly black eyes, a sharp blade of a nose and lips on the full side made for an arresting face, one too unique for mere handsomeness. The dark tux, pristine white shirt and precisely knotted tie should have detracted from the air of controlled power that he wore so easily, but the elegance had the opposite effect. He looked dangerous.
Get it together, girl. She had no business cataloging the man’s features, no matter how attractive he might be.
She’d been making her way to Leonard Crane, the man she’d been trying to interview for the last couple of weeks, when the shots had ripped through the air. Crane was the boss of Savannah’s sanitation/waste union.
Scout knew she was running a risk in continuing where her mother, a true-crime writer with eleven bestsellers to her credit, had left off in investigating murders in the labor unions. Though she couldn’t prove it, she believed her mother had been killed because of her research. Scout and her father had been collateral damage. Scout had recovered from the bullet to her shoulder, but her father had died. The police had called it a carjacking gone wrong.
Scout knew differently.
According to her mother’s notes, Crane had known the four bosses who had been murdered in the last two years. Her mother had believed that he was connected to the murders, either directly or indirectly. Scout wasn’t about to let go of the best lead she had.
Finding out that Crane was going to be present at the Homes for Everyone fund-raiser had been a bonus. It made up—almost—for shelling out a week’s pay for a dress she’d probably never wear again. Being assigned to cover the affair still rankled.
Her nose wrinkled. Give her a juicy case of corruption to investigate and she was there. She’d paid her dues in covering rubber-chicken dinners and was now slowly working her way up from the society page to the city page, from fluff to hard news. It felt like a demotion to be assigned to something like this.
The police arrived. She figured they’d surround the hotel, block exits, and forbid anyone from entering or leaving. It was too bad the gunman had probably already made his escape, rendering such procedures useless.
Scout answered the questions a detective fired at her as briefly as she could and kept her thoughts to herself. Maybe she was jumping to conclusions. Just because she’d gotten a few pieces of hate mail threatening her life if she didn’t back off her investigation, didn’t mean she was a target.
Scout McAdams was rarely dishonest with herself, but right now, she recognized that she was indulging in a moment of being just that.
“You’re certain you have nothing else to add, Ms. McAdams?” the detective asked for the fifth time.
Nicco Santonni hovered nearby. His presence was a comfort, and though she didn’t want to admit it, she welcomed it.
“I’m certain.” Irritation at the repetitive questions and a large dose of residual fear sharpened her voice.
“If you think of anything...”
“I know where to find you.”
The detective nodded curtly and turned his attention elsewhere.
* * *
Red-gold hair swung past her shoulders, framing a heart-shaped face with intelligent eyes and a full mouth. Her girl-next-door looks were far more appealing than the elaborate hair and makeup favored by many of the women present. But it wasn’t her beauty that demanded and held attention; it was the determination that sparked in her eyes.
Scout McAdams had a reputation for doing whatever it took to get a story.
Deliberately, Nicco pushed back memories of another reporter with the same tenacity and shook his head to clear the images that had taken up residence there. He had a client to protect. It was one thing to bring up a bittersweet memory, another to let it interfere with his ability to do the job.
He noticed that she was rubbing her right arm. “Did I hurt you?”
“Are you kidding? You saved my life.”
“You think the shot was meant for you?” Nicco already knew she was a target, but he was interested in her response.
Her face blanked of all expression.
“I really don’t know.”
He watched as Scout walked away, and after making sure that she was all right, he headed to the balcony, zeroed in on the detective in charge, and identified himself. “Nicco Santonni with S&J Security/Protection, assigned to Scout McAdams. She doesn’t know I was hired to protect her, and I’d just as soon keep it that way for as long as I can.”
“Gotcha.”
Whenever possible, S&J tried to play nice with law enforcement. It made things easier for both sides.
“Wagner,” the man said and ignored Nicco’s outstretched hand. He pointed to the weapon the shooter had left behind. “Probably didn’t want to take the time to break it down and carry it out of here. The number’s been filed off, though we’ve had pretty good success with raising numbers in the past using an acid wash.”
Nicco moved closer. “An M110, Knight’s Armament semiautomatic with a bipod. Effective range 800 meters.”
Wagner looked impressed. “You know your weapons.”
“You could say that. Rangers. Six years in the Stand,” Nicco said, using the military’s slang for Afghanistan.
The detective gave a low whistle. “Not too shabby.” He tapped his chest. “Marine Force Recon. Eight in Fallujah.” He gestured to his right leg. “Took a round in my thigh. Still aches in the rain.” He grimaced. “I’d give anything to be back fighting the good fight.”
Nicco felt a thaw in the air. “Know what you mean.”
The two men regarded each other with fresh respect.
“Glad to have you on board,” Wagner said and this time held out his hand.
Nicco took the detective’s hand, found it ridged with calluses. “Thanks.” He inspected the weapon further. “This bad boy’s military issue. A very nice and very expensive toy.”
“Some toy.” Wagner eyed Nicco with a shrewd gaze. “You think your client was the intended victim.”
“Had to be,” Nicco said frankly, wincing when he thought of just how close the shots had come to Scout. “She’s been receiving threats.” Curiosity over the reporter buzzed in his head like an insistent gnat.
“She neglected to tell me that.” Wagner scowled. “Reporters are a pain...” He bit off whatever he’d been about to add.
Nicco grinned. “Tell me about it.”
In perfect accord, they fixed their gazes once more on the weapon. It was the only lead they had to the shooter.
Nicco
