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FATAL TRUTH
Finishing the investigation that got her parents killed is reporter Scout McAdams’s top priority—even with someone threatening her life if she doesn’t drop it. But she’ll reluctantly accept former army ranger Nicco Santonni as her bodyguard...on one condition. He can’t try to stop her from uncovering the truth her true-crime writer mother was searching for, despite the danger. Though the pretty—and stubborn—journalist may not want a bodyguard, Nicco knows she needs one, and he aims to shadow Scout’s every move. But while Nicco may use every tactic to keep the killers at bay, when the truth proves deadlier than they ever imagined, will they live to tell the tale?
JANE M. CHOATE dreamed of writing from the time she was a small child when she entertained friends with outlandish stories complete with happily-ever-after endings. Writing for Love Inspired Suspense is a dream come true. Jane is the proud mother of five children, grandmother to seven grandchildren and the staff to one cat who believes she is of royal descent.
Also By Jane M. Choate
Keeping Watch
The Littlest Witness
Shattered Secrets
High-Risk Investigation
Discover more at millsandboon.co.uk.
High-Risk Investigation
Jane M. Choate
www.millsandboon.co.uk
ISBN: 978-1-474-08063-7
HIGH-RISK INVESTIGATION
© 2018 Jane M. Choate
Published in Great Britain 2018
by Mills & Boon, an imprint of HarperCollins Publishers 1 London Bridge Street, London, SE1 9GF
All rights reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. This edition is published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, locations and incidents are purely fictional and bear no relationship to any real life individuals, living or dead, or to any actual places, business establishments, locations, events or incidents. Any resemblance is entirely coincidental.
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Version: 2020-03-02
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She was in trouble.
The firm set of Nicco’s mouth told her he was angry with her.
Scout went on the offensive. “Say something. Anything.”
“You handled yourself today. But what’s going to happen when you find yourself in a situation you can’t handle?”
A dozen retorts came to mind. She rejected all but one. “I can’t stop living my life because of some threats.”
“You could have been killed.”
And then she understood. He’d been afraid. For her.
“I’m sorry for scaring you.”
“Nothing is worth your life. Nothing. Including this investigation.”
Scout wanted to protest, but she didn’t want to destroy the fragile peace that hovered between them. “I’ll be more careful. I promise.”
“I don’t want you to just be careful. I want you to stay alive. Because next time...”
Nicco let the words trail off. He didn’t need to speak them. The silent warning echoed in her head.
Next time the job wouldn’t go unfinished. It’d end with her death.
Dear Reader,
Thank you for joining me on another journey. I love writing about courageous men and women like Nicco and Scout. Their love path was a tortuous one as they battled enemies motivated by greed and power. In the end, love and truth won out.
Courage, like heroes, comes in all flavors. Some of the most courageous men and women I know are those who fight cancer. My mother and my sister fought ovarian cancer with humor and resolve and, most of all, faith. In spite of this, the cancer won, or at least it did on this earthly sphere. But I know it does not triumph beyond the grave. I remind myself of that when I am grieving and comfort myself with the knowledge that I am separated from them for only a brief time.
Nicco and Scout also lost loved ones. Like me, they grieved, sometimes unbearably so, and they searched for ways to continue living. When their strength faltered, they relied upon the Lord and found in Him the strength and the will to go on.
I pray that you can turn to the Lord in whatever battles you face.
With gratitude for His love,
Jane
Fear thou not; for I am with thee: be not dismayed; for I am thy God: I will strengthen thee; yea, I will help thee; yea, I will uphold thee with the right hand of my righteousness.
—Isaiah 41:10
To my mother, Georgia Sampson McBride, and to my sister, Carla Sue Berger, each of whom waged a valiant fight against ovarian cancer, and to all the women and those who love them who battle this disease.
Contents
Cover
Back Cover Text
About the Author
Booklist
Title Page
Copyright
Introduction
Dear Reader
Bible Verse
Dedication
ONE
TWO
THREE
FOUR
FIVE
SIX
SEVEN
EIGHT
NINE
TEN
ELEVEN
TWELVE
THIRTEEN
FOURTEEN
FIFTEEN
SIXTEEN
SEVENTEEN
EIGHTEEN
NINETEEN
TWENTY
TWENTY-ONE
Extract
ONE
Nicco Santonni yanked at the too-tight collar of the starched white shirt. The tuxedo, a rental, felt like a straitjacket that at any moment might strangle him. He’d take a flak jacket or even the shalwar kameez—the traditional Middle Eastern baggy, pajama-like trousers paired with a long cotton tunic—over the monkey suit, but tonight’s job dictated formal wear.
He had as much use for a tuxedo as he did for the glitz and glamour of the ballroom at Savannah’s premiere hotel, but a bodyguard went where his client did and tonight that meant showing up for a charity fund-raiser.
He’d arrived early for the event. Another operative was watching the client in the hours before the gala began. Ranger to the core, he’d wanted to survey his surroundings. He didn’t like being taken by surprise. Constructing a grid pattern of the ballroom came first, followed by identifying any likely spots for a sniper attack. He didn’t expect to use his expertise in explosives or hand-to-hand combat tonight, but an operative for S&J Security/Protection never knew what he or she would be called upon to do.
Protecting a client required finesse and a boatload of other skills, but protecting one who didn’t know she was being guarded presented the distinct problem of keeping close without giving himself away. Not for the first time, Nicco wondered how he’d ended up with a job he didn’t want.
The answer was simple. Family. His brother Sal’s wife, Olivia, had asked that he protect Scout McAdams.
Olivia had stressed that her friend not know she was under S&J’s protection until it became absolutely necessary. “I know Scout. She’ll tell you to get lost. But the letters she’s been receiving are getting scarier all the time. I’m worried.”
Nicco couldn’t say no. Not to Olivia. She was family, and family was everything to the Santonnis. Family, and loyalty to the people who signed your paycheck.
Working for S&J had been the best thing to happen to him after he’d left the Rangers. Named for the founders, Shelley Rabb Judd and her brother Jake Rabb, S&J was quickly becoming a leading player in the growing protection industry with clients in both the private and public sectors.
Nicco had never regretted the decision to join the firm. Caring was the cornerstone of S&J. That, and passion for the job. He liked the work and sometimes even liked the clients. As Shelley said, “You don’t have to like the clients. You just have to protect them.”
He didn’t know whether he liked Scout McAdams as he’d never been introduced to her. He knew she was a reporter and that she had been receiving threats. His lips tightened. Whoever was threatening McAdams was just a bully, and if there was one thing Nicco was good at, it was protecting innocents from bullies. He’d encountered his share in Afghanistan—warlords who ordered death as easily as an ordinary person would order coffee.
As unobtrusively as possible, Nicco conducted a scan of the area surrounding his client. Accustomed to searing heat, blowing sand and the smells of war, he found the scents of perfume and flowers cloying. He watched as McAdams worked her way through the crowd, moving quickly with a self-assurance that belied her pint-size frame, her gold dress swirling about her ankles. There was an intensity to her that attracted attention, while the determination in her stride had people stepping aside to make way for her.
A pendant in the shape of a miniature gold pencil swayed gently as she walked. He’d noticed earlier that she occasionally touched it as one might a talisman and wondered at the significance of it.
The hair at the back of his neck prickled, and an unmistakable rush of adrenaline propelled his senses to high alert. A fraction of a moment later, he settled into a state of cool calm. His breathing slowed, steadied, as he assessed the possible risks.
Protecting the client came first. Always. He did not make a move for the Walther that he wore in a custom-fit shoulder holster. It was enough to know that it was within reach should he need it. A backup piece fit snugly at his ankle.
The weapons were a far cry from the M249 SAW, a light machine gun, and the 9 mm Berretta he’d carried as an Army Ranger, but they did the job. A half smile tipped the corners of his lips as he pictured the probable reaction of tonight’s well-heeled crowd if he’d appeared with the submachine gun cradled in his arms.
Whether in the mountains of Afghanistan or the ballroom of a glitzy hotel, preparation was key. For Nicco, that meant being ready to do whatever it took to get the job done, including using deadly force if necessary.
Violence didn’t solve problems. Too often, it created them. But to assume that the world’s wrongs could be fixed with a bunch of talk was not only naive, it was dangerous.
He moved closer to McAdams, observing the ebb and flow of people closest to his client as well as any place where a sniper might take position. A glint of metal from the balcony caught his eye. He didn’t need to see the gun to know that a shooter was taking aim.
Nicco was in the cold zone now, the state that allowed him to be part of the moment without being in the moment. Instinct and training took over.
“Everybody down.” He didn’t wait to see if people obeyed but sprang toward his client just as two shots fired in rapid succession. He knocked her down and covered her body with his own.
Screams and cries echoed throughout the cavernous room. Nicco ignored those, his concern for only the woman he’d flattened. He hoped he hadn’t injured her, but he’d had to get her out of the range of fire as quickly as possible.
Cautiously, he rolled off her, then motioned for her to crawl beneath one of the high-top tables set up in the ballroom. Though his instincts told him to go after the shooter, his first duty lay with the client.
When no other shots sounded, he climbed out from under the table, looked about, then offered his hand to Scout McAdams. “Are you all right?”
“Yes,” she said, placing her hand in his. “I think you just saved my life.”
* * *
“Rachel Scout McAdams,” she said, sticking out her hand.
“Nicco Santonni.”
“Thank you, Mr. Santonni. I owe you.”
“You don’t owe me a thing.”
The brusqueness of the response startled her. Maybe, she reasoned, he was as shaken by the shots as she had been. She snuck a glance at him and dismissed that thought. The big man standing in front of her didn’t appear to be the kind to be rattled by anything or anyone.
Scout took inventory of her injuries. Throbbing hip and shoulder. Sore chest, probably bruised ribs. No doubt about it—she was going to hurt tomorrow. For now, the rush of adrenaline kept the worst of the pain at bay. Resigning herself to the nightmares the sound of gunshots would trigger, she did her best to ignore the prospect of a sleepless night.
Breathe.
She shoved aside images from the past and focused on the here and now. Delayed panic swept through the ballroom, sobs and cries punctuating the overall confusion. Sirens screeched in the distance, but the immediate danger appeared to be over. At least she hoped so.
Brushing herself off, she eyed the man who had pushed her down and covered her body with his own when the shots had pierced the buzz of party chatter. She’d hugged the floor, concentrating on breathing, not an easy task when a two-hundred-pound man had just flattened her with the force of a battering ram.
Not that she was complaining. He’d saved her life.
Only when the big man had rolled off her had she been able to move and seek protection beneath a table as he’d ordered. Her pulse had still been in overdrive, her legs shaking when she’d gotten to her feet. Annoyance at herself poured through her. She wasn’t some weak-kneed wimp who fainted at the first hint of violence. She stiffened her shoulders and took stock of her surroundings.
The rancid smells of fear and panic overrode the perfumed air of the ballroom as people scrambled for exits.
Breathe.
“It’s all right,” she murmured to a bleating woman who had collapsed in a nearby chair. “Nobody was hurt.” She prayed that was true. She stayed by the lady’s side until her husband found her and took her in his arms.
Scout turned and felt her rescuer’s gaze on her, considering.
“You’ve had a shock, but you took the time to help someone else.”
After the coldness of his tone, the warmth in the words surprised her. “She was frightened. I didn’t want her to be alone.” Scout had more reason than most to know what that felt like.
“What about you? You had to be scared.”
“I was plenty scared.” Goose bumps puckered her arms in confirmation.
She studied the man, not bothering trying to hide her interest. He looked as out of place at this yawn-fest as she felt. As a reporter, she was accustomed to expecting the unexpected. Being thrown to the ground by a man who looked as though he could have stepped right out of a romance novel definitely qualified as unexpected.
Tall, rangy, with dark good looks that hinted 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 had been facetious when he’d referred to it as a toy. It was a serious weapon intended to kill with cold and ruthless efficiency.