Striking Distance

“Pamela Clare is a fabulous storyteller whose beautifully written, fast-paced tales will leave you breathless with anticipation.”

—Leigh Greenwood,
USA Today
bestselling author

Praise for

BREAKING POINT

“Full of action and adventure.”

—
Dear Author

“If you are a fan of romantic suspense, you must read Pamela Clare.”

—
Smexy Books

“Clare consistently delivers!
Breaking Point
is packed with gut-wrenching tension, tragedy, romance, and passion.”

—
RT Book Reviews

NAKED EDGE

“Romantic suspense at its best! . . . There was so much action and adventure written into the plot that I didn’t want to stop reading . . . This author has definitely been put on my keeper list and I hope to go back and read the previous I-Team stories.”

—
The Romance Studio
(5 hearts)

“A steamy romantic suspense that will keep you glued to the pages . . . This highly sensual novel will curl your hair from the sexual activity while keeping you totally in suspense throughout. A very good read.”

—
Fresh Fiction

“An entertaining investigative romance starring two likable protagonists . . . Exciting romantic suspense.”

—
Midwest Book Review

“I must say that from start to finish I was completely enthralled with this one! . . . If you haven’t tried this series you are MAJORLY missing out on some very good reading; not only is it hot but it’s riveting! Pamela Clare is amazing . . . Absolutely a page-turner . . . I guarantee you are in for a great read!”

—
Night Owl Reviews
(Top Pick, 5 stars)

“Will grip your senses . . . You’ll love this series and enjoy an afternoon immersing yourself in a culture that is fascinating.”

—Romance Reviews Today

UNLAWFUL CONTACT

“Powerful, sexy, and unforgettable,
Unlawful Contact
is the kind of story I love to read. Pamela Clare is a dazzling talent.”

—Lori Foster,
New York Times
bestselling author

“A spellbinding, gut-wrenching page-turner with a gripping plot. This story is unique and creative with an imperfect hero you can’t help getting sweaty palms over . . . Pamela Clare is a remarkable storyteller.”

—
Fresh Fiction

“This is an exciting, fast-paced romantic suspense thriller . . . Action-packed.”

—
Midwest Book Review

“A romantic suspense that has it all: gritty realism, edge-of-your-seat action, dynamic characterizations, surprising plot twists, and a scorching romance between two leads you won’t soon forget.”

—
BookLoons

“A gripping and emotional story . . . An engaging tale that will have readers on the edge of their seats.”

—
Romance Reviews Today

“A thrilling, captivating suspense novel . . . It has great characters, a wonderful story line with different connecting plots, and a happy ending for a couple that has many obstacles that they must surmount together.”

—
Romance Reader at Heart

“Clare’s impressive novel is rife with gripping suspense, secrets masterfully revealed, and characters in whom readers can become emotionally invested. The sexual tension between the protagonists is deliciously steamy, and the skillful plotting makes this thrilling book one readers won’t be able to close until the final page.”

—
RT Book Reviews
(4½ stars)

HARD EVIDENCE

“A page-turner, a pulse-pounding thriller . . . Whether she is writing her incredible historicals or these great contemporaries, Ms. Clare proves, once again, she is one of the best storytellers today . . . It is a thriller, it is a treasure, and it is tremendous.”

—
Fresh Fiction

“Superb romantic suspense . . . Fans will appreciate this strong thriller.”

—
Midwest Book Review

“I cannot recommend this book highly enough. Pamela Clare’s
Hard Evidence
is a powerful and, dare I say, flawless book, in my opinion. For those who love a good suspense or even just a good, satisfying read, it’s a ‘don’t miss.’”

—
Romance Reader at Heart

“This was a hard-to-put-down book with an exciting story line.”

—MyShelf.com

EXTREME EXPOSURE

“Investigative reporter turned author Clare brings a gritty realism to this intense and intricate romantic thriller.
Extreme Exposure
is the launch book for a sizzling new suspense series that promises to generate lots of intrigue, action, and romance. An author to keep an eye on!”

—
RT Book Reviews

“A gem,
Extreme Exposure
has all the elements of great romance and is an entertaining summer read.”

—
Romance Reviews Today
(Perfect 10)

“I really loved this book because it was so realistic. The characters were people I would love to know. Obviously, Ms. Clare knows this world and the nuances of investigative reporting. She communicates this in a terrific love story that grabs you and will not let you go. Believe me, I lost some sleep reading this book. I predict that Ms. Clare is an author to watch for the future and readers of romantic suspense are sure to love this excellent, well-written novel, one of the best I’ve read this year.”

—
The Romance Readers Connection

Berkley Sensation books by Pamela Clare

The I-Team series

EXTREME EXPOSURE

HARD EVIDENCE

UNLAWFUL CONTACT

NAKED EDGE

BREAKING POINT

STRIKING DISTANCE

The MacKinnon’s Rangers series

SURRENDER

UNTAMED

DEFIANT

THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP

Published by the Penguin Group

Penguin Group (USA) LLC

375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014

USA • Canada • UK • Ireland • Australia • New Zealand • India • South Africa • China

penguin.com

A Penguin Random House Company

STRIKING DISTANCE

A Berkley Sensation Book / published by arrangement with the author

Copyright © 2013 by Pamela Clare.

Penguin supports copyright. Copyright fuels creativity, encourages diverse voices, promotes free speech, and creates a vibrant culture. Thank you for buying an authorized edition of this book and for complying with copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning, or distributing any part of it in any form without permission. You are supporting writers and allowing Penguin to continue to publish books for every reader.

Berkley Sensation Books are published by The Berkley Publishing Group.

BERKLEY SENSATION
^®
is a registered trademark of Penguin Group (USA) LLC.

The “B” design is a trademark of Penguin Group (USA) LLC.

For information, address: The Berkley Publishing Group,

a division of Penguin Group (USA) LLC,

375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

eBook ISBN: 978-1-101-62634-4

PUBLISHING HISTORY

Berkley Sensation mass-market edition / November 2013

Cover photography by Claudio Marinesco.

Cover design by Rita Frangie.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

This book is dedicated to M.O., whose service and courage are an inspiration.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Special thanks to Officer Bryan Bartnes of the Loveland Police Department for his help in understanding explosives, the work of EOD teams, and the way authorities investigate bombings. Sitting at tables in coffee shops and discussing how to blow things up certainly does draw curious glances.

Deep personal gratitude to my sister, Michelle, and my son Benjamin, who once again went above and beyond, offering a sounding board and emotional support for me for thirteen long months as I wrote this story.

Thanks, too, to Arlene and Beatrice Ríos and Wilson Cruz for their help with the Puerto Rican Spanish in this story, and for helping with elements of
Boricua
culture. When they swear in their native tongue, they will forever think of me.
¡Wepa!

Additional thanks to my editor, Cindy Hwang, for her patience and understanding; to Natasha Kern, my agent, for more than a decade of support and friendship; and to Diane Grimaldi Whiting for walking me through the Dark Side, that is, the world of broadcast journalism.

Love and thanks to dear friends, old and new, for their amazing support and encouragement: Julie James, Libby Murphy, Julieanne Reeves, Norah Wilson, Jenn LeBlanc, Joyce Lamb, Kaleo and Kristine Griffith, Kristi Ross, Sue Zimmerman, Stephanie Desprez, Ruth Salisbury, Ronlyn Howe, Joyce Lamb, Bonnie Vanak, Jan Zimlich, Alice Duncan, Alice Gaines, and Mimi Riser.

And a heart full of thanks to the I-Team Facebook group, whose members gave me the best birthday present ever—weeks of home-delivered organic meals that kept me out of the kitchen so that I could write! I am so lucky to know you all.

As always, thanks to my sons Alec and Benjamin, whom I love beyond all things, and to my parents, Robert and Mary White, who see far less of me than they’d like to because I spend all my time with fictional people.

PROLOGUE

February 11, 2011

Near Parachinar, Pakistan

15 clicks west of the Afghan border

22,000 feet altitude

SOCS JAVIER “COBRA”
Corbray sat in the dimly lit belly of the modified C-130J “Super” Hercules, waiting with the other operators of Delta Platoon for the signal to start their oxygen. Banter had given way to silence as the men turned their minds to the night’s mission. They’d trained for months for this one, the predeployment workup one of the most grueling Javier could remember in his twelve years as a SEAL. Endless fast-roping drills. Night jumps, rock climbing, and uphill PT runs in full night combat gear. Close-quarters combat practice. Mock raids on a scale model of the compound.

The stakes were high tonight—both for the U.S. and for Javier personally.

Then again, the stakes had been high on every deployment since 9/11.

Abu Nayef Al-Nassar, a Saudi national, had been high on Uncle Sam’s list of most-wanted assholes for five long years. The leader of an al Qaeda splinter group operating out of northwestern Pakistan, he had masterminded simultaneous bombings in Hamburg, Paris, and Amsterdam that had killed hundreds, not to mention orchestrating attacks against U.S. citizens in the Middle East and Shia Muslim villages around Pakistan. Al-Nassar was also the sugar daddy for a network of AQ groups, turning heroin profits into cash for weapons, travel, forged documents. If Delta Platoon managed to bring him in alive, along with his computers and cell phones, they would strike a major blow against AQ—and give the alphabet soup intel agencies a crack at uncovering his operation both abroad and in the homeland.

That was Javier’s duty and goal as a SEAL. His goal as a man was simpler.

Vengeance.

“Hey, senior chief!” Rick Krasinski had been with the Teams for about a year now. He’d been nicknamed “Crazy K” for his love of rough water. There was no one more at home pounding surf than Krasinski. “This asshole—he’s the one who kidnapped and killed the Baghdad Babe, isn’t he?”

The Baghdad Babe.

U.S. troops had given her that nickname back in 2007 during the Surge, when they’d crowded around mess hall televisions to watch her nightly live broadcasts from Baghdad. She’d earned the respect of U.S. troops when she’d gone after the Pentagon for failing to provide adequate gear for service members. Then she’d turned around and exposed a group of soldiers for looting and running a shakedown racket on Iraqi civilians. She was tough, but fair, they’d agreed. And she was hot.

Tall with pale blond hair, big ice-blue eyes, and sweet curves, she’d fueled the fantasies of every man in uniform, though not Javier’s. Oh, she’d been one sexy
mami
, but her Nordic good looks and on-camera reserve had been a bit too cold for a man with a Puerto Rican mother and a Scots-Cherokee father. He’d take a woman with the heat of the island in her blood over a Valkyrie like Laura Nilsson any day.

Or so he’d thought until the night he’d met her.

He’d been touring Dubai City on his way home after a long deployment. She’d walked into a hotel bar where he was having a steak and a beer and had sat at a table nearby. He’d recognized her instantly. When two big Russian men had wandered over and started hassling her, he had intervened. It had pissed her off—but it had also gotten her attention.

What had followed was a weekend of the most amazing sex Javier had ever experienced. She might have seemed cool and reserved on the outside, but beneath her skin Laura Nilsson had been pure fire, igniting Javier’s blood, sending him into a kind of sexual meltdown, the two of them risking not only their careers, but also a flogging and prison time to be together. Unmarried sex was illegal in Dubai, even for foreigners.

If he closed his eyes, he could still taste her, still feel the softness of her skin, still hear the breathy sound of her cries as she came. She’d been a fantasy come true, more woman than Javier had ever hoped to hold in his arms. He was nothing more than a kid from the South Bronx who’d enlisted in the navy to give some meaning to his life, a simple man who drank beer and played guitar when he wasn’t deployed. She’d been classy, refined, and sexy, all silk and sophistication.

She had blown his mind.

The only thing that had kept Javier from calling her and trying to see her again was their agreement that the weekend came with no strings. Laura had told him flat out that she wasn’t interested in marriage or motherhood. That had been fine with Javier. He already had one divorce under his belt—a hazard of being a frogman—and didn’t want another. Still, he’d flown back to the U.S. hoping they could get together again.

Two months later, she’d been gone.

Her last broadcast had come from a women’s safe house in Islamabad where she’d been reporting on the ongoing epidemic of fatal burnings in Pakistan—hundreds of young women burned alive every year by husbands and in-laws, their excruciating deaths blamed on “stove accidents” and never investigated. One moment she’d been interviewing a young burn victim, and the next the room around her had exploded with AK fire. Her security detail, her cameraman, and the safe house director had all been killed. She’d been dragged fighting and screaming from the building while the abandoned camera continued to broadcast from its tripod.

That had been the summer of 2009.

Javier had been at home in Coronado Beach when it happened. He’d seen the live broadcast, had found himself on his feet, helpless and thousands of miles away. Her screams had ripped him apart. They haunted him still. When Al-Nassar’s group had claimed responsibility for the attack and bragged that they’d decapitated her, there hadn’t been a U.S. serviceman anywhere in the world who hadn’t wanted to send Al-Nassar straight to hell—and that included Javier.

Now Delta Platoon was going to hit that target.

Javier had pushed hard to get his guns into this fight, had done everything he could to make sure Delta Platoon got tasked with this job. To this day, no one knew about his weekend with Laura, and he couldn’t tell them or they would question his ability to handle this operation. Did he want to bring Al-Nassar down? Hell, yeah, he did. For his country
and
for Laura. And that made him the
right
man for the job as far as he was concerned.

Canto hijo e la gran puta.

Dirty son of a whore.

“Yeah, he killed her.” Javier met Krasinski’s gaze. “But she had a name, and it wasn’t Baghdad Babe. It was Laura Nilsson. Show her some respect, man.”

She’d been one hell of a journalist, an incredible lover, a smart and beautiful woman. She deserved that much.

Krasinski’s expression was hidden by shadows and by black-and-green face camouflage, but there was regret in his voice. “You got it, senior chief.”

A voice came over the speaker. “Forty-five minutes till drop.”

“Masks on!” Boss, known to the rest of the world as Lt. Morgan O’Connell, shouted out the order, making the motion with his hand.

JG—Lt. Junior Grade Ben Alexander—repeated it, as did Javier, before fastening his O
₂
mask in place.

The men breathed normally, inhaling one hundred percent oxygen to eliminate the nitrogen from their bloodstreams so that no one would die from the dramatic increase in atmospheric pressure on the way down. This was a HAHO jump—high altitude, high opening. The mountains were too full of insurgents for them to risk the noise of parachutes opening close to the ground.

As the minutes ticked by, Javier ran through the details of the mission in his mind. Al-Nassar knew how to hole up—that much was for damned sure. His lair was built on a plateau with a fifty-foot cliff at its back, elevation giving him a clear one-eighty view of the landscape below. Caves at the base of the cliff provided Al-Nassar a handy place to stash weapons, ammo, explosives, heroin—and men. They also gave him a place to hide should he see anyone headed his way.

That was why Delta Platoon wasn’t going to drive up and ring the doorbell.

They were being dropped over a mountain valley west of Parachinar about 3.5 clicks from Al-Nassar’s hideout. They would hike their way from the DZ to the cliffs. There, the Boss’s squad would divide into two elements. He, Howe, Force, and Murphy, the platoon sniper, would remain atop the cliffs with suppressed Mk12s, an FN M249 Para for suppressive fire, and a M72A2 LAW grenade launcher to watch the men’s six, while the rest of the platoon would fast-rope down to the compound. JG would take the caves with LeBlanc, Johnson, and Grimshaw, setting charges to demolish any ordnance they found, while Javier infiltrated the compound with his squad—Krasinski, Ross, Zimmerman, Salisbury, Wilson, Reeves, Desprez. When Al-Nassar was in custody and the compound was secure, three modified CH-47D Chinook helos would swoop in for extract. As they lifted off, JG would blow the caves to hell.

Of course, they weren’t being sent up against a high-value target like this without backup firepower and air support. They’d be in touch with their tactical operations center, or TOC, throughout the night. A drone with thermal/infrared capability would patrol the sky above the job site, giving them a bird’s-eye view of the action. If things got messy, two Marine Special Operations Teams—MSOTs—would arrive in Black Hawks to make them messier.

Provided nothing went wrong, it would be a piece of cake.

Forty minutes later, a voice came over the speaker. “Two minutes to drop!”

The men switched from the prebreathers to their bottled O
₂
, careful not to inhale in the transition. Then both squads got to their feet, boots thudding dully against the steel plating, each of them carrying more than a hundred pounds of gear on his back. With an efficiency born of constant training, each checked his own gear and that of the man in front of him. They’d already passed a jumpmaster inspection, but in their line of work there was no such thing as being too prepared, too careful.

“Ramp!”

The ramp and door began to open, and icy, thin air rushed in. The two sticks of SEALs moved toward the yawning exit, waiting for the signal to jump. Javier touched a gloved hand to the chest pocket that held the photograph of his brother Yadiel that he carried with him on every mission.

The light flashed green.

The men moved together, tumbling almost as one into the slipstream, Javier leading his squad out of the Hercules and into the black night.

* * *

SHE KNELT ON
the carpet facing Mecca, going through the motions of the first Rak’ah, doing her best to say each word of the Sura Al-Fatiha correctly so that no one would find fault with her.

Inshallah.
God willing.

She kept her voice quiet, barely a whisper. This morning while praying
Fajr
, she had failed to do so, and Zainab had claimed that Abu Nayef’s guests, who were not family—not
mahram
—had heard her. Zainab had struck her, making her lip bleed.

But then Zainab always struck her.

“You will never learn, Hanan!” Zainab had shouted in her face. “You are as stupid as you are ugly!”

“I am sorry, Umm Faisal.” She never dared to call Zainab or any of the other women by their given names, for they would deem it disrespectful and beat her. “You must help me to do better, sister.”

She’d called Abu Nayef’s wives her sisters, but only Angeza, who’d been given to Abu Nayef by her Pashtun father in payment of a debt when she was only fourteen, had ever treated her with kindness. Angeza had sneaked her food, helped her study the Suras, even protected her from Zainab and Abu Nayef. Still, she was the least of all the women here, and that was why she prayed at the back of the room, behind all of the other women and girls. And yet Zainab still seemed to see every mistake she made.

The women bowed, and she bowed with them, standing up straight once more before performing
Sujood
, prostrating herself, her nose, hands, knees, and feet touching the carpet, her belly pressed against her thighs as was proper for a woman, the odors of sweat and dust rank in her nostrils. She rose, caught a glimpse of the mirror across the room, but could not see her own reflection. She prostrated herself again, the prayers and motions flowing together in a rhythm that was familiar, even comforting, as they finished the first Rak’ah and moved without pause into the second.

But as they began the third Rak’ah and prayed at last in silence, her heart began to pound. It was time for her nightly rebellion. She clenched her hands to hide their trembling, afraid that Zainab, Nibaal, Safiya, or one of the other women would notice her nervousness and guess what she was doing. If they knew what she was thinking, they would surely denounce her to Abu Nayef.

Then he would do what he’d always promised to do and cut off her head.

Pulse racing, she reached secretly for her Swedish and English, words she didn’t dare to speak aloud burning in her mind like a fever.

Mitt namn är . . .

My name is . . .

My name is Laura Nilsson.

* * *

SHE LAY IN
the dark in the corner of the small back room that was hers, her bed an old blanket, her head pillowed on her neatly folded burka. Her mind ached for sleep, but sleep wouldn’t come, chased off by the knot of dread in her stomach. It was the same dread she felt every night until she was certain everyone was in bed asleep.

In the next room, Safiya’s baby girl cried.

She would have offered to help. She
wanted
to help. Safiya was only twenty-four and already had six children. But Safiya wouldn’t let her near the baby. No one would. They all believed her unfit.

A creaking door. A man’s deep voice. Footsteps.

She held her breath, listening until the footsteps faded away.

Would he come tonight?

She’d seen him take Nibaal to his room. Surely, Nibaal would be enough for him and he would leave her alone.

Inshallah.

She squeezed her eyes shut, hoping with everything inside her that he would stay away. Angeza had once told her that Zainab struck her only because Abu Nayef came to her bed so often. But she would gladly have traded places with Zainab. If only she could! She cared nothing at all for Abu Nayef. In truth, she hated him.