Collateral Damage Page 4

  “All right. Goodbye then.”

  “Bye.”

  He hung up and stuffed his phone in the back pocket of his jeans.

  It was time to get this over with before he changed his mind and chickened out. Off the lobby was another door that led to the back. He opened it and stuck his head around the corner.

  Restrooms on either side, but no lights on in them, according to the dark cracks at the bottom. Two doors at the end of the hallway. The one on the left was closed, the one on the right, open. Asher walked toward it.

  “Hello? Anyone here? Sharon? Ms. Hardy? Brooke?” He stepped just inside the doorway to the office and stopped to take in the destruction. “Whoa.”

  The overturned file cabinets caught his attention first, followed by the desk drawers on the floor. The bookshelves were empty, their contents scattered across the hardwoods.

  A foot sticking out from behind the desk snagged his gaze, and he rushed to find a woman sprawled facedown, a bullet hole in the back of her head.

  Careful not to disturb the scene any more than he already had, Asher shut off his initial horror and knelt to press two fingers to the side of her neck.

  Nothing. He grabbed his phone and punched in 911.

  “911, what’s your emergency?”

  “I’m at—”

  A flicker of movement to his left. He jerked his head toward it just as a small pop sounded and a bullet whizzed past his left ear. Instinct kicked in even as flashes of his last gunfight in Afghanistan surged to the front of his memory. Asher threw himself behind the desk next to the dead woman. Another bullet shattered the small reading lamp in the corner.

  “Hey! Shots fired!” Miracle of miracles, Asher still held the phone. He rattled off the address. “Who are you? What do you want?”

  Footsteps entered the room and Asher realized this guy wasn’t leaving until he’d put a bullet in Asher’s brain just like the woman on the floor.

  Heart pounding, Asher army-crawled to the edge of the desk and peered around it. Booted feet greeted him. It was act or die. He snaked a hand out, grabbed the calf, and yanked just as the guy pulled the trigger. Fully expecting to feel the burn of the bullet entering his body, Asher tightened his grip on the man’s leg.

  Curses rang through the office as they fought. Asher clung, but the guy just wouldn’t go down.

  Then a scream from the open doorway.

  The attacker froze for a split second. Long enough to give Asher the moment he needed to throw a punch into the man’s knee. The guy shouted, dropped his weapon as he crumpled to the floor. Asher swept a foot out, snagged the gun with his heel, and sent it sliding under the desk. The killer rolled, kicking out and catching Asher in the side of the head.

  Stars spun and his vision wavered. His slight hesitation gave the guy enough time to gain his feet and dart toward the woman standing in the doorway, gaping, holding a cup of coffee in one hand and a briefcase in the other.

  He briefly registered that it was Brooke Adams. Her moment of paralysis must have lifted, because she moved fast, flinging her coffee at the face of the man.

  A harsh scream carried every ounce of his rage as he swiped at his eyes and stumbled through the door. Asher leapt to his feet and snatched his phone from the floor. Without a word to Brooke, he raced past her in time to see the attacker push through the exit door just beyond Sharon’s desk.

  Stairs.

  He slapped the device to his ear. “You still there?”

  “Sir? Officers are on the way. What’s going on?”

  “A woman’s been shot. Fatally. I’m in pursuit of the killer.” Quickly, he calculated where the stairs would come out if the guy went all the way down. Then decided he wouldn’t. He’d get off on one of the floors and find another way out.

  “Sir? Sir? Don’t chase him. Let him go.”

  “Not on my watch.”

  “Are you law enforcement?”

  “No. Former special ops.” Asher drew to a stop in the stairwell and listened.

  Silence.

  No footsteps. No doors opening and closing. “But it doesn’t matter,” he said. “I lost him.”

  And now he had to go check on the woman he’d come to see—and wished with all his heart he could avoid.

  Brooke knelt next to Sharon and knew she was dead. The wound in the back of her head offered no hope. Tears gathered and pooled. Who’d done this? And why? She’d thought she left the killing and the dying thousands of miles away in a country she did her best to forget existed.

  And now this.

  Footsteps hurried toward her and she looked up to see Asher James step back into the room. “He got away, but the police should be here any second.”

  As though speaking the words had summoned them, two uniformed officers appeared in the doorway behind him. The first one pushed into the room, her hand resting on the weapon strapped to her hip. “What’s happening here?”

  Brooke met the gaze of the officer who’d spoken. She looked young. Too young to be dealing with life and death on a daily basis. “Sharon’s dead.” Rough and thick with emotion, her voice didn’t even sound like hers. “The guy ran.”

  “I chased him,” Asher said, “but he got away.”

  The first officer hurried to drop to her knees next to Sharon and placed her fingers on her neck. “No pulse.”

  Brooke caught a glance of the officer’s name tag. Johnson. Officer Johnson radioed her position along with the need for the medical examiner. When she finished rattling off her information, she turned to Brooke and Asher. “Tell us what happened.”

  All Brooke could do was stare at her friend on the floor. Then nausea hit and sent her stumbling backward, aiming for the door.

  “Ma’am? Where are you going?”

  “I’m going to be sick.” She made it to the trash can in the bathroom. Once she’d lost her breakfast and her first two cups of coffee, she rinsed her mouth and drew in a deep breath, trying to get a handle on her stomach and emotions.

  “You okay?” a voice asked from the doorway.

  Asher.

  She turned. “No.”

  “I’m sorry you had to see her like that.”

  Tears flooded her eyes and he moved swiftly to take her in his arms. Sobs threatened to break through and she bit them back. Crying doesn’t change anything, Brooke. Quit being a baby. She sniffed and swiped away the tears as though she could wipe away the sign of weakness at the same time but couldn’t quite bring herself to pull her forehead away from his chest. The comfort she felt just standing there—in basically a complete stranger’s arms—and letting him hold her floored her. Finally, she pulled back. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to cry.”

  He lifted a brow. “No need to apologize. I’d think crying might be called for in this situation.”

  “No. I need to be strong and deal with this. She has a husband and two small children.” More tears surfaced and Brooke had to clamp down hard on her lip to hold them back.

  “Hi, everything okay in here?”

  Brooke looked around Asher to see a man dressed in khaki pants and a blue long-sleeved knit shirt. The badge on his belt said he was law enforcement. She shook her head. “Just trying to get myself together.”

  “I’m Detective Lonnie Arnold.” He motioned to the woman to his left. “This is my partner, Detective Zoey Fisher. We’re going to secure the scene while Officer Johnson waits here with you two,” he said, pulling on a pair of gloves, followed by blue booties. “We’ll be back shortly.”

  “We can sit in the lobby if you want,” Johnson said.

  Brooke took a seat on the couch and Asher settled next to her. Officer Johnson took up a guarded stance next to the elevators while keeping Asher and Brooke in her line of sight through the open office door.

  Sharon’s empty desk seemed to dominate the area, and Brooke did her best to avoid looking at it. She pulled out her cell phone. “I need to call Marcus.”

  “Who’s that?”

  “Marcus Lehman. This is hi
s practice. He hired me when I left the Army and needed a job a couple of months ago.”

  “He’s not here today?” Asher asked.

  “No, he had an appointment at the bank first thing, then he was coming in.”

  “Anybody else work here?”

  “No. It was just the three of us.” She pressed fingers to her eyelids, then released them. “What now?” she asked.

  Before he had a chance to answer, Detective Arnold returned. “I’ll need to get a statement from both of you.”

  “Sure.”

  “Separately, if you don’t mind.”

  Brooke hesitated, then stood. “Of course. We can use the conference room.”

  Once Brooke was seated with Detective Arnold, he pulled out a small notebook. “Could you give us a run-through of how you found Mrs. Hardy?”

  Brooke described in detail how she’d come to the office door and was greeted with the chaos. “I could see Sharon’s feet from the door, but what had my attention were Asher and the killer. They were fighting and the guy ran.”

  “Anything else? A description?”

  She shook her head. “He had on a black ski mask. I . . . I’m sorry. It happened so fast. It’s all just a blur. Asher could probably help you with the description. He was a lot closer to the guy than I was.”

  “Of course.”

  Detective Arnold tilted his head. “What was Mrs. Hardy doing in your office?”

  “She often fixed my coffee for me and left it sitting on my desk.”

  “Everything out here looks fine, but your office is pretty torn up. Any thoughts on that?”

  Brooke frowned. “No. I don’t keep anything of worth in there. I take my laptop home with me, so I have no idea why someone would do this.”

  The detective made a few notes, then looked up. “Did Mrs. Hardy have any enemies that you know of?”

  “No,” Brooke said. “I can’t imagine it. She’s a wonderful woman. Or . . . was.” She pressed fingers against her lips to still their tremble.

  “What about her marriage? Any trouble there?”

  Brooke flinched. “You don’t think—”

  “I don’t know, ma’am, but whatever you can tell us will help figure it out.”

  “Yes, she and her husband were having trouble.”

  “Another woman?”

  “No, it wasn’t that—at least she didn’t think it was. It was his job. He’s an engineer and his boss is making him work crazy hours. Sharon wanted him to look for something else so he could be home more. She said they were arguing a lot, but I sure don’t think it’s something he would kill her over.”

  The detective shook his head. “You’d be surprised.”

  “Maybe,” Brooke said, “but why do it here? I would think that would happen at home in the heat of the moment or something. Not following her to her office.”

  “Possibly. Anything else you can think of?”

  “No,” Brooke said. “I don’t believe for a minute that he would do this. They may have had some issues to work out, but they loved each other—which is why they were working on the issues.”

  Detective Arnold grunted. “Okay, let’s go over this one more time.”

  Brooke stifled a groan.

  CHAPTER

  FIVE

  For the next hour, Asher tried to still his impatience as they went over everything several times until the detectives were satisfied there was nothing more to be learned. He’d accounted for his own location that morning, his relationship to the deceased—which was he’d spoken to her on the phone exactly once—and given the description of the attacker as best he could. “He was about six feet tall, maybe a hundred ninety pounds,” Asher said, “but he had on a black ski mask and black gloves, so I’m not sure about race or skin tone. He had on jeans and a black sweatshirt.” He paused. “He never said a word, so I can’t tell you whether he had an accent or not. Other than that, I can’t help you.”

  Marcus Lehman had arrived and promised to take care of everything else—including telling Sharon’s husband. He left and the detectives seemed to be satisfied their stories lined up with each other and dismissed them before returning to Brooke’s office to talk to the ME who’d finally arrived.

  Asher turned to Brooke. “Let me follow you home.”

  “Why?”

  He let out a short huff of laughter that didn’t hold an ounce of humor. “You’ve just had a shock. I suppose I just want to make sure you get there safely.”

  “Oh. Thank you. That’s very kind of you, but I’ll be fine.”

  He gave her a tight smile. “You might be fine, but I’m not sure I will be unless I see you safely home.” He paused. “Aw, heck, I don’t know if it’s even appropriate to ask this due to the situation, but would you be willing to go somewhere and have a cup of coffee with me?”

  “Coffee?”

  “Yeah, that black stuff people can’t seem to live without. Surely you’ve heard of it.”

  She flushed. “Of course, I know what coffee is.” Her eyes sparked with a hint of indignation at his taunting, and he was glad to see the sign of life there. “Excuse me if I’m just a little scattered. Coffee would be lovely, thanks,” she said. She paused. “I hate to admit it, but the thought of going home and being alone makes me shudder.”

  “No roommate?”

  “No.” Her expression blanked. “I don’t like roommates.”

  And just like that, the initial connection he felt with her when he’d seen the photograph was back. He didn’t like roommates either. He wasn’t exactly fond of his little studio apartment, but at least he could afford it and he could be alone when he needed to be. “I understand.”

  Her lips twitched as though she wanted to argue with him, but she didn’t. Instead, she glanced at Sharon’s desk and winced. “But first, I’ve got phone calls to make and appointments to cancel.”

  “Do you want to do that from here?”

  “I’ll have to get the information from Sharon’s computer.”

  “You’ll have to get permission from the detectives. They’ll want to watch what you access.”

  “Of course.”

  “I’ll wait on you.”

  She nodded. “Thanks.”

  He waved his phone. “I need to call one of my partners and let him know I’m going to be out for the rest of the day.”

  “Partner?”

  He shrugged. “After that last mission, Gavin Black and I had the opportunity to get out, so we did. Travis Walker, a buddy from high school, opened his own security business a couple of years ago. He’d been nagging me about joining him ever since. I’ve been a silent partner for about a year. Now . . . I’m not so silent. Same with Gavin.”

  “I didn’t realize . . . I mean, I guess I thought you were just on leave or in between missions or something.”

  “Nope, I’m out for good. It was time.”

  “Oh. I’m . . . sorry?” She frowned. “Or am I happy for you?”

  “The jury’s still out on that.”

  “Right.” She pointed to the desk. “I’m just going to go find a detective and cancel those appointments.”

  “I’ll be ready when you are.”

  Kristin Welsh, assistant director of the Morning Star Orphanage in Kabul, waited as Dr. Ali Madad checked his phone one more time. “There’s no Wi-Fi again today,” he muttered.

  “No. Not yet. We’re hoping soon.” She exchanged glances with Hesther, the older woman who stood in the doorway to ensure Kristin and the doctor were not left alone in the room.

  Dr. Madad worked at the local hospital, and once a week he made his “house call” to check on the children who needed medical attention but weren’t bad enough to require hospitalization. The children adored him and Kristin appreciated that he didn’t seem to mind her presence even though she was a woman.

  Right now four-year-old Jabroot lay in his bed uninterested in anything going on around him.

  “How is he?” she asked.

  “About the sa
me as when you brought him to see me at the hospital yesterday,” he said without looking up.

  For some reason, today his lack of eye contact made her want to grab his chin and force him to look at her, but this was Kabul. It was his way. “What can I do to help him?” she asked. “Does he need to be transported back to the hospital?” His gaze actually flicked up to meet hers for a brief second before he looked away. Surprise raised her left brow, but instead of saying anything about it—brief as it was—she stuck to business. “I’ll do whatever’s necessary.”

  “No, not yet. Continue to give him the medication I prescribed last night and monitor him. He does have some cold symptoms, like the congestion in his chest, but he doesn’t have a fever. However, I’ve drawn some blood and will run a few tests just to rule anything else out. I’ll let you know the results as soon as I get them back.”

  “Thank you.” Most doctors weren’t so conscientious. Not here. And certainly not for a “mere orphan.” She used to respect that—now she couldn’t help but find it suspect. And that made her very sad and very wary. But also, strangely hopeful—if her friend was right about him. She cleared her throat.

  “What’s his story?” Dr. Madad asked as he packed his supplies in his old-fashioned medical bag.

  “His story?”

  “Yes. How did he come to be at the orphanage and how long has he been here?”

  “His mother dropped him off about two months ago, saying she couldn’t feed him but she would be back to get him as soon as she could find work. She comes every so often to see him, and it breaks his heart when she leaves him.” Broke hers too, but that was the way it went here.

  Still keeping his gaze averted, Dr. Madad made a notation on his phone. “I think I’d like to ask that all of the children’s files be updated with as much information about the parents as possible.”

  “What?” She stared at him, and his eyes flicked to her once more before dropping back to the child. “That’s not even possible, you know that.”

  “It will be difficult, yes, but as you well know, the more history I have, the better I’ll be able to treat the children.” He sighed. “Just do the ones you can.”