Chapter 2
The Providence Police built an ultra-sleek building with floor to ceiling windows in the lobby. Mason followed his commanding officer, Colonel John Holt, to the bullet-proof glassed-in reception desk. Holt slid his military ID to the white-haired cop on the other side.
“We’re here to see Chief Gordon.”
The cop glanced at the ID then back at Holt before turning his gaze on Mason. “He got ID, too?”
Mason handed his ID to the Colonel. This was a new experience for him. Typically, Lieutenant Commander “Lance” Knight would be accompanying Holt. But he and another Navy SEAL, Ben Wells, were on leave for a week visiting a friend in Norfolk. Tex, a computer genius, had helped the men on a couple of missions recently, and it was time to pay respects. And offer up a bottle or two of some pretty choice hooch.
That left Mason to deal with some civilian who had shot a guy and gotten herself mixed up with a terrorist organization.
Jessica Baylor under arrest for the first-degree murder of a man named Daniel Forrester. Soon after his death had been reported, intel picked up chatter of a hit ordered on Ms. Baylor. Mason and Holt were at the station to find out why Forrester’s murder had landed Ms. Baylor in deep shit with the Russian Revolutionary Army—a relatively new group in the world terrorism theatre that members of The 13 were attempting to eradicate.
A highly covert unit, The 13 was made up of twelve special operations members from all four branches of the military—Navy SEALs, Marine Raiders, Army Rangers, and Air Force Parajumpers. Mason was one of three SEALs. Holt was a Raider. The thirteenth member was the only non-military (as well as, the only female) on the team. CIA analyst and terrorism expert, Riley Bray, had not been the first choice, but had drawn the spotlight after uncovering a mole within the CIA that had been responsible for the death of a SEAL and an attack on the US Embassy in Amman, Jordan.
The old dude at the desk buzzed them through, led them down a hallway and into a big office with a large window. One cop with a substantial gut sat behind the desk, another guy in a suit stood off to the side.
“Bill Gordon,” the man said, rose from his chair, and stuck his hand out for Holt. He used his other hand to gesture toward the second man. “This is District Attorney Davis Rinehart.”
Holt nodded and shook both men’s hands. “Colonel John Holt, and this is Master Chief Mason Hunt.”
Chief Gordon’s eyes roamed over Mason’s uniform and landed on his Budweiser pin. “You a SEAL?” he asked.
“Yes, sir,” Mason responded.
“As we discussed on the phone,” Holt began, “we’d like to talk with Jessica Baylor regarding the shooting she was involved in tonight.”
“Kind of late for a visit,” the Chief said.
Holt nodded, but offered no explanation.
“What is your interest in Ms. Baylor?” Rinehart asked. “If you don’t mind me asking.”
Holt stared at him for a moment, and Mason watched Rinehart shrink under the scrutiny.
“Yes, I do mind. I can tell you it’s a matter of national security.”
“I’m afraid you may have wasted a trip down here. As I said--it’s late and visiting hours are over.”
“And I just told you this is a matter of national security and we need to speak with her tonight.”
“You have no jurisdiction here, Colonel,” Rinehart said.
“I do.”
“This is a local matter, not a military one. I’m the one who has authority over this case.”
“My authority comes from the President. You might remember that he is the highest law enforcement officer in the U.S.” Holt handed over a letter. Gordon glanced at it, then handed the letter off to Rinehart, who skimmed it and nodded at Gordon.
A tight white line crossed Gordon’s face. He lifted the phone receiver and pressed a button. “Bring Jessica Baylor to an interrogation room.”
* * *
Mason followed Holt into a cramped, dark room. A woman sat in a metal chair. The orange of her jail scrubs were vibrant against the dull gray background. She glanced at the men, her chocolate brown eyes widening as she caught sight of Mason.
He was used to the reaction. At six-foot-five, two-hundred-thirty pounds—he was a big guy. His chest and arms nearly forced him to turn to the side when entering a room. He prided himself on being lean mass. He worked hard to be fit.
A cop stood behind Ms. Baylor, arms tight across his chest, jaw clenched. Mason shook his head. The guy looked as if he was all ready to detain her.
What the hell was he thinking—that this woman was a serious threat?
“Please remove Ms. Baylor’s handcuffs,” Holt said to the cop.
“Afraid I can’t do that,” he responded.
Mason stepped closer to the cop, mirroring his stance. The cop was by no means a slim guy, but was still shadowed beside Mason.
“Jesus Christ,” Holt exhaled noisily. “Son, I will take responsibility for any actions Ms. Baylor takes that might endanger the lives of Master Chief Hunt or myself. Now please remove the handcuffs.”
The cop hesitated, looked at Holt, then back at Mason. Mason kept his gaze steady and intimidating. Finally, the cop stepped back, unlocked the cuffs, and pocketed them.
“Don’t let the door hit you on the ass as you leave,” Mason whispered, and glanced at the name tag on the cop’s uniform, “Officer Hick.”
“Hicks,” the cop corrected.
Mason held the door open. “Whatever.”
Holt pulled out a chair across the table from Jess Baylor, and gestured for Mason to take the other seat. “Would you like some coffee, or water?”
She shook her head. Thick, dark brown hair sat in waves around her shoulders. Her eyes were drooped at the corners, tired and sad.
“Ms. Baylor, I’m Colonel John Holt, and this is Master Chief Mason Hunt. We’d like to talk to you about the events of last night.”
Her eyes widened. “Oh, God, was the man I—”she swallowed, and it looked painful, “was he in the military?”
“No.”
“Oh. Then why are you here?”
“We just need to you to run through what happened last night.”
“I’ve told the police already. Several times.” She rolled her eyes. “What could you possibly need to know that I haven’t already told them?”
“If I could ask the questions upfront, I promise I’ll address your concerns as much as I can.” Holt flipped open his file and clicked his ballpoint pen.
She sat straight in her chair. Not confrontational—more confident. Strong.
“Okay. What do you need to know?” Her voice was soft, but steady. There was no denying she was tired. Scared. But Mason also saw a willingness to help.
“Why don’t you start at the beginning,” Holt said. “In your statement, you say you went to a bar, Triad, with friends last night.”
“I went after work. My friends were already there. We usually meet on Wednesday nights for happy hour.”
“And that would be Ms. Meda and Ms. Townsend?”
She nodded.
“Anyone else?”
“Not with us. The bar was pretty slow, which is typical, and why we like to go on Wednesdays instead of Thursdays. There was a table with guys not far from us—that was where he was sitting.”
“The man you shot?”
“Yes—with three other guys.”
“Did you know them?”
“No, had never seen them before…that I can remember.”
“And so you were just enjoying a drink with your friends?”
“Yes—and I happened to glance at the other table, and he was smiling at me. I smiled back, but tried to ignore him.”
Holt leaned back in his chair and narrowed his eyes. “Why is that?”
“I wasn’t interested in meeting anyone. I just wanted to have a drink, talk to my friends, and then go home. I know it makes me sound bitchy, but I just really wasn’t interested in him, and didn’t want to have to deal with turning him down.”
“What makes you so sure you were going to have to turn him down?”
Mason was curious, as well. She seemed nice, and he could see why men would want to smile and flirt with her. Get to know her. Ask her out. Shit, if he had been in that bar, he would’ve made a play for her. She was hot—even in prison orange.
She scowled and rolled her eyes. “Not the first time a guy has smiled at me like that in a bar. Even if I had been interested—I can tell you for certain that as soon as he sat down without an invitation, he lost me. He was so…arrogant. Totally dismissive of my friends. And seemed to think I should be honored that he had chosen me as his target for the night.” She wrapped her arms across her chest, her lips a thin line across her mouth. “Prick.”
Mason smiled. The girl has spirit. Holt glanced at Mason over his shoulder wearing the same grin. Ms. Baylor had impressed him, as well.
“Do you recall what he said to you?” Holt asked.
“He said his name was Daniel Forrester, gave me some ridiculous pick-up line, and then propositioned me.”
Holt’s eyebrows lifted.
“I turned him down, and left. I’m not that desperate.”
“So, you left the bar. Did your friends leave with you?”
She shook her head. “No, they stayed behind to finish their drinks. But they were going to follow me out. I just needed to escape the leech. Turns out, it didn’t matter. He followed me outside.”
She took a deep inhale, sunk into her seat, her shoulders wrapped around her. “He grabbed my arm and wouldn’t let go.” Her eyes had a vacant look.
Mason’s hands fisted, a vision of her being followed and manhandled sent a flood of heat into his chest. Men who used intimidation to scare women pissed him off. No one had the right to place hands on a woman without her permission.
“He wouldn’t let me go—I tried to get away, but he was so strong. He had a death grip on my arms. So, I knee’d him in the nuts and tried to get my door open. When I looked back, he…he had a gun and was coming toward me.”
“Take your time,” Holt said, his voice soft.
“He…hit me across the face, and I fell down. I got my foot in the door and kicked it open, which knocked the gun out of his hand. And then…I just grabbed it…and…”
Her hand covered her mouth and she closed her eyes.
“I didn’t mean to kill him. I just wanted him to stop—to leave me alone. He looked like he wanted me dead.”
“Do you remember how times you fired the weapon?”
“Just once. And I tried to save him. I really did. The police don’t believe me, but trust me I did not want him to die.” Tears leaked from the corners of her eyes, and slid down her face.
Mason wanted to tell her not to waste her tears or her remorse on a piece of shit like Forrester. She had likely done the world a favor—probably saved countless other women from the same fate. He couldn’t—that wasn’t his place.
But damn—this woman impressed the hell out of him.
Holt closed the file and stood. “Sit tight, Ms. Baylor. We’ll be back for you in a few minutes.”
She nodded, but Mason didn’t think she was really listening. From the look on her face, she was still thinking about how she had failed to save the fucker who had not only assaulted her, but threatened her with a gun.
Mason followed Holt into the hallway. Gordon and Rinehart came from the observation room.
“We’ll be taking Ms. Baylor with us,” Holt told them.
“Like hell you will,” Rinehart said. “She’s being charged with first degree murder.”
“For what? Protecting herself?” Mason asked. “She deserves a medal for what she did.”
Holt shot him a look. Mason clamped his mouth shut.
“This is a matter of national security, and she’s coming with us. I see the press has gathered, so we’ll need to use your back door to get Ms. Baylor out. Now, we can do this easily, or I can make a phone call and have everyone including the Governor, the Director of Homeland Security, and the Joint Chiefs’ meet to discuss having both of you replaced by the morning.”
Rinehart bristled. “Fine.”
“Thank you. Now, could you also provide something for Ms. Baylor to wear.”
“Sorry,” the Chief piped up, a smirk on his face. “She’s wearing the only extra clothes we have.”
Holt’s expression went flat. “Thanks for your help.”
He started to make his way out, and turned to Mason. “I’ll get the car and bring it around to the back. You escort Ms. Baylor out. I doubt they’ll even try to mess with you.”
“Sorry for the outburst, sir.”
“Nothing to apologize for.” Holt shook his head. “Ms. Baylor is…surprising,” he chuckled. “She hit Forrester center mass. Helluva shot for someone not used to firing a weapon under pressure.”
“Probably best to keep firearms out of her reach.”
“And stay on her good side.”
Note to self: do not hit on Jess Baylor.
Mason stepped back inside the interrogation room. Jess looked up at him, her eyes the color of milk chocolate. Warm, but still unsure. Scared.
“You’ll be coming with us,” Mason said. He unbuttoned the NWU fatigue blouse he wore over his t-shirt and handed it to her.
“Going with you where?” She stood, and wrapped her arms tightly across her chest. “I thought I was being charged with murder.”
“We’ll explain on the way, but you don’t need to worry about the murder charge anymore.” He shook his top at her. “Here. Put this on. Once we get where we’re going, you can change out of those.”
“That guy—” she gestured toward the door, “—the Colonel—he said he would answer my questions, if I answered his.”
“He did,” Mason agreed.
Hands on hips, she glared at him. “Well, I want my questions answered.”
“In the car.”
“I’m not going anywhere with you until you tell me what’s going on.”
Frustration flared in every one of Mason’s nerve endings. Is she seriously going to challenge me when I’m offering her a way out? “You want to know what’s going on? You can either come with us and not go to prison—or you can stay here and be charged, tried, and most likely convicted of murder.” He mocked her, placing his hands on his hips. “Which will it be, Ms. Baylor?”
Her nostrils flared, and Mason was sure daggers were about to come from her eyes and sink into his chest. She stood for a moment, contemplating which of the sets of men were the lesser evils. She snagged the top from his hand and swung it around her shoulders. It was way too big, and even though she was on the taller side, it still managed to resemble a dress on her.
He stepped out of the way, and let her walk out of the room ahead of him. Grasping her elbow, he ushered her down the hallway, and out the back door. If the Colonel hadn’t been there, Mason may have tossed the woman into the back seat of the SUV. No amount of hotness was worth her attitude…
He climbed into the passenger seat, closed the door and exhaled. She was already a pain in his ass—and he doubted that was going to change any time soon.