Page 54 of Protected from Torment

“What?” Melissa gasps. “Terrorism? I would never. I don’t—” She looks at me with terror in her eyes. Tears are already sliding down her cheeks. She’s shaking all over.

“Found them,” announces the officer searching Mel’s desk. He snaps on a latex glove and a second later, pulls out a gun. He sets it on the top of the desk, then reaches back into the drawer and takes out a small spiral notebook. “So much for claiming you don’t know what we’re talking about.”

One of the other officers peers at the notebook. “It’s a hit list. Just like the caller said.”

“What?” Melissa’s legs wobble, and she almost collapses before the cop holding her hauls her back to her feet. “Those aren’t mine. I’ve never seen⁠—”

“You’re under arrest,” the beefy officer tells Melissa. “Intent to⁠—”

“Stop!” I command, using the authoritative tone I perfected in the Army. “You can’t arrest her. This is circumstantial evidence at best. What about cause? Where did you get your intel? Who told you to come here?”

The officers’ heads all swivel towards me. The beefy one sneers. “Who do you think you are? This is police business. Stay out of it.”

Not giving a flying fuck about keeping cover anymore, I reply, “Tyler McNamara. With Blade and Arrow Security. And formerly with the ODA5131 out of Fort Campbell. Green Berets. Melissa is my client. And she did not do what you’re accusing her of.”

Reluctant admiration flashes across several of the officers’ faces. One of them says, “Shit. Blade and Arrow? They helped with a case back when I worked in White Plains. They’re the real deal.”

I approach Melissa’s desk with my hands held up and open, to indicate I’m not holding a weapon. Do I have one on me? Yes. Of course. I have a custom blade attached to my prosthetic, and a Sig in a belt holster behind my back. But unless they ask me about it, I’m not saying anything to bring additional suspicion to me.

“I’ve been investigating Melissa’s case,” I tell them. “And I’m here as her bodyguard. On the reputation of Blade and Arrow, I can assure you, Melissa isn’t planning a terroristic act. Can you tell me where this claim came from?”

The guy who used to work in White Plains replies, “We got an anonymous call. Said she”—he jerks his chin at Melissa—“was spotted with a gun and a hit list. Said she was planning on shooting up the office today.”

The beefy officer glares at me. “I don’t give a shit who you are.” His eyes narrow. “And if you’re a bodyguard, are you armed? Where’s your weapon?”

Shit. I’d hoped it wouldn’t come to this. But on the plus side, with their attention on me, it gives Melissa a brief reprieve. Plus, I can handle myself.

“I have a Sig in my belt holster,” I tell him. Since it’s unlikely they’re going to search my prosthetic, I don’t mention my knife. Lifting my shirt, I turn slowly around. “Take it.”

Four guns level at me while the officer snatches my Sig away. Melissa makes a small, scared sound. “Leave him alone,” she whispers. “He didn’t do anything. Please.”

“Listen,” I tell the beefy officer once he’s patted me down. “I get it. You have to respond to the call. But I can prove she didn’t do it.”

“How?” he snaps.

“Officer Stockwell,” I say, now that I’ve had a chance to read his name tag. “I’d like to help you find out who’s behind this. And I can, if you’ll give me a minute to look at my phone.”

He shakes his head. “No way. I don’t care⁠—”

“Let him look,” the officer formerly from White Plains interrupts. Then he looks at me. “Green Berets, huh? My dad was a Ranger. He said you guys are no joke.”

I lift my chin at him. “We tried not to be.” Turning my attention back to Officer Stockwell, I add, “Do you want to find out later that you wasted the county’s time and money on something that could have been cleared up in minutes? Or arrested the wrong person? That’s a lawsuit, you know.”

He stares at me for a second, his face turning red with irritation. But he finally huffs and says, “Fine. Let’s see it.”

Pulling my phone from my pocket, I quickly pull up the app to access the building’s security system. Then I locate the camera with a clear shot of the open workspace and rewind the footage until the busy office is empty again. Then, at seven-forty-four AM, a woman enters the darkened office and scurries over to Mel’s desk.

She glances around, then reaches into a tote looped over her shoulder and pulls out a gun—the very same one currently sitting atop Melissa’s desk—and shoves it into the bottom drawer. Then she drops the spiral notebook in along with it. After another quick glance around, she shuts the drawer and jogs back to the elevator.

Heart thumping with adrenaline, I pause the video and rewind it until I have a clear shot of the woman’s face. It’s not Melissa, of course. Even if she hadn’t been in the car with me at seven-forty-four AM this morning, I never would have doubted her.

But I do recognize the woman.

“Look,” I say, holding my phone out for display. “This isn’t Melissa Silver.” And then, in a moment that could be plucked straight from an old whodunit movie like the ones my dad likes to watch, I turn and point at Jordan. “It’s her.”

Jordan’s face freezes in shock. “What? No!”

“Yes,” I reply coldly. “I’m looking at you. Planting the evidence in Melissa’s desk.” I stalk over to her, while the surprised officers trail behind me. “You did this. And I bet you called the police, too.”