Warrior's Second Chance. Nancy Gideon

He stared right through her for a long second, long enough to x-ray her soul with those penetrating blue eyes. Because she’d been afraid he’d back out, that he wouldn’t help her. He knew without her saying it. The guilt that she refused to feel rose to bring a flush to her cheeks, but her fiercer maternal instincts gave a firm tip to her jaw. She wouldn’t apologize. He sighed and shrugged it off.

      “I guess it doesn’t matter. I’m here now, and it’s time Chet and I got things settled between us.”

      “He said we had thirteen days,” she blurted out, as if that was reason enough to risk his life.

      “And you believed him? After he killed Rob, you’d just take his word on that?” he asked matter-of-factly, without malice. Still, his question cut to the bone.

      “I didn’t have any choice.”

      “There are always choices, Barbara. It’s the decisions that are up for grabs. You made yours. Just see that you can live up to it.” He checked his watch. “We’ve got a bus to catch.”

      Ticktock.

      An entertaining tour guide filled them in on all sorts of titillating bits of gossip as he deftly maneuvered the big bus down the confusing connection of streets. The seats were only half-filled by a group of high schoolers on an educational field trip, weary parents trying to direct bored youngsters, attentive older couples and several somber-faced veterans. Instead of taking the spot next to her in the plush touring coach, Tag opted for the other side of the aisle, several rows back. He’d forgone the dark glasses, replacing them with a ball cap tipped low enough to shield his features. A man who wasn’t terribly interested in taking Chet Allen’s word that an assassin’s bullet wasn’t in store for him. Barbara applauded his caution.

      Their first stop was the World War II Iwo Jima Memorial. As their group circled it, Barbara realized she hadn’t expected it to be so large…or to feel so moved by the heroic depiction. As their guide identified the soldiers involved in planting the flag, her attention slipped away, toward trying to identify another in their group who had cause to harm them. Then they were back on the bus and headed for the Jefferson Memorial.

      She wandered there beneath the glorious dome, impressed by the gleaming, almost eerily glowing pillars that revealed peekaboo glimpses of the cherry-blossom-lined Potomac and a distant Monticello. While others drifted down to the air-conditioned gift shop, she remained on the pristine marble steps, anxious and obvious in her search of the surroundings.

      “You won’t see him unless he wants you to,” came McGee’s quiet comment. He stood on the opposite side of one of the pillars, just a tourist absorbed by the view. Or at least that’s what any casual observer would think. “This is too wide-open for him to make a move. Relax.”