Deadline (Sandra Brown)

blood leading away from the back of the house into the dense woods, where tire tracks were found in the undergrowth. They had managed to escape, probably because their mortally wounded confederate had sacrificed himself, taking fire at the front of the house while they sneaked out the back.
    Emergency and official vehicles quickly converged on the area. With them came the inevitable news vans, which were halted a mile away at the turnoff from the main road. The house and the area immediately surrounding it were sealed off so evidence could be collected, photos and measurements taken, and diagrams drawn before the bodies were removed.
    Those involved realized that a thorough investigation of the incident would follow. Every action they’d taken would have to be explained and justified, not only to their superiors but also to a cynical and judgmental public.
    Soon the derelict house was filled with people, each doing a specialized job. Headly found himself back in the bedroom, standing beside the coroner, who was sniffing at the stain on the soiled mattress. To Headly, it appeared that someone had peed in addition to bleeding profusely. “Urine?”
    The coroner shook his head. “I believe it’s amniotic fluid.”
    Headly thought surely he’d misheard him. “Amniotic fluid? Are you saying that Floral Stimel—”
    “Gave birth.”

Chapter 1
    Present day
     
    W hat’s with the hair?”
    “That’s how you greet a man returning from war? Nice to see you, too, Harriet.”
    Dawson Scott resented her summons—no other word for it—and made his resentment plain as he took a seat, then sank down into a bona fide slouch. He propped one ankle on the opposite knee, clasped his hands over his concave stomach, and yawned, knowing full well that his attitude would crawl all over her.
    It did.
    She removed her jeweled reading glasses and dropped them onto the desk. Its polished surface symbolized her new status as “boss.” His boss.
    “I’ve seen soldiers who just returned from Afghanistan. None looked like something a cat threw up.” She gave him a scathing once-over, taking in his three-day scruff and long hair, which, since his time out of the country, had grown well past his collar.
    He placed his hand over his heart. “Ouch. And here I was about to tell you how good you look. You’re carrying those extra ten pounds really well.”
    She glowered but didn’t say anything.
    Twiddling his thumbs, literally, he took a long, slow survey of the corner office, his gaze pausing to appreciate the panoramic view through the wide windows. By craning his neck just a bit, he could see Old Glory hanging limp atop the capitol dome. Coming back to her, he remarked, “Nice office.”
    “Thank you.”
    “Who’d you blow?”
    Under her breath, she cursed him. He’d heard her say those words out loud. He’d heard her shout them down the length of the conference table during editorial meetings when someone disagreed with her. Apparently with her new position came a certain restraint, which he immediately made his personal goal to crack.
    “You just can’t stand it, can you?” she said, gloating smile in place. “Deal with it, Dawson. I’m above you now.”
    He shuddered. “God spare me an image of that.”
    Her eyes shot daggers, but she obviously had a speech prepared, and even his insulting wisecracks weren’t going to rob her of the pleasure of delivering it. “I have editorial control now. Full editorial control. Which means that I have the authority to approve, amend, or decline any story ideas you submit. I also have the authority to assign you stories if you don’t come up with your own. Which you haven’t. Not for the two weeks since you’ve been back in the States.”
    “I’ve been using up accumulated vacation days. The time off was approved.”
    “By my predecessor.”
    “Before you took his place.”
    “I didn’t take anything,” she said tightly. “I earned this position.”
    Dawson raised one shoulder. “Whatever, Harriet.”
    But his indifference was phony. The recent corporate shakeup had measured a ten on the Richter scale of his professional future. He’d received an e-mail from a colleague before the official blanket notification went out to all NewsFront employees, and even the distance between Washington and Kabul hadn’t been enough to buffer the bad news. A corporate asshole, somebody’s nephew, who knew slim to none about news-magazine publishing, or news in general for that