Zach shook his head in frustration and tossed the report onto the coffee table. He wouldn’t find the answers he needed in its pages.
Hunter watched him. “What is it?”
Zach leaned back, stretched his arms out along the back of the leather sofa. “Something feels off about this. I can’t quite explain it, but it’s not like the Zetas to strike this deep into the U.S. or to try to kill someone who isn’t into the drug trade. Zebras don’t change their stripes.”
“Zebras don’t, but maybe Zetas do.” Hunter shrugged and met Zach’s gaze head on. “Just because you couldn’t predict it and were therefore unable to prevent it doesn’t mean it didn’t happen.”
Zach ignored Hunter’s gibe. “I can’t shake the feeling that Cárdenas’s interest in her has to do with something she’s working on at the paper. I looked through her files when we moved them—”
“You looked through my files?” Natalie’s voice came from behind them.
Zach looked over his shoulder to find her standing at the base of the stairs, wearing purple plaid pajamas, looking both sexy and unmistakably pissed off, her hair tousled, her gaze boring through him, her lips a grim line.
“Shit.” That was Rossiter.
Hunter gave a low whistle. “Dude—you looked through her files?”
Darcangelo stood. “I think it’s time for us to go.”
“YOU CAN’T JUST look through a reporter’s files no matter who you are.” Natalie poured hot water into a mug, set the kettle back on the stove, and pushed past him to reach for a bag of Darjeeling.
“In case you’ve forgotten, there are men out there who are trying very hard to kill you. I’m trying to figure out why so I can keep you safe.”
Turning her back on him, she dropped the tea bag into the water, picked up the mug, and walked to the table, so angry she could spit. “Even if we were investigating the same thing—which we are not—you’d have to get a court order before I’d be compelled to share the files with you.”
“A court order? You really expect me to waste time getting a court order when I’m trying save your life?”
“No.” Of course, she didn’t. “But I do expect you to ask.” If he’d been her lover, she wouldn’t have been as angry. But he’d made it clear he wasn’t, that he needed a degree of professional distance from her now. If professional distance was what he needed, she would give it to him.
“I wasn’t trying to sneak behind your back or violate your space. You were in the hospital at the time.”
“Then you should’ve waited. You wouldn’t want me snooping through your files, would you?” She looked down at her tea, realized she’d forgotten sugar and milk. She stood and walked back into the kitchen, avoiding his gaze.
“That’s different. I’m a federal operative. I have access to classified information, secrets that could get people killed, stuff no one is allowed to see.”
She whirled about to face him. “And I’m a journalist. My job is—”
Dizziness swamped her. She reached for the counter, granite cool beneath her palm as she fought to not faint.
Strong hands caught her shoulders, held her steady. “You need to calm down and take it easy.”
“Don’t touch me.” She drew away from him, hugged her way along the counter, then sank into a chair, her head still spinning.
“What did you want?”
“What do you mean?” She didn’t understand.
“When you came back this way—what did you come for?”
It took her a moment. “Milk and sugar.”
He brought both, together with something else she’d forgotten—a spoon. He set all three in front of her.
“Thank you.” No matter how angry she was, she couldn’t forfeit her manners.
“You’re welcome.” He sat down across from her. “This isn’t about me looking through your files. It’s about what I said this afternoon. It’s about the two of us.”
His words cut through her anger, left her perilously close to tears. Fighting to hold herself together, she stirred milk and sugar into her tea, then set the spoon aside and held the warm mug between her palms.
“When I woke up in the hospital and saw you there, I thought . . . I thought you’d come back for me, that you’d changed your mind.” She’d thought that maybe her brush with death had made him realize he cared about her enough to stop running and to face his PTSD. But the explosion hadn’t changed a thing. He was still running. “But you’re just here to do a job. You didn’t come back for me. You came for the Zetas.”
“You know that’s not true.” There was a defensive edge to his voice, and she could tell she’d hurt him.
“Since you’re on assignment now, maybe you should be out on the streets instead of babysitting me.” She sipped, burned her tongue. “Maybe someone else with less experience dealing with the Zetas—another DUSM or maybe one of your new special deputies—should stay here with me, while you hunt down this Quintana.”
“I’m here and not on the streets because I don’t trust anyone else to keep you safe. I am here for you, Natalie. I care about you more than you know. But I’ve already told you—it won’t work.”
This admission only made her more upset. He said he cared about her, but he wasn’t willing to give the two of them a chance.
“Why won’t it work? Because you saw some terrible things in combat and have nightmares? I have nightmares, too, Zach. I lost everyone I loved in a single day. We all have our demons.”
He shook his head, his gray eyes going hard. “You wouldn’t understand.”
Forgetting her tea, she stood. “I thought you were the bravest man I ever met, but I guess I was wrong. You’re a big chicken, Zach McBride. You can face the scary stuff like torture, killers, and bullets, but when it comes to things that can’t really hurt you, like memories, like the past, you can’t stand your ground.”
Fighting another spell of dizziness, she hurried upstairs to her bedroom, shutting the door behind her.
ZACH WALKED UPSTAIRS toward Natalie’s room to check on her. It had been a good three hours since she’d dropped that bomb in his lap and disappeared. At first he’d been mad as hell and glad for the space. Then suppertime had come and gone without a sound from her, and he’d begun to worry that perhaps she wasn’t sulking.
Head injuries had a bad way of surprising people.
He rapped with a knuckle on her door. “Natalie?”
No response.
He grasped the doorknob and quietly opened the door. And there she was—lying on her side, sound asleep on her bed. He took a few silent steps, moving closer, wanting to see for himself that she was breathing. And she was. Her lips were parted, her breathing deep and even, her dark hair fanned out behind her. He exhaled, relieved, then noticed the tearstains on her cheeks.
Aw, hell.
The angry storm that had roiled around inside him all evening ebbed, and he found himself wanting to lie down beside her and hold her until she woke up. But he couldn’t do that, not if he wanted to be able to live with himself afterward. Instead, he stood there, watching her sleep, an ache in his chest that wouldn’t go away.
ZACH HAD JUST finished his morning briefing with Rowan and was making himself an omelet when he heard Natalie coming down the stairs.
She shuffled into the kitchen, looking tousled and confused, the flannel of her purple plaid pajamas wrinkled. She stared at the clock, then looked at him. “Did I just sleep sixteen hours—or just four?”
“It’s tomorrow.” Surly from lack of sleep—and lack of progress in finding Quintana—he said nothing more.
He’d had another nightmare last night, worse than before. It had started out in Afghanistan like it always did, but then he’d found himself in Mexico, forced to watch while Quintana mauled and tortured Natalie, her screams turning his blood to ice. He’d woken, chilled to the bone and craving a bottle of Jack, but the loft was dry as a nunnery. So he’d made his way to the gym, gone for a punishing uphill run on th
e treadmill until he’d gotten the dry heaves. Then he’d showered and tried to sleep, but couldn’t.
He found it strange that he was having nightmares while on assignment. Usually, work kept the dreams at bay. Maybe those six days of torture had done a number on his already fucked-up mind. Or maybe being near Natalie was throwing him off balance. Either way, he needed to get a grip.
Natalie made her way past him to the fridge, opened it, looked through the offerings inside. “It looks like someone already made groceries.”
Okay, McBride, you have to admit that was damned adorable.
Hell, yeah, it was. You could take the woman out of New Orleans, but you couldn’t take New Orleans out of the woman.
Some of his dark mood lifted. “You want an omelet?”
She shut the fridge door and peered into the skillet, where sliced ham, green pepper, onion, and mushrooms simmered in a bed of scrambled egg. “That looks yummy. I don’t want to take it if it’s yours.”
“I’ll make another one.” He flipped the omelet in half, then turned it over. “Coffee’s already brewed.”
She poured herself a cup, then added milk and sugar. By the time she’d put the milk away, her omelet was done. He slid it onto a plate, carried it to the little breakfast nook together with a fork, then went back to chopping ham and veggies for his own.
“Toast?” He grabbed a loaf of whole wheat.
“Yes, please. And thanks.”
He popped two slices in the toaster, then grabbed three more eggs from the refrigerator and cracked them into a bowl, tossing the shells into the sink.
“You said you looked through my files.” She hadn’t sat down to eat yet, but stood across the kitchen from him, coffee mug in hand.
“I glanced through them. I didn’t have time to study them.”
“I could go through them with you if you like. They might make better sense that way. I can’t fathom how they could be tied to the Zetas in any way, but if you think it’s important . . .”
It wasn’t an apology, but then he probably didn’t deserve an apology. Still, he appreciated the fact that she wanted to work with him on this.
“It might be important. Hard to say.”
“Can we make a deal then? I’ll show you my files if you let me look at what you have on Cárdenas.”
He started to object, but she talked over him.
“I’m not asking so that I can report on it. In fact, we can say this is strictly deep background, off the record. I just think it might be helpful to your investigation if both of us were familiar with both sides of this.”
He thought about it for a moment, weighing the risks against the possible benefits. He glanced over, met her gaze. “It’s a deal.”
“I JUST DON’T see what sexual assaults at a Denver boarding school could have to do with a Mexican drug cartel.” Natalie finished arranging her documents in neat piles on the coffee table, almost painfully aware of the man who sat beside her.
It didn’t help that Zach had left his shirt unbuttoned, exposing that amazing body of his. Even the fact that he hadn’t showered seemed to make it worse, the natural scent of his skin arousing her, his tousled hair and the stubble on his jaw giving him a manly, earthy look. But there were also dark circles beneath his eyes and lines of fatigue on his face. Had he had another nightmare?
She regretted what she’d said to him last night—or at least she regretted the way she’d said it. He was a hero many times over, a man who’d sacrificed so much for the sake of his country. He didn’t deserve to be called “chicken.”
And yet the heart of what she’d said felt true to her. He had an easier time facing down men with guns than his own memories, and those memories he couldn’t face were holding him back, depriving him of companionship, laughter, love.
Just like your grief over Beau held you back.
No. For him it was worse. She hadn’t believed herself capable of love. He didn’t seem to believe he deserved it.
Fighting to stay focused, she gave Zach an overview of her investigation, then left him to read through the stories she’d written so far, along with police reports and other documents, while she took a shower and shaved her legs. She dried her hair, put on a bit of makeup, then dressed in clothes he’d bought for her—linen pants and a violet V-neck tank top. She couldn’t wear them without thinking of their time together in the desert. Would he have the same reaction?
Are you trying to catch his attention, Benoit?
Maybe. Was there anything wrong with that?
She came back downstairs to find him sipping his coffee, his gaze fixed on the soccer coach’s mug shot. “Find anything?”
He shook his head, looked up, his gaze sliding over her, his eyes going dark. “Nothing yet.”
“What are we searching for anyway?” She went into the kitchen, poured herself another cup of coffee.
His voice—and his gaze—followed her. “Most of the time when cartels kill it comes down to protecting their business. In other words, money.”
“So money really is the root of all evil.” She poured cream into her coffee, added a teaspoon of sugar, and stirred, then walked back into the living room. “I sent everyone’s tax documents to a forensic accountant. If there’s anything strange going on with their tax returns, she’ll spot it. I expect to hear from her soon.”
“Good idea.” There was a note of appreciation in his voice. “If anything pops, I’ll have Rowan search their financials.”
She sat across from him, a nervous trill in her belly. “So where do we start?”
“Let’s take a step back here and look at the big picture. Either your abduction is related to this investigation, or it’s not. If it is related, then someone had something to hide that your investigation threatened to reveal, something that was connected in some way to the Zetas. If it’s not related then what we’re dealing with here is Cárdenas trying to kill you in an effort to avenge his ego.”
“Because I escaped?”
“Because you escaped.”
Natalie thought about this, tried to wrap her mind around it. “I just can’t see how anyone at Whitcomb could have ties to the Zetas. It’s a very exclusive school—lots of girls from wealthy families whose ancestors probably came over on the Mayflower. Isn’t the simplest scenario more likely? Cárdenas looked on the SPJ website to see which Mexican journalists were on the tour, saw my photo, and decided to kidnap me for his sick little ritual. Now he’s angry because I got away.”
Zach frowned. “Yeah. Maybe this is a waste of time, but I still can’t believe that Cárdenas would reach all the way up to Denver to try to kill you unless he had a bigger motivation than that. He’s a narcissist, to be sure, and we know your escape had him tearing apart his own country to find you. But he’s also a businessman. Trying to kill an innocent American woman deep in her homeland—that’s a bad move for so many reasons.”
“What do we look for then?”
“Let’s determine who stood to lose the most from your investigation and focus on them.”
She shrugged. “Well, that’s easy. The district attorney. The sheriff. If either one of them were caught dropping the case for bribes, their careers would be over. There’s the alleged rapist himself. He would’ve spent the rest of his life in prison if he’d been convicted. The school. It’s bad PR when students get raped by a coach. Whitcomb Academy would probably have lost a lot of revenue if the coach had been convicted.”
He looked into her eyes, his lips curving in a lopsided grin. “Ever think of being a cop?”
“Good heavens, no! I’m a journalist, and that’s scary enough.”
“Yeah, no shit. Okay, let’s go through them one by one.” His smile gone, he picked up the alleged rapist’s mug shot. “They never look like rapists, do they?”
“THIS IS LOCO. You know that, don’t you? You’re going to get yourself killed, amigo, and me along with you.”
Joaquin watched street names as his cousin, a member of the Latin Kings
gang, drove him deep into the barrio, the Glock 9mm he’d bought two days ago heavy in his pocket. “No one is going to get killed.”
“This man you are after—he’s connected to a cartel.”
“I know. Los Zetas.”
Jesús glanced over at him, a look of disbelief on his face. “Then you must be loco. These chingaderos—they kill for fun.”
“He hurt and tried to kill a friend of mine—a woman.”
Comprehension dawned on Jesús’s face. “This is about that reporter who got kidnapped in Juárez.”
“I’m not going to let him hurt her again.”
“This is bullshit. We’re going home.” Jesús flipped a U-turn in the middle of traffic, drawing angry honks and curses.
“Stop!” Joaquin jerked the wheel hard to the right, forcing his cousin to the curb.
Jesús slammed on the breaks. “Are you trying to kill someone?”
As a matter of fact, it had crossed Joaquin’s mind. “Just show me where he is, and then leave. You don’t even have to get out of the car.”
Jesús looked genuinely afraid, sweat beading on his forehead, sliding past the little five-point crown tattooed on his temple. “If you get killed, your mother and mine will blame me. So you’d better stay alive, eh?”
“I promise.”
Jesús turned the car around again, drove a couple of blocks north, then pulled over to the curb. “You see the flophouse behind us? Word is he’s living upstairs with a hooker. Third window from the right.”
Joaquin studied it with the help of the passenger-side mirror. “Drop me off down the street. Then go home.”
Ten minutes later, Joaquin lay on a rooftop across the street, watching, his camera and the Glock ready. One hour went by. Two. Three. It was hot on the rooftop, the late afternoon sun beating down on shingles that reeked of tar.