He hadn’t asked the I-Team staff, past and present, to come over. In fact, part of him had dreaded seeing them, knowing he’d have to tell them what had happened and that he’d see the same contempt in their eyes that he’d seen in the eyes of the federal agents who’d questioned him—a look that told him Natalie would be back home now if only he’d been more of a man.
But they loved Natalie, too. He owed it to them to face them.
Matt Harker, the only other man on the I-Team and one of Joaquin’s best buddies, had shown up first, carrying a case of Yeti Imperial Stout, their favorite Colorado microbrew. Kara McMillan, an old friend and former I-Team reporter, had arrived next, her arms full of groceries, her three kids at swimming lessons with her schoolteacher husband, Reece Sheridan. Tessa Darcangelo, another former I-Team reporter and her husband, Julian, a vice cop and former FBI special agent, had followed. Then Kara and Tessa had taken over Joaquin’s little kitchen making lunch, while Julian had grabbed a beer and joined him and Matt on the back deck.
Sophie Alton-Hunter, the I-Team’s criminal justice reporter, and her husband Marc Hunter, a SWAT sniper, had brought soft drinks and paper plates, ringing the bell only minutes ahead of Holly Bradshaw, an entertainment writer, and Kat James, the paper’s environmental reporter, who came with her husband Gabe Rossiter and their baby girl, Alissa. Tom had come last, his arrival a surprise, as he almost never left the newsroom in the middle of the day.
Only after everyone had gotten their fill of tacos and salad had Joaquin found the will to tell them the entire story. Sophie and Kat, who’d known Natalie best, were now in tears, the men silent. And still Joaquin couldn’t take his gaze off his beer.
“This isn’t your fault, Joaquin.” Kara broke the silence. “Don’t even go there.”
“If I had stopped her from trying to protect me, she might not have caught their attention. They might have walked right past her—”
“And shot you in the head.” Matt’s voice dripped with sarcasm. “Yeah, that would’ve made everything better.”
“Kara’s right, Joaquin.” Tessa took his hand. “We know you did everything you could.”
“Yeah.” Joaquin let out a bitter laugh. “I’m a fucking hero.”
Tessa leaned in closer. “The only ones to blame are the murdering bastards who kidnapped her.”
“You said it, Tess.” Sophie dabbed her eyes with a tissue.
“I still can’t believe they killed all those poor people in cold blood.”
Joaquin ignored his friends’ reassurances and willed himself to look up and meet the gazes of the three men in the room he most respected. How pitiful he must seem to them. “Would they have been able to take her from you, Darcangelo? Or from you, Hunter? And how about you, Rossiter? If you’d been on that bus with Natalie—”
“Knock it the hell off, Joaquin.” Julian stood in the back against the wall, his arms crossed over his chest. “I might know a few more tricks than you do, but that doesn’t mean I’m invincible. I’ve gotten my ass kicked plenty of times.”
Gabe reached over and adjusted the blanket that Kat had draped over herself for modesty’s sake while nursing the baby. “If you’d fought them any harder, they probably would’ve shot you just like they shot the others. Then they’d have taken Natalie anyway.”
Heads nodded.
“If I thought you’d been a coward, I’d tell you to your face.” Marc’s gaze bored into Joaquin’s from across the kitchen table. “But without some kind of weapon, there’s really nothing more you could’ve done.”
Kat looked up from her baby, tears still on her cheeks. “It’s right to feel sick about Natalie. We all do. But you’re going to have to quit feeling guilty for being the one who came home. It’s not your fault, Joaquin.”
Joaquin squeezed his eyes shut, fighting the turmoil inside him. He hated feeling this helpless, this angry, this afraid for someone he cared about.
Then Tom spoke. “I’ve been in touch with the flack at the State Department. They say they’re doing all they can to help Mexican authorities find her.”
Darcangelo gave a snort. “Yeah, trust the State Department diplomats to get the job done. I’ve been in touch with some of my old contacts down there. If what they say is true and Los Zetas is responsible for the attack on the bus, then the State Department isn’t going to be able to do a damned thing for her. The Zetas hate journalists—as you saw, Joaquin—and they’ve got as much firepower as the federales—probably more.”
And Joaquin felt an unexpected ray of hope. Darcangelo had worked for the FBI in Mexico and knew more about the country and its underworld than most. He met the big man’s gaze. “Is there any chance you can go down there and help them find her?”
Tessa glared at him. “I do not want to lose my friend and my husband, thank you very much. Julian is not going to Mexico.”
“I can’t go—not now anyway.” Darcangelo squeezed his wife’s hand. “I’m not going to leave Tessa alone.”
Joaquin had forgotten. Tessa was three months pregnant and having problems. “No, of course not.”
“Why do you think they took her? What will they do with her?” Holly asked the question that Joaquin hadn’t been able to bring himself to ask.
Julian seemed to hesitate. “Natalie represents two things that interest the Zetas. She’s a reporter, and she’s a pretty young female. It makes me sick to say it, but if the Mexican AFI—that’s their FBI—doesn’t get a lead soon, there’s a good chance we’ll never see her again.”
The beer in Joaquin’s stomach turned to acid.
CHAPTER 7
THE CAR’S AC didn’t work well, but it did use up gasoline, so Zach had turned it off. Now open windows offered the only relief from the scorching midday heat. It was like driving through a blast furnace.
It still beats being outside in eighty percent humidity.
Natalie wasn’t so sure she believed herself on that point. But then it had been a long time since she’d spent a summer in New Orleans.
Sweat trickled down the back of her neck and between her breasts, the discomfort making her cross. Or maybe that was lack of sleep. Or fear.
Somewhere out there, killers were hunting for them.
She drew up to a stop sign, the word “ALTO” spelled out in big white letters against a red background that had been bleached by the sun. She stopped, looked both ways, then pressed on the gas again, not another car in sight.
Beside her, Zach loaded bullets one by one into a magazine, his fingers moving with a speed that clearly came from experience, sweat beading on his temples. A gun he’d said was an AK-47 rested between his legs, its business end pointing toward the floor. As she watched him, she knew he’d been in situations like this before—up to his neck in trouble and ready to fight. With his thick stubble, dirty, torn jeans, skintight marijuana T-shirt, and hardened physique, he certainly looked like a man who lived his life armed and dangerous.
Yet no matter how dangerous he might be, she couldn’t help but worry about him. Given how tired she was, she knew he must be exhausted, not to mention in pain, the lines of strain on his face and the dark circles beneath his eyes more noticeable in naked daylight. She’d half expected him to fall asleep the moment the car started moving, but he hadn’t closed his eyes once. He was alert, his body radiating tension, his mind sharp. Still, no man could hold out forever, no matter how strong or hardened he was.
“Your driver’s ed teacher would be proud. Not another car as far as the eye can see, but still you come to a complete stop.” His gaze met hers over the top of mirrored sunglasses, the glint of humor in his gray eyes making her pulse skip.
Oh, no, girl! You are not attracted to him.
“You told me not to draw people’s attention.”
How could she find him attractive? He was a crook, a criminal, a man who stole cocaine and shot people and ate dirty grapes off the floor of an arachnid-infested cell—not a gentleman like Beau. The fact that he was also tall, strong, br
ave, and still had enough goodness left inside him to help her escape the Zetas didn’t matter.
“That was back on the highway. I didn’t want you to attract attention from the cops because some of them work for the Zetas.” He glanced around. “But I doubt you’ll find any cops lurking behind these old saguaros.”
And just like that, she felt like an idiot.
Her cheeks burned. “Sorry. I didn’t think . . . I’m not used to . . . I guess I’m just tired and not thinking clearly. I’m doing the best I can.”
“Do you know what happens if our best isn’t good enough?” His gaze met hers again, any hint of humor gone. “We die.”
Fear made her snap at him. “I know that!”
She hadn’t forgotten that they were running for their lives, but she hadn’t thought of it quite like that either, his stark words making her stomach knot.
“I’m not saying this to try to scare you, Natalie. We both need to do better than our best if we’re going to survive.”
If they were going to survive?
Natalie didn’t like the uncertainty of that. “Do you really think they’ll come after us with a helicopter?”
“Cárdenas is the ultimate narcissist. We escaped from him, killed five of his men, stole arms, ammunition, and a car from him. His ego won’t be able to stand it. Hell, yeah, he’ll come after us with a helo. He’ll send ground troops. He’ll alert the cops and federales who work for him. By leaving the highway, we’ve bought ourselves some time. But his men are out there, Natalie, and they’re hunting for us.”
She pushed on the gas, nudging the needle past seventy.
Outside the window, drab, parched hills rose from drab, parched plains that stretched as far as the eye could see, stands of tall cactus and scraggly shrubs dotting a brown landscape that shimmered with heat. Other than the occasional jackrabbit that darted across the road, Natalie hadn’t seen any sign of life. It certainly didn’t seem possible that they were on the outskirts of a big city, but Zach insisted that Chihuahua wasn’t far ahead and that the only way to reach it safely was to take the back roads.
They’d been making good time on Mexico 45 when he pulled out one of the Zetas’ cell phones and called someone named Carlos, his Spanish sounding like gibberish to her—something about new houses, bridges, and goat horns. All he’d told her afterward was that they needed to get off the highway and ditch this car. Then he’d pulled out the phone’s SIM card, tossed the phone out the window, and told her to take the next exit.
Only later had it dawned on her that his phone call might have had less to do with getting her safely home and more to do with the stolen cocaine.
She’d been on the brink of asking him once or twice about the coke but had thought the better of it. She couldn’t afford to have him dump her by the side of the road out here in the middle of the desert. The landscape was every bit as deadly as the Zetas. And with nothing stronger than a promise to keep him from abandoning her, she needed his goodwill. She wouldn’t say anything.
Not yet.
“THIS ISN’T WORKING!”
Zach raised his head and glanced up to where Natalie was bent over a mesquite branch, trying to rub out the car’s left tire tracks, her hair tied back, the AK she’d insisted on carrying slung over her shoulder like an ugly purse. “Put more muscle into it.”
“Easy . . . for you . . . to say.”
It was hard work, and he supposed having two X chromosomes made it tougher. Then again, none of this had been easy for her.
You’ve been hard on her, too, McBride.
Yeah, he had been.
He’d done well enough when he’d been in chains and needed her help, but for the past few hours all he’d done was issue orders. But she wasn’t a SEAL. She wasn’t a deputy U.S. marshal either. And she sure as hell wasn’t an enemy combatant or a fugitive. She was an innocent civilian, a young woman who’d suffered more than her share of tragedy, who’d witnessed a massacre, who’d been kidnapped and assaulted, who’d been forced to kill. She deserved his respect—and some damned human kindness, if he could manage it.
Yet his first priority was getting her safely home again. And that meant staying focused on the objectives, which, at the moment, were evasion and escape.
Driving the Tsuru down into the arroyo had been a bitch. Zach had made Natalie get out of the car just to be safe, and for a few seconds he’d thought he was going to roll the damned thing or get stuck in the sandy, dry bottom. But the vehicle was now concealed beneath a concrete bridge, hidden from anyone who might drive by or fly overhead. Once its tire tracks were wiped out, it would take an expert in cutting sign to know they were there.
Or that was the theory, anyway.
He walked slowly backward, swishing the branch across the sandy soil as he went, careful not to fall down the steep bank as the ground became softer and less stable. He was about to warn Natalie to watch her step, when he heard her gasp. He looked up in time to see her tumbling toward him.
He reached out and stopped her fall. “You okay?”
She sat up, nodding. “I’m a little dizzy, but I’m fine.”
He took one look at her face and knew that wasn’t true. She was flushed, but she wasn’t sweating. “You’re dehydrated.”
She looked puzzled. “I’m not thirsty.”
Not good.
He’d seen men die from the heat in Afghanistan as medics struggled in vain to save their lives. He knew that dizziness and lack of thirst were not good signs.
“Let’s get you into the shade.” He drew her to her feet, slid an arm around her waist, and guided her over to the car and into the passenger seat, taking the AK from her. He propped the rifle against the car, then reached into the backseat for a bottle of water, ripped off the cap, and pressed it into her hands. Too bad there were no powdered electrolytes to go with it. “Drink. A few gulps, then regular sips.”
While she drank, he touched his palm to her forehead, and was relieved to feel that her skin was neither clammy nor feverishly hot. She was definitely dehydrated and on her way to overheating, but she didn’t have heatstroke. Not yet.
You pushed her too hard, you dumb shit.
She looked up at him. “Were you a paramedic in your past life or something?”
“No.” He dug through the crap in the backseat for the first-aid kit, then pulled out a cotton washcloth. “But I do know a few things about first aid.”
“That’s a good skill for someone in your, um . . . line of work.”
“You got that right.” He would’ve loved to hear what line of work she thought he was in, but this wasn’t the time. “Quit talking, and keep drinking.”
You’re giving orders again.
He grabbed another bottle of water and dropped to his knees beside her, then poured out enough water to thoroughly wet the washcloth and pressed it against her forehead and cheeks, hoping to bring down her core temp.
She sighed, her eyes drifting shut. “Oh, that feels good.”
A bolt of heat shot through his belly straight to his groin.
His mind knew her response hadn’t been sexual, nothing seductive intended, but his body apparently didn’t. He drew his hand back, knowing he was in trouble. But then she turned her head, exposing the side of her throat, and he couldn’t resist.
He pressed the cool cloth against that sensitive area, watched goose bumps appear on her soft skin. She sighed again, the sweet sound making his own temperature rise. Slowly, she tilted her head back to allow his hand to pass beneath her chin, then turned her face toward him, her eyes still closed, her mouth relaxed.
By the time she opened her eyes, his lips were almost touching hers. And for a single, slow heartbeat, he stayed that way, unable to speak, his mouth so close to hers that he could nearly taste her, his gaze fixed on hers.
What the . . . ?
He jerked back, dropped the wet washcloth in her lap, his brain searching for words. “I . . . You . . . You can probably handle this yourself.”
&
nbsp; She looked up at him. “Thank you. For helping me.”
“I need to get back to hiding our tracks.” He stood and walked away, his abrupt retreat startling a few swallows out of the mud nests they’d built in the bridge’s life-giving shade. “Keep drinking.”
He walked back into the blazing sunshine, grabbed his mesquite branch and rubbed furiously at the tracks—which now included the soil disturbed by her fall down the embankment.
What the fuck was wrong with him?
That Zeta bastard must have shocked him one too many times, because only fried brain cells could explain what had just happened. He’d almost kissed a woman he was charged with protecting—while administering first aid, no less.
That kind of mouth-to-mouth is against the rules, and you know it.
Okay, so he hadn’t technically been assigned to protect her, which meant that the rules didn’t technically apply. In fact, her being with him was purely coincidence and had nothing to do with this case. But he did not get mixed up with women while on the job. He did not develop feelings for them, and he certainly did not get physical with them. That wasn’t marshal service policy; that was his own personal policy. And he never broke his own rules.
Maybe it was just the situation—the two of them being thrown together like this, forced to work together to stay alive, sharing the dangers of a survival situation, his being injured, her being vulnerable. He knew from his years in combat how walking that line between life and death could make two people bond. A bit of pheromone had probably gotten mixed in with all the adrenaline. Simple enough to explain.