Deadly Intent

  Why couldn’t she learn a little Spanish? She could learn a few words and phrases over lunch, and then she could surprise him.

  With renewed focus, she set to work propagating orchids, then grabbed a sandwich in the cafeteria and sat down in her office. She booted up her computer and searched online for Spanish language websites.

  The first offered nothing but profanity and slang in Mexican Spanish. Telling Joaquin to fuck his mother was really not what she’d had in mind.

  The next page had a lot of basic phrases, the kind a person might want to know on vacation. But she didn’t want to ask Joaquin where she could find the restroom or how far it was to the next gas station.

  She clicked the next and found a mix of basic phrases, some of which were romantic. While she ate lunch, she memorized them, copying them to a Word document, repeating them aloud. “Te quiero. I like you. Te deseo. I want you.”

  The phrases kept getting hotter. “Tócame. Touch me. Quiero arrancarte la ropa. I want to rip your clothes off.”

  Oh, hell, yes, she did.

  The next one was long and a mouthful, but no truer words had ever been spoken in any language. She worked her way through it. “Creo que eres el hombre más sexy que he conocido. I think you’re the sexiest guy I’ve ever met.”

  “Why, thank you, Mia.”

  Mia shrieked, jumped to her feet and dropped what was left of her sandwich onto the floor. Heat rushed into her face. “Michael. I … um … I’m studying Spanish.”

  Michael chuckled. “I heard. My wife is from Ecuador. After I met her, I did exactly what you’re doing.”

  “Oh. Well, it must have worked.” Mia tried to sound casual as she bent down and picked up the remnant of her lunch.

  “It did.” Michael gave a little laugh. “Sorry to startle you. I went to check the greenhouse but didn’t find you there. I wanted to make sure you were okay.”

  “Apart from feeling utterly embarrassed, I’m fine. Thanks.”

  “Don’t worry about it. It will be our secret. Whoever he is, he’s a lucky guy.” Michael left her in peace.

  She printed out the phrases she wanted to memorize, whispering them while she worked on orchids. She was still practicing the phrases when she arrived at Joaquin’s place more than five hours later. She parked in the guest spot and walked toward the security door and elevators, mentally rehearsing.

  Te quiero, Joaquin. Creo que eres el hombre más sexy que …

  What was the rest of it?

  She unlocked the security door and pushed the button for the elevator, which was up on the third floor. She pulled her cheat sheet out of her handbag.

  Movement caught her gaze—a reflection in the elevator’s polished steel doors. She glanced over her shoulder.

  A man in a black hoodie.

  On a surge of adrenaline, she dropped down to a crouch, her hand thrusting into her handbag after the SIG, but it was too late.

  BAM!

  The first shot shattered the glass security door, splintering it into fragments.

  BAM! BAM! BAM! BAM! BAM!

  Bullets whined past her head, hitting the steel behind her with a thud. Something burned across her hip and ribcage. She heard the elevator ding and rolled through the open doors, then sat up and fired back just before they closed.

  BAM! BAM! BAM!

  Joaquin left Speer heading north toward his street. He couldn’t wait to see Mia and leave the workday behind. Apart from the I-Team meeting, it hadn’t been a bad day.

  Police had found the stolen service dog, and Joaquin had been on hand with his camera to capture the owner’s relief and happiness when he and his dog had been reunited. The two nonagenarians had challenged Joaquin to an arm-wrestling match and had come close to beating him, the laughter on their faces afterward caught on camera. Joaquin hoped he was as fit as those two when he hit ninety.

  The shoot with the widow and her new baby had been just as tough as he’d thought it would be. When she’d heard he was from the Denver Independent and had been at the Palace Hotel that terrible night, she’d burst into tears. Joaquin had stayed with her, listened to her talk about her husband, and thanked her as one of the people her husband had tried to protect. The photo of her holding her little daughter next to a photograph of her husband had put a lump in his throat.

  He turned onto his street and flipped on the signal to turn into his parking garage—then slammed on the brakes as a man ran out of the garage right in front of him.

  A man in a black hoodie, pistol in hand.

  The bastard raised the weapon, fired on the run, shattering Joaquin’s windshield. Joaquin reflexively turned his face to shield his eyes. By the time he looked again, the man was running down the street. Joaquin let him go, only one thought on his mind.

  Mia.

  Heart slamming, he gunned it into the garage, his gaze catching Mia’s Mazda in the guest parking spot. Then he saw it—the security door to the elevators. It was shattered.

  Madre de Dios, Mia.

  He jerked his truck to a stop next to a wall of shattered glass, grabbed his phone and leaped out, dialing 911, knowing he was going to find Mia there, badly wounded, maybe dying, maybe already dead.

  Jesus, no.

  He rounded his vehicle to find… no one.

  Relief left him almost legless. Somehow, he gave his address to the dispatcher, his gaze raking over the devastation. Shards of glass everywhere. Indentations from bullets in the steel elevator doors. Scattered shell casings from a 9 mm and a .45 caliber.

  The bastard had cornered Mia here, but she had fired back.

  Had she been hit?

  There was no blood spray on the walls. Then, there on the tile floor, he saw it.

  Blood.

  Fuck.

  Mia!

  He punched the button, realized the dispatcher was asking him questions. “There’s been a shooting with injuries. We need an ambulance. The shooter is running south on Walnut in a black hoodie. He had pistol in hand. The injured party is inside the building. I’m trying to find her.”

  “We’ve got her on the line, sir.”

  Thank God.

  “We’ve toned out SWAT and an ambulance.”

  Joaquin could hear the sirens now. “Tell her I’m on my way up. Thanks.”

  He ended the call. If they were talking to Mia, they didn’t need him. He sent a text to Mia, trying to keep to the essentials as bystanders began to gather.

  “What happened?”

  “Was someone shot?”

  “Don’t touch anything,” Joaquin told them. “This is a crime scene.”

  Saw shooter. He’s gone. Are you badly hurt?

  The elevator doors opened. Joaquin stepped inside, found a bloody fingerprint on the button for the fourth floor.

  How had the son of a whore found her?

  The seconds ticked by as he waited for her response. He was looking at his phone when it came.

  Not bad. Doors locked. I’m in the bathroom.

  Joaquin paced the length of the elevator, bolting the moment the doors opened onto his floor and running to his apartment. He fished his keys out of his pocket, saw blood on his front door, unlocked it. “Mia, I’m here.”

  He didn’t want her to shoot him.

  Drops of blood on his floor led him to the bathroom door. “I’m right here. I’m coming in, Mia, okay?”

  “I promise not to shoot you.”

  But the door was locked.

  Unable to remember at the moment where he’d put the key, Joaquin took a step back and kicked it in.

  “He’s here,” Mia said into her cell phone. She lay back in his tub, still wearing her parka, pistol sitting on the floor beside her. “I got blood on your floor.”

  “You think I give a damn about that? God, Mia, I was afraid I was going to find you dead.” Joaquin knelt beside her, resisting the urge to hold her. “Let’s get you out of this parka.”

  She winced as the coat came off, her pain cutting at him. “I think it’s ju
st a graze. I can’t tell. My ears are ringing. It was so loud.”

  “I bet.”

  Her T-shirt was ripped just below her left breast and stained with blood.

  “We need to take off your T-shirt, too. Do you trust me with that?”

  “Are … you … kidding?” she ground out from beneath clenched teeth, trying to pull the shirt over her head.

  “Let me do it.”

  With the shirt out of the way, he could see that her jeans were torn, too, near her hip. Most of the blood seemed to be coming from there.

  She unzipped her fly, tried to wriggle out of them, speaking into her cell phone again. “He’s helping me get out of my clothes.”

  Joaquin had forgotten about dispatch.

  “You stay still. I’ve got this.” Joaquin took off her shoes and socks, then tugged her jeans down and tossed them aside.

  Two bullet wounds marred her pale skin—one just below her left breast and a much deeper one near her left hip bone. Both were still bleeding, blood staining the white lace of her panties and bra.

  He grabbed two clean washcloths, put one in her hand, and guided her hand to the wound below her breast. “Hold it there.” He pressed the other against the wound near her hip. “Can you hear those sirens? The cavalry is almost here.”

  “Yes, I’m still here,” Mia said, talking to dispatch again. “He’s still here, too. He’s giving me first aid.”

  The sirens were right below them now.

  Joaquin saw that she was shivering. “Are you cold?”

  She shook her head. “Just … shaky.”

  “It could be shock.” He reached with one hand, yanked a clean towel out of his cupboard, and did his best to cover her. “You should stay warm.”

  She smiled, looked up at him through those killer blue eyes. “I didn’t think the first time you undressed me it would be like this.”

  Her words pierced his adrenaline, cutting the tension.

  He laughed. “If I’d known I’d be ripping your clothes off the moment I got home, I would at least have brought you flowers.”

  13

  It had been a long time since Mia had felt this close to someone. Joaquin stayed with her and held her hand, leaving her side only to let the EMTs into the bathroom and to pack her things.

  “I don’t think you’ll be coming back here,” he said.

  Joaquin insisted the EMTs wrap a warm blanket around her shoulders and do all they could to preserve her modesty in an apartment full of male cops. He even held off Wu, telling him that he could get their statements after Mia was discharged from the ER.

  She wasn’t used to having someone watch out for her like this, anticipating her needs, putting her first. It made her feel cared for, cherished. It was a balm to her shattered nerves. She closed her eyes, let him carry the weight of their situation. But images swarmed through her mind—the reflection in the steel door, a black hoodie in the shadows, shattering glass, bullets.

  BAM!

  Her eyes jerked open.

  “Sorry,” said one of the EMTs, who was applying pressure to the wound near her hip. “I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

  “No, it’s not that. I’m just … jumpy.”

  “Do you want a sedative?”

  “No. I’m fine, really.”

  A big man in SWAT gear walked up to where Mia lay on the gurney, M4 in one hand, Joaquin’s camera bag in the other. It took her a moment to recognize him.

  “Marc. Thanks for coming to the party.”

  He touched a gloved hand gently to her shoulder. “I only wish we’d been on time instead of fashionably late. We are going to find this bastard. Is there anyone you’d like us to contact on your behalf—your family?”

  She shook her head. “No, I’m fine. Really.”

  “Those are your shell casings down there, right—the forty-five rounds?”

  She nodded. “I don’t think I hit him.”

  “Maybe not, but you fought back. You scared him and sent him running. Unfortunately, we’re going to have to confiscate your firearm for now. It’s part of the investigation.”

  “I think it’s in the bathtub.”

  Joaquin walked up to them carrying Mia’s overnight bag. “Hey, Hunter, do me a favor. Catch this son of a bitch.”

  “You got it.” Marc handed Joaquin his camera bag. “Are you okay? I saw he fired at you, too. Your windshield is shattered.”

  “What?” Mia hadn’t known this. “He fired at you?”

  Joaquin didn’t seem rattled. “He missed.”

  Thank God.

  Marc walked toward the bathroom. “Ramirez, you give me gray hair.”

  Joaquin rode in the ambulance with Mia, carrying her things through the door and holding her hand while the medical staff gave her IV antibiotics to prevent infection and got to work cleaning her up. The shrapnel wound on her ribcage didn’t need stitches, but the deeper graze on her hip had several small bullet fragments.

  The doctor shot her up with a local anesthetic, flushed the wound with saline, then prodded it with surgical tweezers, pulling out bits of metal and dropping them in a plastic basin. “Just one more … little .. fragment.”

  Mia gasped, clenched Joaquin’s hand, as the tweezers pressed deeper, hitting tissue that wasn’t numb.

  Joaquin stroked her cheek, kissed her hair. “Can’t you wait and give her more Novocain?”

  “Sorry.” The doctor held up the last fragment. “Got it.”

  Mia felt a little dizzy. “That was … a lot less fun than I’d hoped.”

  “Let’s put on some lidocaine gel. After it sits for a while, we’ll get you stitched back together.” The doctor stood, stripped off his sterile gloves, and left the room.

  For the first time since the police arrived, Mia was alone with Joaquin.

  He stroked her hair. “I’m so sorry, Mia. I don’t know why he didn’t make sure you were numb first.”

  She looked up at him. “I’m so glad you’re here.”

  His gaze moved over her face, as if he were trying to memorize her features. “The bastard jumped right in front of my truck. I could have hit him, but I slammed on the brakes. When he shot at me and I realized who he was, all I could think about was you. Then I saw your car and the shattered glass—God, Mia. I was sure you were dying or dead. I don’t think I’ve ever been more afraid.”

  Mia wasn’t used to hearing men admit that they felt fear, and it moved her to think he’d been afraid for her. “How did he find me?”

  “I don’t know, but I’m sure as hell going to find out.” He looked angry.

  A knock came at the door, and Wu stuck his head inside. “Ms. Starr. Is now a good time?”

  Oh, great. She didn’t want to deal with him, not yet. “Sure.”

  “First, let me say how sorry I am that this happened and how relieved I am to see that you weren’t badly hurt.”

  She held up a hand to shut him up. “Before you ask me anything, I want to know how he found me.”

  Joaquin wanted to hear this, too. “This time, you answer our questions first.”

  Wu didn’t look happy. “The suspect used Jason Garcia’s credit card to pay for an online search for your address, Mr. Ramirez. We got a pop on the card and were following up on that when your call came in, Ms. Starr. Somehow, he knew you were staying with Mr. Ramirez, and he tracked down Mr. Ramirez’s address using a public records website.”

  “How could he know I was staying there? Maybe there’s another leak in the police department.”

  Wu cleared his throat, clearly uncomfortable with Mia’s allegation. “My best guess is that he followed you, saw the two of you together, and looked up Mr. Ramirez’s license plate. Maybe he saw you when you picked her up at the nightclub.”

  “But you don’t know for certain.” Joaquin wasn’t impressed.

  “No, I don’t.”

  “Mia was almost killed tonight. If you’d warned us sooner, this wouldn’t have happened.”

  “It takes time to acce
ss credit card records, even for police detectives. We’re doing everything—”

  “I don’t believe that.” Joaquin was too shaken to hold back. “Mia is alive right now, no thanks to DPD. She could have been his third victim.”

  “Fourth,” Wu said.

  Mia’s face went white. “What?”

  “Fourth?” Joaquin asked.

  “I spent most of the afternoon in Colorado Springs. Whoever this guy is, he shot and killed Brigadier General Stephen Frank. He caught him outside a pay-by-the-hour hotel and shot him in the head. No witnesses, no cameras. There was no wallet with the body, so we can only assume the killer took it, as he did with both Meyer and Garcia. I saw the report and recognized the general’s name from the information you gave us. This time, the killer wrote your name on the wall in the victim’s blood.”

  “He killed Frank, too? My name … in blood?” Mia seemed to have trouble absorbing all of this. “Is he still trying to frame me?”

  Joaquin held her hand tighter.

  “Perhaps,” Wu said. “Or maybe it was a warning that he was coming for you.”

  That was a comforting thought.

  “Where were you last night between the hours of eight and ten?” Wu asked.

  “Give me a break, man. She was at my place with me.” Javier ran his thumb over her knuckles, checked in with her. “How are you doing, Mia?”

  She gave a little shake of her head. “I don’t even know.”

  Wu repeated his question as if Joaquin hadn’t answered it already. “Where were you last night?”

  “I thought you said I wasn’t a suspect.”

  “It’s just a routine question.”

  “I was at Joaquin’s house. I didn’t leave until this morning.”

  “What do you make of the fact that Brigadier General Frank is dead now?”

  “I don’t know. Frank is the one who let them get away with looting at first. He helped bury my report. He got a promotion for it, too. He was involved in the initial investigation about the mustard gas and some of the men’s discharges, so I suppose someone might hold that against him.”