But here she was, in one battered but beautiful piece.
Zach wasn’t a religious man. He’d seen things in combat that defied the existence of a caring, compassionate god. But to see her, alive and whole, felt like a miracle.
IGNORING PEARCE’S REPEATED calls to his cell phone, Zach left a sleeping Natalie with Sophie, Kat, and a pretty, pregnant blonde who’d kissed him on the cheek and introduced herself as Tessa, Darcangelo’s wife. He walked out to the private ER waiting room, where he found Joaquin gone and Hunter, Darcangelo, and Rossiter with their kids.
It looked like a nursery. Two preschoolers sat on the floor playing with blocks, one a little girl with dark brown curls and big blue eyes, surely Darcangelo’s daughter, the other a little boy with sandy brown hair and green eyes who was the spitting image of Hunter. A little girl with strawberry blond hair toddled unsteadily along the edge of the furniture not far from Hunter’s protective reach, while Rossiter cuddled a sleeping baby girl with coal black hair.
Zach stopped in his tracks, the sight throwing him off. He didn’t like babies, didn’t care for children. Or at least he didn’t think he did. But these little ones were so damned . . .
cute
. Little bits of sweetness, each one of them was tiny and helpless and utterly innocent. Some part of him—some part he wanted to disown—gave a big, unmistakable “awww!”
What the hell is wrong with you, McBride?
He’d known the three men were married. He supposed Natalie might have mentioned they had kids, but he hadn’t paid attention to that part. But seeing Hunter in his SWAT uniform holding a pacifier . . .
And what will happen to his kids if he gets killed in the line of duty?
The men looked up.
Darcangelo stood. “How is she?”
“The doc checked her MRIs and evaluated her and says it’s a bad concussion. They gave her some morphine, so she’s sleeping. She was pretty coherent, though she can’t remember the explosion.”
Hunter’s little girl lost her grip on the edge of a chair, plopped down heavily onto her diapered bottom, and began to cry, her precious little face the very image of distress, her tiny world temporarily shattered.
Hunter picked her up, kissed her. “It could have been a lot worse.”
“You said it, Hunter.” Rossiter gently settled his sleeping baby in her car seat and covered her with a small blanket decorated with Indian designs. “That was too damned close.”
Which reminded Zach of the bone he had to pick with the three of them. “She said she told you she saw one of Cárdenas’s men yesterday. Why didn’t you get her off the streets entirely or at least put a watch on the newspaper?”
“Okay, that’s fair.” Darcangelo took a step in his direction. “But why didn’t you tell us that you were after Cárdenas for murdering Americans on U.S. soil? We’d have taken what she reported yesterday much more seriously if we’d known Cárdenas was capable of that.”
“Not sure how you got that bit of info. My mission was classified.”
Hunter got to his feet, daughter in his arms. “If you thought there was any chance he would strike at her here in Denver, you should have told us. We’d have done everything we could to protect her. Instead, you flew off to D.C. and left her here to face this alone.”
Guilt churning in his chest, Zach reined in the urge to get in Hunter’s face. The man might not like him, but he was Natalie’s friend. And then there was the baby in his arms. The sweet little thing had quit crying, her head resting against her daddy’s Kevlar while she sucked her thumb, itty-bitty tears on her chubby cheeks.
Jesus, McBride!
He met first Hunter’s gaze, then Darcangelo’s. “The Zetas have never hit anyone farther north than El Paso and Nogales, and the U.S. nationals they’ve killed have all been mixed up in the drug trade. If I’d thought for a moment he would send his men to Denver, don’t you think I’d have taken steps to protect her myself?”
“I don’t know.” Rossiter gave him a cold look. “Seems to me you were more concerned about getting back to D.C. so you could cover your you-know-what and save your career.”
“My
career
is probably trashed. I was supposed to stay in—”
From behind him, a woman spoke. “This is what I love to see—different branches of law enforcement at each other’s throats. It gives the bad guys the head start they need, which in turn gives us all job security.”
Zach turned and looked straight into the eyes of a woman with short blond hair. In her late forties or early fifties, she was more than six feet tall, her body trim and fit, her tweed jacket and tailored slacks giving her a smart look. Beside her stood a younger woman, also wearing a pantsuit.
“I’m Teresa Rowan, U.S. marshal for Colorado. This is one of my deputies, Michelle Reyes.” She held up a badge case, flipping quickly from a gold badge to her government ID. “You know, Reyes, the thing you have to remember when working with men is that they’re very emotional. For example, these guys are on the same side, trying to protect the same woman, but they have to fight about it like dogs trying to decide who’s the alpha.” After this verbal blow to the balls, she turned to face them again. “But guess what, gentlemen—I’m the alpha.”
And she was.
Zach had no doubt why she was here. She’d come to take him into custody and fly his ass back to D.C. But he had news for her. He didn’t give a damn who she was. He wasn’t leaving until he knew Natalie was safe.
She met his gaze. “Is there somewhere we can talk in private, McBride?”
“LOOK ME IN the eyes and tell me—did you steal the cocaine?”
Zach met Rowan’s gaze, her steel blue eyes devoid of emotion. “No.”
“Did you have anything to do with the Interpol agent’s death?”
“No. It happened exactly like I said it happened. She almost got
me
killed.”
“Okay then.”
Zach stared at her. “That’s it? Now you trust me?”
“After two decades on the job, I’ve gotten pretty good at judging people.” She smiled, tapped a manicured fingernail on the sleeve of her jacket. “Besides, I’ve read the reports, seen the tape. I believed you before I set foot in this hospital.”
That was a nice surprise. “But let me guess—you’re here to tell me I have to get on a plane back to D.C. and that if I don’t—”
She shook her head. “No. I’m here to ask you to help me protect Ms. Benoit.”
Now Zach truly was surprised—and intrigued.
“We can’t enroll her in WITSEC.” Rowan’s brow furrowed, deep lines forming on her forehead. “She doesn’t fit the parameters for witness protection. But she is a journalist, and protecting journalists can fall to the Justice Department under certain circumstances. We’ve done it before.”
Zach nodded. “The shooting of that radio talk-show host in Seattle. The editor in Idaho who was being stalked by white supremacists.”
“I can see you read the company newsletter.” She gave him an approving grin. “I’ve claimed jurisdiction on this case. The Denver PD knows it. FBI knows it. Trouble is, my people aren’t used to dealing with cartel violence. I need your expertise.”
“What do you have in mind?”
“Make Ms. Benoit vanish. You’ll get the support and resources you need from my office. Then help me get these Zeta bastards out of my state.” There was emotion in her voice when she spoke those last words—the first Zach had sensed in her.
“There’s one little problem. I’m currently the subject of an internal investigation in Washington. Pearce and the brass at the OD won’t be happy about this. He ordered me to stay in D.C. until the investigation was complete.”
“Fuck Pearce. I’ll deal with him. I was appointed by the President. If Pearce doesn’t like how I work, he can take it up with the White House.”
Zach was really starting to dig this chick. “I’ll need a team—people I can trust.”
“ANSWER TO
HIM
?” Hunter gaped at Rowan. “You’ve got to be kidding. I want to help Natalie in any way I can, but—”
“Then say yes.” Zach had expected this response.
He’d given the men a good twenty minutes in private to talk about it with their wives, knowing that the women would want to weigh in before their men agreed to take on the added responsibility and risk. And the risk was real. The women knew this. He could see it in their eyes, in the grave way they watched their men, in the way they held their children, in the way they looked at him, as if trying to decide whether they could trust him.
It’s one hell of a position you’ve put them in—choosing between a friend’s safety and that of the men they love.
Rowan stared Hunter down. “McBride knows he can trust you three. If you don’t agree, he’ll have to find others to back him up. I’ve already run background checks on you. Darcangelo, I’m familiar with your deep cover work against sex trafficking during your years with the FBI and your record with Denver vice. When you brought Alexi Burien down, I was impressed. Hunter, you ran into some trouble in the DEA, but that’s behind you now. Chief Irving says you’ve done good work for him. You still hold the U.S. military record for long-distance sniper kill. Earned yourself a Bronze Star in Afghanistan, didn’t you?”
Zach had known this, but his faith in these men had nothing to do with their skills and everything to do with their loyalty to Natalie. The first rule of defeating the cartels was working with law enforcement and government officials who couldn’t be bought, and Zach knew that none of them would sell Natalie out to Cárdenas.
Rowan went on. “Rossiter, your law enforcement record is outstanding, and though you’ve been out of the game for a while, you’ve got more than your share of guts.”
“You’ve already talked to Chief Irving about this?” Darcangelo asked.
Rowan nodded. “He’s pledged his full support.”
Darcangelo frowned. “I thought special deputies have to be approved by DEA if there are illegal drugs involved.”
Rowan gave a dismissive wave of her hand. “What drugs? This is a case of organized crime striking at a U.S. citizen, a journalist. It’s about the free press, not drugs. Look, I know you FBI boys carry a deep grudge against the Marshal Service, but I really don’t give a damn. And I know, Hunter, that you and McBride didn’t start out on the right foot and the idea of working under him probably makes your teeth grind. But it’s time to put your big boy pants on. Either you’re in, or we’re wasting our time.”
Looking more than a little uncomfortable at this dressing down, Hunter, Darcangelo, and Rossiter raised their right hands, while Rowan quickly swore them in. She turned to Reyes. “Make sure they get badges.”
Then she met Zach’s gaze. “You’ve got your team. It’s up to you. Make her disappear, McBride.”
Unable to suppress a grin at Hunter’s and Rossiter’s irritation at suddenly working under his command, he nodded. “Yes, ma’am.”
CHAPTER 25
NATALIE LAY STRAPPED to a gurney, a bright blue sky passing by overhead as DUSMs disguised as medical staff rolled her feet-first across the rooftop helipad to the waiting chopper. They were hot-loading her, the helicopter’s rotors already running, drowning out the nurses’ shouts. The helicopter was a small one, the name LifeFlight painted in bright red against a royal blue background on its shell. Its side door opened as they drew near, hands reaching out to grab the handles of the collapsed gurney as she was quickly and carefully lifted up and brought on board.
The gurney was strapped into place, then the door shut beside her.
“Hang tight, angel.” It wasn’t a flight nurse who spoke, but Zach, his voice raised above the drone of the rotors. “We’ve got a thirty-minute flight.”
He sat back onto the flight seat beside her and strapped himself in, Kevlar visible beneath his bright blue flight nurse jumpsuit, an assault rifle beside him that looked like it ate AK-47s for breakfast.
The sound of the rotors became a high-pitched whir, and the chopper lifted off, the floor seeming to fall away from beneath her, making her gasp, her head suddenly lower than her feet.
A hand stroked her cheek—Zach reassuring her that everything was fine.
She’d been discharged this morning, a dull headache, memory loss, and a few nicks and cuts all that remained of her injuries from the explosion. She didn’t need to be strapped to a gurney in a medical helicopter, but Zach had decided it was the safest way to get her out of the hospital. U.S. Marshal Teresa Rowen, whom Natalie had met this morning, had grounded all air traffic over Colorado for ten minutes, so there would be no one else in the sky when they took off. The chopper pilot was a DUSM, not a LifeFlight employee. No flight plan had been filed, and once they were away from Denver, they’d fly below the radar. Even if the Zetas somehow realized Natalie was on that helicopter, they wouldn’t be able to follow her.
“You okay?” Zach called to her, his brows bent in a concerned frown.
She nodded, forcing a smile onto her face.
She wasn’t sure she knew what “okay” was any longer. If “okay” meant she was thankful to be alive, then, yes, absolutely, she was okay. If it meant she was grateful that Zach was with her, then she was definitely okay. If it meant she was no longer afraid . . .
She didn’t know if she’d ever feel safe again. If the Zetas could plant explosives in her car right here in Denver, what couldn’t they do? Despite assurances from Marshal Rowan, Zach, and the others that the Zetas wouldn’t get another crack at her, she couldn’t shake the feeling that something terrible was going to happen. Her friends told her it was just post-traumatic stress from all she’d been through these past ten days—or perhaps the psychological impact of her head injury. She hoped they were right.
She still didn’t remember the explosion, and the neurosurgeon had told her that she probably never would, her shortterm memory having been damaged by the blow. Not that she
wanted
to remember. The photographs Joaquin had showed her of the flaming shell that had once been her shiny black Lexus had been more than enough.