by Kaylea Cross
He set the newspaper clipping aside and resumed eating the rest of his breakfast, contemplating what message he should send to his remaining network now. He had to swallow twice to get the next bite of eggs down, as if something was stuck in his throat.
No. As if something was cutting off his airway.
He dropped his fork, shoved the plate away and bent over, grabbing his throat as he began to choke. What the hell? Was he having a heart attack? It felt like there was an elephant sitting on his chest.
He fell off his bunk, managed to crawl to the door. His lungs weren’t working. It was like they were paralyzed. His face was heating, eyes bulging as he gasped for air.
He flung out an arm, managed to bang it against the steel door to draw the guard’s attention.
And then it hit him.
It’s over.
The capsule. They’d fucking poisoned him.
But how? Who?
He shook his head, his body bucking on the concrete floor as he fought for air. There was none. And no one came to help him.
His heart stopped.
His mouth opened, his bulging eyes fixed on the concrete ceiling above him as the darkness took over, leaving him with one final, haunting thought.
Who the fuck had done this to him?
Chapter Twenty-Three
“Bet it feels good to be getting the hell out of here, huh?” Lockhart said as he pushed Brock’s wheelchair toward the hospital exit.
“You have no idea.” He’d only been in three days up here in D.C., two before his shoulder surgery and one after, but they had felt like an eternity without Tori.
He hadn’t even been able to tell her goodbye. They’d given him something before loading him on the transport back to D.C. with her. When he’d woken up, he had been in his hospital room and she had been gone.
He’d never known pain like that. The kind that made it feel like his chest was being split open from the inside.
And he loved how everyone including the medical staff kept telling him to rest, when it seemed like someone was in his room every fucking ten minutes to poke or prod him for something. Blood sample. Blood pressure. Body temp. Giving him a shot of something.
You’re just a grumpy asshole because Tori’s gone. You should have told her everything when you had the chance.
It hurt too much to think about, so he shoved it aside. He’d have plenty of time to wallow in his own self-pity once he got home.
“Okay, this is us,” Lockhart said, hitting the keyfob and sliding the side door of the vehicle open.
Brock stared at it in horror. “A minivan?” He cranked his head around to stare up at Lockhart. “Since when do you drive a minivan?”
“Ha. This is Taggart’s wife’s ride. You think I’d ever own one of these?” He snorted, insulted. “Please. Taggart was busy with something and I didn’t want you to be stuck in here a moment longer than you had to be, so I said I’m come over and take you home. You’re welcome.” He pushed Brock over to it. “We thought this would make it easier for you to get in and out. You know, being that you’re a fucking cripple and all.”
Brock shot him a mock glare. “My legs work just fine. And this cripple can take you any day of the week, so you remember that.”
“Sure.” Lockhart set the brakes on the chair. “Climb in, Cap.”
He did, wincing as he pulled the seatbelt over his chest. His right arm was still bound to his chest with a sling to take the strain off his newly repaired shoulder, but the left side didn’t feel so great either. Thankfully the doc thought Brock would likely be able to return to his duties as FAST Bravo’s team leader once he was all healed up. As to when that would be, it all depended on how rehab went.
“Say cheese.”
Brock whipped his head around. “Wha—”
Lockhart snapped a picture of him with his phone and tucked it into his back pocket, grinning.
He shook his head. “Maka put you up to this, didn’t he?”
“He sure as shit did. And I’m getting a twelve-pack of beer for it, so it’s totally worth it.”
Brock couldn’t help but chuckle, then regretted it. “Ow. Fuck. Maka’s not even here and he’s making me laugh.”
“Laughter’s the best medicine, haven’t you heard?”
“Not when you have cracked ribs.”
“Yeah, okay. Maybe not then.” He hit the keyfob again, stood there grinning like an idiot as the side panel door slid closed. “You gotta admit, this is pretty handy.”
Brock snorted and didn’t bother answering, anxious to get home to his own bed where he could actually get more than twenty minutes’ sleep at once. If he could stop thinking about Tori and what had happened long enough to actually stay asleep.
But once he walked into his place, an invisible weight settled on his chest. He was tired, sore as hell and generally in a piss-poor mood, but on top of all that, a wave of loneliness hit him.
The last time he’d been here, he’d been getting ready to meet Tori. He glanced at the couch, remembered the sight of her naked and trusting there up until things went wrong.
She was long gone now, having left two days ago to start her new life somewhere on the other side of the country. But it was like her ghost still lingered here, haunting him with her memory.
His body would heal, but his heart never would.
He loved her. Wished the hell he had told her before he’d been put on that transport. Now he had to find her. Find a way to be with her. Because that was the only way he would ever be whole again.
“Okay, man, you need anything else?” Lockhart asked, standing with hands on hips in the kitchen. “Taggart’s gonna pop over in a bit, bring some food with him.”
“Nah, I’m good. Thanks for everything.”
“Hey, no worries. You got anything here to snack on while you wait?” He opened the fridge, looked around. “Want some cheese and crackers?”
“Sure, that sounds good.” Truth was, he didn’t want to be alone just yet. He’d have plenty of that in the weeks ahead while he was recovering. He was too sore to sleep right now anyway.
Lockhart had just put the plate of cheese, crackers and pickles onto the table for them when Brock’s phone buzzed. He fished it out, some part of him hoping against hope that it might be Tori. But of course, it wasn’t. He hid his disappointment. “Taggart’s here. Can you let him in?”
“Sure.” Lockhart walked over to the keypad by the front door and hit the button, then waited to let their commander in.
“Loved the shot of you in the minivan,” Taggart said as he walked in with armfuls of grocery bags.
Brock threw a disbelieving look at Lockhart. “You texted everyone?”
“Yep. It was part of the deal.” He took the bags from Taggart, put them on the counter.
Taggart chuckled as he walked over and sank down on the sofa across from Brock, handing him a stack of mail. “Grabbed this for you on my way up.”
“Thanks.” There was junk mail, some bills, and a small package without a return address. He didn’t recognize the writing.
“Good to be home?” Taggart asked as Lockhart put the groceries away for Brock.
Sure. “Yeah.”
“You’ve got at least a week’s worth of food there, plus one of Abby’s lasagnas and a loaf of her homemade garlic cheese bread. Piper sent a bunch of baking.”
Okay, that made being here on his own slightly less depressing. “I don’t know how Maka and Colebrook aren’t six hundred pounds each,” Brock muttered. “I’ll text them to say thanks.” Overcome by curiosity, Brock ripped open one end of the padded envelope. His heart stuttered, seemed to stop a moment when he saw the flash of light blue.
He opened it wider. When he saw the contents, he sucked in a painful breath.
Tori. She had sent him the blue scarf she had worn to the hotel. The one she’d tied his hands to the headboard with. And there were two of the candles he’d brought as well.
He reached for the folded note s
he had enclosed, his fingers slightly unsteady as he opened it.
You will always be my light in the darkness. I want to be yours as well. T
Fuck. Him.
He sat there staring at it, realized belatedly that both Taggart and Lockhart were watching him curiously. He tucked the note away, set the envelope inside, his chest full of lead. This couldn’t be the end. He had to find her. Figure out how to make it work between them. There had to be a way. He couldn’t accept the alternative.
The way Taggart was watching him made Brock’s nape tingle. “What?” he asked. “Something up?”
“Yeah.” He waved Lockhart over, waited until he’d sat next to Brock before continuing. “Two things. One, Ruiz is dead.”
Brock’s eyes widened. “You’re shitting me.” No way it was from natural causes.
“Nope. Guards found him dead in his cell this morning. Looks like a heart attack, but we won’t know until we get the coroner’s report after the autopsy.”
Brock looked at Lockhart. “No way it was a heart attack.” He looked back at Taggart. “So then…they’re all gone.” The threat to Tori was over. “Does Victoria know?”
“I imagine she’ll be told soon.”
God, with Ruiz gone, she was no longer under any serious threat that Brock could think of. The chances of anyone trying to hunt her down and going after her to avenge Ruiz’s memory were nil. Her demons had all been sent back to hell where they belonged. Now she could move on. Because she was finally safe. Free.
Damn, he wished he could be the one to tell her that. To tell her so many things he—
“And two,” Taggart said, bringing Brock out of his thoughts, “is we’ve got a big fucking problem on our hands.”
“Why?” Lockhart said, frowning.
“The cartel’s still functioning as if nothing’s happened.”
“What, you mean financially? That’s not so weird, it could just be the accountants or whatever moving money around. It’ll take a few more days for us to see the disruptions kick in,” Brock said.
Taggart shook his head. “Under normal circumstances I would agree with you. But the reason I couldn’t pick you up this morning is because I was called into an emergency meeting.”
Brock went to lean forward and brace his elbows on his knees, winced and sat up, putting his left hand to his healing ribs. God, he was glad the bastard who had done this to him was dead. “And?”
“El Escorpion is still active.”
Brock shook his head. “That’s impossible. Nieto gave Oceane Diaz’s name, and he checked out with the DEA as being the head. Now he’s dead.”
“Nope. There’s been new activity within the cartel over their network in the past few hours. Chatter about new operations, issued in exactly the same way that el Escorpion always has.” He paused a moment, letting the gravity of it hit home. “El Escorpion is still active, and it’s too soon for anyone to have replaced Diaz yet, which means he was never the head of the cartel.”
Brock stared at him in stunned silence. If Diaz wasn’t el Escorpion, then who the hell was?
****
Maria Diaz splashed more cold water on her face, then patted it with a towel and straightened to look in the mirror over the sink as the train swayed from side to side. Her eyes were red-rimmed and puffy, swollen as her heart was swollen.
Her son was dead. The government had somehow identified Fernando and tracked him to the village where they’d shot him down like a dog in the street.
Through the wall of the connecting stateroom, the sound of muffled sobbing reached her. Maria sighed and closed her eyes a moment. Poor Sophia.
Quietly she eased the door open and stepped inside. Sophia was lying on her side on the bed, curled up in the fetal position, the heartbreaking sounds of her grief making more tears prick Maria’s eyes. She sat on the edge of the bed and set a gentle hand on her daughter-in-law’s shuddering back. “I know, cariña. I know it hurts.”
Sophia didn’t move, only began to cry harder.
Maria drew in a bracing breath. “He was a good man, and you were a good wife to him. He loved you and the children more than anything.” She sat there stroking Sophia’s back for long minutes. “It’s going to be hard, but we must be strong. For the children. We don’t want to upset them. As far as they’re concerned, their father is only away on business. They’ll learn the truth soon enough.”
“My heart is b-broken,” Sophia sobbed.
“I know, dear one. Mine too.” But she still had work to do, and it couldn’t wait, even for a broken heart.
She waited another minute, and when Sophia continued to weep inconsolably, lost her patience. “I’ll go to the children,” she said as she stood and headed for the door. “You can come join us when you’ve composed yourself again.”
She found her grandchildren in the car where she’d left them with their books. Putting on a smile, she sat between them on the luxuriously padded bench as the Panamanian scenery flashed past out the window and put an arm around each of them. “Should we play a card game?”
“Oh, yes,” Isa cried, setting down her book and reaching for the deck of cards on the table in front of her.
Everyone thought Fernando had been the head of the cartel. She mentally snorted at the thought. The men in charge of the investigation were all so fucking stupid. No one would ever suspect a seventy-two-year-old woman of being capable of running such a formidable organization.
She hadn’t survived, risked and sacrificed so much all these years—sacrifices that now included her only child—just to surrender now. No. Fernando’s death had to mean something. Had to be worth it for his children, or Maria couldn’t live with it.
“All right, seven cards each. No peeking,” she said as she dealt the deck for a game of rummy. “We’ll play for the gummy bears I put in my purse.”
Her grandson gave her a gap-toothed smile, his eyes an exact mirror of his father’s as they sparkled up at her. And for a moment her heart clenched. “You know the best games, Abuelita.”
Maria smiled, a steely resolve pushing the grief back down into the box she would keep it in. That was how one survived. “I do.” She played them well, too.
Because she was the master of them all.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Bellingham, WA
Two weeks later
Victoria stopped in the act of transferring her second load of laundry from the washer to the dryer and turned her head toward the door, listening. She thought she’d heard something—
A knock sounded at the back door.
She frowned, tossed the damp sweater she was holding into the dryer and headed down the stairs. Was it her neighbor? Sometimes the elderly lady next door came to bring her something. Cookies, cut flowers from her garden.
But when she rounded the corner of the downstairs hallway and reached the mudroom, she froze at the sight of a man’s silhouette outlined there. Fear punched through her for a second, followed closely by a painful swell of hope. Brock?
No, the build wasn’t right. Too short. Not broad enough through the shoulders.
“Who is it?” she called out, already turning toward the hall and the front door if she needed to escape.
“Bill Carruthers. U.S. Marshals.”
Marshals? Instant suspicion made her pause. “Where’s Tony?” Her WITSEC handler. He was the only one she kept in contact with. The only one who had ever visited her here.
“On another assignment. Check your phone. He left you a message a couple hours ago, telling you to expect me.”
Damn, she’d left her phone charging in her office. She’d left it there this morning after plotting out the last bit of her novel and hadn’t checked it since. “Hang on,” she told Carruthers through the door, not caring if it was rude to leave him standing on the stoop, and rushed to her office, keeping one eye on the front door. WITSEC said she was safe here under her new alias, but she wasn’t taking any chances.
Sure enough, there was a message from
Tony, saying his boss would be stopping by to talk to her.
She unlocked the back door, gave Carruthers—a fortyish man in jeans and a button down—a rueful smile as he held up his ID for her to check. “Sorry about that. Can’t be too careful. Old habits die hard, and all that.”
“That’s the truth,” he said with an easy grin as he stepped inside and looked around. “Nice place.”
She shut the door behind him. “I like it. It’s homey.” She had fallen a little in love with the green heritage Victorian the moment Tony had driven up to it. As far as starting her life over, this was a beautiful home to begin it in. Even if she had a gaping hole in her heart—and her life—without Brock.
All Tony had been able to tell her was that Brock had been discharged after his shoulder surgery a little over a week ago. She thought of him constantly, had reached for her phone so many times to call him, only to realize she couldn’t. For her safety. And to keep from hurting him more by not letting him go.
Carruthers gestured to the hallway. “Can we sit down for a few minutes?”
“Oh, sure. Right this way.” She led him through to her living room, just off the kitchen, and gestured to the couch, the only piece of furniture in the room so far. “Sorry about the lack of furniture. I’m still getting set up.” She sat on the hearth in front of the wood burning fireplace opposite him.
He sank onto the couch, rested his forearms on his knees and studied her. “You settling in okay? I know it’s not an easy adjustment.”
“I’m fine. Fairhaven’s the most beautiful spot in Bellingham. Lots of little shops and cafes for me to explore, and I like walking along the beach. I’m going to be volunteering at the library to get my feet wet while I work on my next book, starting this coming weekend.” She didn’t know why she was babbling, except his visit made her nervous. “But you didn’t come here to ask me that.”
A faint smile tugged at his mouth at her astuteness. “No. I didn’t.”
