by Cate Noble
“I agree.” Max had been quiet up till now. “For what it’s worth, my Spidey senses are telling me Gena’s in serious danger.”
Rocco focused on Max. “What else do you know?”
Thanks to mind-control experiments conducted by the late Dr. Viktor Zadovsky, a protégé of Dr. Rufin’s, Max had developed some highly unusual telepathic abilities. Abilities Rocco had thought only applied to a link between Max and the missing man they believed was SAS Agent Logan Treyhorn. Better known as Taz.
Except now that Rocco thought about it, he recalled that Dante had had some clairvoyant experiences when he’d first returned as well.
“I sense someone watching her, but from a distance. Like they’re waiting.” Max rubbed his forehead as if in pain. “Sorry it’s not more specific. My, uh, channels are scrambled today.”
“He had a seizure last night,” Dante said. “After making contact with Taz.”
“Wow. Guess that confirms Taz is alive though,” Rocco said.
Taz had fallen into a deep ravine in Colorado after fighting with Max. His remains had not been found. That Taz’s body held data chips implanted by Dr. Rufin was one of the reasons the Agency sought him. That Taz was considered a friend by Max added another layer of complexity.
“I’ll go see Gena,” Rocco said. “And explain the danger she’s in and get her to a safe house.”
“We’re going with you,” Dante said. “We’ve got a jet on standby that can fly us to Texas in about three hours. We can be back by nightfall. Then—”
Dante’s words were cut off as his phone rang. Within seconds Max’s was ringing, too.
Max checked the display. “It’s headquarters. Damn. You think they already know about Rocco’s escape?”
“Play dumb,” Dante advised.
“Duncan.” Max grew silent, listening. “When did this happen? Send a copy of the video to my cell phone.”
Max disconnected and turned to Dante. “A gas station in Kentucky was robbed during the night. The female clerk is missing. The suspect’s photo matches the one police have on file for Taz.”
Taz had been sought in connection with an earlier assault following his escape from a hospital in San Diego.
Max’s phone buzzed, indicating an e-mail. He opened it. “It’s him.” Max held his phone up.
Even Rocco recognized the man staring directly into the security camera. “Damn. Now what?”
“I’ve got to get to him before the police do,” Max said. “If he’s unstable, I’m the only one he’ll listen to.”
“Change of plans,” Dante said to Rocco. “Max and I need to go to Kentucky. Who do you trust that we can tap for backup in Texas?”
Rocco shook his head. “Outside of this car? No one. If I can get to Texas in three hours, I can grab Gena and fly straight back here. She can stay with Adele and Billy until we get this straightened out.”
“We both know it won’t be that easy. From what I understand, Gena’s refused to leave the burn victim’s bedside,” Dante said. “Let’s face it, the truth will shock her.”
“Especially coming from me,” Rocco said. “But if I have to, I’ll drag her to a secure environment in handcuffs.”
Chapter Seven
Sugar Springs, TX
October 4, 11:00 A.M.
Gena huddled on the bench inside the tiny alcove that doubled as a waiting room for the makeshift intensive care unit of Sugar Springs Hospital.
Serving a population of less than five thousand, the small community facility saw its fair share of fevered infants, broken limbs, and bar stabbings. But it wasn’t really equipped for major trauma.
Normally, patients with life-threatening injuries were stabilized, then transported to the larger hospital in McAllen or even Corpus Christi.
But last night, to paraphrase one of the ER doctors, had been a statewide hell night. And everything was bigger in Texas.
There had been a train wreck two counties over. A building at a major manufacturing plant in Brownsville had collapsed during shift change. Add to that a catastrophic traffic accident that closed Interstate 37 north of there.
By the time the fire in Sugar Springs happened, the trauma units in every major hospital across southeast Texas were overwhelmed. Forget air ambulances. The ER here had been told to do the best it could with what it had.
That Lupe was still alive was a miracle. Gena had overheard the paramedics talking. No one had expected Lupe to survive the trip to the hospital. Because no air transport had been available, Lupe had been admitted here and put in a medical coma.
They’d kept her alive, but as time passed and the extent of her injuries was catalogued in whispers, it became obvious that Lupe was beyond medical hope. Her left leg had been amputated just above the knee and her left arm close to the shoulder.
Yet somehow Lupe’s heart kept beating. And her lungs kept working. Eventually she stabilized just long enough for the usual questions to start popping up and spawning problems.
The truth was damning: Lupe wasn’t in the country legally.
She had no medical insurance. Though no one would admit it, Lupe became a proverbial hot potato. None of the hospitals wanted the expense or the liability, especially when her prognosis was so grim.
“I’ll cover her expenses,” Gena had argued with the admissions clerk.
“It’s not that simple,” the woman had responded.
But in Gena’s mind, it was just that simple: Lupe needed advanced life support. Gena could pay for it, or guarantee it, with the estate settlement. For the first time Ephraim’s money didn’t feel like a burden.
Helen Newton, the shelter’s director, arrived just then and squeezed onto the bench beside Gena. “Any change?”
Gena shook her head, avoiding Helen’s gaze, not wanting to see any more pity or sorrow. If one more person told her he or she was “sorry” to hear about Lupe, or reminded Gena how lucky she’d been, Gena would scream.
And if she started to scream, she didn’t know if she’d ever stop. Lupe had screamed and screamed….
“She’s still alive, if that’s what you mean,” Gena said.
“I’ve been elected by the hospital staff to talk sense into you.” Helen gently pried the coffee cup out of Gena’s grip. “They said you’ve been here all night. You need sleep. Decent food. Probably some medical attention yourself. Why don’t you go and—”
Gena cut her off. “I won’t leave Lupe. She doesn’t have anyone else to fight for her.”
The fact that Lupe had no family in the area further complicated medical matters. There was no availability of medical history, known allergies and the like. No next of kin to relieve the doctors of decisions about procedures, surgeries, and life support.
Gena had offered up what little personal information she knew, which only emphasized the unknowns. No date of birth. A nameless grandmother who lived “somewhere” in Mexico. And a despicable ex-husband whom police seemed to believe was responsible for the fire.
And while Gena had eagerly answered the hospital personnel’s questions, she had learned the flow of information was one-way. Patient privacy laws meant they couldn’t disclose anything about Lupe’s condition to nonfamily. It meant Gena had been forced to eavesdrop to learn what little she knew.
“There’s not a graceful way to say this, so I’ll just blurt it out. Lupe may not want you to fight,” Helen said softly. “Think of her quality of life. If she survives, she faces a long and painful recovery. There will be extensive scarring. She’ll need skin grafts. And the amputations …”
“I’ve thought of nothing but that.” Gena swiped away tears. “And I’m not leaving. Not as long as Lupe’s still alive.”
Helen took a deep breath. “Here’s something else to consider then. This incident, as horrible as it is, is generating negative press for the shelter. I received two calls this morning, from press agencies seeking comment on accusations that we not only support illegal immigration, but that we also are a way station on some t
ype of underground railroad.”
“That’s preposterous! Did you tell them where to stick their accusations?”
“I started to. Until someone mentioned you were keeping vigil here. I assured them you weren’t acting on the shelter’s behalf.” Helen glanced past Gena, as if uncomfortable with what she was about to say. “Gena, I—”
“I understand. You have to think of the others at the shelter. If it’s any help, I quit as a volunteer. Feel free to publicly announce as much.”
But Helen wasn’t looking at her, was still staring over Gena’s shoulder.
“Well drat,” Helen said. “I knew they’d show up sooner or later.”
Gena twisted around and spotted two men wearing the familiar black windbreakers denoting Border Patrol. One of the men was jotting notes while talking with the fire marshal.
“They came bythe shelter earlier,” Helen continued. “Looking to interview witnesses. They, um, didn’t realize we had two facilities. Or used to.”
The reminder that the new shelter had been destroyed twisted another knife in Gena’s heart. All Vianca’s hard work was gone.
We’ll rebuild.
If Vi were sitting there, she’d have been on her cell phone calling in favors. I need a building razed. I need an updated survey. How fast can I get concrete?
To Vianca, life had been black and white. Yes or no. Now or when? Lead or follow.
We can do this.
No. Without Vi, there was no we. Vi’s cousin, the contractor, had been by earlier and reported that the building was a total loss. While Gena had yet to revisit the site, she remembered the chaotic images from last night.
Thanks to a propane tank blowing, by the time the fire department arrived, flames had engulfed two structures, the shelter and the apartment building next door.
What was left was now considered a crime scene after someone reported watching two men toss a Molotov-type explosive at the shelter.
Fury seethed anew, clawing at Gena’s lungs. Damn the men who’d done this, who’d hurt many innocent people. Like Lupe. And the homeless man sleeping at the back of the apartment complex who had died. The others who suffered less severe burns and whose families were now displaced.
“Here they come,” Helen whispered as the Border Patrol agents strode toward them.
“Ma’am.” The agent nodded to each of them, then offered a leather ID holder to Gena. “I’m Sam Ramirez. This is my partner, Dick Huggins. We’d like to talk to you about last night. I understand that you were at the shelter at the time of the incident. And that you and the burn victim were working together.”
“Lupe,” Gena said. “Her name is Lupe.”
“Guadalupe Del Fuego,” Agent Ramirez said. “That was the name you knew her by? How long have you known Lupe?”
“She showed up at the New Beginnings shelter in late July. Or early August.” Gena noticed Helen nodding in agreement. “I volunteer at the shelter, so I’m not there daily.”
“What do you know about Lupe? About her personal life?” Ramirez asked.
Gena hesitated. The shelter’s privacy policy, while treated seriously in-house, was not legally binding, especially in the face of a criminal investigation.
“Very little,” Gena said. “Look, the police already asked me these same questions.”
“I understand that this is difficult, ma’am, but our questions may be different,” Ramirez said. “What do you know about her friends? Where she worked?”
“She never spoke of any particular friends outside of others staying at the shelter, but then again, we didn’t spend a great deal of time together. Two nights a week, Lupe helped me—volunteered, not paid— with cleaning and painting at the new shelter.”
Gena wasn’t going to mention the jobs Lupe worked with other potentially illegal aliens. She was certain Agent Ramirez would ferret that out from other sources.
“Did she ever mention family?”
“A grandmother who lives in Mexico. She raised her. If she had other family, she never mentioned them,” Gena said. “I, um, understand the police are searching for her ex-husband.”
“Juan Carlos Del Fuego.” Ramirez flipped through his notes. “Did you ever meet him?”
“No.”
“Lupe came to the shelter seeking refuge from an abusive husband,” Helen interjected. “One of our goals is to keep the abuser away.”
“Do you know if Lupe told her grandmother where she was staying?” Ramirez shifted his gaze back toward Gena. The implication that Lupe’s grandmother then told Carlos went unsaid.
“I don’t know,” Gena said. I hope not. “All shelter residents are warned about the dangers of disclosing their locations, to protect others as well as themselves.”
The two agents exchanged doubtful glances. Then Ramirez handed Gena a photograph.
She had expected the subject to be Juan Carlos Del Fuego. But the person in the grainy black-and-white mug shot was Lupe. Tears stung Gena’s eyes as she realized Lupe would never look like that again.
“Can you confirm that this is the burn victim currently in ICU?” Ramirez asked. “The woman you know as Guadalupe Del Fuego?”
“That’s her.” The mug shot most likely meant Lupe had been picked up and deported before.
“Were you aware she was in the country illegally?”
“I never asked,” Gena answered honestly.
“Of course not.” Agent Ramirez’s voice had an edge, which he quickly covered. “Tell me what happened last night. When did you and Lupe arrive at the shelter?”
Gena recounted—for at least the fourth time— how she’d found the shelter vandalized early yesterday morning. “Lupe came by around eight last evening and began cleaning. She also painted several doors I had replaced.”
“Did she leave at any time? Or receive any phone calls that you know of?”
“She didn’t have a cell phone. She left about midnight, but she wasn’t gone long. Maybe a few minutes.”
“Did she say where she was headed?”
Don’t ask. Don’t tell. “No.”
“So she returned a few minutes later. Then what happened?”
“I was still in the kitchen when I heard the front door open. Lupe came in and said she saw two men near my car. She was concerned they were vandals.”
“Did she indicate that she recognized them? Or give a description?”
“No. I went to get my cell phone to call the police, while she went to make sure the front door was locked.”
Lupe, wait.
“So she was in the front part of the house when it caught fire?” Ramirez asked.
The memory had Gena shutting her eyes. The force of the blast had knocked Gena backward, onto the rear porch. She’d dashed back inside and found the kitchen engulfed in flames.
Lupe had crawled across the floor, screaming.
Gena had used her bare hands to extinguish Lupe’s clothes. Then she half dragged, half carried Lupe out the back door. To the yard.
Another explosion sounded. The propane tank next door. Gena huddled over Lupe to shield her from the debris. A fireman came up and yanked her away. “You’re hurt! See the paramedics.”
But Gena had refused to let anyone treat the minor cuts and burns she’d suffered. “Save her! Save Lupe!”
Gena became aware that Helen offered a tissue. She took it and blew her nose, ignoring the closed look on Agent Ramirez’s face.
“I believe that covers it for now.” Agent Ramirez tugged out his vibrating cell phone. “Excuse us.”
No sooner had the two agents moved away than there was a flurry of activity at the nurses’ station. Beepers and buzzers sounded in ICU.
“Code Blue.”
Gena overheard the medical emergency code. Lupe!
She rushed to the double-door entrance to the ICU. Already the corridor beyond was filled with nurses and techs, rushing to Lupe’s bedside. What was going on? How bad was it?
Suddenly Gena was being jerked back.
“Move it!” a doctor ordered as he slammed his access card through the sensor, then pushed past her as the slow-moving doors swung wide.
Gena stepped forward, stood momentarily frozen in the opening, witnessing the controlled chaos. As the door closed it swept her inside, where she went unnoticed.
A male nurse shoved what must have been a crash cart toward Lupe’s bed, half a dozen nurses in his wake.
The doctor who was responsible for Gena’s ringside seat plunged into the midst, already barking orders. “Give me point-five milligrams atropine … lidocaine!”
Gena lost count of the injections given. Blood pressure and pulse were called out repeatedly, the numbers garbled.
Then there were no more orders.
The room went silent. And Gena knew, knew, knew. Lupe was dead.
No! She hung her head and felt the knot of anguish that had been building in her chest rise.
The doors swung open behind her, stirring the air. A dark-haired woman in a lab coat hustled past without speaking, without questioning Gena’s presence in the restricted area.
Then the doctor who had inadvertently let her slip inside the ICU approached, his gaze sliding across her face. But he, too, passed mutely by.
Invisible.
Gena’s loss had left her as invisible as Lupe had been for most of her life.
“You shouldn’t be in here!” A nurse came up just then, shaking her head as she gently but firmly guided Gena out to the hall before turning away.
Unable to move or speak, Gena stared at the closed doors. Then she felt hands at her shoulders, knew someone was tugging her back toward the waiting area.
She resisted, not ready to leave Lupe, not wanting comfort for a truth she didn’t want to face.
“Gena?”
That voice …
The breath left her body as she turned and looked into the face of the most gorgeous and cruelest man she’d ever known.
No, not the worst.
Utter confusion threatened to wreck Gena’s fragile equilibrium. She blinked, frantic to block the memories that wanted to rush forward. She couldn’t deal with the mess that was their past. Not now.
“What—? What are you doing here, Rocco?”
