CHAPTER 22
THE NEXT MORNING, Natalie awoke to find a throng of reporters camped in front of her house and on her lawn, her driveway blocked by a Fox News van.
The package of articles that Tom and Sophie had put together about her kidnapping and rescue had gone up on the Internet last night and was the focus of today’s front page.
But Natalie had given all the interviews she was going to give.
Tom and Sophie had interviewed her for most of yesterday afternoon, respecting the boundaries she’d put in place on the advice of Officer Garrett, to protect Zach.
She didn’t want anything she said to get him or any other DUSM hurt or killed.
Reliving the story, recounting the slaughter on the bus and the horror of being held captive by the Zetas, had left her shaken, making it hard to sleep last night.
There was no chance she was going to open herself to that again.
Besides, the focus ought to be on the journalists who’d been murdered, not the one who got away.
Ignoring the knocks on her door, she got dressed for work—a shirtdress of ruffled navy blue silk, pearl earrings, and navy pumps, then walked outside onto her front porch, where she read a statement, thanking people for their concern and prayers, expressing her gratitude to the U.S.
and Mexican governments for their efforts to find her and ending with a special thank-you to the man who risked his life to save hers.
“Words will never fully express my gratitude for all you did to get me safely home,” she said, trying to stop the shaking of her voice. Then she looked straight into the CNN camera, hoping Zach would see it. “You are my hero.”
Being on the other end of the microphone was more intimidating than she’d imagined, flashes like strobe lights, microphones and digital recorders mere inches from her face, the press of so many people on her property unnerving.
In the end, she called Kat who called Tessa who called Julian, who came to get her in an unmarked police car, clearing her driveway with flashing lights and a few blasts from his siren and pulling into her empty garage.
“How are you holding up?” he asked when she climbed into the car, his eyes hidden behind sunglasses, his long dark hair pulled back in a ponytail.
“Okay, I think.”
He reached over, put a hand on her arm. “I read the articles, heard what Hunter and Rossiter had to say, and I’m blown away by what you did—Natalie the Ninja.
And this McBride, too. The man knows his shit.
I wasn’t able to come to Arizona, but I’ve got your back here. If you need anything, you call me.”
She gave him a smile. “Thanks, Julian. That’s very kind of you.”
He backed out of the driveway, tinted windows giving her some privacy as reporters moved in with cameras. Then he drove her to the airport, staying nearby while she picked up her car, then followed her back into the city, flashing his lights in farewell.
She had to wade through a crowd of reporters in front of the paper, then entered the building to the sound of applause, coworkers she didn’t even know cheering as she made her way across the lobby to the elevator.
Upstairs, the newsroom was filled with balloons and streamers, a bouquet of flowers at her desk along with dozens and dozens of cards mailed from all over the United States by people who’d heard of her kidnapping and had written to the paper, offering comfort, prayers, and even condolences, assuming that she was dead.
“We set them here because we told ourselves you would make it back to read them. And here you are.” Sophie gave her a big hug, tears in her eyes. “I can’t tell you how relieved we all were when Marc called and told me they’d found you.”
“Thank you all so much for your help—and for this.” She gestured toward the flowers.
Joaquin came up behind them. “I got something for you, Natalie. I drove all the way to Lakewood and back for these.”
Natalie turned and saw him holding a large paper bag that had several grease spots on it.
She didn’t have to open the bag to know what it was.
She recognized the mouthwatering scent. She’d been trying to find good beignets in Denver ever since she’d moved here.
“Thank you, Joaquin. Where on God’s green earth did you find these? ”
“Went online, found a little Cajun restaurant in Lakewood off Union.” He kissed her cheek. “I’m just so happy you’re home.”
“Beignets. That’s a kind of Cajun fry bread, right?” Kat’s smile let Natalie know she was joking. She knew what beignets were. “They smell wonderful.”
“Excellent.” Matt peered over the desk, a predatory look on his face. “I didn’t have time for breakfast.”
They sat together, enjoying the beignets with coffee, the conversation taking random turns. The Rockies’ latest victory over the Dodgers. The new appliances Sophie and Marc had bought for their new house. The upcoming Quinceanera of Joaquin’s oldest niece. The Denver metro area’s current heat wave.
“You think this is hot?” Natalie shook her head. “Try the Sonoran Desert.”
She found herself overcome by the strangeness of this ordinary moment—to be sitting here, drinking coffee and eating pastries with her friends when just a few days ago she’d thought she’d never see them again.
Then Holly came down the hallway wearing a fitted short suit—jacket, cream-colored silk top, shorts, strappy high heels, bright stripes of yellow eye shadow on her lids.
She was the only woman Natalie knew who could pull off high-fashion clothes and makeup.
Her flawless figure, striking face, and platinum blond hair helped, of course.
“You’re back!” She skipped over to Natalie and gave her a hug. “I read the interview this morning. All I can say is—God, that smells good!”
“Please, try one,” Natalie offered. “They’re beignets. We had these for breakfast every Sunday morning when I was a child.”
Holly backed away, warily eyeing the beignets. “I can’t. I can’t.”
“Oh, come on, Bradshaw.” Matt put one on a paper plate and held it out for her. “One beignet won’t make you fat.”
Holly hesitated for a moment, then took the plate, picked up the powdered sugar–coated pastry, took a tiny bite—and moaned.
Then everyone’s head came up, and Matt, who’d been half sitting on Natalie’s desk, got to his feet. Natalie turned to see Tom walking toward them.
“Welcome back, Benoit. Let’s bring the goodies to the conference room so we can get our meeting under way.”
ZACH SAT IN one of the back conference rooms watching CNN, having just finished another so-called debriefing.
No matter what channel he watched, she was there.
She looked amazing for someone who’d been in the middle of the desert only yesterday evening—pretty dress, cute pearl earrings, calm, composed features.
But he could tell she’d been nervous when she’d given her statement this morning.
He was so caught up in her face that it took him a moment to realize she was talking directly to him at the end.
“Words will never fully express my gratitude for all you did to get me safely home. You are my hero.”
He was nobody’s fucking hero.
He changed channels. Fox. MSNBC. The local news. But there she was again, looking directly into the camera, those beautiful eyes of hers gazing into his.
“You are my hero.”
God, how he missed her. He’d had a nightmare about her last night—the same nightmare he’d had when they were at the hotel in Altar.
He’d woken up covered in cold sweat. He’d started in on a bottle of whiskey, but then decided to go to the twenty-four-hour gym, where he’d worked out until his ribs ached and he’d been ready to puke.
Now, punchy on lack of sleep, he was back for a second day of answering questions, doing all he could to cooperate with the investigation. He wished he knew how it was progressing, but no one was telling him anything, not even Pearce.
“Zachariah?”
Fuck.
Zach recognized that voice. He switched off the television set, stood, and turned to face his old man. “What the hell do you want?”
It had been four years since he’d last seen his father face-to-face.
But time had been good to the bastard. He stood there in a three-thousand-dollar suit, looking like an older and better dressed version of Zach, the resemblance undeniable.
Though his hair was whiter than Zach remembered, the man looked strong and healthy as an ox.
He fidgeted with his tie. Was he nervous? That would be a first. “I heard what happened—how you were captured and almost killed, how you escaped and rescued that girl.”
“That girl rescued me. And how do you know anything about this? Some of that information is classified.”
His father gave him a wounded look. “You don’t think I have my sources after thirty years of working inside the Beltway? I’m the ranking member of the Senate Armed Services Committee.”
As arrogant as ever.
“So you heard what happened, and you came by to tell me how glad you are I wasn’t killed. Is that it?”
“Partly. I also know you’re being investigated, that some of the people here think you might have stolen cocaine from one of the cartels and murdered an Interpol agent.”
Now it made sense.
“I can see why there are no reporters with you this time. Your son is in trouble. How embarrassing. And by the way, that really is classified.”
“You’re my son. My sources knew I’d want to hear about it.”
Zach crossed his arms over his chest. “I suppose you’re worried about how this might look in the media if word gets out that Senator Robert McBride’s son was exposed as a crook. Well, you can relax, because I’m clean.”
“That’s not it at all.” His father’s voice rose a notch, the old man’s temper kicking in. “I know you’re innocent. I came to see if I could help in any way, cut through some of the red tape, help make sure the process goes smoothly.”