CHAPTER 30 #2
NATALIE SAT IN front of her open bedroom window, looking out at the bruised sky, flashes of distant lightning heralding the approach of a late-afternoon thunderstorm, a chilly wind filling the sheer, white drapes like sails.
Not that she really noticed any of it, those endless terrible minutes on the bus running through her mind again and again.
“?No! Por favor, no—”
Pop!
“I am sorry, Miss Benoit.”
“No, don’t—!”
Pop!
“Natalie?”
She gasped, startled out of her thoughts.
Zach stood just inside the doorway to her room. “Are you okay, angel?”
She didn’t know how to answer, so for a time she said nothing.
“It seems really obvious now when I think about it. The look on that Zeta’s face when he saw me—he wasn’t smiling because he thought it was funny watching me trying to protect Joaquin.
He recognized me. It was there in his eyes. I just didn’t see it.”
Zach stood behind her now. His hand slid gently beneath her hair to cup the nape of her neck. “It’s not your fault, Natalie. You didn’t pull the trigger. You’re a victim of this crime, just like the journalists who were killed.”
“But if I hadn’t gone on that trip—”
“Don’t torture yourself like that. The Zetas probably took advantage of the conference to do a little multitasking, taking out multiple targets at once.”
“I watched them die. Poor, sweet Sr. Marquez. He was terrified, but he still had the courage to look into his killer’s face. And do you know what? He apologized to me. Just before they shot him, he apologized as if it were somehow his fault that he was about to be murdered in front of me.”
“I know. I read your articles.”
“You did?” She turned her head, looked up at him, surprised.
He nodded, his lips curving in a smile. “You’re a talented writer, Natalie. I don’t think anyone could read what you wrote and not be touched by it.”
It felt good to hear him say that. “Did you see my little press conference?”
“How could I not? It was on every news channel. You called me your hero.” Then he knelt down beside her, pressed his forehead to hers, and looked into her eyes, his hand against her cheek.
“But, Natalie, you’re my hero. You got me out of that Zeta hell.
You saved my life. You were strong when you needed to be strong.
Don’t you dare blame yourself for something you didn’t do, something you were powerless to stop. ”
His words felt like absolution, and yet . . .
She shared her darkest fear. “I don’t want anyone else to die. If you or any of the guys get hurt or killed . . .”
She’d sat there this afternoon, surrounded by the strongest men she knew, each one of them armed to the teeth and wearing body armor, but instead of feeling safe, she’d felt terrified—for them. After what had happened to those poor DUSMs today . . .
“We’re doing everything we can to prevent that.” He stood and sat across from her. “We made a lot of progress today.”
“You came up with some compelling scenarios, but they’re based entirely on circumstantial evidence.”
He gave her a cocky grin. “Not for long, angel. Rowan is procuring a federal warrant for the school’s financials.
I guarantee you we’ll find bogus donors, anonymous donations from offshore accounts—that kind of thing.
Darcangelo is in my office trying to crack the encryption on Wulfe’s file.
Hunter and Rossiter left to get a helo ready in case we need to leave here quickly.
I’m going to go to work finding Wulfe. We’ll get the job done.
In the meantime, you need to eat something. ”
“I’m not really hungry.”
He frowned. “Do you think . . . When will you know whether . . . ?”
So he couldn’t even say the word. That disappointed her. “When will I know whether I’m pregnant? I should get my period in about a week. Are you worried?”
“I just wondered if that’s why you weren’t hungry.” Then he smiled. “Darcangelo’s wife called. She had a test that showed she’s carrying a boy. Darcangelo couldn’t quit grinning.”
That was the first good news Natalie had heard in what felt like forever. “That’s wonderful! And the baby’s okay?”
“Apparently.”
From down the hallway came Julian’s voice. “Hey, McBride, I made a copy of the file. I’ll try to crack it at home and give you a call later.”
“Sounds good. Thanks.” Then Zach frowned and glanced toward the window.
Fat raindrops were falling now, the wind whipping the drapes about, dark clouds obscuring the city. A flash of lightning. Thunder.
He stood, crossed the room, and closed the window. “Looks like we’re in for one hell of a storm tonight.”
Natalie shivered.
ARTURO SAT IN the back of the first van, a battered AK-47 in his hands, thinking of ways to kill Wulfe. After all they’d done together, the stupid chingadero ought to have welcomed him as a brother. Instead, Wulfe had done nothing but humiliate him since he arrived. And now he’d gone too far.
While Wulfe sat in his new luxury hideout, Arturo was being forced to take part in this pathetic little action as if he were one of Wulfe’s underlings.
It was clear that Wulfe wanted to pin the Benoit whore’s death on Arturo and his organization.
More than that, he wanted to rub Arturo’s face in his failure.
“You made this mess. You’re going to help clean it up,” Wulfe had said. Then he’d motioned to his men. “You follow their orders, do you understand, Arturo? You still have so much to learn.”
Arturo would avenge this insult. If only he’d had time to speak with José-Luis, but they hadn’t been given a moment alone together, and now his nephew was waiting this out with Wulfe.
“The gate’s coming up.” One of Wulfe’s men pressed his fingers to his earpiece, listening. “It’s a dark blue Chevy Impala. The vehicle has exited the garage. It’s turning the corner.”
They’d parked a couple of blocks away so that the cops who were protecting the Benoit bitch wouldn’t see them and grow suspicious.
“It’s him. He’s alone, and he’s taking the bait. Go!”
The bait was one of Wulfe’s female operatives with a fake belly to make her look embarazada—pregnant. The target’s wife was blond and pregnant, and they felt certain the target would stop to help a woman who made him think of her.
Arturo had to admit that part was clever, even if he hated the idea of women carrying guns and pretending to be men. It was unnatural.
The van drove quietly and slowly around the corner, and up ahead, Arturo saw a man with a dark ponytail get out of the Impala and walk over to the woman, who stood beside her own car, hand on her fake belly, staring down at a flat tire.
“Look at that overgrown Boy Scout.”
Wulfe’s men laughed, pulling ski masks down over their faces.
The van drew closer, the target looking over his shoulder once. He saw the van, watched it for a second.
“Easy now.”
Apparently not perceiving it as a danger, the target turned back to the woman and motioned toward the car’s trunk. The blonde waddled to the trunk and opened it. The target bent over, picked up a lug wrench and stood upright again.
Arturo felt the van speed up, his heart beating faster.
It went—how did the gringos say?—like clockwork. The target turned around, lug wrench in hand, just as the blonde pointed a suppressed handgun at his chest and fired. Five shots to the chest dropped him onto the pavement, where he lay still.
Their faces covered, their hands in nitrile gloves, Wulfe’s men jerked open the van’s door and jumped out, one of them carrying a pair of bolt cutters.
Two of them lifted the man’s big body and shoved it into the trunk, while the third cut off his left thumb.
Then they shut the body inside the trunk and climbed into the van, the blonde following them in.
Having no modesty at all, she kicked off her heels, pulled her dress over her head, and unfastened the shoulder straps that held her fake belly in place. It fell to the floor, leaving her wearing a wet tank top and shorts. “I am fucking never getting pregnant. That shit is uncomfortable.”
The men laughed.
Puta estupida. The stupid whore.
She quickly dressed in pants, a shirt, and body armor, sliding a ski mask over her face. Then she grabbed a rifle. She was going in with them? A woman?
The van moved forward, turned the corner, and drove up to the protected entrance of the tall glass building. The man who held the bloody thumb, passed it forward to the driver, who rolled down his window and carefully pressed the pad of it to the scanner.
An electric buzz. A green light. And the garage door began to move.
“We’re in.”