Chapter Ten
TEN MINUTES AFTER watching Natalie flee the scene, Ford followed the paramedics down the stairs from Henri’s room to meet with the police. His stomach bottomed out at the sight of a furry black foot sticking out past the kitchen cupboards.
Ignoring the man and woman in uniform waiting inside the doorway, he rushed over and crouched beside Blitz, who lay sprawled on her side on the tile.
“Hey, girl,” he whispered. Throat tight, he gently placed a hand on her ribs.
Her heart beat steadily beneath his palm, and her chest rose and fell faintly.
Thank God. He let out a shuddering breath of his own, his hand shaking as he stroked her fur.
After that, time seemed to crawl as he impatiently answered the officers’ questions, his focus split by worry for Henri, Natalie, and Blitz.
The cops grilled him for over an hour, understandably suspicious of the entire situation and his role in it.
His only lies concerned Natalie. He told them the woman’s clothing they’d found in the bedroom belonged to the woman they’d rented the house from, and that the hair dye remnants in the trash were from covering his own premature grays.
He was only thirty-two, but it wasn’t totally implausible, and the color was close enough to his own to pass.
They swabbed his hands for gunshot residue, and finally released him, apparently satisfied that Ford hadn’t shot at or stabbed Henri himself.
He was allowed to change into clean clothes, pack a bag under the watchful eye of a crime scene tech, grab some things for Henri, and move Blitz after they took photos of her.
One of the officers called ahead to a veterinary clinic, asking the doctor to examine Blitz and draw blood for police evidence.
At four-thirty in the afternoon—more than two hours since he’d returned from the mall with Natalie—Ford finally stood across a steel table from the vet, who felt confident Blitz hadn’t been poisoned, only sedated. God, it could’ve been so much worse…
“I believe she will wake in a few hours.” The brusque forty-something woman pointed to a spot on the back of Blitz’s neck where the fur had been flattened by her collar. “Your dog has two microchips, but only one of them works.”
“Two?”
Her lips pressed into a thin line, and she nodded, clearly clueless that she’d just dropped a bomb. “If the first one malfunctioned, your veterinarian should have removed it before placing the new one.”
Motherfucker. A ball of lead settled in Ford’s stomach, but he managed not to swear out loud.
Microchipping was mandatory for dogs in Switzerland, so Deschamps’ men would’ve figured Blitz had one.
Inserting a tracker right next to the chip she’d gotten as a puppy was the perfect way to mask its presence.
With as much fur as she had, it was nearly impossible to feel the rice-sized bump between her shoulder blades anyway, and if he had noticed it, he wouldn’t have been suspicious. Honestly, it was goddamned brilliant.
At least now he knew how the hitman had found them at Henri’s farmhouse despite Ford thinking he and his possessions were “clean.”
He’d known someone entered his home while he sat in jail, and he’d taken extra care to search everything he brought with him, including Blitz.
He’d combed through her fur, felt between the pads of her paws, checked her ears, and run a bug finder over her.
Just to be safe, he’d also replaced her collar, leash, and bowls, and carefully examined her tags.
Deschamps’ goons must not have activated the tracker immediately, and Ford hadn’t scanned Blitz again after leaving home.
Ignoring the impulse to hit something, he asked the vet to remove the “faulty” microchip, and retreated to the waiting room to take care of the bill.
Twenty minutes later, he gently laid Blitz on the backseat of the Citroen. “Sorry, girl.”
Moving behind the wheel, he sat in the driver’s seat for a full minute. Ford had led the gunman to the farmhouse, endangered Blitz, and landed Henri in the hospital, where he was currently fighting for his life.
Fuuuck.
Not only that, but Natalie was on her own, injured, in a country where she didn’t speak the language, with a killer on her trail.
A woman walked past the parking lot, dragging groceries in a foldable cart. She didn’t look suspicious, but the tracker could’ve easily led his would-be killers to this location. He needed to quit beating himself up and get the hell out of here, find Natalie.
What if she’d taken the car and run? She could be in Menton by now, or Montpellier, or halfway to Lyon.
Would she be better off on her own?
The private investigator looking for her surely knew by now that Ford had been with her at the hospital in Lucerne. But even if the PI got hold of the police report from today, there’d be no mention of a woman on site at the farmhouse.
He’d still probably try to locate Ford, surveil him until he revealed her whereabouts, just like Deschamps’ men had done for Henri. And it had fucking worked, dammit. But this time, Ford and Natalie would both be off the grid. If the man couldn’t track Ford, he couldn’t find her.
Despite failing her in the past, and failing Henri this week, Ford still believed she needed him. If nothing else, he had resources in Europe that she didn’t.
Besides, he couldn’t just leave her waiting until she gave up and called Lehmann. He trusted the shadowy operative with their lives, but Lehmann had enough on her plate protecting Henri until he could be moved to a private clinic in southern Germany. Ford wanted her focus there.
Meanwhile, Natalie was counting on him, and he didn’t plan to let her down again.
Waiting was not Natalie’s forte. Really, she sucked at any kind of downtime, which was why the last three weeks had been especially difficult.
But today sucked extra hard because there was little to distract her from her concern for Henri and Ford.
Not to mention the person who wanted her—and possibly her teammates—dead. Or, the fact that she had to pee.
Another reason to hate Mondays.
Sighing, she resisted the urge to close her eyes and let sleep provide a reprieve from her looping thoughts. Letting down her guard was a bad idea. She’d have to wait until Ford joined her and they found somewhere new to hide out.
He’d been right about the shopping center.
There were enough cars in the lot, including several other Renaults, that hers didn’t look out of place.
If you didn’t count her sitting in the car on a ninety-plus-degree day for three hours.
Still, during the entire time she’d been parked in a shady spot on the edge of the lot, no one had given her a second look.
Just to be safe, though, she wore her NY ball cap and sunglasses.
With the windows partially open for airflow—and to prevent someone from sneaking up on her—the car was maybe a degree or two cooler than the outside air. Yeah, it was a dry heat, but that didn’t stop sweat from trickling down her sides or making her scalp itch.
Immediately upon parking, she’d fished the laptop and hotspot from the shopping bag in the trunk, scooted the driver’s seat all the way back, and gone online to check the gardening forum.
Her innocuous message about cilantro had replies from a few well-meaning gardeners and two spambots, but none from her team.
Even if Emma or Dallas saw the message, would they think it was an error? Or maybe a trap?
If she could just call one of them…
But until she better understood the threat, and knew whether or not the team’s communications were compromised, this was the safest option.
While waiting, she scoured the Internet for anything she could find on the men the Night Herons had exposed since their inception three years ago.
There were about a dozen, and any of them could be out for revenge, just like Earl Price had been.
For all she knew, he’d been working with others. Earl would’ve had to do some serious digging to link her and Emma to his downfall, but someone with enough resources, a very skilled hacker, or enough time and patience could probably piece it together.
The Night Herons covered their tracks well, but she knew from experience that there was always a trail if you knew where to look. It was how her team nailed assholes like Earl in the first place.
For the most part, the men on her list had maintained a low profile, and she only found old or rehashed news. When Nat ran out of material to read on them, she looked up Patrick Deschamps.
Talk about a nightmare who needed to be stopped. The crime lord had been arrested numerous times, but the police could never make it stick. Witnesses disappeared or recanted, evidence went missing or was mishandled. A classic case of a criminal with too much money and power.
He wasn’t in the US, and his harm wasn’t explicitly focused on women, but he ruined lives. He’d killed Henri’s wife, and today his men had tried to take out Henri. Her gut roiled at the memory of him bleeding out on the thin rug, his eyes closed, maybe forever…
Nope. Don’t go there.
He’d be fine. She had to believe that.
Shaking off the dark thoughts like a coat of dust, she returned to the article she’d found about Deschamps’ charitable contributions.
Like so many of these bastards, he cloaked himself in respectability through conspicuous philanthropy.
If she could find a way to take him down, she’d do it. No question.
Meanwhile, someone else wanted her dead, and everyone she cared about already believed she was. What a fucking mess.
She allowed herself a small sigh, and stretched her neck.
A little message popped up on the computer warning that the battery only had five percent left, so she shut down the laptop and turned off the hotspot. Sitting back, she rubbed her gritty eyes. Where the hell was Ford? The worries flooded back in as she scanned the busy shopping center.
Also, now she really had to pee. And her butt had started to go numb from sitting still for so long.
But she was fine. Alive and healing. Free from the police. As yet undiscovered by her prospective killer.
Ford had stopped the gunman and gotten help for Henri, and soon he’d be here and they’d figure out what came next. She definitely wasn’t bored or hungry or worried. Everything. Was. Fine.
For another twenty minutes, she watched people stroll through the parking lot, all of them blissfully unaware how lucky they were to have the normal, petty concerns of the average person.
To distract herself, she tried to guess their moods or their story, while staying alert for anyone acting suspicious.
Well, besides her. She was suspicious AF if anyone cared to notice.
Finally, just after five, a black Citroen parked next to her with Ford behind the wheel, all the windows down. She unlocked the Renault, and he slipped into the passenger seat wearing a grim look.
“How’s Henri?” Natalie asked.
“In surgery.”
She exhaled harshly, blinking against the stinging in her eyes. “Oh, thank God.” There was no guarantee what the night held, but for now, the man lived. “How can we keep Deschamps from getting to him?”
Ford’s jaw tightened. “Guards are already on scene.”
“I thought your team was fully booked.” Wasn’t that why he’d come to her himself?
“They are, but I know people in the industry. I hired someone I’ve worked with before, who I trust implicitly. They’ll cover Henri, and get him into hiding again ASAP.”
“Okay, good. Thank you.” Natalie kept her eyes trained on the parking lot, scanning for threats. “I wasn’t questioning your capabilities, just going out of my mind waiting for news over here.”
Ford sighed and scrubbed a hand down his face. “I know.”
If she could’ve reached him with her good arm, she would’ve tried to give him some comfort. It had been a stressful day already and— Oh, no. Wait. “Did you find Blitz?”
He nodded, face taut with anger. “They tranq’d her, but the vet said she should be fine.” Jerking his thumb toward the Citroen, he said, “She’s in the back.”
Thank God. “I’m glad she’s okay.”
“I never should’ve brought her with me.”
Who had taught him to carry so much blame and guilt? She could almost see the weight hanging on his shoulders like a yoke. If only she knew how to free him.
“Blitz will be fine. Henri too.” She hoped like hell that wasn’t a lie.
Ford scowled and turned away, looking toward the car where Blitz lay. “The tracker was on her. Despite my best efforts, I missed it, and it could’ve cost us all our lives.”
Screw it. Natalie leaned all the way over to reach across the center console with her free hand and give his forearm a squeeze. “You couldn’t have known—”
“No.” He yanked away his arm and glared down at her.
She sat up straight, curling her hand against her chest. “Okay, sorry.” Note to self. Don’t touch.
He blew out a heavy breath and rubbed his forehead. “Nat—”
“Don’t worry about me.” She shook off the faint sting of rejection that she had no right to. Everyone grieved differently, and he didn’t owe her anything. “I have a hide like a fucking rhinoceros. You do your intense, broody, self-flagellation thing, and I promise to leave you alone.”