Deadly Intent (I-Team Book 8)

by Pamela Clare

  “Do he and Powell get along?”

  “They did, most of the time until … Wait. You think Powell is behind this?”

  That bastard.

  Joaquin already hated him.

  “He’s a person of interest in the case. He has a strong motive against you. Why don’t you start at the beginning and tell me what happened tonight?”

  Joaquin listened while Mia told Wu the whole story, clearly doing her best to remember details.

  “I didn’t see his face. The glass had so many cracks in it, and the light was in my eyes. But there was something familiar. I shot back, got off a few shots. I was so pumped up on adrenaline. I doubt I hit him. After the elevator doors closed, I dialed 9-1-1. I was afraid he’d see where the elevator stopped and then follow me up to Joaquin’s floor. I went into your apartment, Joaquin, and locked the door, and then shut all the bedroom doors so he wouldn’t be sure which room I was in. I locked myself in the bathroom and laid down in the tub. I thought it offered the best cover.”

  Joaquin was impressed. “That was smart.”

  Wu went on. “You said you were distracted walking to the elevator. Were you on your phone or something?”

  Mia’s cheeks turned pink, and she glanced furtively up at Joaquin. “I was … um… trying to memorize some phrases in Spanish.”

  Spanish phrases that made her blush?

  They would have to talk about this later.

  Wu kept up with the questions until the doctor stepped in with the nurse to stitch Mia’s wound. “We can finish this later. There are pieces in motion the two of you need to hear about, and there are important decisions to make.”

  What the hell did Wu mean by that?

  Mia pulled the borrowed scrubs up over her hips, gritting her teeth to keep from moaning. Her bra and panties, both wet with blood, had been bagged for her, and a pair of green surgical scrubs offered to her by a caring RN.

  “Just don’t tell anyone,” the nurse had whispered.

  The scrubs top snapped down the front, which made it easier to put on.

  The nurse returned, small pill in a tiny white paper cup. “It’s Vicodin. The doctor has an RX for you—just a handful of pills to get you through the next couple of days.”

  Mia hesitated. “Will it knock me out? I’ve never taken a narcotic before.”

  “It might, but you weren’t planning on driving tonight anyway, were you?”

  No, she wasn’t, but then she had no idea what was going to happen next. Joaquin had gone to meet with his police friends and Wu to talk about their situation, while she dressed and got her discharge instructions.

  The nurse poured the pill into her hand and gave her a plastic pitcher of water. “What it will do is dull that pain and give you a chance to rest and heal. Give it thirty or forty minutes to kick in.”

  “Thanks.” Mia swallowed the pill, then searched for her socks and shoes, moving stiffly, every step tugging at the deep laceration near her hip.

  In the end, the nurse had to put her shoes on her feet and tie them.

  “I feel like a baby.”

  The nurse smiled. “I think you’re a hero. Besides, everyone needs to be babied once in a while.”

  A knock came at the door, and Joaquin stuck his head inside. “Can we come in?”

  “She’s ready to go,” the nurse said. “She’s had a Vicodin, so she can’t drive.”

  Joaquin entered with Marc and Julian, both still in body armor.

  “Hey, Mia,” Julian said. “Way to be a badass tonight. How do you feel?”

  “Lucky.” It was then she noticed the serious looks on the men’s faces. Damn. Not good. “What’s our sitrep?”

  Marc went first. “This whole thing has blown up. Because of Frank’s murder, the CBI and FBI have stepped in. Tonight or tomorrow at the latest, the FBI is going to want to talk to you. They’re going to want to hear what you told us.”

  Joaquin spoke next. “The media is all over this, including my paper. Cate is sitting out there with one of our other photographers and a half-dozen other reporters, waiting for us. I left my pager in my truck with my camera, but I’ve got about thirty text messages from Cate and Tom, asking me where the hell I am.”

  “I’m sorry, Joaquin. Your life was sane before you got mixed up with me.”

  Julian frowned, shook his head. “Sane? No. I wouldn’t go that far.”

  Joaquin ignored him. “Don’t worry about me, Mia. I just want to keep you safe.”

  “We need to figure out where to take you next,” Julian said. “You don’t meet the criteria for WitSec. We have a few police safehouses around Denver. That’s a possibility.”

  “There’s also the Cimarron,” Marc said.

  “What’s that?” Mia had never heard of it.

  “My brother-in-law and his father have a little mountain cabin,” Marc said.

  Joaquin and Julian both found this funny for some reason.

  Marc was grinning, too, apparently in on some joke. “If you’d like, I can call and see if they’d take you in. Jack West is a former Army Ranger, and his son served on a Marine Special Operations Team alongside Navy SEALs until he was badly burned in an IED explosion.”

  “How awful.” Mia couldn’t imagine anything more terrible.

  “He recovered and married my sister, Megan. Their place is a hell of a lot nicer than a safehouse, and I guarantee you, no one will find you there.”

  “Thanks.”

  “There’s something else to consider,” Julian said. “Ramirez, this guy clearly knows who you are. He knows where you live. He might even come looking for you or think that Mia is still at your place. We have no idea what he’ll do next. Either you need to lay low for a while, maybe head up to the Cimarron, too, or you need to stay somewhere else—and far away from Mia. You can’t go back and forth between wherever she is and your job. You could lead him to her.”

  “You’re right. Mierda.”

  Mia’s stomach sank, the big picture coming into focus. “I can’t go to work, can I? Not now. Not after tonight.”

  Julian shook his head. “I’m sorry, Mia. I know it must feel as if your world has been turned upside down, but I promise you, we will find him. Will you need help with your employer? DPD will be happy to give them whatever they need.”

  “I’m sure it will be fine. I’ve got some vacation days coming.” She hadn’t planned on using them like this.

  “Let me call the Cimarron first and see what they have to say before we start making plans.” Marc stepped out of the room.

  Weighted down by a sense of overwhelm, Mia found a chair and sat, wincing.

  Joaquin sat beside her. “I’ve got a lot of extra vacation hours. Why don’t I take some time off? I don’t want you to have to deal with all of this alone.”

  “You would do that?”

  He nodded. “Hell, yeah.”

  “Won’t that complicate things for you at the paper—being associated with me while this story is making headlines?”

  “After tonight, it’s too late to stop that. I’ll deal with that later.”

  Marc stepped back into the room, a grin on his face. “Jack’s answer was, ‘What the hell kind of question is that? Of course, they’re welcome here!’”

  “That’s Jack.” Joaquin chuckled. “You’re going to love it there.”

  Joaquin sat in the back of Hunter’s SUV, Mia all but asleep in the seat beside him, her head resting against his shoulder, his arm around her. The pill they’d given her at the hospital had all but knocked her out. Then again, it was late.

  Hunter and Darcangelo had worked with hospital security to take them out a back way, sparing Mia a media onslaught and postponing the confrontation between Joaquin and Cate. With an escort of SWAT cops, they’d taken Joaquin and Mia first to his condo and then to hers, then stood back while the two of them packed for their stay at the Cimarron. By the time they’d left Denver, it was almost ten, and Mia was so loopy on Vicodin that she could barely function.

/>   That was fine by Joaquin. She deserved a break, some time to forget, a chance to escape fear and pain and memory. She’d been strong tonight, too strong—no tears, no panic, no shock. Still, he’d been able to tell that she was overwhelmed there at the end, the horror she’d lived through catching up with her.

  “I wish I’d hit the bastard.” Joaquin didn’t realize he’d spoken aloud until he heard his voice. “If only I’d known who he was before I slammed on the brakes, I could have ended it all right there.”

  Darcangelo looked back over his shoulder. “Stop. You reacted on instinct and did what any one of us would have done.”

  “You did the right thing by letting him go,” Hunter said. “I meant to say something earlier. If you had chased him and shot him, you’d be in a legal mess. If he’d shot you, you might be dead. Either way, that’s not what you want.”

  “I was afraid he’d gotten to Mia. I had to let him go to help her.” He hadn’t even had to think about that one.

  “You made the right decision under a lot of pressure. Feel good about that.” Hunter flipped on his turn signal. “Here’s the turn-off.”

  Out of the darkness loomed the ranch’s front gate—an archway constructed of big logs with a wooden sign bearing the words “Cimarron Ranch” on a crossbeam. Nate West sat there in his pickup, ready to close the heavy steel gate behind them.

  Hunter flashed his brights. West did the same. Then Hunter turned off the highway and headed down the dirt road that led to the great house.

  Joaquin glanced back at the highway, wanting to make sure they weren’t being followed. Apart from West’s truck, there was only one set of headlights behind them.

  “Relax, Ramirez,” Darcangelo said. “That’s Wu.”

  Mia stirred, moaned, then lifted her head.

  “We’re almost there. The ranch house is just over this rise.”

  She sat up, glanced around, confusion on her pretty face. “The house? You mean the cabin?”

  “That’s what he means,” Hunter said.

  They reached the top of the rise, and there it was—the Cimarron’s great house coming into view.

  “There it is,” Joaquin said.

  “That’s not a cabin,” Mia said in a sleepy voice. “That’s a hotel.”

  Joaquin chuckled along with Hunter and Darcangelo. The house was huge. It had its own two-story library, a gym, a home theater, a five-car heated garage, and a back deck that looked out on some of the most beautiful scenery in Colorado.

  “My sister married into one of the wealthiest families in the state,” Hunter explained. “All of this land you see outside your window is part of the ranch. Jack and Nate run Angus cattle and breed quarter horses.”

  “Huh.” Mia still looked confused.

  Yeah, the poor chula was gone.

  From behind them, West flashed his brights.

  Hunter pulled over, let West pass him, then followed. “They’re putting the two of you up in their guest cabin. Jack thought Mia might want some privacy after all of this, rather than having to hang out with people she doesn’t know.”

  Joaquin hadn’t known they had a guest cabin, but then the ranch was huge.

  They passed the great house, drove behind it heading south for a while, then turned up a snowy road. They came around the bend, and Joaquin saw it—a log cabin large enough to hold his condo, Mia’s condo, and possibly this SUV. The porch light was on, the windows glowing with welcoming light.

  Jack stepped away from a pile of firewood, ax in hand, and waved.

  “There’s the cabin,” Mia said, still not understanding.

  Hunter parked, and he and Darcangelo got out and went to say hello to Jack, who welcomed them with bear hugs and a big smile.

  Joaquin helped Mia out of her seatbelt. “You wait here. Don’t get out on your own. I’ll come around and help you.”

  “Okay.”

  Joaquin climbed out, went around the back of the vehicle, and opened Mia’s door. She slipped almost boneless into his arms. “I’ve got you.”

  Arm around her shoulders, he guided her over to their host. “Hey, Jack.”

  “Ramirez, good to see you again.”

  “This is my friend Mia Starr. She served a couple of tours of duty in Iraq and was my cousin Elena’s captain during Elena’s first year in the Army. She’s pretty out of it on Vicodin right now.”

  Jack took Mia’s hand. “Welcome, Mia. It’s an honor to have you as our guest.”

  Mia. Mia. Mia, you bitch.

  He sat in the old bus he now called home, pressing gauze from an old first aid kit against the graze on his inner thigh. She had almost shot his balls off.

  Fucking cunt!

  How had she known he was there? One moment he’d been about to blow a fist-sized hole in her head with a 9 mm hollow-point round, and the next…

  He squeezed his eyes shut, the pain behind them worse than the bullet wound.

  Needles. Needles. Needles in my skull.

  He ought to have killed her first. She was smarter than the others, smarter even than that old fart-sack Frank. It wasn’t going to be easy to get close to her again. The bitch was involved with a guy. The bastard must be gay.

  He could have gotten you.

  Yeah, but a guy like him wouldn’t be armed. Rather than chasing him like a real man, the twat had sped away. Chicken shit.

  He was supposed to have finished this tonight. He’d planned to celebrate by putting a bullet through his own brain and ending this endless pain. But somehow, he’d fired six shots at five yards and hadn’t managed to kill her. Maybe he was too out of it on Oxy, or maybe she had eyes in the back of her head.

  Now he had to find her again and get past all her police friends—he could only imagine the lies she’d told them—so that he could kill her. That meant living, enduring this pain longer. How the fuck could he do that?

  Maybe he should kill himself and forget about Mia Starr.

  He thought about that for a moment, imagined how sweet oblivion would be. But then Mia would get away with all of it. She would get away with betraying them. He couldn’t let that happen.

  Mia Starr had to die.

  14

  Mia’s first thought when she awoke was that she was terribly late for work. Then she opened her eyes to find herself staring at a cathedral ceiling of polished wooden planks with support beams of pine.

  The cabin.

  Kevin had given her a paid leave of absence—up to eight weeks—and Julian and Marc had brought her and Joaquin here last night. She’d met Jack, the former Army Ranger who owned this place and was letting them stay here. After that…

  That Vicodin had kicked her butt.

  She sat up, breath hissing between her teeth. It wasn’t just the graze near her hip that hurt, but her entire body. She felt sore, like she’d worked out too hard—the after-effects of a major adrenaline surge, she supposed.

  She glanced around, saw that she’d been sleeping in a massive king-sized bed with a rustic wooden headboard. A small electric clock on the nightstand told her it was seven-thirty. She took in the oriental carpets, the gleaming wooden floors, the closed blinds with sunlight streaking through. Her duffel bag sat next to a small desk, and there were photographs of horses on the walls.

  Hadn’t she heard that Jack West and his son bred horses?

  She got to her feet only to realize she was still wearing the scrubs the nurse had given her. She wanted a shower, but that couldn’t happen—not yet. She wasn’t supposed to get her wounds wet for twenty-four hours. Still, she could wash most of herself. She’d gotten good at taking a bath out of her canteen in Iraq. She could manage this.

  She lifted her duffel bag onto the bed, took out the plastic tote that held her toiletries, walked into the en-suite bathroom—and stared. The floors were stone tile. The shower was separate from the tub and enclosed by glass walls. The jetted bathtub was big enough for two. There were two sinks with rustic brass faucets, the cupboards beneath made of wood that matc
hed the walls, ceiling, and floors.

  A cabin with electricity, central heating, and a five-piece luxury bathroom.

  When she’d heard “cabin,” she’d been expecting a dark, chilly space with an outhouse, hunting trophies, and a smoky fireplace. But, hey, she wasn’t complaining.

  She found towels and washcloths hanging on a heated towel rack, filled the sink with hot water and undressed. She dipped a washcloth in the water—then caught sight of her reflection and stared. A dark bruise had spread beneath the bandage on her ribcage, and her hip was bruised, too. She looked down the front of her body, saw another bruise on her thigh—where had that come from?—and another on her shin.

  She had never looked this beat-up in Iraq.

  Somewhere in the back of her mind, dark thoughts stirred. A man had tried to kill her yesterday, and he’d come close to succeeding. She shut those thoughts down. She’d fired back, and he’d run. She was fine.

  She washed her face and body, careful to keep her bandages dry. Then she rubbed moisturizer into her skin, put on deodorant, and walked back to the bed to dress. Certain she wouldn’t be able to handle jeans yet, she pulled out a pair of navy blue yoga pants and a purple fleece-lined pullover, her mind turning to that most important of things.

  Coffee.

  She opened the bedroom door—and found Joaquin still asleep on the sofa. She tiptoed over and stood there watching him, long lashes dark against his cheeks, bare shoulders peeking out from beneath the blanket. He’d slept here, giving her the bed, even though the sofa couldn’t have been comfortable for a six-foot-tall man.

  As if he felt her watching him, his eyes opened.

  “Mia.” He sat up, the blanket falling away to reveal his bare chest in all its heart-stopping glory. “How do you feel?”

  “Better. Sore.”

  “I bet.” He stretched, the sight almost more than Mia could take.

  She cleared her throat. “Did you sleep well?”