by Katie Reus
“Maria’s with me,” he said after a slight pause.
“Take her but don’t engage unless necessary. Call Stafford to help you pursue them. We need to see where they go. Has she remembered anything?”
“No, but she’s trying.” Wesley could hear the sound of an engine starting as O’Reilly spoke.
“Good. Ask her if she knows anything about a man who lives in the Gable Estates neighborhood.” It was a long shot, but Wesley was looking at any angle he could. He rattled off the address and told him about the tortured body, then said, “Keep me updated with your progress.”
His phone rang yet again as he strode toward the front of the house. One of the police techs was motioning him and his own captain over, his arms waving excitedly.
Wesley nodded at Jarvis Nieto, the local Miami PD captain he’d been working with the past few hours, as they headed for the front door, but he tapped his earpiece. It was an unknown number. “Burkhart here.”
“The two men behind the Westwood attack are Mihails Balodis and Oto Ozols. They’re in the city.” The sound of Levi Lazaro’s familiar voice jarred Wesley straight to his core to the point he almost stumbled.
His blood chilled at hearing from Lazaro after so long. At one time the man had been one of his best agents. He’d been solid, dependable, a fucking patriot. Then his wife had been murdered and he’d gone off the reservation in search of revenge. Now he was working for only God knew who. This wasn’t the time to dredge up any of that, though. Not if his information was accurate. “How good is your intel?”
“Impeccable. And they’re not done killing.” There was a soft warning note in his voice.
No shit. “Why are you telling me this?”
Lazaro paused so long Wesley glanced at his phone, but the connection was still open. “It’s the right thing to do. Killing so many civilians like that . . .” He trailed off, then continued again, his voice harder. “Don’t get any ideas. This isn’t because I owe you shit. Track those bastards down before more innocent people die.” Then he hung up, just like that.
Wesley started to contact one of his analysts to have them trace the number, but he knew it was pointless. Lazaro had learned from the best. Hell, he’d been the first man Wesley had recruited. After Lazaro’s wife had been murdered, though, something inside him had cracked. It was the only reason Wesley hadn’t tried very hard to hunt him down—or at all. The man deserved his revenge. And Wesley had been trying his damnedest to find out who’d orchestrated the killing of Lazaro’s wife too.
He shelved the knowledge of the two names he’d just been given—though he planned to follow up with Karen in less than five minutes. First he needed to see whatever this tech was so excited about. Tuning out all the background noise of the men and women in various uniforms canvassing the house, he strode up next to Nieto. The dark-haired man was about the same age as Wesley and also had former military experience. Navy too. Which automatically gave him points. So far, Wesley liked working with him. He just cared about finding the truth, not posturing for the media.
“You know what he found?” he asked.
Nieto shook his head, his expression grim. “No, but I’m guessing it’s not good.”
Nothing about this night was good. Their shoes were silent along the marble floor of the entryway, then along the many polished hardwood floors until the tech, wearing a blue windbreaker type of jacket, stopped in front of an open door.
Looking inside, they found another similarly dressed tech with gloves and shoe covers standing next to a queen-sized bed covered in Polaroid photos. There were hundreds of them. On the wall behind the bed the word “Guilty” was written in crisp black letters. Probably done with a marker.
As he got closer, Wesley’s gut twisted at the images. Each photo had a picture of a naked woman. Some were in cages, others were bruised, bleeding, and splayed out on cement floors, and still others had smiles on their faces—though the smiles didn’t reach their eyes. The pictures were disturbing, but unfortunately Wesley had seen worse. Just what the hell was going on here? What did Westwood have to do with Mullen’s murder? And who did these pictures belong to? And how was Mullen connected to them, if at all? Fuck . . . Wesley scrubbed a hand over his face as he pulled his cell phone out again. He needed to have Karen run the names Lazaro had given him and look for ties to their dead terrorist. Then he needed to make sense of this mess.
• • •
Hovering in the dark shadows of her neighbor’s house, Maria couldn’t stop the shivers racking her body. What the hell had happened to her life?
Cade had just dashed off, leaving her here, and every second that ticked by she was starting to freak out. If something had happened to him or he’d been discovered—her heart jumped into her throat as headlights momentarily blinded her. She scrambled back against the side of the wall, ready to sprint for the backyard.
Until she heard his reassuring voice. “Maria, get in.”
Jumping up, she hurried toward the idling SUV, which she now saw was Cade’s. “What happened?” she asked as she slid into the passenger seat and shut the door.
“Two men were in your house, not sure why. We need to send a bomb squad over later. Would anyone just drop by your house unexpectedly?”
Bomb squad? What the hell? “No.” No one had a key but her parents. “Do you really think they planted a bomb?”
He shook his head as he steered out onto her street and revved the engine. “No . . . hold on.” He tapped the earpiece that seemed attached to him, then started talking to someone in clipped, incomplete sentences. Then he pulled out a slim device from his center console and held it out to Maria.
“Hold this.”
She did as he said and watched as a map pulled up on the flat computer screen. She’d seen similar handheld devices, and her e-reader was a couple of inches smaller, but this thing was sleek and razor thin. It also didn’t have a brand name on it anywhere. It was simple and black. A few seconds later she realized the map layout was of Miami. She knew Cade had a GPS in his vehicle, so she wasn’t sure why he needed this map.
“Yeah, it’s working. I’ll call you if I have an issue. Yeah . . . yeah, okay. Thanks.” He tapped his earpiece again, then glanced at her as he sped down another street.
“I put a tracker on the truck of the men who were at your house. Everyone is racing around Miami looking for leads on the bombing and there’s not a team to follow these guys, so I’m it. I hate dragging you with me, but it’s the way it is.”
“Are you freaking kidding me?” She needed to be with her father and she wanted to know what had happened at her house.
“I’m sorry, Maria.” She was pretty certain there was more behind his apology than for what he was dragging her into right now. Or maybe that was just wishful thinking on her part.
“When will I get to see my father?”
“You won’t be able to stay with your dad tonight, but I’m having a security detail put on him. With Larson protecting him, he should be secure, though. I’ve seen his file,” he said almost grudgingly. “I’m sorry, but without knowing what’s going on, your father’s house will be the next best place for those men to look.” She started to argue, but he cut her off. “Do you want to bring danger to his doorstep?”
That made her shut her mouth but only made her feel even more lost. She couldn’t go to her own home or even her parents’ house. Those were her two safe havens. Staring at the flat-screen, she watched a red dot moving along a street and realized Cade was using this thing to track the truck. “I need to call my dad.”
Cade nodded, his expression grim. “Fine. Make sure he doesn’t come by your house, and tell him there’s a possibility you might not make it to the funeral tomorrow.”
“What?” she shouted. “You’d better lock me up if you think you’re keeping me from my mother’s funeral.” Maria could feel her temper rising with each
word, the anger slicing her grief down with an emotion she could easily deal with. There was way too much going on for her to handle and she just wouldn’t miss her mom’s funeral.
“Maria—” he started, his voice soft and soothing, which was ridiculously infuriating. As if he thought a calm voice would make her change her mind.
“Don’t.” She was going to the funeral no matter what. “What do you know about these men we’re following?”
His fingers tightened on the steering wheel, the muscles in his arms flexing with his frustration. “Nothing yet. I’m sorry to take you with me, but there’s no other choice. Believe me,” he said through gritted teeth.
She did.
“Do you know a man named Scott Mullen?”
“It’s familiar.” The name rang a bell. She frowned, trying to place it as that nagging alarm sounded in her head. “Why?”
“He was murdered and there might be a connection between his death and what happened last night.”
An icy fist clasped around her chest as numbness settled through her veins. “Does he live—or did he, I guess—in Gable Estates?”
Cade shot her a sharp look as he slowed to a stop in front of a red light. “Yes, why?”
“It’s fuzzy, but I remember his name and . . . another name. Clay Ervin. I feel afraid even saying their names and I don’t know why.” She wrapped her arms around herself and fought the shudder that racked her. What the hell had happened at that party that she was blocking out?
Cade immediately got on his phone and called someone. After a brief conversation in which he relayed what she’d told him, he got off his cell and gave her a look she couldn’t quite define. Ignoring it, she called her dad and tried to explain why she wasn’t going to be at his place as planned without breaking into tears. Her father didn’t understand, because she barely did herself. She could tell he was hurt, but she didn’t have any other choice.
The conversation was painful and when she finally hung up, she shot Cade an angry look. “So, where are we staying tonight?”
“A safe house or a hotel,” he said almost absently as he slowed down and pulled up to a curb a few houses away from the truck they’d been tracking.
The passenger-side door was open and from what she could tell, it didn’t appear as if anyone was in it.
Swallowing hard, she took in their surroundings. She’d been concentrating on her phone call and hadn’t realized that they’d entered an older, run-down neighborhood with chain-link fences surrounding the front yards of the one-story homes. Each house had bars on the windows. She could hear loud music thumping from one of the houses nearby and there were a few people huddled together, talking over one of the fences, three houses down from where they were parked.
Cade lifted his pant leg and pulled out a small revolver. “You know how to use this?”
Of course she knew how. She was a single woman who lived alone in Miami and worked at a center with kids who often had dangerous relatives pissed at her or her people for trying to give the kids a better life. And pissed often equaled violent. Nodding, she took it even though she didn’t want to. “Yeah.”
“Good. Stay here and keep the doors locked. If something happens to me, get out of here.” Cade didn’t give her a chance to argue before he slid from the SUV like a ghost.
She hadn’t even seen him withdraw his weapon, but she could see it clearly in his hand as he crept up on the back of the truck. Body tense, he moved along the back, then side and hurried to the open passenger door, weapon drawn. Just as quickly, he sheathed it in his shoulder holster and though she couldn’t hear, she saw his mouth move in what looked like an unmistakable curse.
Leaning in, he grabbed a stack of papers from the glove compartment, then headed toward the two men talking to each other by one of the fences. One of the guys saw him, turned, and sprinted away, but the other stayed and talked to him.
After a few minutes, Cade returned to the SUV, his expression grim.
“What happened?” she demanded.
“I got a call from one of our analysts that the vehicle was just reported stolen, and that guy I just spoke to confirmed that three white guys just left it here, then got into a Humvee and split.”
“So you have no clue who was in my house?”
He shook his head, frustration clear in every line. “We’re going to have the locals pick up the truck and dust it for prints and anything else, but . . . no.”
Maria leaned back against the seat, tension still radiating from her body. Tomorrow was her mom’s funeral, some unknown men had broken into her house, and she couldn’t even go home or be with her family. “So, what do we do now?”
“Wait for the cops to secure the vehicle, then head to a hotel,” he muttered as he started the engine. In less than two minutes, a couple of black-and-whites steered down the street, lights flashing. Cade didn’t wait to talk to them, just pulled away from the curb and they headed out. After a few moments of driving, he asked, “How well do you know that ICE agent?”
Surprised by the question, she shrugged. “We’re friends. A while ago he helped the parents of some of my kids get political asylum. Their families had left horrific situations only to be harassed almost as badly here. They couldn’t go to the police to press charges because they were illegal. It was a nightmare. One of the kids finally came to me and I went to Wayne. He bent over backward helping them out. . . . He’s a good man, so whatever you’re thinking, don’t.”
“I just find it interesting that not long after he left, someone broke into your house.”
Maria took a deep breath and tried to rein in her anger. It was just a coincidence. If a terrorist could sneak into her hospital room, then it wasn’t a stretch to imagine one breaking into her house. “Anyone could have found out my address. It’s not that hard.”
Cade just grunted and kept his eyes on the street, but she could see the wheels in his head turning. Whatever he was thinking, she just hoped he didn’t think her friend had been involved with any of this. That just wasn’t possible.
• • •
Date: October 11, 2006
To: Cade O’Reilly
From: Maria Cervantes
Subject: Cookies
You made my mom’s entire year. She and my aunt are making you enough of those cookies to feed a small platoon (is that the right word for the Marines?). Of course my aunt’s taking over the kitchen like she always does. Fine with me, though, because I’m eating everything they don’t send, lol. I’ll send them out this week along with a bunch of books. What kind do you want? Fiction, nonfiction, specific genre . . . ? I could send you some from my romance collection, but I don’t think those are your reading style *g*.
Classes are good, but no, not telling them anything yet. In the end I know they’ll deal with my choices, but I don’t want to have to listen to them try to change my mind for months and months on end. And when I say “them,” I mean my mom. I love her like crazy, but she drives me nuts sometimes.
Well, my eyes are about to fall out I’m so tired. I’ve got class at 7 tomorrow (remind me why I ever thought that was a good idea?), so I’m going to crash. Stay safe!
xo,
Maria
Chapter 8
Collateral damage: damage, injuries, or deaths that are incidental to an intended target(s). Unintended civilian casualties or destruction of civilian property.
Maria stepped inside the quiet two-story house in the middle-class neighborhood Cade had driven them to. He’d originally planned to take her to a hotel but had made a last-minute change and brought her to a safe house. Which was fine with her. She desperately needed sleep and preferred a house to a hotel by far. She wouldn’t be faced with random strangers or social niceties. The thought of interacting with people—no, thanks.
“A security team will be arriving in a few hours to guard the place, but only th
ree people know we’re even here and I trust them with my life,” Cade said as he locked the door behind them. He also set the alarm using a standard-looking keypad.
“Just show me to my room,” she said tiredly, hoping she didn’t sound ungrateful. Because she wasn’t. She was glad to be protected from whoever wanted her dead, but mental exhaustion was pressing in on her. Especially since she knew she had to wake up in a few hours for her mom’s funeral. That was going to be hard enough to deal with even if she had a full night of sleep.
“You want to eat first? This place is stocked with anything you want.” Concern etched his expression.
The thought of food wasn’t appealing. She shook her head. “No, but thank you. I’d just like to take a shower and crash.” She picked up the bag he’d set in the foyer, but he took it from her and motioned that she should follow him up a set of stairs.
The house was painted with warm earth tones and had nice furniture, but there were no pictures or anything personal on the walls or shelves. “Does the NSA use this house a lot?”
Cade shook his head as they reached the top of the stairs. “No. This is actually a transitional WITSEC house, but my boss pulled some strings to get us put here.”
“A transitional house?” She knew what WITSEC was but didn’t understand what he meant.
Three doors down, he held open a door for her and motioned inside. “Sometimes witnesses put into the Witness Protection Program stop over here or other similar locations for a few days before being moved to their permanent location.”
“Oh.” She let out a sigh of relief when she saw the queen-sized bed with a simple white comforter set with tiny pink flowers embroidered in the soft-looking material. The bed looked like heaven.
“Shower’s through there.” Cade pointed to the other door in the room. “I’m going to get something to eat downstairs, but I’ll be sleeping right next door.”
“Okay, thanks. The funeral’s at eleven, Cade. I’m not missing it.” They hadn’t talked about it again, but she was going no matter what he might think. She might not have the energy for much, but this was one fight he’d lose.