by Gail Barrett
“Unless your brother tipped the authorities off.”
A chill scuttled through her heart. If he was right, then Tristan really was trying to kill them—but why? What was he trying to hide? The counterfeit drug ring or something worse?
Knowing that surveillance footage might hold the answer, she met Dante’s eyes. “Let’s see what’s on that disk.”
Dante pulled over another desk chair and sat. He stuck the flash drive he’d taken from the safe-deposit box into the computer’s USB port and waited for it to load. A minute later, he clicked on the file.
“It’s a video,” he said. He selected the program to play it and turned it on.
Her pulse quickened as she stared at the screen. Suddenly a corridor came into view, its polished stone floors gleaming under the lights. In the bottom right corner of the screen was a date stamp, recording the time.
Two weeks ago, 11:16 p.m.
Suddenly two men entered the corridor. Her heart thudding, Paloma leaned forward to see. “It’s Tristan,” she whispered, indicating the tall, light-haired man in the tuxedo. A darker-skinned man in a business suit walked by his side.
“That must be the Third Crescent terrorist he told you about,” Dante said.
“So that part was true.” Surprising, given all Tristan’s other lies. “Except they definitely aren’t partying now.”
The two men came to a stop. They glanced furtively around, as if checking to make sure they were alone. The terrorist pulled something out of his suit-coat pocket and handed it to the prince. Appearing even more nervous, Tristan shot another glance behind him before taking the item and slipping it into his coat.
Paloma frowned. “Wait a minute. What was that? Could you tell?”
“No.” Dante stopped the video, moved the cursor back and played it again. But she still couldn’t see what it was. Money? Casino chips? She shook her head. Tristan had obviously tried to keep it concealed.
Then a young woman wearing a waitress uniform appeared on the screen and walked toward the two men. Dante stiffened beside her, and she spared him a glance.
“My sister, Lucía,” he gritted out, staring at the monitor.
A bad feeling mushrooming inside her, Paloma returned her gaze to the screen. Were these the last few minutes of his sister’s life?
Lucía walked past the men and smiled. Paloma’s stomach flip-flopped. The girl’s resemblance to Dante was easy to see. A moment later the men followed her down the corridor and disappeared from view. Several seconds passed. The corridor remained empty.
“Is that it?” Paloma asked, confused. “Because I don’t see…”
Suddenly Lucía reappeared on the screen, her back to the camera now. But only Tristan followed her this time.
Without warning, Lucía stopped and turned, as if the prince had spoken to her, tilting her head in curiosity as he caught up. Then all of a sudden her expression changed, her quizzical smile fading, her dark eyes widening with fear. She stepped back and whirled around, but Tristan lunged toward her and grabbed her arm, quickly overpowering the scrawny girl. Paloma covered her mouth, her horror growing as Tristan dragged the waitress twisting and kicking across the hall. Shoving open the door to a side room, he muscled her inside, and they both disappeared.
Paloma gaped at the monitor in shock, a horrible feeling of dread constricting her throat. An entire minute went by. Finally Tristan came back out.
Alone.
He strolled away.
The surveillance footage abruptly stopped.
Paloma shifted her gaze to Dante, unwilling to believe what she’d seen. He still stared at the screen, his strong jaw bunched, his breath ragged and harsh, his big hands balled into fists.
And then she knew. “You think he killed her.”
His eyes met hers, the fury in them halting her heart. And another revelation slammed through her, making her gasp.
“You’ve known it all along.”
Chapter 11
Her mind still whirling, the implications of her discovery shaking the foundations of everything she’d believed, Paloma stared at Dante, aghast. Her brother had likely killed his sister. That news was staggering enough. But Dante had suspected it all along.
Of course he had. It suddenly made perfect sense. No wonder he’d wanted to help her find that blackmail evidence. No wonder he’d insisted they stick together to figure this out. He wasn’t doing it out of generosity, or even self-preservation. He’d wanted revenge.
“Paloma…”
“No, don’t.” She held up her hand to stop him, feeling utterly betrayed. He’d used her. He’d lied to her—or at least withheld the truth.
Desperately needing space, she rose and paced across the office to the watercooler, ignoring the dizziness racking her skull. Why hadn’t she seen it? Why hadn’t she suspected his motives more? How could she have been so blind?
Her head throbbing, she poured herself a cup of water, then sipped it and tried to think. Several days ago, her brother had told her about that blackmail evidence and had asked for her help. She still didn’t know why he’d involved her, given the horrific nature of his crimes. But that was the least of her questions right now.
Determined to rescue her brother, she’d contacted Rafael Navarro, a former thief and her old school friend’s fiancé. He’d suggested Dante Quevedo, who’d been in jail at the time.
She whirled around. “Why had you been arrested?”
His face devoid of expression, he met her eyes. “I’d been asking too many questions about my sister’s death. The guards rounded me up and tossed me in jail.”
Where he’d stayed until she’d conveniently gotten him out.
“And the blackmail evidence? Did you know about that from the start?” she asked.
“No, I had no idea about that.”
“Did Rafe know?”
He shook his head.
“So it was a coincidence. Quite a bonus for you.” And how ironic. She had needed a thief to get her into that penthouse—and had chosen a man who was gunning for her brother. And then she’d played right into his hands.
“How did you know Tristan had killed her?” she asked.
“She phoned me that night.”
Shock penetrated her anger, and she blinked. “Your sister called you? When?”
“I’m guessing just after that surveillance footage ended.”
Her emotions in total turmoil, she sank into the nearest chair. Dante had deceived her. He’d lied to her all along. She didn’t want to sympathize with him. But the agony he must have experienced while watching the final moments of his sister’s life gutted her heart. “What happened?”
He didn’t answer.
“You might as well tell me,” she said. She pushed her hair off her face with a sigh. “There’s no point in hiding it now.”
His mouth tightened, but he gave her a nod. “She’d just finished her waitressing shift. She always phoned me when she was on her way home, so I was expecting her call. But I could hardly understand her. She kept babbling that she’d seen the prince, that he was trying to kill her, and something about shooting or shots. I couldn’t get her to calm down. She was hysterical. She kept pleading for me to help.”
Pain roughened his husky voice. Paloma saw the guilt in his tortured eyes and could imagine how helpless he’d felt. “What did you do?”
“I drove to the casino like a bat out of hell. I didn’t know who to call, because if the prince was involved…”
“No one would have helped you.” He was right.
“By the time I got there she was dead.”
“You found her in that room?”
“No. I found her in the parking lot, behind the Dumpsters.” His eyes turned bleak. �
��She’d been left there like a pile of trash.”
Stricken, she closed her eyes. No wonder Dante despised her. No wonder he’d looked at her with such hatred at the start. She came from a family of murderers. First her father, now her brother.
What a fool she’d been! She’d trusted her family. She’d given them her loyalty and defended them, thinking it was her duty to protect the crown. She’d rationalized away her suspicions, ignoring their bad behavior, preferring to live with a patriotic fantasy rather than face the ugly truth.
And she’d repeated her mistakes with Dante. She’d suspected he was El Fantasma, a man who’d dedicated his life to destroying the crown. But she’d told him her secrets. She’d given him the power to bring down the monarchy. She’d even made love to him. No, it was worse than that. She’d fallen in love with him.
That thought stopped her cold.
Love? Could she possibly be in love with Dante? That was insane. Less than forty-eight hours ago she hadn’t even known this man.
But a lot had happened in the past two days. They’d stumbled across two dead bodies. They’d broken in to the casino, this attorney’s office and the pharmaceutical warehouse. They’d leaped off a roof, stolen multiple cars and been shot at by the police. And they’d made love....
She pushed that dangerous thought away.
Time had sped up since she’d met him, the intensity of their experience compressing months of mutual discovery into hours. And while she might not be head over heals in love with him yet, she was clearly halfway there.
But he had lied.
And while she’d buried her head in the sand, deluding herself about reality, he’d played her perfectly in his quest to get revenge.
Her head continued to pound. A huge ache formed in her chest. A cough wrenched her throat, a dry, hacking cough that threatened to tear out her guts.
Swearing, Dante strode to the watercooler, then thrust another cup of water her way.
“Here.”
Feeling totally drained now, she took a sip. She was so damn tired. So numb.
“Look,” Dante said. Standing before her, he braced his hands on his hips. “I admit that I deceived you. I suspected your brother was involved. And yes, when you told me about the blackmail evidence, I seized the chance to find out more.
“But I didn’t know you at first. I didn’t know what you would do about your brother. I thought you were like they said in the tabloids, and that you’d turn me in if you knew.”
He shoved his hand through his hair. “And I needed evidence. No one would believe me without proof. All I had was a call from my sister—an incoherent phone call from a delirious drug addict. Who the hell was going to believe that? Then you came along and told me about the blackmail. What did you expect me to do? What would you have done?”
“The same thing.” That was the worst part. She didn’t blame him. In his place, she would have done exactly the same.
Weary, she slumped back in her chair, too overloaded to think. But even if she’d deluded herself about Dante, even if he’d misled her and trampled her heart, nothing else had changed. She still had to stop her brother. She still had to figure out what was happening with that disease.
“All right,” she said, pressing her fingers to her aching temples. “Let’s forget that for a minute and try to figure this out. We still don’t know exactly what happened in that room. And we don’t know the terrorist’s connection to this.”
“He gave your brother something.”
“Right. Something Tristan wanted to hide.” Something possibly worthy of blackmail? Her gut stilled. “You think Tristan drugged your sister? You said she had a needle mark in her arm.”
“The coroner’s report didn’t mention drugs, only the flu.”
Right again. Feeling lost, she shook her head. “And we don’t know why he killed her, if he really did.”
“Maybe he thought she’d witnessed that exchange.”
Her mind flashed back to the surveillance footage. “She wasn’t in the hallway then.”
“But she saw them together after that.”
“Sure. And she obviously recognized Tristan. She told you that much in her call. But how would she have known who that terrorist was?”
“She probably didn’t. But they might not have wanted to take a chance.”
Paloma released a sigh. Poor Lucía. She had been in the wrong place at the wrong time—and had lost her life.
But this explained why Tristan wanted that blackmail evidence—to cover his tracks. It even explained why he’d tried to kill her; he’d feared she might turn him in. But why involve her to begin with? Why hadn’t he hunted for the surveillance footage himself?
“Listen, Paloma, about last night…”
Her belly lurched. “I don’t want to talk about that.”
“We have to.”
“Not now.” Not on top of everything else. She would come to grips with his rejection—and her own foolish emotions—later, when the rest of this madness was done.
But he didn’t budge. “I know I lied. And I admit that I used you to get revenge. But last night… I want you to know I didn’t plan that. That had nothing to do with this.”
She closed her eyes, unable to bear his apology or regrets. “Just forget it, okay? Can we talk about this later?”
His cell phone rang. “Damn it, Paloma—”
“Dante, please. Just answer the phone.”
The phone continued to ring. Frustration brewed in his eyes. Then he jerked it out of his pocket and scowled at the display. “It’s Dr. Sanz.” He handed her the phone.
Grateful for the interruption, she clicked it on. “Hello?”
“Paloma? It’s Dr. Sanz.” He sounded breathless. “I’m glad I got hold of you. I got the results from the autopsy on the coroner, Isaac Morel.”
Her breath caught. “That was fast. Hold on a minute.” She switched the phone to speaker so Dante could listen in, then propped it on the desk. No matter what had happened between them, he deserved to hear this news.
“Go ahead,” she told the doctor.
“The lab in Hamburg rushed this through,” he said. “They’ll have to do more tests, but they tentatively identified the disease. It’s caused by a chimera organism, a combination virus, part influenza A. That’s how it’s spreading, like the flu, through close personal contact—coughing, sneezing, touching.”
Paloma glanced at Dante. “So Lucía’s autopsy report was right?”
“Partly. But this particular strain is more virulent than most. And it has special properties.”
She frowned. “What kind of properties?”
“It causes a cytokine storm.”
Dante looked as perplexed as she felt. “What’s that?” he asked.
“An overreaction of the body’s immune system. It causes a person’s immune system to work against him. It’s exactly the opposite of most diseases. Usually the weaker people die because their immune systems can’t fight the disease. But in this case, the stronger the person’s immune system is—the healthier he is—the more deadly the virus becomes. So it doesn’t just affect the elderly, like the usual flu. It hits people in their prime, the bulk of the population.”
People like her.
“It’s just like the Spanish flu of 1918,” he added.
Which had killed between fifty and a hundred million people worldwide.
Her belly turned to ice. “Is there a cure?”
“No. It’s what we call a super-organism, resistant to any known treatment.”
Dante swore.
She closed her eyes, appalled. If there wasn’t a cure… But then she mentally replayed his words. “Wait a minute. You said it was a combination virus. Part influenza and p
art what?”
The doctor paused. And suddenly, a horrible premonition consumed her, everything inside her rebelling at the news she suspected she would hear.
“Ebola,” he finally said.
Her heart stopped. Her mind went blank with fear.
“It’s the Mayinga strain of the Ebola virus,” he continued, sounding grim. “That’s the hottest, most deadly strain there is.”
Her mind spinning, barely able to grasp the implications, she stared at the phone. “But how can that be? Where did it come from?”
“That’s what we need to find out.”
For several tense heartbeats, no one spoke. Paloma struggled to make sense of the news, but the horror of it had hit her hard. “So we have an outbreak of this Ebola-chimera disease?” she finally whispered.
“It appears so. We’ve had several more people show up at the hospital today. People are getting scared. They should be. There isn’t any good way to stop this thing.”
“We have to do something,” she said.
“We’re stepping up the flu vaccines, getting them out to the clinics and schools. I don’t know if it will help, but it won’t hurt. Maybe if we can keep the influenza part of this suppressed, we can stop the Ebola part, too. But we need to put a quarantine in place. We have to get the sick people isolated right away so this doesn’t spread.”
He was right. She didn’t even want to think of the ramifications of a major outbreak. It was too horrendous to imagine.
“Is there a treatment for Ebola?” Dante asked.
“No, not really. There’s an antiviral drug, an experimental vaccine that’s been successful in a few cases, but it works only if it’s given immediately after the onset of the disease. I’m having some flown in from Germany and the United States and anywhere else it’s been developed. But it’s only good for forty-eight hours after contagion.”
Which meant they needed to get people in for treatment the second the symptoms hit—without causing mass hysteria.
“How much can we get?” she asked.
“Not much,” he admitted. “Not nearly enough. We’ll need to triage, do a ring vaccination of the family members of people who have been exposed, and health workers, of course.