As late as it was, she ought to quit working and go to bed. But she’d tried that once already, and she hadn’t been able to sleep. Every time she’d closed her eyes, she’d seen images of murdered girls, their bodies violated, twisted, broken. She’d given up at midnight and decided that if she was awake she might as well work.
Not that she was getting anywhere.
A wealthy boarding school where teenage girls had been raped. A serial rapist/killer drug lord who wanted to kill her. The Whitcomb investigation and Cárdenas had two things in common—sexual assault and lots of money. But that was surely just coincidence. The Zetas hadn’t raped those schoolgirls, and she and Zach had yet to uncover any ties between Cárdenas’s money and Whitcomb.
She clicked on the school’s website again, randomly scrolling through pages, stopping to look through the photo album, a slideshow of smiling young women that reminded her of her days at McGehee. What happy days those had been, with Mama and Daddy still alive, her world intact, Beau still in her future . . .
Her thoughts trailed off as she looked at the photograph in front of her, an image of a girl accepting an award on stage, a bright smile on her face as she shook the hand of one of the school’s administrators. No, not an administrator. The caption identified him as Edward Wulfe, the president of the school’s Board of Trustees.
Though Natalie had never met the man, she knew she’d seen him someplace before. He was tall, with a head of salt-and-pepper hair, his features nondescript, his smile bland—not the sort of face that stood out. And still she remembered him from somewhere.
You probably saw him right here in this photo the last time you searched the school’s website.
Her tired brain tied in knots, she closed her laptop, stood, and carried her empty teacup to the kitchen sink. Still unable to face the darkness of her bedroom, she walked back into the living room. Beyond the wall of glass stretched the twinkling lights of Denver, the sight somehow comforting, friendly, warm. She dimmed the lights in the loft, then walked to the French doors and stepped out into the cool air.
She didn’t feel so alone out here amid the sounds of traffic and the glittering lights. She walked to the edge, looked out at the city beyond, two million people living their lives, most of them asleep. Denver didn’t roll up the sidewalks at sunset, but its nightlife couldn’t compare to that of New Orleans, where the parties went on—
“Natalie?”
She gasped, and whirled about to find Zach standing in the doorway.
“Jesus!” He shook his head. “You scared the crap out of me. I walked in, saw the lights off and doors open. Are you okay?”
“I’m fine.” She squelched the surge of joy she felt to see him standing there. He wasn’t home to be with her, after all. He was simply back on duty. “How did it go? Is it really him?”
He stepped out into the darkness, closing the distance between them with slow strides. “It’s him all right. Rowan’s men found weapons in his hotel room but no traces of explosives. He isn’t talking. I left him in lockdown under the guard of two DUSMs. I’ll have to try again tomorrow.”
“How’s Joaquin?”
“He took a couple of body blows and a fist to the jaw, but he’ll be fine—until the four of us get time to kick his ass. He’s lucky DPD got to him as quickly as they did.” Zach stopped just a few feet away from her, close enough to reach out and touch her, if he wanted to. But he didn’t. “What are you still doing up?”
“I . . . I couldn’t sleep. That dossier on Cárdenas . . .” She saw on his face that she didn’t need to explain.
For a moment he looked like he was going to reach for her, like he wanted to hold her. Then a muscle clenched in his jaw, and he looked away, his fingers curling into fists, his gaze far away. “It’s late. We both need sleep. Let’s talk in the morning.”
He ushered her back inside, locking the doors behind them.
ARTURO LOOKED OUT the window, hating everything about this town—the dry air, the altitude, the people. He couldn’t wait to go home to Mexico. There, he lived like a king. Here, he was subjected to intolerable rudeness and humiliation.
Behind him, his host conducted business with one of his minions. “Is the GPS tracker in place on McBride’s vehicle?”
“Yes, sir. We should have the first upload in a couple of hours.”
“Excellent. We’ll know exactly where they’re hiding. By tomorrow night, this should all be over—and our friend Arturo will have learned a valuable lesson.”
It was on the tip of Arturo’s tongue to tell his whoreson of a business partner to fuck a goat, but he kept his silence.
There was no man on earth who frightened him like Edward Wulfe.
CHAPTER 28
ZACH LAY ON his belly with his face in the dirt, desperately thirsty from blood loss, the pain in his back excruciating. The sat phone was smashed, but that didn’t matter. He’d completed the call. Support was on its way. Mike, Chris, Brian, and Jimmy would be okay.
From down in the valley came the sound of three M4s and one HK MP5. They were still alive, still fighting. He might not make it out of here, but they would.
Give ’em hell, boys.
And then he saw.