“What is that?”
“Spread word on the street that Los Zetas are crossing the border to finish the reporter.”
That made no sense. “If I do that, won’t the police put her under their protection, making it harder and riskier for you?”
“By the time the police mobilize, she’ll already be dead. Action has already been taken. The pieces are moving. Just get the word out. Do it tonight.”
Then the line went dead.
Arturo put the phone down and then, with shaking hands, he poured himself a shot.
Santa Muerte protect me!
“YOU’VE GOT IT, Syd.” Natalie hung up the phone, glad her article was done and in the hands of the managing editor.
She’d spent the day writing an eyewitness account of the attack on the bus, her kidnapping, captivity, and escape. It wasn’t something she’d wanted to do, but Tom had thought it would be good for readership. Rather than focusing on her own experience, she’d decided to use the article as a chance to pay tribute to the slain Mexican journalists, sharing what she remembered about each of them. Their home newspapers had generously donated head shots and other photographs, enabling her to put a face with each name. It had been especially painful to write about Sr. Marquez.
Marquez finished his prayers, then turned to me and apologized, as if he were to blame for the fact that he was about to be murdered. Then, he looked up into his killer’s face. In the next instant, it was over, and he was gone, a bullet hole in his forehead.
Then, referring to Zach only as Mr. Black—a joke for his benefit in case he read the article—she’d managed to report on her hours in the Zeta prison, as well as the escape, without giving away sensitive information. She’d felt close to him, as if she were connecting with him, writing words about a shared experience, words that he might see and even appreciate.
He probably won’t even read it, girl.
God, how she missed him! It put a constant ache in her chest, some part of her unable and unwilling to accept that she wouldn’t see him again. More than once she’d found herself wondering what would happen if it turned out she was pregnant. Would he change his mind and come back? Would he want to see the baby, be a part of its life?
That’s no way to win a man’s heart, girl. Are you that desperate?
Quashing the thought, she gathered her things, took the elevator down, and walked out to her car, only to find a dozen or more persistent reporters staking out the front entrance. She thought for a moment about taking the back entrance, but slinking down the alley while gunshots still echoed in her memory held no appeal. So she lifted her chin and walked out the door.
“Thank you, but no comment,” she said again and again, finally making it to her car. She unlocked the door, got inside, and quickly locked it again. Then slowly, she nudged the car forward.
And then out of the corner of her eye she saw him—Sr. Scar Face.
She gasped, jerked her head around, looking for him. But he was gone.
Or maybe he’d never been there. Writing the article had left her jumpy, reviving the terror for her. Perhaps she was just seeing things. Besides, how could he have gotten here so quickly?
The same way you did.
A chill shivered up her spine. She picked up her cell phone and called Julian.
CHAPTER 23
“I’M SORRY. WE’VE moved on. We’re going to focus on letting our daughter heal, and we’re not interested in talking to the press.”
Natalie stared at the phone as the line went dead. “That’s strange.”
“What’s strange?” Sophie looked up from a report she was reading, purple highlighter poised above the page.
“Before I went to Mexico, I had five families who’d agreed to be interviewed about what had happened to their daughters at the Whitcomb Academy. They were outraged and after blood. Now none of them want to speak with me at all.”
“That is strange. Did they say why?”
“They said they’d talked about it and had decided that lots of press was not what their daughters needed. They want to move on and let their daughters heal.”
“I suppose I can understand them feeling that way.”
Natalie turned in her chair. “I can, too. But how do you go from begging to be interviewed to refusing to speak in a week?”