And then she felt nothing.
ZACH HAD JUST stepped inside his own front door when he heard the blast and then . . . nothing. Natalie’s phone was dead.
A car bomb.
Christ, no!
Fear hit him with the force of a body blow, making his heart burst, driving the breath from his lungs, turning his knees to rubber.
He dialed 911, told the person on the phone that a car had just exploded in a parking lot in front of theDenver Independentin Denver, Colorado. Answering the dispatcher’s inane questions, he packed a bag, careful to remember his passport, his badge, and his two service weapons. Leaving D.C. now would end his career, but he didn’t give a damn.
“Look, I’m in Washington, D.C. I was on the phone with a friend when I heard an explosion, and now her phone is dead. I’m a deputy U.S. marshal, and I’m telling you a car bomb just went off. Get someone—”
“Denver emergency dispatch reports they’ve gotten several calls about it. Fire, police, and ambulance are already en route.”
Zach hung up, finished packing, changed his clothes, and was out the door, hailing a cab the moment his feet hit the sidewalk.
“Get me to the airport as fast as you can.”
But Zach knew that no matter how fast he went, it wouldn’t be fast enough. It was a three-and-a-half-hour flight to Denver, and he didn’t even have a ticket. By the time he made it to Denver . . .
Please let her be alive. Please let her be safe.
“Wait inside? Inside my car?” she’d asked.
That’s not what he’d said, but that’s what she’d heard. He’d told her to go back inside the paper, to call Hunter or Rossiter, and to wait there until they arrived. He hadn’t even had a chance to warn her about the Zetas.
Wait inside? Inside my car?
And then her car had exploded.
Let her be alive! God, please let her be safe!
He never should have left her.
Blackness seeped into Zach’s chest, eating at him like acid, leaving a gaping hole where his stomach had been, cold sweat beading on his forehead.
His prayers meant nothing.
He’d had lots of training in demolition as a SEAL. He knew the kind of explosives the Zetas typically used—high-tech, sophisticated, military grade. If they had rigged her car to explode when she sat in the driver’s seat, then Natalie was already dead.
CHAPTER 24
JOAQUIN WAS STANDING with the others in the ER waiting room sipping the last of his coffee when McBride walked in. He wanted to deck the bastard. “Well, look who’s here.”
Heads turned.
Hunter, still wearing his full SWAT uniform, glared. “Great timing, McBride.”
“Marc!” Sophie chided softly.
Rossiter got to his feet. “Glad you could make it.”
McBride didn’t seem to notice their sarcasm—or maybe he just didn’t care. To be fair, the man looked like hell, his face gray, his eyes haunted. “How is she?”
Darcangelo crossed the room and held out his hand. “Detective Julian Darcangelo, Denver PD. You must be McBride. I’m surprised to see you here with the media circus outside. I would think you’d want to keep a low profile now that every reporter in America is looking for Mr. Black, Natalie’s hero.”
Some hero.