Breaking Point (42 page)

Natalie’s mind swirled with a thousand terrible possibilities. Something had happened to Julian, Marc, or Gabe. Zach had been removed from the case by the people in Washington who’d been investigating him. Wulfe had hacked into the USMS system, found out where she was, and was on his way with Cárdenas to kill her.

By the time Zach ended the call, her pulse was racing. “Wh-what is it?”

He met her gaze, black rage on his face. “A U.S. marshal convoy was hit on its way from the Denver jail to the ICE detention facility. Rowan’s chief deputy was shot and killed. Four other DUSMs were wounded in a shoot-out. Quintana has escaped.”

CHAPTER 30

“DO YOU THINK Rowan is compromised?”

Zach had been asking himself this same question. He looked over at Darcangelo and shrugged. “My gut says no, but Quintana’s escape happened on her watch. Nothing is impossible. I think we should proceed under the assumption that she or someone close to her is working for Wulfe.”

Hunter frowned, peeling off his body armor and dropping it on the floor near his feet, exposing the Glock he wore in a hip holster. “That means you’re shit out of tactical support.”

“It means that, for the time being, I’m relying almost entirely on you three.” Zach met each man’s gaze.

Natalie entered the room carrying a tray laden with a coffeepot, five mugs, a small pitcher of cream, and a bowl of sugar, and set it down on the coffee table, making eye contact with Zach briefly before walking back to the kitchen.

He lowered his voice, hoping she wouldn’t hear. News of Quintana’s escape and the slain and injured DUSMs had upset her greatly. She was terrified—and not just for herself. What he was about to say wouldn’t make things any easier for her.

“You all signed on thinking we were dealing with the Zetas. But the game has changed. There’s no doubt in my mind that taking on Wulfe could expose both you and your families to significantly greater risk. I won’t think anything less of you if you want to turn in your badges and take care of your own.”

Three armed men glared at him.

“Sorry, McBride.” Hunter stretched his arms across the back of his armchair as if to say he wasn’t leaving any time soon. “You’re not shaking us off that easily. Besides, Natalie
is
one of our own.”

Rossiter grabbed a cup and poured himself some coffee. “I’ve sent Kat and the baby to the rez, so I’ve got nothing better to do than hang with you losers anyway.”

“We’ve already taken steps to protect our families.” Darcangelo peeled off the black sports jacket that hid a shoulder holster and a SIG Sauer, his concealable body armor barely noticeable beneath his black T-shirt. “Let’s just get the job done.”

And just like that, they moved on.

“You’ve already warned Joaquin?” Zach asked, as Natalie entered the room and settled herself on the couch beside him. He reached over and threaded his fingers through hers, wanting to offer her whatever comfort he could. The guys noticed, but wisely they kept their teeth together. “Given the role he played in capturing Quintana, it’s not farfetched to think the Zetas might want to retaliate.”

Hunter nodded, aiming a reassuring smile at Natalie. “I’ve assigned a couple of cops I trust to keep a watch on him, but the Latin Kings are watching over him, too. He’s armed, and I’ve given him some basic instruction. He’s a natural. That kid shoots almost as well with a forty-five as he does with a camera.”

“Good.” Zach rose, walked to the standing dry erase board he’d asked Hunter to pick up, and rolled it to the center of the room where they could all see it. “Let’s piece this together from the beginning and see where it takes us. Natalie, if you could fill in some of the blanks for us regarding your investigation, that would help.”

“Yes, of course.” She looked relieved to be asked to play a role.

Zach could understand that. No one wanted to feel helpless.

He stuck the photo of Cárdenas and Wulfe at the top far left. “So it’s 1983, and Cárdenas wants to be a cop. His family’s money has kept him out of prison so far, and he thinks maybe he’ll do better if he’s the one with the uniform and the gun. He joins Los Zetas, an elite law enforcement group, rises through the ranks, then gets into AMINTAC, where he meets Edward Wulfe, who at the time is working for the Agency.”

Darcangelo looked up at the photo, coffee mug in his hand. “Cárdenas goes back to Mexico a better killer with better weapons and better technology than the
federales
. He’s gotten a taste of real power, and he
likes
it. There’s not a lot of money to be made in police work, and his instincts run to rape and torture anyway. Slowly, secretly, he and his men go to work for one of the bigger cartels.”

“I studied this when I was with DEA.” Hunter leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “The Zetas started small, carrying out hits and raids against the enemies of the Oaxaca Cartel while still pretending to uphold the law. They were still catching drug smugglers and impounding contraband, so no one knew. Then almost overnight, they annihilated the Oaxaca Cartel, claiming their territory. It was a brilliant strategy. With the other cartels weakened from their constant raids and arrests, and the Oaxaca Cartel gone, the entire balance of power shifted.”

“I bet it did—right into Cárdenas’s offshore bank accounts.” Rossiter rested his boots on the coffee table, his denim shirt falling open to reveal the shoulder holster he wore over a white T-shirt beneath. “But how does Wulfe come back into the picture?”

“That’s easy.” Zach took over. “Cárdenas and the Zetas are still pretending to be cops when the Berlin Wall comes down. The Cold War ends, and Wulfe now finds himself nearing retirement. Could be that he’s made good money over the years selling classified information to the Soviets. By the early nineties, with the Soviet Union gone, he turns to illegal arms and drugs sales to keep raking in the jack.”

Darcangelo seemed to consider this. “Wulfe would’ve been in a position to follow Cárdenas’s career, even if they weren’t in touch. He would have known that federal agents suspected the Zetas of being crooked. And he would have known when the Zetas finally hit out on their own.”

Zach wrote the dates on the oard—1989–1991. “Hell, maybe it was Wulfe’s idea. He sees Cárdenas trying to fit in as an officer of the law and makes a suggestion. ‘You’d make a lot more money—’ ”

“ ‘—and be a lot more powerful—’ ” Hunter added.

“ ‘—if you went over to the other side.’ ”

“Coming from the CIA agent who trained him, that would’ve felt a lot like getting permission, wouldn’t it?” Rossiter looked around at them.

Zach nodded. “Sure, it would.”

Darcangelo went on. “So they reestablish contact, come to some kind of agreement. Maybe it’s guns, explosives, and tech for drugs and teenage girls. Maybe Wulfe handles U.S. distribution in exchange for a cut of the profits. Who knows? Regardless, they become rich men, the Zetas dominating much of Mexico and Wulfe living the genteel life of a retired millionaire here in the U.S.”

Zach turned to Natalie, found her listening attentively. “You suggested it yesterday. Wulfe uses the school to launder the money. What better way to do it than through an institution that receives grants, bequests, and anonymous donations. When did Whitcomb Academy open?”

“In 1993.”

Darcangelo looked over at Zach, understanding in his eyes. “The school—that’s where Wulfe is most vulnerable. Intercept a shipment at the border, and all you end up with is contraband and low-level smugglers who know their lives depend on keeping their mouths shut. They probably have no clue who Wulfe is. The loss to the Zetas is minimal, and another shipment is on its way in a matter of days. But the school is where Wulfe funnels his share of the money. It’s his Achilles’ heel.”

Zach’s pulse picked up, just like it always did whenever a case came together. He looked over at Natalie again. “When you began to investigate the school, they panicked. They didn’t want you digging through their records or bringing any kind of negative attention their way. That soccer coach—I bet he didn’t run off to start a new life. My money says he’s dead. Then they decided to take you out, too.”

She shook her head. “It was my idea to go to Mexico, not theirs. I signed up for that trip in January, long before I’d even heard of Whitcomb Academy.”

“Exactly. It was the perfect setup.” But Zach could see she wasn’t following him. “They could put a hit on you here, but then they’d have a murder investigation. And although they’re pretty good at covering their tracks, killing you—a journalist—would mean bringing additional scrutiny to whatever stories you were covering. They couldn’t risk that. But if you were killed while in a foreign country, shot by a paramilitary cartel known for its brutality and hatred of journalists—well, that’s just a tragic incident, one that has nothing to do with the school.”

He saw on her face the moment she understood.

Her face drained of its color. “You’re saying they wanted to kill me, but when they saw I was going on the SPJ trip, they decided to wait until I was in Mexico so that no one would be able to connect it with the school. They would stop my investigation, and no one would think twice about it.”

“That’s my best guess. They studied you, saw you were going to Mexico, and decided to let Cárdenas handle you in his own sick way. But they underestimated you, angel. You did something they never could have imagined. You escaped, forcing them to strike at you again here in Colorado.”

Zach was right. He felt it in his bones.

But she wasn’t listening.

She stood, her breathing rapid, her voice almost panicked. “All those people—poor Sr. Marquez, Ana-Letitia, Sergio—they died because of me?
I
brought that down on them? Oh, God!”

Then she turned and fled up the stairs.

“Well, I’d say you handled that with great sensitivity.”

“Go to hell, Hunter!” Zach stood there, staring after her.

“You first.”

 

NATALIE SAT IN front of her open bedroom window, looking out at the bruised sky, flashes of distant lightning heralding the approach of a late-afternoon thunderstorm, a chilly wind filling the sheer, white drapes like sails. Not that she really noticed any of it, those endless terrible minutes on the bus running through her mind again and again.

“¡No! Por favor, no—”

Pop!

“I am sorry, Miss Benoit.”

“No, don’t—!”

Pop!

“Natalie?”

She gasped, startled out of her thoughts.

Zach stood just inside the doorway to her room. “Are you okay, angel?”

She didn’t know how to answer, so for a time she said nothing. “It seems really obvious now when I think about it. The look on that Zeta’s face when he saw me—he wasn’t smiling because he thought it was funny watching me trying to protect Joaquin. He recognized me. It was there in his eyes. I just didn’t see it.”

Zach stood behind her now. His hand slid gently beneath her hair to cup the nape of her neck. “It’s not your fault, Natalie. You didn’t pull the trigger. You’re a victim of this crime, just like the journalists who were killed.”

“But if I hadn’t gone on that trip—”

“Don’t torture yourself like that. The Zetas probably took advantage of the conference to do a little multitasking, taking out multiple targets at once.”

“I watched them die. Poor, sweet Sr. Marquez. He was terrified, but he still had the courage to look into his killer’s face. And do you know what? He apologized to me. Just before they shot him, he apologized as if it were somehow his fault that he was about to be murdered in front of me.”

“I know. I read your articles.”

“You did?” She turned her head, looked up at him, surprised.

He nodded, his lips curving in a smile. “You’re a talented writer, Natalie. I don’t think anyone could read what you wrote and not be touched by it.”

It felt good to hear him say that. “Did you see my little press conference?”

“How could I not? It was on every news channel. You called me your hero.” Then he knelt down beside her, pressed his forehead to hers, and looked into her eyes, his hand against her cheek. “But, Natalie, you’re
my
hero. You got me out of that Zeta hell. You saved my life. You were strong when you needed to be strong. Don’t you dare blame yourself for something you didn’t do, something you were powerless to stop.”

His words felt like absolution, and yet . . .

She shared her darkest fear. “I don’t want anyone else to die. If you or any of the guys get hurt or killed . . .”

She’d sat there this afternoon, surrounded by the strongest men she knew, each one of them armed to the teeth and wearing body armor, but instead of feeling safe, she’d felt terrified—for them. After what had happened to those poor DUSMs today . . .

“We’re doing everything we can to prevent that.” He stood and sat across from her. “We made a lot of progress today.”

“You came up with some compelling scenarios, but they’re based entirely on circumstantial evidence.”

He gave her a cocky grin. “Not for long, angel. Rowan is procuring a federal warrant for the school’s financials. I guarantee you we’ll find bogus donors, anonymous donations from offshore accounts—that kind of thing. Darcangelo is in my office trying to crack the encryption on Wulfe’s file. Hunter and Rossiter left to get a helo ready in case we need to leave here quickly. I’m going to go to work finding Wulfe. We’ll get the job done. In the meantime, you need to eat something.”

“I’m not really hungry.”

He frowned. “Do you think . . . When will you know whether . . . ?”

So he couldn’t even say the word. That disappointed her. “When will I know whether I’m pregnant? I should get my period in about a week. Are you worried?”

“I just wondered if that’s why you weren’t hungry.” Then he smiled. “Darcangelo’s wife called. She had a test that showed she’s carrying a boy. Darcangelo couldn’t quit grinning.”