Defending Zara (Mountain Mercenaries #6)(45)

For a second she thought he was serious, but then he smiled at her, and she chuckled. She wasn’t worried about the DNA test; she knew she was who she claimed to be. But she was afraid of what came after that. She couldn’t live in Meat’s house with him forever, no matter how appealing that might sound. She had to figure out what to do with the rest of her life, and that part was overwhelming.

Deciding she could only take things one day at a time, the same attitude she’d adopted in the barrio, Zara followed behind Meat as they went down the stairs. The first step in getting her independence back was to talk to the FBI and tell them whatever they wanted to know. After that? She’d have to wait and see what happened.





Chapter Fifteen

Meat sat in one of the many chairs he kept around his living room for when the team and their women came to visit, stiff as a board as he listened to the FBI agents question Zara. He was so proud of her. She’d seemed so fragile in his arms, but after two hours of telling her story to the agents, she didn’t even look tired or agitated in the least.

He knew it was all a facade. He could see her hands clenched together in her lap and the way she subtly shifted in her chair.

He knew the agents were aware of it, too, but they didn’t seem to care. Probably too used to dealing with hardened criminals. Zara wasn’t under investigation, and the FBI was simply trying to gather as much information as they could about a missing American and a decades-old murder case. But in Meat’s opinion, they could have been more sensitive to her situation.

The first thing the agents had done was take the DNA swab from her cheek. The agent who’d swabbed her had packaged it up and left immediately, probably to expedite the processing at their downtown Denver office. Meat was glad. The sooner everyone knew for a fact who she was, the sooner she could get on with her life.

But Meat already knew who she was. She was Zara Layne. He wasn’t an expert, but even he could tell from looking at the picture of a ten-year-old Zara that she and the woman sitting at his kitchen table were one and the same. They had the same blue eyes, the same little mole near the mouth. Her nose was still shaped the same, and every piece of information she’d told the agents about what she could remember of her life in Denver matched what he’d been able to find online . . . right down to the name of her elementary school, her teachers’ names, and some of the kids she’d been friends with at the time.

Gray and the other Mountain Mercenaries had left a short while ago, except for Black, who’d refused to leave, since he’d been injured in the same incident as Meat had. They’d both told the FBI what they remembered about the attack in the barrio, and how if Zara and her friends hadn’t interceded, they might both be dead.

“Why didn’t you try to get help at any point in the last fifteen years?” one of the FBI agents asked—for the second time. He’d started out the interview with that very question, and Zara had told them calmly that she’d tried, but she was so young she hadn’t known where to go or who to ask.

Zara had been doing so well up to that point, but he could tell that being asked the question again, as if the agent was accusing her of not trying hard enough to get help, broke the calmness she’d been trying to hold on to.

She’d been so patient, answering all their questions as well as she could. She’d even described, in as much detail as she could remember, what it had been like watching her parents get murdered. How she’d felt when she’d been hauled off and held tightly with a hand over her mouth as the killers had stuffed her into a car and driven away. How even when she didn’t understand their words, she’d understood they would come back and kill her if she told anyone what happened.

But with that question from the agent, something they’d already asked, Zara was done.

She pushed back her chair and stood. She looked each of the agents in the eye, then said, “Why didn’t I ask for help? I already told you this—I was ten. And I did ask for help, but no one could understand me, and frankly, they didn’t care. When all you’re worried about is finding food to feed your family and trying not to get killed, it’s hard to give a crap about a lost little girl.

“I’ve told you everything I can remember. I am Zara Layne. Right now, I don’t care if you don’t believe me. I know who I am. And I’m tired. If you have any new, not-quite-so-offensive questions to ask me once my identity is proven, you know where to find me. But for now, I think I’m going to go upstairs to rest.”

And with that, she lifted her chin and walked out of the dining room and up the stairs.

Meat wanted to give her a slow clap of approval as she left, but figured that wouldn’t exactly be appropriate.

The agents weren’t thrilled she’d ended their interview so abruptly, but since Zara wasn’t under arrest, they had no choice but to pack up their things and leave. Of course, they gave Meat one last warning that Zara wasn’t to leave Colorado Springs until her identity was verified.

After they’d left, Black said, “I like her. A lot.”

Meat nodded. “At first glance, she seems fragile. Very young and scared to death. But deep down, she’s strong as hell.”

Black nodded. “Those men who attacked us weren’t fucking around,” he said, slightly changing the subject.

“No, they weren’t,” Meat agreed. He recalled how the mob in the barrio had known exactly where to hit to quickly render him unable to fight back. And how fast they’d stripped him of his weapons and his clothes. It was almost unreal.