The Wolf (Black Dagger Brotherhood: Prison Camp #2)(110)

But in the very short distance between the Executioner’s private quarters and this very large, awfully decrepit exit, he’d made up his mind: Rio wasn’t going to be involved in what happened next. He was going to deal with Mozart directly. That way, he could make sure Kane stayed alive while not endangering her, and then he could . . .

Lose his fucking mind quietly and calmly.

Great plan.

But come on. She’d known she was in danger. He’d rescued her, for fuck’s sake. The conversation should have been about her getting out of the drug-dealing life, not him, but he’d been too distracted by emotion to be as smart and logical as he should have been. And wasn’t that always the way.

Closing his eyes with a curse, he slowed his breathing and got ready to dematerialize. Just get ghost and go. Leave in a scatter of molecules—

When nothing even remotely heading-out happened, he reopened his lids and looked back at the sanatorium.

All those lives stuck underground, suffering in lesser degrees until they dropped dead and were slung out of the building’s body chute to roast into ash by the sun. No one to mourn them, nobody missing them. Forgotten.

For fuck’s sake, most of the people in there couldn’t remember why or how they’d ended up in custody.

But they were going to have to wait for another savior to come along. He was not it. He was no hero, and never had been one.

Once again, with the closing of the eyes. Then the breathing. Deep breathing . . . slow. Easy—

When he still filled out his clothes and stayed stuck to the ground, when his body remained heavy and full in his skin, and the landscape continued to be unchanged, he lost his temper and started hoofing it. Another couple of hundred yards, he tried to dematerialize again. And then one more time, a further hundred yards along.

His head was just too fucked for him to concentrate enough to ghost away.

Long fucking walk to Caldwell from where the hell he was.

Man, this night just kept getting better.

Zipping his leather jacket up, he entered the scruffy tree line, pushing bare limbs out of his face, making his way to the chain-link fence. He was forced to claw his way up the thing and swing himself over the top. As he landed with a curse, he kept going.

Guess he was just going to have to “borrow” a human’s car off the county road.

Yeah, ’cuz there were so many people wearing out the pavement up here this time of night. He’d have a better chance of getting hit by a bus—

Monte Carlo.

Monte-fucking-Carlo, he thought as he fell into a jog.





José pulled his unmarked over to the curb in front of Officer Hernandez-Guerrero’s apartment building. When he got out, he made sure his jacket was open so he could get at his gun.

It was that kind of night.

The neighborhood was quiet even though there were no private houses, but congregations of tenants, corralled under communal roofs. Then again, this was a working-folks zip code where nine o’clock was wind-down time, even on the weekends, all kinds of TV-blue light strobing in the sliding glass doors that opened to shallow, one-unit porches.

Hitting the sidewalk, he went up to the front door of the building in question and entered, passing by the mailboxes. At the second door, he took out the keys Stan had given him from before and unlocked things. It didn’t take him long to get to the missing officer’s apartment, and he snapped on gloves before breaking the seal he had put on the doorjamb.

As he hit the inside lights, he knew the layout like the back of his hand, not that it was complicated—and he went through each room, one after the other, turning on any lamp or overhead fixture that he came to. He looked under the sofa, the bed, and in all the cupboards, all over again. He went through drawers wherever he found them, in the bedroom, in the bath, in the kitchen. The closet got another deep dive as he checked the pockets in coats, and searched the floor under the hanging clothes with his flashlight. Going down on his hands and knees, he opened shoeboxes, and went through empty duffles.

Nothing.

Maybe he’d gotten her message wrong—

The knock out by the living area was soft. So was the “Hello?”

José got back up to his feet with old-man effort, his high school football injury squawking at the weight he put on that bad knee.

“Yup,” he called out as he came around into the living area.

A woman who was about six months pregnant was leaning through the main door. When she saw him, she smiled tentatively.

“Um, hi, I’m Elsie Orchard, I live across the hall.”

“Hi.” He got out his badge and flashed it. “Detective José de la Cruz.”

That smile disappeared, all kinds of worry replacing it. “Is everything okay?”

“We’re doing our best. Can I help you?”

“Yeah, so . . .” She brought forward something from behind her back. “I was getting my mail today, and the post office guy couldn’t fit this in Rio’s box? He said there wasn’t enough room because it hadn’t been emptied in days. I don’t know what it is. I promised him I would give it to her, but she’s not . . . here.”

As the woman held out an eight-and-a-half-by-eleven envelope, her hands were shaking. “Is she all right? She’s really nice. She always helped me if I were bringing groceries in—and when the lights went out from that storm back in August, she knocked on my door and made sure I had a flashlight. My husband was gone. It meant a lot.”