The Wolf (Black Dagger Brotherhood: Prison Camp #2)(111)

José wanted to make the sign of the cross as he accepted the piece of mail, but nothing good would come out of further alarming any of the neighbors, especially if they were pregnant. “Thank you so much.”

“Is there anything I can do to help? Where is she?”

The eyes that clung to his were scared rather than hopeful, and the woman ran her hand around the gentle swell of her belly, as if she were trying to soothe herself.

“Have you seen anything unusual in the building?” he asked, just to give her something to respond to. “Or at this apartment?”

“No, I haven’t. I wish I had. Our place faces the street that way and . . .”

José let her keep going, let her tell him everything she could think of. Sometimes, you just had to invite people into the investigation because it was the right thing to do. Caring neighbors and family members who were suffering deserved air space.

Plus, you never knew when a helpful tip would be dropped.

“Anyway,” she concluded sadly, staring down at his gloved hands.

“Here’s my card.” He held one out to her. “Call me if you think of anything else?”

The woman nodded and then went back across the hall. He held the door open and watched her until she gave him a wave and locked herself in. He hoped her husband was home tonight. She was going to need some support.

Closing Officer Hernandez-Guerrero’s front door, he took the envelope into the kitchen. Everything was neat and clean, so there was nothing to push out of the way to get a flat, clear space on the counter.

Unlike on Stan’s desk.

As a feeling of dread swamped him, he turned the piece of mail over. The name and address were written in fine-point black ink, and the penmanship was bad, everything scrawled and tilted to the left, like someone who wasn’t right-handed was trying to write like they were.

No return address in the upper left. Postcode over the stamps was Caldwell.

Heavy and stiff.

Photographs.

Ordinarily, he wouldn’t open potential evidence on his own, but this was not ordinary, considering what the hell he’d found in the sink cabinet in Stan’s crapper.

Taking out his Swiss Army knife, he slid the blade into the flap and cut carefully down the seam. The back had been taped in a sloppy fashion, the wide, shiny swaths pressed into a mess.

José put the knife down and slid out . . .

Black-and-white glossies.

At first, his eyes refused to focus properly on the two figures who were facing each other. When things finally became clearer, he found that the images had been taken at a distance, but from a telephoto lens, so they were laser accurate—

Stan was on the left.

And on the right, a tall, elegant man in a tuxedo.

Stephan Fontaine.

There were easily fifteen pictures, and the succession of them told a story. There was an argument going on, both men leaning in, gesturing with hands, throwing up arms in frustration. And then . . . there was one where a photograph changed hands. The first image of it didn’t register. But the second caught the old-school picture at just the right angle.

It was Rio. It was Officer Hernandez-Guerrero.

Why in the hell would Stan be providing the picture of an undercover officer, whose identity was known only to Stan and one or two others on the entire force, to a civilian?

Under any circumstance, it was a breach in protocol and confidentiality. Under the fact pattern that one undercover officer was dead—and had likely been the person taking the pictures—and Rio was missing?

The photographs looked like a negotiation, where Stephan was giving Stan something, and Stan . . . was providing the identity of Rio in return.

Now, José freely made the sign of the cross over his heart.

Then he turned the envelope back over and stared at the handwriting. He was willing to bet his almost-mortgage-free house that analysis would show the writing was Leon Roberts’s. If it didn’t, it was because he’d tried to disguise his cursive by using his opposite hand.

The man had been going to Rio directly because he didn’t trust internal channels, not even internal affairs.

And he’d known her life was in danger.

The question, almost as important as what Stan had gotten for the intel . . . was why Stephan Fontaine would need or want to know who Rio was.





Lucan would have let his wolven out to run if he hadn’t needed to keep a set of clothes on himself. As it was, he got through the woods as fast as his two-legged form could take him, even though under his skin, his other side chomped at the proverbial bit to get free and four-paw the ground.

Now was not the time for that.

And that abandoned farmhouse was only a mile or two away.

He was about two hundred yards from the property, scaling a fallen tree in a hurdle, when the scent first reached his nose. Slowing, he had to make sure he was catching it right.

Gasoline. In the middle of the woods?

And it was fresh—accompanied by oil and exhaust. The bouquet of it all was faint, but unmistakable.

Tracking the smell, he changed direction, moving laterally over the acreage to make sure he didn’t catch anyone’s attention—

There it was. Tucked into a thicket of brambles that was so dense, the silver SUV might as well have been covered by a tarp of evergreen vegetation.

Was it possible, he thought as his heart quickened.