The Wolf (Black Dagger Brotherhood: Prison Camp #2)(125)

“How will they know what he did?” she mumbled. “How will he—”

Luke glanced up and cursed. Then refocused on her. “What do you want to do? You don’t have a lot of time unless you want to be here when your colleagues arrive. You said you didn’t know who to trust. This place is about to be filled with cops.”

Rio broke out of his hold and leaned over Stephan Fontaine. His face was bloody to the point of being unrecognizable, but he was breathing, though otherwise motionless. The silk robe he was wearing was ruined, all stained and torn.

Luke had been right to peel her off. Even a minute more, and she would have killed him.

And justice had to be served.

“There’s only one person I trust,” she said gruffly. “Let’s go.”





Hello? Hello? CPD dispatch, can you identify yourself?”

José blinked and looked at his phone like it could have been a toaster oven—and why would that be the case here outside of Stan’s house?

Next to Stan’s dead body.

It was a moment before everything came back to him.

“—hello?” the woman said over the connection.

“Ah, this is Detective José de la Cruz.” He had to clear his throat. “My badge number is oh-fiver-nine-four. I need immediate assistance at seven-niner-two Eastwood Lane. We have . . .”

José focused on the face of his old friend. Who he no longer felt he knew. Who he no longer saw as the chief of the force.

“We have a gunshot death.” The dispatcher asked some questions that ran together so he cut through things. “I shot him. In self-defense.”

There were many questions then, and he answered them as well as he could— There was a gun in Stan’s hand. Wait . . . that wasn’t right, he thought. Or was it?

As a headache threatened, he gave up on everything. And a little later he was off the phone and just leaning back against Stan’s car.

All of a sudden, the details of the night became very clear, from the cold temperature, to the smell of someone’s fire in their fireplace, to the whiff of gas like the vehicle needed a tuning up.

It was so quiet out here.

But Stan had missed the very peace he had sought. On all levels.

José looked down at the phone in his hand. Then he made a call.

His wife picked up on the second ring. “Hey you, are you on your way—”

“I’m okay.” His voice got so rough it all but dried up. “I’m okay. It’s all okay.”

“José? What happened. Oh, God—”

“I’m all right.” He closed his eyes and covered his face, even though there was no one around to see him get emotional. “I love you.”

“Where are you—”

“I’m at Stan’s house.”

“Oh, good, you’ll be safe there.”

José took a deep breath. “Listen, we’re going for two weeks. Our vacation is gonna be two weeks, okay?”

“Yes,” she said gently. Like she knew he was cracked wide open and would find out the details later. “Hey, have you called Treyvon?”

“No. Not yet. Why?”

“I’m just gonna call Treyvon. I’m going to put you on hold—”

“Backup’s coming. I just . . . needed to hear your voice. ’Cuz you’re my wife . . . and when the world makes no sense to me, you’re the one I want to call.”

“I love you so much.” She sniffled, and he pictured her snapping a tissue out of a box. “You come home when you can.”

“I will.”

They hung up and he let his hand fall into his lap. Then he just breathed. In and out. In and out. In and out— The phone rang again and he answered without looking. “I swear, I’m okay.” When his wife’s voice didn’t come back to him, he frowned. “Hello?”

There was a pause. And then a woman said, “Detective de la Cruz?”

He straightened. “Yes?”

“I think you know who this is.”

“Rio?” He shouldn’t use her name, but her threat . . . was gone now. Or at least half of it was. “Where are you—the shit’s hitting the fan—”

“I’m safe. I just need you to know that Mozart is Stephan Fontaine.”

José closed his eyes. “I know, I know—I have proof. You were right to tell me to go to your house. Leon Roberts sent you pictures of Stephan Fontaine meeting with a source inside the department. That source gave up your name to him and made you a target. Leon had been following leads as part of an internal affairs investigation that was top secret, and he was killed . . . for his courage.”

“Thank God you believe me.” The woman exhaled long and slow. “But there’s another piece. There was just a break-in at Fontaine’s house. His caretaker was overpowered and Stephan was gravely injured in an attack pursuant to the home invasion. He is alive, however. I just want to make sure that he’s taken into custody and that all my reports are used to charge him. He needs to be behind bars for the rest of his life.”

José lowered his voice. “Are you injured?”

“No.”

“Be honest.”

“Nothing a bandage around my knuckles won’t handle.”