The Wolf (Black Dagger Brotherhood: Prison Camp #2)(15)

When the captain didn’t respond, she closed her eyes and leaned against the side of her car. “I’m not stopping. You’re not taking me off—”

“You called in two homicides tonight. Both gunshot victims.”

“I did what I’m supposed to—”

“So you know the rules. In addition to reporting in, if any officer is involved in a shooting, it’s mandatory admin leave until they’ve been assessed by a counselor and cleared by the county prosecutor and the AG—”

“I didn’t shoot either of them. And if you don’t believe me, check the ballistics. My gun wasn’t used.”

“The rules are what the rules are. You’re off the streets—”

“I’m so close to getting what we need on Mozart. Captain, come on, I just want another couple of weeks—and I can get you the supplier as well. I met him tonight, and I’m going to get the deal done—”

“Rules are there for a reason—”

“I’m being punished because I was in the wrong place at the wrong time!”

“This is not punishment. This is health and safety, Rio. I’m taking you off the case. Mozart is not as important as your life.”

So he knew about the cover being blown, she thought. That’s what this was really about.

And he was a good guy, so he wasn’t going to spell it out to her—because nothing was less professional than an undercover cop who’d had her identity compromised. Especially one like her with federal training.

Rio looked over to the ER’s entrance. An older woman and man were coming out, the man offering his arm, the woman taking it and leaning on him. She wasn’t limping, but she was tilted in as if she needed help carrying her own weight. But her problem wasn’t like what Rio had, it wasn’t an injury. She was sick. In the bright, icy illumination, her face was too red and she was breathing through her mouth and coughing.

“—assessment later this week,” her superior was saying. “And then a debriefing. After that, you’re taking a couple of weeks off—”

“How’re you going to replace me. Out on the street.” She leaned forward, like the man was in front of her in his suit and tie. “Who’ll take my place with Mozart? I’m the one who’s gone the furthest, and I’ve worked on this for eighteen months straight. I told you, I met the supplier contact tonight—and I was about to make the deal when we were rudely interrupted by a goddamn gunfight that had nothing to do with me.” Well, at least in theory, she tacked on to herself. “It’s not my fault that the Ballous decided to ride up on Caldwell and avenge Johnny Two Shoes—and before you criticize me for holding a meeting in an alley, where else am I supposed to face-to-face my contacts? The public library? Yeah, because that’ll go over so much better—”

“Your life is more important than this case.”

“I accepted the risks when I took the job.”

“There’s no getting around this, so let’s both be professional here. Your appointment’s been made with mental health, and I’ll expect to see you in my office tomorrow, shall we say eleven? Great. See you then—oh, and if you need to make a workers’ comp claim for that injury, bring your paperwork from St. Francis. Goodnight, Detective.”

The connection was cut, that deep, serious voice turned off like a lamp at midnight.

“Sonofabitch.”

As she shoved her phone into her pocket, she thought of Spaz and wondered how the shelter was going for him. He would have been assessed by now, and had that stab wound checked out. He’d also have a hot meal in his belly and a clean bed for his body to rest on. She wished there was a way to make him stay in long enough to transition into a long-term care facility that would detox him and get him into a sustainable recovery.

But that wasn’t the way things worked.

Rio watched the couple get into a station wagon. The man helped the woman into the passenger seat; then he went around and got behind the wheel. The headlights flared to life, but the couple didn’t immediately leave. They were talking.

She imagined the husband was worried that the wife was sick to her stomach. Then Rio dubbed in the wife telling him she was fine, no, honestly, she was fine. He would ask if she had enough stuffing left in her to pick up the antibiotics/painkillers/antivirals/whatever at the twenty-four-hour pharmacy at that Hannaford’s on the way home. If she didn’t, he’d take her back first—

I’m fine, honey. Drive on.

Eventually, the station wagon eased forward, crossing the parking lot and hanging a left to hook up with the main road to the complex’s exit.

Rio stayed where she was, next to her car, until she couldn’t see their headlights anymore.

Then she closed her eyes—and, for no good reason, thought of the supplier from back in that alley. He was right. He had saved her life. Twice.

But they weren’t going for a third time.

For so many reasons.





Out far to the west of Caldwell, a farmhouse with a wraparound porch, a big maple in the side yard, and a family under its gabled roof was glowing with light and warmth and laughter. Inside, there was a son who had been found, and a sister who was sunshine at midnight . . . and a male and a female who were united in love. Though the tract of land was isolated, it was hardly lonely on the acreage. And inside, the pantries were full, and family pictures sat upon the mantel, and there was so much to look forward to and celebrate: Birthdays, festival nights, even regular things like a shared First Meal or a homemade dessert for Last Meal or a book well read, a game of gin rummy well played, a practical joke well dealt.