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Once they stepped into the house, there was no going back. No reason she could give to Ivy and the rest of the team for explaining why she’d breached a cartel lieutenant’s home without authorization.
Jocelyn centered the man at her side in her line of vision, but the shadows were too thick here. All she could see was that look on his face as he’d stood helpless in the middle of the station, caught up in the horrors his mind craved to process. It spoke of how little he’d let himself feel since losing his sister. His life had stopped moving forward that day the cartel had come calling. She could see it in the way he pushed everyone away, including her, in the way he committed himself to finding any angle, any strategy to catch Sangre por Sangre in the smallest infraction.
“You believe the Ghost is responsible for Linley’s death.” She wasn’t sure where the thought had come from, but it explained a lot. Why he wanted to keep their little operation off the books, why he was so determined to get to De Leon.
Baker didn’t answer, and he didn’t need to. She already knew.
“Stay behind me.” She unholstered her weapon and took that step over the threshold. For Baker. There was no end to the war raging in her head, but she could help him win the one in his. “Whatever happens, I want you to get yourself out alive. Socorro will help.”
He didn’t bother arguing. Of the two of them, she was by far the most trained, and they both knew it. Jocelyn tried to force her senses to catch up to the darkness, but all she could make out was a window detail cut into the entryway wall ahead of her. They were dead center in a long hallway, cut off from seeing the spaces straight ahead. This would be the perfect angle for an ambush—unprotected on either side. But nobody jumped out from the shadows.
Moonlight punctured through the windows to her left, and she found herself stepping across dark-colored tiles in that direction for a better layout of the house. The entryway hall ended abruptly, revealing an oversized living room on the other side. This place was massive. Well over twenty thousand square feet. There was no way they’d be able to search it quickly. She memorized the configuration of individual sitting chairs and sofas. Untouched. Everything in its place.
“Where is everyone?” Jocelyn slowed her path through the living room to the kitchen visible through another window cut out at the end of the room. Her heart threatened to beat straight out of her chest as her reflection cast back at her from the large mirror angled over a stone fireplace spanning the entire wall.
A significant part of her work in the military and Socorro was based off being able to predict and anticipate the needs of those around her, and she’d jumped at the opportunity to take on Baker’s personal demons instead of facing off with her own. But something wasn’t right here. “We need to get out of here.”
“Not yet.” He made a move for the second entry into the living room, weapon raised. “He’s here. He has to be here.”
Baker was going off script. They were supposed to stick together. They didn’t know what waited inside the house. They could be walking into a trap. Her brain grabbed for frantic imagines of her husband as Baker disappeared down the hall. Of Miles’s head supported by that silky white pillow in the casket. Of the wrinkle she couldn’t get out of his suit no matter how many times she’d tried. Of Baker’s face replacing that of her husband’s.
Jocelyn tried to suck in enough air to wash them out. It worked, but the pressure in her chest refused to let up. Holding her back. “Baker, wait.”
The sound of shuffling cut through the darkness somewhere out of reach of her current position. She squeezed her sidearm between both hands. At the ready. Clearing the dining room, she moved into the kitchen. Another sitting room was attached to this space with a second set of furniture and a fireplace. She scanned every inch, but Baker wasn’t here. “Damn it.”
A breeze tickled the hairs on the back of her neck. She turned to face an open patio door.
And the silhouette waiting in the dark.
“Oh, good. You found the place.”
A gunshot exploded.
Just before the pain took hold.
THEREWEREN’TANYgunshots in his nightmares.
A groan worked through his chest. Baker eased onto his side. Cold floor bit into his skull and shoulders. Hell, his head hurt. A waft of smoke dove into his lungs and threatened to send him right back where he didn’t want to be. Standing in the middle of his barn, taking in the aftermath of what the cartel had done.
He pressed one palm into the floor—no, this didn’t feel like ceramic—trying to get his bearings. He rolled onto his back. And met nothing but a starry sky. Dirt infiltrated his clothing and worked under his fingernails. He was outside. The smoke was coming from his uniform. He blinked to try to get his brain rewired. The last thing he remembered was being inside the compound. How the hell...
“Jocelyn?”
“Is that her name?” an unfamiliar voice asked. “Sorry to say I didn’t ask before I pulled the trigger.”
Baker’s instincts had him reaching for the weapon strapped against his chest. Only it wasn’t there. He went for his service weapon. Empty. He rolled onto one shoulder, unable to get his hands under him. He’d been bound. Zip ties. The vest he’d borrowed from Jocelyn was suddenly much heavier than he’d estimated. His belt was gone, too.
Using his weight to his advantage, he got to his feet. Agony ripped through his head, and he doubled over before stumbling a couple feet and hitting what felt like a cactus with one hand. The sting spread faster than he was expecting.
“You’re going to want to take it easy. Can’t imagine two concussions in twenty-four hours will be a walk in the park.” Movement registered from his right. Or was it his left? Hard to tell with his brain in a blender. An outline solidified as a vehicle’s headlights cut through the night. “I’d apologize for the theatrics, but your showing up here left me with little choice.”
Baker shielded his eyes against the onslaught, dead center in the headlight’s path. His head pounded in rhythm to his heartbeat. The logical part of his brain attempted to catalogue distinguishable features of the man in front of him, but the added light only made it more difficult. “Who the hell are you?”
“That’s not what you really want to ask me, Chief.” The outline set himself against the front of the hood of what looked like a pickup truck. Similar to Baker’s.
The headache was easing. Not entirely, but enough to recall he’d been ambushed the second he’d stepped into the hallway of Marc De Leon’s compound. His fingers curled into the center of his palms to counter the heat flaring up his spine, but he couldn’t keep the growl out of his voice. “Where is Jocelyn?”
“Inside.” A slight shift of weight was all Baker managed to take in with the amount of space between them. “I’m not sure if she’s still alive, but in all honesty, I needed her out of the way. To get to you.”
