The Guardian
Chapter 25

Garza was used to fighting bad guys. Dodging bullets. Jumping into danger from any angle necessary to get the job done. What he was not used to was having to talk one of his partners through contractions he could only imagine the pain of, all while praying he didn’t have to deliver her baby in the backseat of the A.D.A.’s really nice, really spendy BMW.

In the end, they’d made it to the hospital with plenty of time to spare. Dr. Tess Riley, who was sporting her own tiny baby bump beneath her dark green scrubs, had met them at the doors to the emergency department, a worried-looking Kellan pacing at her side. Tara had been nice enough to stop by the Thirty-Third so Garza could get a case update—they were working this damn thing twenty-four/seven now—telling him to text her when he was ready to go back to the safe house.

“I won’t be long,” he’d promised, but she’d waved him off with a laugh.

“Xander’s on shift tonight, so I don’t mind waiting. I’ll grab a cup of coffee and catch up on emails. Go.”

Nodding, Garza climbed the steps in the open atrium of the Thirty-Third’s lobby, moving toward the Intelligence office. As badly as he wanted to get back to Delia, he knew she was in the most capable hands other than his own, and the truth was, he was dying for some f*****g answers.

“Hey,” he said to Hollister, who sat by himself in the usually bustling work space.

God, the guy was never in a foul mood. “Hey!” Hollister grinned, running a hand over the auburn stubble that seemed to have set up permanent residence on his face. “Heard you had a hell of an evening. How’s Isabella?”

“Tougher than you and me put together,” Garza said. “Tess gave Tara and I a quick update before we took off. She got Isabella checked out and situated up in labor and delivery. Looks like it’ll be a while before the baby’s born, but she said everything looked great.”

“Ah, good. And you’re not kidding about her being tough. I’m glad she’s in good hands,” Hollister said. He and Isabella had been partners since before Garza had even started in Intelligence two years ago. If anyone knew her, he did. “Anyhow, I’m guessing this isn’t entirely a social call.”

Before Garza could answer, footsteps warned of someone coming down the back hallway. A few seconds later, Roman appeared, drawing up short as he locked eyes with Garza and frowned.

“Detective,” he said, the same way he might say infected abscess or mutant cockroach.

Funny-not-funny, the feeling was mutual. “Special Agent.” Knuckle-dragging douche canoe.

Hollister, not skipping a beat, smiled brightly. “Awesome to see you two still enjoy each other’s company.”

“Whatever,” Roman said. “I just came in to say I’m clocking out.”

“Cool, cool.” Hollister nodded. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Garza waited until the guy was gone before unleashing his eye roll. “Glad to know he’s still here,” he said, slathering the words with so much sarcasm, you could probably hear it from the moon.

“Yeah, he is not your biggest fan,” Hollister said. “He’s still bitching up a storm to Sinclair that you’re out there in the safe house with Delia. Keeps harping on how it goes against protocol, you shouldn’t be anywhere near the case since you two are personally involved, blah blah. I can’t believe he actually went over Sinclair’s head to try and have you yanked out of there.”

Anger burst in Garza’s chest, hot and tight. “What?”

“Maxwell didn’t tell you?” Hollister asked, his brows nearly disappearing beneath the messy-on-purpose fall of his hair. “He probably didn’t want you to stress about it. Sinclair n!pped it pretty quick and Roman let it go, but…”

“Did you guys run background on him?” Garza asked. FBI agent or not, Garza didn’t trust Roman for sh!t.

Hollister’s brows rose even higher. “You think Roman’s dirty? I mean, I know he’s not Mr. Congeniality, but that’s kind of a push, dude.”

Hollister wasn’t entirely wrong, but still, something about the guy made Garza’s radar go ape sh!t. “Yeah? Then why does he want me out of the safe house so badly?”

“Other than the fact that he’s a rule-following jack-wagon?” Hollister shrugged. “I don’t know. It does seem smart to have you there with her. Truth is, I feel better knowing Delia has that extra line of defense, and I’m sure Sinclair does, too. Especially since we’re not really getting far with the rest of this.”

Sh!t. He’d been away for a week, but it might as well have been a century. “Okay. Talk to me.”

Hollister turned toward his laptop. “Kent is either squeaky clean or he’s unbelievably slick. It’s impossible to tell which, though. He seemed genuinely upset about Peyton’s death. He’s also cooperating by letting us access Cromwell A&M’s system, but he insisted on overseeing every move we make to ‘protect his clients’ interests and privacy’.”

“Or he’s in with Bianchi and wants to know everything we do, as soon as we do,” Garza said, making Hollister laugh.

“Welcome to the cluster f**k. Kent’s got some pretty insane technology. Even Capelli was impressed. He said it’s the same level sh!t that the Feds use. Of course, Roman didn’t confirm or deny, but you could tell he’d seen that kind of stuff before. It’s all aboveboard—Kent’s a smart guy who wants to protect his company with the best of the best—but it’s making things harder to track.”

Garza’s instincts pinged. “So that’s why Capelli hasn’t found the Silhouette file yet. Does he think it’s cloaked or something?”

“It could be,” Hollister admitted. “This is Capelli we’re talking about, though. If it’s there, he’ll replace it. No matter how well-hidden it is, FBI-level technology be damned.”

That was true. The file, or a trace of it, had to exist somewhere on the system. After all, Delia had downloaded it, encrypted as her version was. It was just a question of who’d had access to it, and where it was now.

And, most importantly, who’d created it.

“Okay, so no file yet. What about Peyton’s laptop?”

Hollister snorted. “That thing’s a ghost. We tried to ping it like we did Delia’s, but no go. Last place we can put it for sure is her office at Cromwell A&M at about five o’clock on the day you lifted the files from it. After that, it was turned off. Never turned back on again.”

F**k, that laptop was as good as gone. “So, we can’t rule Kent out, but we also can’t rule him in.” And even though Roman was playing double-Dutch with Garza’s last happy nerve, that didn’t necessarily make him dirty, either. “We can’t replace any of the files. At least tell me we have something new from the M.E.”

“We do, but it’s not good. The report came in a couple of hours ago. She’s ruling Peyton’s death inconclusive.”

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Garza said.

For once, Hollister looked serious. “’Fraid not. Time of death was somewhere between midnight and two a.m., which we figured. Cause of death is definitely an overdose. She had a ton of stuff in her system—coke, Molly, fentanyl. B***d alcohol is tricky post-mortem, but there was still enough there to suggest it might have been a factor. The problem is, we don’t know if it was accidental, suicide—”

“Or if someone got her good and fvcked up, then pumped her full of drugs, knowing it would kill her.” Garza swore under his breath. “What about the rest?”

“No defensive wounds. No signs of s3xual trauma—not that we were expecting any. Her organs and tissue showed signs of pretty extensive drug and alcohol use, which muddies the water, and the visitor’s log at the Metropolitan gave us exactly squat. The only place we made any headway was the footage.”

Garza bit the inside of his cheek. He knew that protecting Delia was where he belonged, but f**k, it was hard not to work this case.

Clicking through a few screens on his laptop, Hollister pulled up the video footage of what looked like a back entrance to the Metropolitan. “This is from ten twenty-seven p.m. the night Peyton died.” He clicked the screen to kick the footage into motion. Nothing happened, and since patience was not one of Garza’s virtues, he got good and ready to ask Hollister WTF.

And then, he saw it.

“The timestamp jumps.” Even though the footage rolled on smoothly, the timestamp had gone from ten twenty-seven to ten twenty-nine in an instant.

“It sure as s!it does,” Hollister said. “It does it again just after midnight. Two minutes. Just long enough for someone to come and go. Whoever altered this is a pro. Blink and you miss it. Roman damn near did miss it, but lucky for us, Capelli never blinks.”

Garza’s stomach dropped, the facts sinking in. “Jesus. Bianchi waited.”

“The timing suggests that, yeah,” Hollister said, his reddish stubble moving as his jaw flexed tightly. “It looks like he slipped in, snuck up to Peyton’s apartment and drugged her, then stuck around to make sure the job was done. But until we can pin it on him…”

“It’s conjecture.” Damn it.

“The footage from the parking garage does the same thing,” Hollister said, switching screens to pull it up. Garza’s heart tugged at the grainy, black and white image of Delia in the stairwell. Sure enough, minutes later, the timestamp jumped even though the footage itself looked undisturbed, and Christ, whoever Bianchi had hired to do this was good.

“Any way we can track this? Getting access to these feeds to alter them must leave some sort of footprint, right?”

“Capelli went home to get some sleep—dude’s been pulling some serious overtime on this one—but he’s working that angle,” Hollister said.

Garza took a breath. Let it ground him. Then said, “Listen, Hollister. I’m grateful. I know it’s a case, and we all work them, but Delia is…”

“I get it, man. I mean, I guess I don’t get it firsthand, like how Isabella and Capelli would.” Hollister shrugged, and for once his ease looked forced. “But she’s important to you. We’ll get the job done. Although, if Bianchi’s behind this, I’ve gotta hand it to the guy. He knows what the f**k he’s doing.”

“He’s behind it,” Garza bit out. “I’ll call Sinclair in the morning to see how he wants to proceed. Nicky can only lay low for so long before he pops his cork. After all, he’s not exactly known for his patience. The longer Delia’s out there as a loose end, the shorter his temper’s going to get.”

Hollister nodded. “And the greater the chance that he’ll do something crazy. You sure you’re all good out there, man? That cabin’s kind of in the middle of frickin’ nowhere.”

Just like that, Garza’s resolve locked into place harder than it ever had in his life. “If Bianchi wants Delia, he’s going to have to go through me. I protect my own. Even if I have to die to do it.”

It wasafter midnight when Garza finally got back to the cabin. Maxwell and Hale had kept their promise to the letter, bookending Delia on the couch as the three of them watched Star Trek: Voyager.

“Didn’t peg either of you as Trekkies,” Garza said, reaching for levity he didn’t feel.

Hale smirked as Delia found the remote to turn the TV off. “Dealer’s choice. It’s Delia’s house, at least for now, so she got to pick.”

“I think Star Trek is kind of cool, actually,” Maxwell said, and Delia laughed.

“You think Seven of Nine’s skintight bodysuits are cool,” she corrected.

The big guy held his hands up, busted. “Not gonna deny that. But the show is cool, too. That Captain Janeway is pretty badass.” Turning toward Garza, he asked, “How’s Isabella? Any update?”

“Still in labor. Kellan said he’d send a group text as soon as they had any news.”

“Copy that,” Maxwell said, standing up to stretch. “We’ve got a couple more hours before we switch off with the next unit, but we’ll let you two hit the hay.”

“Thanks again for hanging out with me,” Delia said, her eyes lit with genuine gratitude. “And for the self-defense lessons, and…well, everything.”

Hale grinned. “Sure thing.”

They said their goodbyes and Garza walked them to the door, locking the deadbolt and arming the alarm before heading back to the couch.

“Are you okay?” Delia asked, standing to cut the distance between them. “You look worried.”

He shook his head. Not that he wasn’t worried—f**k, his brain was practically loaded with the stuff, given what Hollister had told him. But he couldn’t change any of that tonight, couldn’t make Delia any safer than she was right now, in this moment. Tomorrow, they’d have a plan, but for right now? He just wanted this.

“Long night,” he said, reaching out to slide a thumb over her cheek. “And I missed you.”

“I missed you, too,” she whispered. Her eyes fluttered closed and she turned in to his touch, and Christ, he would never tire of watching her pleasure, even in something as small as his fingers cupping her face.

Garza leaned down to k**s her. Delia let out a tiny mewl of surprise, but then she arched upward, fitting her body to his. She felt so perfect against him, so pure and so good, that he couldn’t get enough. Knotting his fingers in her hair, he deepened the k**s, tasting and taking and giving her everything he had. The intensity of it—not just what it made him feel physically, but the way he felt her in all the places he’d never shown to anyone—dared him not to stop.

Delia didn’t stop, either. She matched him move for move, acquiescing when he pushed into her mouth, gliding back to regain the lead when he grunted in need. Their hands were everywhere, tugging at clothes and skimming over sensitive skin. But even then, with both of them stripped nearly naked and giving so freely, he wanted more. Grabbing her hand, he covered the space to the bedroom in as few strides as possible, only stopping when he’d reached the bed. The light from the hallway barely filtered in, leaving them cloaked in darkness.

But it didn’t matter. Garza knew her by heart.

“Delia.”

Time slowed, and he took full advantage. Easing her back over the rumpled covers, he explored every part of her as if tomorrow wasn’t a thing, and tonight—this moment—was all that would ever matter. Garza kissed the spot behind her ear, just before her soft skin surrendered to her equally soft hair. He traced her collarbones with the tip of his tongue. Swept his fingers over the crease of her elbows, the indent of her waist, the silky expanse of her inner thighs. He followed all the places he touched with his mouth, wanting to memorize Delia fully, needing to map every spot that made her m**n.

His c0ck was like iron, begging him for all sorts of dark, dirty action, and he gave her that, too. Garza dipped his mouth over her br3asts, svcking her perfect n!pples in hard strokes until she writhed beneath him, begging him for more. He gave it without hesitation, slipping between her legs to taste her, working her body with his lips and tongue and fingers.

She was f*****g perfect. She was f*****g everything.

And Garza was in love with her.

“Matteo, please. Please,” Delia begged, her voice rasping with need. “I want you so much.”

He’d never grabbed a cond0m or gotten it into place so goddamn fast in his life. “You have me. You’re always going to have me.”

Pressing hard, he filled her pvssy in one quick thrust, and oh, God, she was the universe. They moved together without flaw, more give and take that could only belong to them. Every breath, every wicked sensation, crystallized in Garza’s brain. He rocked faster, urged on by Delia’s cries as her slick inner muscles gripped him in hard pulls. His own 0rgasm beckoned from the base of his spine, his balls drawing up tight in a familiar pleasure/pain so intense, it jammed his breath in his lungs.

But Delia was a force of nature, this feeling in his chest so much larger than anything he could ever hope to control, and all it took was one last “please” from her to undo him.

They regained their breath, bodies tangled in the dark. Garza knew the sun would eventually rise, the daylight bringing any number of dangerous things along with it. But for now, he had this moment. He had Delia.

And he’d do anything to keep her safe.