The Guardian
Chapter 27

Delia sat in the backseat of Roman’s nondescript government-issue vehicle and willed herself not to throw up. These accusations were crazy—like, outer limits, beyond reality, how-do-you-even-get-there insanity.

But Roman had gotten there, somehow. He had enough evidence to have the Intelligence Unit pulled off this case, enough to threaten to handcuff her and arrest her and pull her out of a perfectly good safe house so he could take her in for questioning.

Zero, one, one, two, three, five, eight, thirteen, twenty-one…

“Excuse me?” Roman asked, and great, she’d been self-soothing out loud.

“Nothing,” she said. He didn’t get to know that she was scared, and that, okay, fine, reciting the Fibonacci sequence made her feel better. Usually, anyway. She just needed to stay calm and do what Matteo had told her until he could help her straighten this out.

“You know, I’ve got to tell you, you’re very good,” Roman said, flicking a glance at her in the rearview mirror before returning his eyes to the road. “You had me fooled, for sure. But all those smarts just can’t outweigh greed.”

Delia inhaled and counted to five. Thought of fifty things she’d like to say in response. Swallowed all of them.

Roman, however, was not deterred. “So many little things make sense now. Peyton’s claims to Kent that you’d been acting strange lately. The argument your co-workers witnessed in the hallway on the day she died. Ah, we’ll be taking over the investigation of her death, too, by the way. Your friends at the RPD might be willing to let it slide because the M.E. ruled it inconclusive, but over at the FBI? We don’t let personal alliances cloud our judgment.”

Fear and dread welled up in Delia’s chest, threatening to burst out of her. “I didn’t do any of this. I have no reason to want to hurt anybody.”

“No, you’ve got twelve million of them,” Roman snapped. “That money was wired into a bank account in your name, Delia. Your name. You had access to the accounts at Cromwell A&M. You know how to hide the transactions. Kent even said Peyton told him you’d confided that you’ve got some pretty substantial debt. Online gambling can get pretty serious.”

“What?” she gasped. He had to be kidding. She’d never gambled, online or otherwise, in her life.

“You didn’t think we’d replace that, too?” Roman shook his head. “Jesus, for someone so smart, you really don’t have a clue, do you?”

Delia clamped down on her bottom l*p. She had to stay calm. Matteo was right—Nicky hadn’t been able to replace her to hurt her, so he was setting her up. The Intelligence Unit would get to the bottom of this. They’d replace Nicky and prove Roman wrong. They’d—

“What the hell?” Roman asked, squinting through the windshield.

Delia’s heartbeat stuttered before taking off at top speed. A man stood at the side of the narrow, deserted road, his huge car stuck at an awkward angle by the nearby embankment. He waved his beefy arms over his head, motioning for Roman to slow down, and the back of Delia’s neck gave up a hard prickle of warning.

“Please don’t stop,” she said. This had Dateline written all over it.

Roman seemed to maybe have the same idea, because he hesitated. But then the man was in the road, his car blocking too much of the path for Roman to maneuver around both it and the man, and he slowed to a stop.

“I sure am glad to see you,” the man said as soon as Roman rolled his window down. Delia’s throat worked over a dry swallow as she took in the sheer size of the guy. But they were in the car, safe and sound. Plus, Roman had a gun. Maybe she was just being paranoid.

“FBI. I’ve got an urgent matter to take care of,” Roman said, showing his credentials to the man. “I’m going to need you to move your vehicle immediately, sir.”

The man’s eyes widened. “Well, I would, but it’s stuck.” He cut his eyes toward the huge luxury sedan. “Guess I took that curve too quickly.”

Roman’s shoulders tensed, his stare sweeping the wide-open road in front of them. “What curve?” he asked, and oh, no. No, no, no.

The man had a gun out of his waistband before Delia could scream or Roman could react. “I’m gonna need to see your hands, as*sh0le. That’s it. Nice and slow,” he said when Roman placed his palms on the steering wheel with a curse. “Now, reach through the window and open the door. Do it,” he added, as if Roman needed any more motivation.

Roman sent a lightning-fast glance over his shoulder on the pretense of shifting his weight, his voice barely a whisper as he said, “As soon as I’m out, run.”

Delia’s brain heard the words. Understood every syllable. But fear nailed her in place. This man had a gun. He was bigger than her. She didn’t stand a chance against even one of those variables, let alone both. Plus, they were in the middle of nowhere, already miles from the safe house.

You’re tough, came Matteo’s voice, strong and solid in her head, followed quickly by the memory of Hale and Tara and Maxwell backing it up, and okay. Yes. She was scared out of her frickin’ mind, but her life was literally at risk, here. She could do this. She had to do this.

Roman opened the door and got out of the car, his movements excruciatingly slow. But with each one, Delia scooted farther over the back seat, inching toward the door on the passenger side. Her pulse pressed against her ears, so loud and so fast she was certain the whole world could hear it. But then, Roman was all the way out, the driver’s side door slamming shut behind him, and Delia didn’t wait.

She shoved the door open and ran.

Her feet were sloppy beneath her, adrenaline spurting through her system with such speed, she didn’t even know if she was breathing. The ground flashed by in streaks of dry grass and faded gravel, and there, there! If she could just make it to that patch of trees, she might be able to hide.

Wanting to be sure the man wasn’t too close, Delia chanced a glance over her shoulder, forcing her legs to pump faster, even though her lungs and her muscles already burned like wildfire.

The man shot Roman right in the chest.

“Nooooooo!” The scream tore out of her as Roman crumpled to the ground. She stumbled and tripped, somehow managing to stay on her feet even though fear filled every last part of her. The man shoved his gun into his waistband and set his sights on her, breaking into a run that doubled hers in stride. Delia swung her head toward the trees, lasering her focus on one spot and unleashing every ounce she had into getting there. Breaking free.

The man tackled her to the ground with a whump that rattled her teeth.

“You are a pain in my as*s, you know that?” he hissed, yanking her to her feet as if she were a rag doll. Tears streamed down her face, her throat threatening to close—oh, God, Roman was dead, she’d just been talking to him and this man who had just wrenched both of her arms behind her back had put a bullet in his heart and now he was dead—but she gasped in a breath, looking around wildly for anyone who might hear her scream.

“Don’t even think about it,” the man warned, slapping a hand over her mouth from behind. Memories from the night in the alley slammed into her, slotting together with the here and now, and some primal part of her brain told her this was the same man. He walked her back to his car (do not look at Roman, do not look at Roman, do not do not do not…), and as they neared the sedan, Delia registered another person in the vehicle. A sharp needle-stick of pain flashed in her upper arm, and she cried out against the man’s hand. Black dots swarmed her vision, her limbs filling with wet cement, and she blinked to try and stay awake.

“You dumbas*s,” came a voice, familiar and yet too hard to place. Was it Nicky?

His hands were on her, a snap of rug burn at her neck. “This is a tracking device. Torch it, along with the car, and then head back. I’ll take her to the house so we can hurry up and be done.”

Delia’s head bobbled, too heavy on her spine, and before she could look at the man, everything went black.

“Tellme you’re on your way,” Garza bit out, and Maxwell’s indignant snort had never sounded so good.

“Of course we’re on our way. Hale’s driving.”

Even better. Hale took the wheel like her bouncy blond ponytail was engulfed in flames. “Can we get Capelli patched in?”

“Already here,” he said. “It took a little doing, but I managed to get a hold of the bank transfer. On the surface, it looks legit—”

“It’s not legit,” Garza growled.

“Of course it’s not,” Capelli said. “Bianchi’s got to be behind this. I’ll have to run some traces to see what I can replace. There’s got to be something there. The transfer was made seven hours ago, and it looks like the tip came in at about oh-three-hundred, our time. Awfully fast, which makes the timing just a little too coincidental, for sure. I can try to work with that, too.”

Garza resisted the urge to ask how Capelli knew so much about the tip. He was probably doing some high-level origami with the rules. “So, either Roman doesn’t sleep or he’s really f*****g good at his job. He must’ve seen the alert on the tip the second it came in, then convinced his boss to grab Delia first and ask questions later.”

If Garza was being entirely honest, it wasn’t a sh!t strategy. If the situation were reversed, it might even be one he’d use. But the situation wasn’t reversed and Delia was being set up for a whole bunch of bad and nasty, and they had to get to the bottom of this, fast.

“What about Sinclair?” he asked.

“Still on the phone with the FBI,” Capelli said. “I’ve updated him on the situation with Delia and he’s trying to get some answers. He wants the team back here at home base so we can figure out how to get Delia back into protective custody. Also, he wants Roman’s head on a dinner plate, but I think that’s a chore for another day.”

Oh, but Garza was with him, there. Reconnoitering was the standard response to a situation like this, so they could regroup and form a strategy. Going in guns blazing was for life and death situations. Even though Delia was probably frightened—Christ, anyone would be—she’d be in an FBI field office. That was a far cry from immediate danger, and Capelli was that good. He’d replace the evidence they needed to clear Delia’s name and trace this whole mess back to Bianchi.

“Copy that. Just work fast, would you? And Maxwell?” Garza jammed a hand through his hair. “Do me a favor and tell Hale to drive faster.”

God love her, she did. Twenty minutes later, Garza hauled as*s to the unmarked Dodge Challenger before Hale could even pull it into the drive, barely making it all the way into the backseat before she was U-turning her way back toward the city.

“Do we know anything new?” he asked, and Maxwell shook his head.

“Not really. Capelli said—and I quote—‘something feels hinky’ about the money transfer. He’s still digging. He’s trying to work backward from the offshore account to the IP address of the origin to see if he can get anything new on Silhouette. So far, it’s a lot of smoke and mirrors.”

“Damn it,” Garza muttered. “How about Delia? Is she at the FBI field office yet?”

“No,” Hale said. “Or, if she is, her attorney hasn’t seen her yet.” At Garza’s brow lift, she added, “Tara sent someone as soon as we told her Delia needed help. I figured it was smart to jump that hurdle early so the Feds would know we’re not f*****g around.”

Gratitude filtered past Garza’s adrenaline. “Thanks. Maybe we can—”

“Hale, look out!” Maxwell barked. Hale jammed on the brakes, wheels screaming for purchase on the asphalt and gravel as she swerved to a stop, barely missing the man who had jumped into the road.

No. Not just a man.

Roman.

Garza launched himself out of the car and bolted over to the spot where the agent stood, looking like he’d been mauled by a pack of wolves. And wait—was that a bullet hole in his shirt? “What the hell? Roman? Where’s Delia?”

“They took her,” Roman said, wincing as he moved toward Garza. “We were ambushed by some pro-wrestler-wannabe in a Lincoln Continental.”

Pure, ice-cold fear climbed Garza’s throat despite the heat already shimmering in the air. “What?”

“He knew we were coming,” Roman said, acknowledging Hale and Maxwell, who had arrived just in time to hear what Roman had said. Hale broke off from the group to radio in a request for backup, and Garza forced himself to breathe.

It didn’t work. Bianchi had Delia. This whole thing had been a ploy to draw her out, to get her on her way to the FBI so she could be stopped and taken. Kidnapped.

“Talk. Now,” Garza managed to get out.

Roman did. “The guy’s car was blocking the road so I couldn’t get by him. Right there, you can see the tire tracks. He waved me down like he needed help. I tried to get around him, but he drew on me. I told Delia to run.”

Garza’s heart was moving too fast, as if it was trying like f**k to break out of his chest altogether. “Did she?”

“She tried, but then that as*shole shot me.”

“Sorry, what?” Maxwell asked, but Roman rolled his eyes.

“I put on my vest before I put on my f*****g skivvies, man. It’ll leave one hell of a bruise, but I’ve had worse. I’m just glad he didn’t try for a head shot. Damn bullet hit me right in center mass.”

He brushed a hand over the reinforced ballistics panel peeking out from the hole in his shirt, the one anyone else would probably mistake for an undershirt. “The guy disarmed me before he took the shot, so I had to weigh my options. I heard him go after Delia and drag her back to the car.”

“And you just lay there and played dead while he f*****g took her?” Garza yelled, his hands curling into fists.

“I didn’t have a choice,” Roman snapped back. “I had no weapon, no clear chance to overtake him without jeopardizing both her life and mine. Plus, he wasn’t alone. So, yeah, I faked him out and let him take her so I could help you f*****g get her back.”

Hale stepped in, her boots crunching on the roadside gravel. “Okay, we need to think, here, so we can do that. Roman, what else have you got?”

“The big guy is the muscle. Not in charge. He subdued Delia with something, because he picked her up before he handed her off to the other guy. He was on the other side of the car, and I couldn’t really see him. It might’ve been Nicky—whoever he was, he was definitely holding the reins. He made Delia’s tracker.” Roman paused to let Garza curse. “He took her in the Lincoln while the guy who shot me dragged me into the embankment and took off with my car. I’m sure it’s already in flames somewhere.”

“Any idea where this other guy took her?” Maxwell asked.

Roman—thank f**k—nodded. “He said something about a house, and I was able to make the last four of the license plate as he drove away. The car might have a navigation system or an emergency response package. If it does, we can track it through the GPS.”

Yes. Yes. Garza turned to make it happen, but Maxwell was already on it. Roman looked at Hale, brows lifted.

“And by the way, you drive like a maniac. The first time you blew past me, I was still pretty knocked out from that gunshot. I tried to get out of the embankment to flag you down, but you were practically going Mach 2. Gone before I could even replace my feet.”

Hale smiled, so sweet it nearly necessitated fillings. “That’s what we do for our own, Roman. You should try it sometime.”

“Yeah, yeah.” He dipped his chin. “I get it. I’ll do whatever I can to help get Delia back.”

Garza was about to let him know they’d be just fine without his brand of help when Capelli came back over the radio.

“Uh, guys, you’re not going to believe this. Guess who has a dark blue Lincoln Continental, with tags that match our partial, registered in his name?”

“Nicky Bianchi?” Hale asked.

But Capelli said, “No. Kent Cromwell. And the damn thing is parked at a farm house about ten miles from your location.”