Chapter Eighteen

By the time Oceane was on her way back to the new safehouse location—a tidy little bungalow with a green lawn in a residential area of a suburb outside of D.C.—she was mentally and physically exhausted. Two U.S. Marshals rode in the armored SUV with her, a female driver and a male in the backseat with her. Both were armed, and if she’d thought Agent Lockhart was unfriendly, these two were borderline hostile in their demeanors.

The marshals had arrived soon after Lockhart had placed the call to his commander. They hadn’t messed around. Within minutes of them walking in the condo, they rushed her and her mother down to separate vehicles waiting in the underground parking lot, where they’d been blindfolded and driven to this little house. A special arrangement made at the last moment for them.

The U.S. Marshals Service had told her that normally people in the WITSEC program were taken to a kind of orientation center in D.C. where they stayed with other federal witnesses until the trial they were to testify at was over. Then they were given a new life in a different city under carefully constructed aliases.

In her and her mother’s case, that couldn’t happen because of a particular snag. Victoria Gomez was also in WITSEC, at the orientation center, and officials didn’t want them all at the same facility for security reasons. Miss Gomez would be testifying directly against Ruiz in the upcoming trial, whenever that happened, so for now Oceane and her mother were here in this little house.

She’d had just enough time to unpack and get acquainted with the layout of the place before her security detail had whisked her off to DEA headquarters for another meeting, while her mother stayed at the house. The FBI and DEA no longer believed she was involved with the bombing at the law office, but they were pressuring her to help them find Arturo. Unfortunately, she had no idea where he was, and even if she had, she wouldn’t tell them. Arturo was a trusted protector and friend. She wouldn’t turn on him after all he’d done to protect her.

They arrived back at the house around dinnertime. The neighborhood was quiet, only a few young mothers out walking their babies in strollers or kids riding their bikes up the sidewalks. Watching them, Oceane envied their freedom and carefree lives. But there was no point in wallowing in self pity or wishing things could be different, because her situation was fixed now and there was no going back.

She’d lost a lot by coming here, but she and her mother still had each other, and that was the most important thing. That would have to be enough to sustain them both through whatever came at them from here forward.

The driver pulled into the driveway and continued past the house, up to the fence that marked the edge of the backyard. Her mother had wanted to cook dinner rather than order takeout, so they’d arranged for someone to run out and grab the groceries.

Anticipating some good old-fashioned Mexican comfort food, her stomach growled hungrily as the male marshal, Smythe, opened the back door for her. He went to the fence, opened it, and stopped dead. The way he froze sent a burst of alarm through her.

He held out an arm to stop her. “Stay here,” he commanded, and withdrew a pistol from his shoulder holster.

Frightened now, Oceane peered over his shoulder, wide-eyed as he stepped through into the backyard while his partner rushed up behind her, weapon drawn, and set a restraining hand on her shoulder. The back door to the house was open, sagging crookedly on its hinges.

One of the marshals tasked with protecting her mother lay facedown on the grass, arms flung out.

She sucked in a sharp breath, started to turn toward the female marshal behind her, but the gasp turned into a horrified cry as the ruined door flung open and her mother appeared in it, naked, blood dripping down her body from what looked like numerous knife wounds.

Her dark brown eyes were wide, glazed with terror and pain, but they locked on Oceane. “Corres,” she yelled, her voice desperate, filled with a frantic urgency that raised the hair on Oceane’s arms.

Run.

Oceane’s scream was cut short as Smythe charged back to the fence, grabbed her by the shoulders and spun her around. She fought him, clawed at his restraining hands, needing to see what was happening with her mother.

A series of gunshots behind her shattered the soft evening air.

Wrenching her head around, Oceane cast a desperate glance over her shoulder in time to see a man burst out of the house holding a pistol. The female marshal fired. The man fell, clutching his chest. The female marshal was down too, and Oceane’s mother had fallen into a bloody heap on the grass.

“Mami!” She screamed it, the word exploding from her as she struggled to tear free from Smythe. He tackled her to the ground and pinned her beneath him, issuing rapid orders via his earpiece.

A sound of rage and grief tore from her as she twisted and fought to get away. “Let me go! I need to get to my mother!” She was lying there just meters away, bleeding, helpless.

“Don’t move,” he ground out, and squashed her flat beneath his weight, rattling off more commands.

Running footsteps sounded to her left. Smythe swung around, raised his weapon and fired just as an armed man wearing a hoodie appeared around the side of the house.

More shots rang out. Bullets pinged off the side of the SUV, inches from where she and Smythe lay on the ground. He grunted but didn’t move. She gasped and covered her head with her arms, heart rocketing into her throat. Where were the other marshals? Were they all dead?

Smythe fired again, and the attacker’s footsteps stopped. A quiet thud sounded, followed by a low groan.

Before Oceane could raise her head to see what had happened, Smythe hauled her to her knees and dragged her behind the cover of the side of the SUV. He reached up to fumble with the door handle, his breathing labored, and when she glanced down she saw blood running out from beneath the fingers he pressed to his side.

“Get in,” he rasped, giving her a shove. “It’s armored. Stay down and don’t move until I say otherwise.”

“No, my mother—”

“I’m going to her. Lock the doors and don’t move.”

She almost crawled across the seat and bolted out the other door, but there might be more attackers and Smythe would just chase her down, wasting precious time he could be using to help her mother. Shaking, fighting back frightened tears, she lay sideways on the leather bench seat and closed her eyes, listening, praying…

Please, God. Please don’t take my mother from me. I can’t bear it. Not that.

She prayed it over and over, her lips moving, teeth chattering at the sudden blast of ice freezing her insides. She wasn’t sure how long she lay like that. Minutes. Hours. Then sirens screamed in the distance, getting nearer.

Oceane sat up, stared through the windshield toward the backyard. The gate was open but there was no sign of Smythe, and no one else was around.

Heart pounding, she climbed into the front seat because the rear doors couldn’t be unlocked from the inside, opened it and slid out. Her knees almost gave way when her feet hit the grass.

On wobbly legs she hurried to the gate, kept her back to it as she darted a glance into the yard. Smythe was on his knees beside her mother, who was sprawled out on her back, head lolling to the side, facing Oceane. He’d stripped off his jacket and shirt, using them to try and staunch the bleeding from the knife wounds.

Her mother’s pain-filled dark eyes focused on her, a flare of relief flashing through them. “Oceane…” she managed weakly.

Smythe jerked his head up, let out a snarled curse when he saw her standing there. “Get back into the vehicle, now.”

Ignoring him, not caring what he did to her, she rushed to her mother’s side and dropped to her knees to grip the limp hand in hers. “Mami,” she choked out. God, there was so much blood. Angry slashes at her throat, chest and belly. Her breasts lacerated. And there was more between her thighs…

Oceane swallowed, fought the wave of nausea that clenched her belly. They had raped and cut her. “Who did this?” she demanded, rage flooding her system.

Her mother seemed to struggle to keep her eyes open, focused on Oceane briefly before rolling toward the house. “Ar…Arturo.”

The shattered remnants of Oceane’s heart plummeted into the pit of her roiling stomach. No. No, it couldn’t be.

“Where’s Arturo?” Smythe demanded in Spanish, leaning over her mother, his voice urgent. “Is he still here?”

“In…side. Run, baby,” her mother said to her weakly, her eyes sliding shut.

A deep, burning rage took over, obliterating fear, wiping out all thoughts except for one: Arutro would die for this.

Oceane was up and running toward the house before she even realized what she was doing. Smythe’s shout to stop barely registered, the need for vengeance so strong she didn’t care what happened to her.

Her gaze caught on the pistol in the fallen marshal’s outstretched hand. She bent down to scoop it up on her way past, barely breaking stride, and plunged into the back door of the house.

“Arturo!” she bellowed, weapon firmly in her grip as she burst into the kitchen.

The scent of her mother’s famous enchilada sauce hung heavy in the air, the pots and pans still simmering on the stove. It looked like a horror movie set. Blood spattered the floor, smears of it going up the walls, the cabinets. Bloody footprints led toward the back door, and away toward the living room beyond it.

Her muscles were tight as steel cables, her gaze scanning restlessly for a target. A shadow moved in the living room, just beyond the kitchen.

Blood trailed along the hardwood floor, over toward the powder room. Someone had tried to wipe it up but hadn’t done a good job in their haste. Whoever it was, she hoped they were in as much pain as her mother.

The shadow detached itself from the wall and a man’s silhouette filled the darkened hallway. Oceane’s nape prickled, her heart slamming against her chest wall.

Arturo.

The sight of him pierced her. He had a hand pressed to the front of his ribs. Blood glistened on his fingers and his breathing was quick and shallow. He held a pistol in his other hand.

Hands surprisingly steady, she raised her weapon, felt no fear as she stared down the barrel of the pistol. He had taught her to shoot. Had turned her into an expert shot, all in case she ever needed to defend herself and her mother.

She had never dreamed she would need to use it against him.

“Oceane, put the gun down,” he said in Spanish in a low voice, so familiar that pain lanced through her.

A sheen of tears blurred her eyes as she stared back at him, the betrayal so acute it shredded her. “How could you?” she choked out, barely able to speak. How had he found them?

“You don’t understand. Put the gun down and come with me. I don’t want to hurt you.”

She shook her head, a wave of nausea mixing with rage and despair. He’d betrayed them. “Liar. You fucking liar!” She pulled the trigger. The shot exploded in the silent hallway. Arturo grunted and dropped to his knees, his gun hand falling to his side.

“Wait,” he gasped, reaching for the wall to steady himself, his face a mask of pain.

You cut my mother.

She fired again, hit him in the chest this time. Her whole body was shaking, tears pouring down her face. He’d betrayed them. The man she had trusted more than any other, and had risked so much to ensure her safety.

“Why?” she demanded, stepping closer, sickened by what she’d had to do. “Why, dammit?”

In the dimness his dark, glassy eyes rolled toward her. Blood bubbled out of his mouth, his nose. He choked, coughed. “Your father…”

She went even colder inside, the pain unbearable.

“Wants you…back. Had…to—” He broke off, choking.

Oceane turned her back on him, leaving him to die in the hall and swept the rest of the house for more threats. She found a man in a dark hoodie sprawled out on the master bedroom floor, his pants down around his ankles. Bile rushed into her throat at the thought of this pig violating her mother. She hoped her mother had killed him.

In a daze she went back outside, the dying sun too bright against her eyes. Marshal Smythe was slumped on his side now, barely having the strength to raise his head to look at her.

“They’re all dead,” she said woodenly in English, setting the pistol on the grass before kneeling next to her mother. Oceane took one chilled hand in her own and pressed it to her cheek, letting the tears track down her face. The sirens were in the driveway now. Help coming too late. Too late.

“We’re safe now, Mami,” she whispered in Spanish. “Everything’s going to be all right.”

Her mother didn’t answer, her chest barely moving with her too-shallow breaths, and deep down, Oceane knew that nothing would ever be all right again.

****

Mal turned up the radio in his truck and tapped along to the rhythm of a favorite pop song on the steering wheel as he steered out of the FAST headquarters near the Pentagon.

“God, how can you stand this crap?” Lockhart asked from the passenger seat, tugging the brim of his ball cap lower on his forehead. “Why can’t you like country or rock, like normal people do?”

“Don’t like my tunes? Should have thought of that sooner and brought your own wheels to work, then,” Mal answered with a smirk.

“Trust me, I won’t make that mistake again,” Lockhart muttered with his trademark sarcasm. The guy was quiet, but funny as hell with his zingers. You had to pay attention, though. He and Granger together were something else, though Lockhart didn’t crave the spotlight the way Granger or Maka did. “You wanna grab a bite or something before you drop me off?”

“Can’t. Got plans.”

Lockhart glanced over, the corner of his mouth pulling up. “Okay,” was all he said, knowing damn well Mal planned to see Rowan. Most other guys on the team would have talked shit or grilled him for details, but not Lockhart. It was why Mal liked hanging around the former sniper so much. Lockhart knew when to keep his mouth shut. Unlike Maka, for instance, he thought with a smirk.

It had been another long but strangely satisfying day, having transferred Oceane and Anya into the custody of the U.S. Marshals before going to HQ to rejoin his teammates. They’d trained in the gym for a while before hitting the range together, and attended a meeting about the latest on Ruiz and Nieto.

Now he was free for the night, and he planned to run home and grab a quick shower before bringing Rowan some dinner. The woman never fed herself when she was busy working, and he would use any excuse just to see her again. Since he had the right security clearance and was on her short list of approved visitors, he could make it happen.

A familiar ring tone filled the truck cab on Mal’s Bluetooth system. Surprised that Taggart would be calling when they’d only just left HQ a couple minutes ago, he answered. “Commander. What can we do for you?”

“The satellite WITSEC safehouse was just attacked.”

What the fuck? “When?” Mal demanded.

“Fifteen minutes ago. They need a new temporary detail for Oceane. How soon can you guys get over there?”

But not Anya? “We’ll head there now,” Mal said, stunned but secretly glad it wasn’t Rowan.

Taggart gave them the address. “I’ll meet you there,” he said, and hung up.

Malcolm pulled a U-turn in the middle of the street and raced off in the opposite direction.

“How the hell did the perps find them, let alone manage to attack fucking U.S. Marshals?” Lockhart said.

“No damn idea,” Mal replied, driving faster.

When they arrived at the house ten minutes later, the road was choked with emergency vehicles. He and Lockhart jumped out, showed their ID and were allowed access to the backyard.

Paramedics were working on a marshal off to one side of the lawn, and they were rushing Anya toward the gate on a stretcher. She appeared unconscious. Her torso was covered with a bloodstained sheet, her brown skin an ungodly shade of gray and an oxygen mask placed over her mouth and nose.

Jesus Christ…

“Out of the way,” one of the medics yelled, the urgency on his and his partner’s faces making it clear that Anya was in dire danger.

Mal and Lockhart stepped well to the side, allowing them to pass. And when they turned around, he spotted Oceane in between two cops. They appeared to be holding her up as she watched with a tortured expression while her mother was hauled away. Her haunted gaze landed on them and the little composure she had left crumbled.

Her face twisted and she wrenched free of the cops’ supporting arms to lurch straight to Lockhart. Mal caught the flare of surprise on his teammate’s face an instant before she flung her arms around his neck and buried her face in his shoulder. Lockhart didn’t say anything, just held onto her.

“They won’t let me g-go with her,” she sobbed, the pain in her voice so raw that Mal winced inside. “I need to go with her.”

“They need to transport her as fast as possible and get her stabilized,” Lockhart said, his voice low, calm, but not unfeeling. “As soon as we get everything dealt with here, we’ll take you to the hospital to see her.”

Oceane lifted her head to stare up at him. “P-promise?”

“I promise.” He set her away from him gently, grasping her shoulders. “Now tell us what happened.”

It took a few tries for her to get it out. Mal listened in shock as she described the scene she’d arrived to, ending with her finding and shooting her former bodyguard in the house. His brain hummed as he tried to put the pieces together. WITSEC was the best protection program in the country for a reason. There was no way anyone should have been able to locate the women, let alone within hours of moving them here. And to be able to get the jump on so many highly trained federal agents and kill or wound them all? What the hell?

He glanced over at the sagging back door as forensics techs emerged from the house. It would take a while for them to sort out all the evidence. He hoped they would be able to ID the other attackers and get a lead from them or the bodyguard. They needed a damn break in this case if they were going to crack it open.

Two FBI agents came to take Oceane in for questioning. She balked, protested again about needing to see her mother.

Lockhart intervened. “I’ll go with you,” he told her. “And I’ll take you to her as soon as possible, okay?”

She looked up at him with swollen blue-gray eyes, and nodded. “Thank you.”

The special agent in charge of the investigation came through the open back gate, spotted them and headed their way. His eyes fastened on Oceane, who’d gone still. He stopped in front of her, his expression sympathetic, and Mal knew what was coming.

Ah, shit… Even with all he’d seen and all his training, it was always hard to watch someone he knew suffer.

“Miss Nieto, I’m so sorry to tell you—”

“No!” she cried, her face paling even more, eyes dilating with shock. “No, she can’t be gone!”

“I’m so sorry, she passed on the way to the hospital,” the SAIC continued.

Oceane made a high-pitched sound of distress and clapped her hands to her face as her knees buckled. Lockhart caught her just before she hit the ground.