Fatal Secrets

CHAPTER EIGHT

Dean had been so busy working on coordinating DNA testing of Sonia’s rape victim that he didn’t notice it was well after three in the afternoon. He’d talked to Quantico and they would expedite the tests, with results sometime next week. With their current workload, that was the best Dean could hope for. He also contacted local authorities and arranged for some of the evidence to be shipped overnight to Virginia. And when put on hold during numerous calls, he had time to update his charts on Xavier Jones’s businesses.

He was concentrating on an updated printout of his spreadsheet when Sam Callahan escorted Sonia into the small conference room Dean had taken over when he arrived three weeks ago.

“How’s the victim?” Dean asked Sonia after Sam excused himself to finish up paperwork from the warrant last night.

Sonia shook her head. “She’s in bad shape, but alive. She has a chance. Maybe not a good chance, but so far she’s holding her own. I may have to run if the hospital calls. I want to be there when they take the GPS chip out of her neck.”

“Excuse me? GPS chip?”

“Human trafficking has heralded in the twenty-first century with even more innovative ways to keep their victims captive.” She glanced around the conference room, her hazel eyes taking in Dean’s charts, diagrams, and extensive printouts. “This is all Jones?”

“Taxes, corporate filings, Fair Political Practices reports, SEC filings, any public information.”

She flipped through one of Jones’s tax returns, her brow furrowed. “Math isn’t my strength.”

“We all have our talents. Sit down.” He pulled out a chair and she sat heavily. Dean doubted she’d slept since the stakeout. “Where do you want to start?”

“I want to know how you started looking at Jones and why you didn’t notify anyone.”

Dean bristled, but then realized Sonia hadn’t intended to be insulting. “Fair enough. Do you remember a criminal named Thomas Daniels, aka Smitty?”

She arched her narrow brows. “Of course I remember him. The FBI went after him on money laundering and racketeering. He was killed trying to avoid arrest.”

“I’m the one who shot him,” Dean said. His cool tone belied his mixed emotions in being forced to fire on a suspect.

Her expression softened in understanding. “I’m sorry.”

Dean had looked at Sonia’s record, knew she’d used lethal force in the past as well. It wasn’t something to take lightly, and unfortunately the movies often portrayed law enforcement as trigger-happy, gun-wielding vigilantes, when in reality it came down to reluctant but necessary use of force.

“When we went through his records, we put together his money-laundering scheme. Quite brilliant in its simplicity. Understanding the process helped us close other investigations where we didn’t have the evidence because we hadn’t yet caught up to the new systems criminals employed. We’ve been ahead of the curve for a while now-taking down nearly everyone we’ve targeted these past four years. Except Jones. He’s been eluding me for too long.”

“Did Smitty give Jones up?”

“No, he never talked to us. Everything we learned came from his records, which were disorganized. It took over a year of painstakingly analyzing his cryptic notes to discover that Smitty had a business association with Jones. I never figured out it was human trafficking-” He shrugged in frustration. “But we were close. I’d thought prostitution.”

She nodded. “Smitty was a competitor. He specialized in runaways. Jones works with coyotes-human smugglers-south of the border, all the way to South America. But while Jones can bring in more merchandise, his expenses are higher than Smitty’s. He makes his money on volume, while Smitty lured young runaways off the street and then relocated them all over the continent where they couldn’t easily get out if they wanted to. Many of the girls he manipulated had been sexually and physically abused as children and felt they deserved what ever happened to them. Smitty was really good at spotting the damaged teens.”

“You worked on his case, too?” Dean asked, surprised she knew so many details but he hadn’t worked with her on the case.

She shook her head. “He was dead before I transferred to Sacramento, but I knew him as one of the players. Unfortunately, he was out of my squad’s charter. My job has always been international trafficking, and after nine-eleven it’s included a focus on potential terrorist trafficking, specifically disbanding hidden cells throughout the country.”

“But your heart isn’t in it.”

“My heart is with the victims. I’ve done my fair share to prevent terrorism, but it’s hard to focus on that when hundreds of thousands of innocent young people are lured or kidnapped into prostitution or labor camps.”

Dean watched Sonia closely. She was impassioned, but also a realist. There was little they could do to stop these horrendous crimes, but she was determined to do everything possible to thwart their opponents. He admired her drive, her dedication, her passion for her job and the people she helped, as well as the people she put in prison. Sonia wasn’t a woman who would ever stay on the sidelines. Like him, Dean doubted she had much of a life outside the job.

Sonia asked, “What did you find that put Jones on your radar?”

“A thin file. Nothing I could use in court. We originally went after Daniels for racketeering because he was working with major drug smugglers out of Stockton. He was responsible for laundering their money, and had a scam of claiming income from property rentals that didn’t exist. It took time to catch on, but the banks involved alerted us after he changed his deposit habits, and we launched a grand jury investigation to figure out exactly where his money was coming from. It took a few months and physically viewing the properties to realize what his scam was.

“We didn’t go after him right away because we wanted to build a case against the entire organization. Our profilers said he wouldn’t rat anyone out-he was former military and extremely disciplined. So we began surveillance and Jones turned up in one of our photos. Because Jones was a well-known philanthropist, we didn’t make him a priority, but after Daniels was killed, I found a memo that mentioned Jones and a bill of sale for property in Amador County. Nothing on the surface seemed illegal, and after looking into the property we couldn’t find anything wrong with the sale. Callahan went out and interviewed Jones and his answers raised no flags. It went on the back burner until we closed out the Daniels case. But while logging in evidence months later we found another photograph of Daniels, Jones, and some others taken years ago in Mexico-analysts identified the area as Laguna Tres Palos, outside Acapulco. It made Jones’s statement to Callahan that he was only an acquaintance of Thomas Daniels suspect. I started looking closer at Jones’s business-maybe he was now laundering money for drug smugglers since Daniels was gone. I pulled his tax returns and saw that he had ample wealth with no major red flags, but after talking to specialists with the IRS, it seemed that Jones made a lot of money very quickly. He was paying his taxes, but his earnings far exceeded the normal range for companies like his. We looked at his businesses. Everything looked in order … but the association with Daniels bugged me, so I pulled together everything I could get my hands on. When I had the minimum information I needed, I launched the grand jury investigation.”

Dean saw that Sonia was absorbing all the information. “Wow,” she said, eyes wide and sparkling. “And you got a warrant on that? Vague gut instinct?”

“No, that was just the beginning.”

“So you don’t have an informant?”

“No. I wish I did. We discreetly approached some of Jones’s people and determined they aren’t willing to talk or they don’t know enough to help.”

“And how did you get the warrant you executed last night? They’re not easy to come by.”

“On a wing and a prayer,” Dean mumbled.

“Excuse me?”

“Full disclosure: I don’t have a case. But I have a terrific assistant U.S. attorney who put together a solid argument with legal precedent. I have strong hints of a case, I know in my gut that Jones is corrupt-his lobbying firm charges his clients more than any other state or federal registered lobbyist. But I can’t get anyone to talk, and because Jones is meticulous about his filings, there’s nothing, not even an error, I can nail him on. If his clients are willing to pay, what can we do? Is it extortion? Bribery? We’re looking into possible political corruption-that’s Sam’s primary focus, at least until I arrived-but we can’t find anything there, either.”

“It’s hard for that many people to keep a secret that long. Politicians may be scumbags, but they’re not usually murderers or involved in human trafficking.”

Dean cracked a wry grin. “True, but there have been exceptions. Did you know that back in the 1920s a legislator shot his chief of staff in a lover’s triangle involving the secretary?”

“You’re a font of murderous trivia,” Sonia said with a smile. “I haven’t really looked at Jones’s lobbying other than a cursory examination-do you think something’s there? Or that he’s using the business to pass through his trafficking profit?”

“I’ve looked, but I don’t see how he’s doing it. Every dollar he gets from clients is reported, we’ve verified with the clients’ own reporting, and everything matches up. So if Client A pays twenty thousand dollars for consulting services, Jones is reporting twenty thousand dollars-not thirty or forty thousand as I’d expect if he were washing illegal dollars.”

Dean continued. “When you look at his two primary businesses-the lobbying and the security business-they’re very lucrative. More lucrative than similar businesses. I want to take another pass through the companies, the staff, the clients. That was what I was in the middle of when we decided to shake Jones up.”

“That’s all this exercise was about? Shaking Jones up?”

“I just wanted to see what he would do. So far, he’s holding to schedule. I checked his calendar and he showed at his meetings today. I’ll track him tomorrow as well, see if he’s changing any of his plans. He didn’t like me stopping by his lunch date this afternoon.”

“Date?” She raised an eyebrow.

Dean waved his hand. “Just an expression. It was a meeting-him and two clients, men-businessmen, possibly his Indian gaming clients. Sam is running their photographs through the database. We know the fourth man, who arrived late, is his chief of staff at the lobbying firm, Craig Gleason. We took a surface look at him at the beginning, nothing popped, but we’re digging deeper into his background. I have a pair of agents staking out his plane, and if he attempts to leave we’ll take him into custody.”

“On what grounds?”

“Attempted flight to flee prosecution.”

“But you don’t have that.”

“No, but it’ll stop him from leaving for forty-eight hours and I’ll get it.”

“And here people think Homeland Security has loose rules.”

“I follow the rules,” Dean said firmly, “I just make the most of them. There are more rules protecting criminals than defending our right to pursue them. I’m not trampling on any of his rights, but I’m going to make damn sure he doesn’t leave the country. I have his passport flagged as well. If he tries to use it, the FBI will be notified and he won’t be allowed to board the plane.”

“Do you really think Jones is running his human trafficking profits through his businesses?” Sonia asked, somewhat skeptical. Dean understood her confusion-white-collar crimes were a far cry from anything she’d worked on.

“Yes, but how? See, small-time drug dealers make their illegal money selling drugs; then they invest that money in a legitimate business, and over time, that business is in the clear. The statute of limitations is five years. If they stay clean for five years, and we don’t catch wind of their activities, they’ve won.”

“That’s if they aren’t still committing crimes,” Sonia said.

“Exactly. And there’s Jones’s property.” Dean crossed the room and flipped over a whiteboard. On the back was a map of the greater Sacramento area with two dozen color-coded dots. “Each dot represents land or a business Jones owns. The red dots are vacant or unimproved land. The blue dots are occupied-he owns several properties where some of his employees live, plus his residence, and an apartment building. The green dots represent businesses. So far, everything is legit-unlike Smitty, these people actually exist. We’ve looked into their finances, thinking maybe he’s paying his employees cash, but so far everyone seems to be living within their means.”

Sonia stared at his map.

“Do any of these dots mean anything to you?” he asked her. “I haven’t found a pattern yet.”

“I don’t know,” Sonia admitted. “Have you been to all these properties?”

“Between Callahan’s team and myself, we’ve visually inspected every one.”

“Have you run them against local crimes?”

“Excuse me?”

“Murder, for example.”

“There wasn’t a need to.”

“Maybe you should.”

“What would that prove?”

“I don’t know. But here”-she pointed to the foothills where Jones had extensive holdings-“is a good place to hide bodies. Or people.”

“Have you looked at his property as part of your investigation?”

“My investigation is new.”

“But you said this morning that you’ve been after Jones for years.”

She turned to him, looking sheepish. Dean bristled. He didn’t like being lied to, especially when he’d been up front since the beginning. “I have been after Jones for years,” she said, “but I didn’t launch my investigation officially until one of his top people came to me wanting witness protection in exchange for testifying against him.”

Dean’s voice was low. “And you didn’t tell me?”

“I didn’t have time last night,” she snapped and rubbed her eyes.

“This is important, Sonia. You should have told me right off.”

“I did tell you I had an informant,” she replied. “I wasn’t going to risk him by going into the details in front of everyone and their brother.”

“Everyone? You think that one of my people is leaking information?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“You implied it.”

“Even my office doesn’t know who the informant is. Only my partner, Trace, and my boss. And the U.S. marshals who are putting together their witness-protection package.”

“Their?”

“My informant is married. His wife is pregnant. He came to me when it became clear to him that he couldn’t walk away with his life. He was worried about his wife, and I believed him. I don’t have to like him, or what he’s done.”

“And you still don’t have enough to get Jones?”

“This man has killed on Jones’s orders, has transported sex slaves, and has named some of the players-but there is no proof. It’s his word against Jones’s, and the lawyers felt that we didn’t have even a fifty percent chance of making it to trial against a well-known philanthropist who gives more than a million dollars annually to local charities. My guy can’t be wired because Jones has an elaborate security system. Jones randomly searches people who work for him. He sweeps his house, phones, and offices regularly for bugs. But my informant confirmed everything I suspected. I just need hard evidence!” She slammed her fist on the table.

“Together we’re going to nail him,” he vowed.

“I’m counting on it.” When she looked at him, Dean was surprised at the vulnerability behind her determined expression.

“It’s Greg Vega, Jones’s head security chief. He’s been with Jones for years.”

Dean appreciated Sonia’s revelation. The admission had been hard, and Dean respected the trust she’d placed in him. “I’d like to talk to your informant.”

Sonia balked. “You can’t.”

“Don’t you trust me?”

“It’s not you, it’s the system. The fewer people who know about Vega, the better chance he stays alive.”

“He might have information you don’t know to ask about.”

She stiffened as if he’d offended her. “I know my job.”

“And I know about racketeering. I need to know how Jones is laundering his money. I can’t imagine he’s smuggling people in and out of America for fun. He’s getting paid well for it.”

“True, but-”

“We took down Al Capone for tax evasion. We have better laws now to stop criminals like Xavier Jones. I just need the money trail, and then I can nail him. Protect your informant. I don’t want anything to happen to Vega or his family. Trust me, Sonia.”

Sonia saw that Dean meant every word he said. She had no doubt he would do everything in his considerable power to protect the Vegas. She wanted to trust Dean. Why was it so hard to give him that one olive branch? Trust was the most important thing between partners-and that was the crux of the problem. Charlie had not only betrayed their partnership, but he had also destroyed the trust inside of her. It had taken her years to rebuild her confidence in others.

Silence hung between them, and Dean’s entreaty turned to anger. “I see.”

He didn’t see; he couldn’t know what had happened. Not everything. And she couldn’t tell him like this, she didn’t talk about it. Ever. But she didn’t want this riff, she liked Dean, she needed him to take down Jones. Time was critical. She had to share something, so he understood why she was hesitant. She released a long, frustrated sigh. Dean turned from her, but she grabbed his arm to pull him back, her fingers gripping rock-hard muscle beneath his expensive tailored shirt.

“I lost an informant nearly four years ago,” Sonia said. “Before I was transferred here. A nineteen-year-old prostitute from Argentina. I was born in Argentina and I used everything in my arsenal to bring her on board. I pleaded with her, I threatened her, I guilted her into it. She was scared to death, but she knew what happened to the younger girls, girls who had become her sisters and friends. She wanted it to stop.”

Sonia dropped her hand and turned away from Dean, looking at the neat stacks of paperwork but not seeing anything but a blur of black and white. Why was this so hard to say out loud? Not a day went by that she didn’t remember …

“Her name was Maria. She had tattoos like Ann, who’s fighting for her life at Sutter Hospital. Not four stars, but a square with an overlapping cross. She finally agreed to help me after one of the younger girls was murdered by a john. Maria realized that none of them were safe. It took me months to work on her, primarily because I was undercover and only there one day a week. I was the “nurse” giving them their Depo-Provera shots, checking them for pregnancy and STDs, and treating their cuts and bruises.”

“How long were you undercover?”

“Fifteen weeks. We could have gotten them for illegal prostitution, but I needed to prove they were smuggling in not only illegal immigrants but also minors against their will. I wanted the whole chain, not just that one link.” Every night she’d left reluctantly, wanting to take all twenty-four girls with her. Help them. Protect them. That she couldn’t tore apart her heart.

“Did you get them?” he asked quietly.

“Oh, yeah. Twenty-seven people went down in that sting, from low level thugs to the coyotes who transported the girls to leaders controlling multiple such places. We prosecuted nine, the remainder fled. Five were extradited last year and are awaiting trial, and the rest we can’t touch. They’re not Americans, and they’ve gone to ground. But, all in all, the operation was a huge success. For everyone except me, that is.”

Dean was right behind her, she could feel his breath on the back of her neck. “What happened to Maria?”

She blinked back tears. “Two days before we took them down, Maria gave me vital information. I had everything we needed, but she was giddy-there was a new shipment of girls coming in that night. I staked it out, but it was a bust. The next morning, Maria was dead. She’d been set up, and-” She stopped. He didn’t need to know everything.

“Did they know it was you?”

“Yeah. I fucked up, okay?”

“But you got them.”

“Maria not only died, she was tortured. They shipped off half the girls before I could get them out. I found some of them, but … it’s not just about putting the traffickers behind bars, it’s about saving innocent people. Maria should never have died. I should have sensed it was a setup, but I was so high on the power of the hunt, of nailing these guys every which way I could, I was blind.”

“And you don’t want to risk it again.”

“I can’t!”

“I’m not a risk, Sonia. You agreed we’d work together. I can’t work with you if you don’t trust me. It’s your call.”

Sonia wanted to. God, she wanted to, but she suddenly felt the vise tightening and everything was moving too quickly. She needed time to think.

Her phone rang and she excused herself, relieved that she could buy a couple of minutes. Dean walked out, mumbling something about water. He was angry, and Sonia wished she could patch things up. Dean wasn’t Charlie, she had to trust him, somehow.

“Hello,” she snapped into the phone.

“Sonia.”

The deep voice was none other than Kane Rogan. She breathed easier. Kane had never let her down. She wanted to trust Dean like she did Kane, but she didn’t know the fed. Yet, she didn’t really know Kane, either. Other than the fact he’d saved her life.

“Thank you for returning my call.”

“You don’t call often.”

“Charlie Cammarata.”

The silence was so complete Sonia could picture Kane as a statue, calmly assessing a threat before he acted. “What about him?”

“I saw him today. Working for a trafficker. You’ve hired him in the past-do you know what he’s working on now?”

“I haven’t hired him in ten years.” Kane spoke clearly in a low, deliberate tone.

She swallowed uneasily. She’d angered him without intending to. “I know, but you’ve been in contact.”

“I’ve sent jobs his way. When no one else was willing to take them.”

“Recently?”

“I referred him to a woman whose daughter went missing last year while on a cruise. Security determined that she fell overboard after drinking too much. The mother was not convinced. However, the police were, and they closed the case.”

“That’s all?”

“In these last few years. Cammarata has become un-dependable.”

“Would you still have her contact information?”

“Of course.”

“What about Charlie’s?”

“Yes.”

“I need to talk to him.”

“Very well. I assume you know what you’re doing, but remain aware that Charlie is not the same man he was ten years ago. And he wasn’t trustworthy then.”

“I understand,” she said softly, clearing her throat. “I appreciate your help.”

“You can call anytime, Sonia.”

“I know.”

“Let my brother know if you need anything. Duke will drop everything to assist.”

“He doesn’t even know me.”

“I know you. Watch your back, sweetheart.” Kane hung up.

Ten seconds later the contact information she wanted came through on her text messaging. He included his brother, Duke Rogan’s, private cell phone number.

She trusted Kane Rogan with her life. If it weren’t for him, she would have died ten years ago when Charlie went off on his own mission and left her, only a year out of training, in a situation that forced her to kill for the second time in her life.

But Kane was God-knew-where fighting battles only true heroes had a chance of winning. Once she had called him a cat with nine lives, and he’d actually smiled-a rarity.

If she could trust a man she saw once in a blue moon, why couldn’t she trust FBI agent Dean Hooper, a man she was working side by side with? She already knew more about Hooper after knowing him less than twenty-four hours than she did about Kane, a man she’d known for ten years.

Dean returned with two bottles of cold water and handed her one. Nothing had looked so good; she was parched. “Thank you,” she said.

He didn’t ask, he simply looked at her with piercing brown eyes that demanded answers.

“All right,” she said. “I’ll set up a meeting with my informant. But first, there’s something else you need to know.”

Riley Knight stood sentry outside Jane Doe’s hospital room. Ann, he reminded himself. That was so like his sister to give an unknown victim a personal name. One of the psychological games traffickers and other abusers used to demoralize their victims was to dehumanize them, make them forget they were individuals and program them to believe that their only value was in what they did and not who they were. Naming people “Jane” or “John Doe” grated on Sonia like fingernails on a chalkboard, though she’d never said anything.

There were many things Sonia never said, but after twenty years of being virtual twins, Riley knew her better than she knew herself. This was no exaggeration; Riley didn’t think Sonia cared to be introspective. Like any good cop, she could handle her complex and emotionally demanding job because she could compartmentalize. That trait enabled her to put her past in a box she rarely, if ever, opened. But that didn’t mean her past didn’t shape her present and future. Maybe that was why Riley still worried about her even though she was one of the most self-reliant people he knew.

He hoped Charlie Cammarata-that bastard who nearly got his sister killed-didn’t mess her up with whatever insane mission he was on. She had never spoken about it again, after telling Riley what had happened on that undercover assignment ten years ago. But Riley couldn’t forget that Cammarata had set up his sister so he could get the glory. Cammarata had never apologized for what he had put Sonia through, only said he was sorry that “it had gone too far” and he “never meant for her to get hurt.”

Cammarata was like an extremist Muslim on a jihad; he didn’t care who he hurt as long as his goal was achieved. Riley didn’t give a rat’s ass how noble the goal was; the bodies Cammarata laid in his wake made him the enemy. Riley didn’t want one of those bodies to be his sister.

Dr. Peter Miller left Ann’s room, acknowledged Riley, and walked down the hall, passing Detective John Black, who approached with a cup of coffee. “Thought you could use some,” he said.

“Thanks.” Riley sipped. It was nowhere near as good as his mom’s.

“I have Ericson relieving you at twenty-one hundred. You good till then?”

“I’m good.”

“Then I’ll see you in the morning. Let me know if there’s any change. We have no witnesses, except that girl.”

Black walked off and Riley sipped the coffee, then put it on the low table next to him. He wasn’t sleepy, his shift had technically just started a couple of hours ago, and he had plenty of energy. His mom didn’t understand the allure of the swing shift, but for Riley it was great. He’d always been a night person, and now he had an excuse to sleep until noon.

An orderly approached and ignored Riley, making a move to open the door.

Riley blocked him. “You’re not authorized to enter this room.”

“Sure I am,” he said, showing his name badge. Jose Martinez.

“You’re not on the list.”

“I’m just changing bedpans.”

Riley didn’t budge.

Martinez swore. “Look, my boss is gonna get on my ass if I don’t get this done. I don’t know why I’m not on your friggin’ list. Let’s go talk to him, fix this.”

Riley didn’t like the way Martinez’s eyes darted back and forth. He squinted at Riley with dark mousy eyes. Riley glanced at the photo on the name badge again and realized this man wasn’t Jose Martinez. Same general look and race, but two different people.

“Let’s call him,” Riley said, motioning to the house phone. “What’s his name?” He needed the fake orderly to believe he was playing along, to get him away from Ann’s door. As casually as he could, he tapped a code into his radio with his badge number and “officer needs assistance” signal. He hoped Black was still in the building with his radio on.

The imposter nodded, moved toward the phone, then started running down the hall.

“Shit!” Riley started down the hall, then stopped. He couldn’t leave Ann, and the fake orderly was acting overtly suspicious. A decoy, Riley realized, to get him away from the door.

He whirled around and saw a tall, lean, blond Caucasian male with his hand on Ann’s door. Where had he come from so quickly?

Riley commanded, “Don’t move.”

The man didn’t stop and in three long strides Riley was in a position to restrain him. The man pivoted and backed into Ann’s room. He had a scalpel in his right hand, and something Riley couldn’t see in his left.

“Security!” Riley yelled at the top of his lungs and saw a nurse scurry toward a phone.

Riley couldn’t let him near Ann. He grabbed his Taser, but the suspect kicked his wrist. Riley held on to the Taser, but his arm went straight up, and his attacker lunged with the scalpel aimed at Riley’s neck as if it were an ice pick.

Riley faked right, then pivoted left toward Ann. The suspect was fooled by the move, but recovered quickly and tackled Riley, plunging the scalpel high in his thigh. Riley bit back a scream as the sharp blade was pulled several inches up his leg. He Tasered the bastard in the chest, but the darts bounced off. He had a fucking vest on!

Already the perp was scrambling up and moving fast toward the unconscious girl. Riley grabbed his legs and pulled him down. Then saw what the attacker had in his left hand: a syringe. If that syringe had pricked him or Ann, Riley was certain they’d be dead.

Sweating, his vision blurry and fading, blood flowing from his leg, Riley grabbed the killer’s left wrist and slammed it hard against the floor. Again. Again. The perp said nothing, but he grunted in pain and frustration. Riley didn’t see the scalpel coming toward his head.

There was commotion behind him, then a sharp pain in his cheek, and John Black shouted, “Knight!” Riley sensed more than saw John grab the suspect’s right hand and slam it against the floor.

“The syringe!” he tried to shout, his words slurred.

Black’s hands reached over and clasped the perp’s wrist, squeezing, and Riley heard bones crack and the bastard beneath him scream in pain.

“I got him,” Black said.

Riley rolled away and lay there, barely registering two cops cuffing the blond man and pulling him out of Ann’s room.

“Riley,” Black said. “Help’s on the way.”

“Should be,” Riley said, seeing nothing but gray. “I’m in a damn hospital.”

Black ripped Riley’s pants away, grabbed a blanket from the foot of Ann’s bed, and applied pressure. “I got your radio signal,” he said.

“It happened so fast.” Riley was quickly fading. “I’m okay.”

“You damn well better be. Your sister scares the hell out of me.”

“Call her.”

A doctor and three nurses came in. Black said, “I’m staying with the girl. Get him stable. I need to talk to him ASAP.”