No One Left to Tell (21 page)

He narrowed his eyes, ready to speak when a muffled scream jolted his attention. Looking over his shoulder, toward a second-story window, Yolie pounded the glass. Her face distorted in terror.

"Run! They have guns.
Run!"
she cried.

In his mind, the scene slowed as if he were mired in quicksand. Part of his brain knew it was already over. Too late. He reached for his service revolver, pulling it from his shoulder holster, instinctively releasing the safety.

The stranger didn't flinch. Calmly and without a word, the man raised his hand, then slowly pointed a finger.

A signal. A series of red lasers launched from the trees and hedges across the front of his house. A deadly light show. Five. There were five others. He was sorely outnumbered.

"What the hell—" It was all Tony got out.

Thud!
Searing pain tore through his left shoulder, spinning him to the ground. As he fell, a ricochet sparked off the sidewalk. The bullet pierced his chest.
Oh, God!
This was bad.

Yolanda shrieked. "No! Tony,
noooo!"

Suddenly, the side of his house erupted. Bullets came from all directions. Rounds shattered his front window and ripped apart the brick on impact. Careful with his aim, he fired two rounds, then rolled for cover behind a brick planter. Shards of stone nicked his face and hands. The man who'd given the order was long gone, becoming a part of the deepening shadows. He'd lost his best target.

Silenced gunfire? The precision of the attack, the hand signals, the stealth. It all pointed to one thing— mercenaries.
What the hell was happening?

The front of his shirt grew wet and sticky. And he knew the tang of blood when he smelled it. He had to remain calm. For now, the shooting had stopped. But he still felt them out there, waiting for him to make a mistake. Keeping his head down, he shoved nearer his porch. His chest on fire.

None of this made sense. But it didn't matter. Now, he had only one thing on his mind—to protect his family. Ever the pragmatist, with his cop instincts he envisioned the worst. He pictured himself pinned down while others broke into his home from the rear. The imagined screams of his children overloaded his head like an insidious migraine. Only one thing left for him to do. Reaching into his pocket, he found his cell phone and dialed 911.

He recognized the dispatcher's voice. After giving his address, he added, "Officer d-down. I repeat, officer down. Proceed C-Code Three." He wanted sirens loud. Lights flashing.

"ETA five minutes. Tony, are you okay?" The female dispatcher broke protocol.

"No, Sara, I'm not. Just t-take care of my f-family, okay?" He ended the call.

Tony still heard Yolanda crying upstairs. He blocked out her agony, flashing on memories of his beautiful wife holding their firstborn child, Celia, in her arms, a tiny pink bundle. Tears filled his eyes. He was powerless to help her and the kids now. Their safety would be in the hands of others—and God.

He tasted blood in his mouth. The chest wound was nasty. A numbing sensation inched across his body. Before long, he'd lose consciousness. Picking a target, he carefully squeezed off another shot, and was rewarded by a grunt. Maybe that would give them something else to think about. The howling dogs in the neighborhood nearly masked the sound. Tony had never been so thankful for all the mangy mutts in his "hood." The more noise, the better.

His breaths came in short wheezes now. He was losing his fight. Choking up blood, he wiped his mouth with his sleeve.

"Please, God. H-hold my family s-safe—in your arms," he whispered his prayer.

Slowly, he slumped with his back to a brick wall, so near the front door of his home. The numbing cold began to claim him. Streetlights blurred, warping into a series of shimmering rings around the bright globes. In the distance, sirens teased his ears, becoming louder as the night was set on fire. Flashing beacons of red and blue circled the night sky, streaking their message.
The cavalry bad arrived
—
Code 3.

He wanted to smile, but couldn't muster the strength. His jaw went slack. He struggled for every breath. Tilting his head back, he turned his eyes toward the heavens. Beyond the lights, the stars dotted the sky and shimmered, until one by one they melted into inky black. He focused on the last star, but eventually, his eyelids fluttered closed. Still, one thought persisted.

He only hoped it wasn't too late for his family.

Raven rushed from her home, leaving the CSI team to lock up after they'd processed her break-in. It couldn't be helped. Tony's wife, Yolanda, should not be alone at a time like this.

God, don't die on me, Tony! Please . . .

The call she'd received from dispatch still resonated in her head, triggering a painful memory from her past. Her partner had been attacked and mortally wounded outside his house. Early reports indicated six armed gunmen were to blame. Although barely conscious, Tony had told fellow officers on the scene that his assailants had been mercenaries. Except for his wife, no other witnesses corroborated his story. Too much of a coincidence that this attack had happened on the same night Blair's killer paid her a visit. Whoever was behind this had flagrantly thumbed his nose at the police—with deadly consequence.

On a deeply personal level, she grappled with the jumble of emotions in her mind. For the sake of Yolanda, Raven needed to dig deep for whatever strength lay buried under the despondency bubbling to the surface. Once again, violence had touched her life, jabbing at an unhealed wound.

With Christian offering to drive her, she sat in the passenger seat of his car, letting silence build between them. Overhead streetlights lolled in and out of the darkened interior of his SUV. The mind-numbing road noise and the interminable drive time worsened her anxiety. For all she knew, Tony was already dead.

Not Tony. Not her partner.

Nothing Christian could say would comfort her. Intuitively, he must have sensed this. He hadn't said a word since they started. Given his history, perhaps he was rapt in his own brand of hell. So Raven focused on her partner, struggling to pray for him as Christian drove. Eventually, she closed her eyes and quit, fearing her prayers might do more harm than good. She had no right to ask for divine intervention now, not when she had turned her back on her faith all those many years ago. Her throat clenched as tears blurred her vision.

With Christian by her side, she walked through the emergency doors at Mercy Hospital as they hissed open, numb to the possibility of her partner's death. Her memory flooded with images from another wintry night when she was seventeen.

This couldn't be happening
—
not again.

The waiting room hadn't changed, still colored in bland oatmeal and pale greens. With dour faces, the thick-skinned ER staff performed under pressure, handling desperation as if it were paperwork. Raven knew she filtered the scene through her own draining experience. She had blocked so much from her memory.

But one remembrance had been etched in her mind.

After being fatally shot, her father had never regained consciousness in the ICU. Thinking back to the day he died, she'd opted to sleep in, not getting up to make his breakfast on a Saturday morning. A part of her understood a father's absolution over the trivial incident. But as a daughter, she was less forgiving. She'd never gotten a chance to tell him how much she loved him or to kiss him good-bye.

As she spied Tony's wife down the corridor, she only hoped the woman would have at least that much.

The lustrous olive skin of Yolanda Rodriguez looked pale, tinged with gray. Her dark, shoulder-length hair fell across her face as she paced the waiting room, clutching a wad of tissues. Her eyes brimmed with tears and inconsolable heartache.

God, was she too late?

"Yolanda? Is he—?" She couldn't bring herself to say it. "How's he doing?"

"Oh, God!" Rushing to her, Yolanda collapsed in her arms, clinging to hope. "T-tell me this is all a bad dream, Raven. This c-can't be happening." Her sobs escalated into spasms, words choking in her throat. "I saw it all, and I c-couldn't help him. The phones were out. I couldn't help—"

The feeling of powerlessness overwhelmed her as she held Yolanda. She knew the feeling all too well.

"What's happening, Yolie? Where is he?"

"He's in surgery." Yolanda pulled from her arms. Her eyes barely met Raven's. "But I saw it on the doctor's face. It doesn't look good, Raven."

"Don't borrow trouble by reading into anything. Tony would hate it if you gave up on him. You know how stubborn he is." She searched her heart for any words of comfort. Her partner's own words about "borrowing trouble" seemed so right.

"Where are the kids? Are they—?" Raven didn't know what to say. She knew firsthand that the kids weren't okay. Tonight, Tony's children had lost their innocence and their sense of security. Nothing would ever be the same again.

"They're at a neighbor's house. I didn't know what else to do." New tears drained down Yolanda's cheeks. "I haven't called San Antonio, to let his parents know. What am I going to tell them?"

After leading Yolanda to a nearby sofa, Raven sat beside her and rubbed the back of the woman's neck. None of this would be easy. And it had only just begun.

Before she spoke, Christian interceded, handing them both a cup of coffee. "It's gonna be a long night. This might take the chill out of the room."

She'd nearly forgotten about Christian. Awkwardly, she made the introductions, knowing Tony's wife would be paralyzed with worry. "Yolanda Rodriguez, this is Christian Delacorte. He drove me." Any other explanation was far too complicated.

"I'm sorry to meet you under such terrible circumstances, Mrs. Rodriguez. If there's anything I can do . . ." Christian's voice faded. He extended his hand, gently taking the woman's trembling fingers.

Kneeling in front of her, Christian spoke to Yolanda in a hushed tone, meant for only her. But Raven was privileged to hear it all.

"I couldn't help but overhear. If you'll allow me, I'd like to offer the use of the Dunhill jet to transport Tony's parents to Chicago. Just give me the word and I can make it happen."

Yolanda turned her heartbreaking gaze to Christian, as if seeing him for the first time. Fresh tears welled in her eyes; her lower lip quivered. Without a word, she reached for his neck and pulled him to her. By his reaction, it was evident. The intimacy surprised him.

"May God bless and keep you, Christian," Yolanda whispered, clutching him to her embrace. "Thank you so much for your generosity."

Raven sipped her coffee to choke back the emotion, witnessing the exchange. In that moment, she felt certain. Christian Delacorte had been fighting his demons—and still was. And he might never trust her enough to confide in her. But her trust barometer had
not
been wrong. Christian
was
a good man who deeply understood the pain of losing someone.

The truth was as unmistakable as the tear rolling down his cheek.

Château de Banville
Versailles, France

In the pale pink of dawn, the chateau reflected off the still lake, a pastel gem against the blue of a wakening sky. The image was crystal clear, like a photograph, in its perfection. Classic stone walls radiated a delicate pearled luster. Designed by Francois Mansart in the 1620s, the private residence was surrounded by exquisite gardens, accenting a spectacular fountain similar to the cascade at Louis XIV's Chateau de Marly.