Ben. He's too good.'
Rafe remembered the bullets that Waylon took. 'How is Harris recovering?'
'One bullet barely missed an artery and the other was a through and through. Lots of blood loss, but he was very lucky.'
'The killers must've thought Harris and Slater were both dead. They wouldn't have left anyone alive,' Rafe said. 'McKidd and Ruiz were killed at the scene.'
'Harris is out of surgery and stable now.'
'We should talk to him again.'
But an hour later, when they made their way up to the third floor, Harris was under sedation, a unit of the blood he'd lost pumping in through an IV tube. They decided to let him rest. Slater was still in the operating room, a team of doctors working feverishly over him, but a surgical resident came out and told them he was holding his own.
'You go,' Bella told Rafe, standing close to him. 'You've got work to do on the case. I'll wait here and call you when there's something to report.'
Rafe nodded. He hated to leave her alone like this, but he needed to get to the morgue, see if they'd identified the dead bodies of the two intruders, and then call his DHS contact. Find out how the hell Vargas' team got to the safe house so fast, where they got their information.
He pulled her tighter and she didn't resist him when he lifted her chin, tracing his thumb along her lower lip. 'You going to be okay?'
Her mouth quivered but she nodded bravely.
'That's my girl.' He touched his lips to her mouth briefly and hugged her, liking the warm, full softness of her against him. 'We'll get this son of a bitch, Isabella,' he whispered in her ear, the hair at her temple soft against his cheek. 'I swear to God we'll get him.'
Rafe's cell phone rang as he was climbing into his car.
'Hashish, old man, where are you?'
'Max? What the hell?' He inserted the key in the ignition and fastened his seat belt with his free hand. 'Where am I supposed to be?'
'Uh, at the airport? Picking me up?' Jensen laughed. 'Dude, you forgot about me, didn't you?'
'Ah, Christ, Max, all hell broke loose here.' He backed the car out of the parking space and headed toward Douglas Boulevard. 'Yeah, I forgot. Okay, I'm about an hour away. Hang out till I get there, okay?'
'Nah, I'll get a taxi. Just give me your motel and room number and I'll meet you there.'
'You sure, man?'
'Hell, yes. Don't worry about me, Hashish. I'm a big boy. I know how to make my way around.'
Rafe stopped by the courthouse to pick up the coroner's report and a stack of documents. When he reached his motel over an hour later, Max was waiting inside the room.
He'd flashed his police badge and finagled the desk clerk into letting him in. Now he sat on the worn floral occasional chair, his feet propped up on a coffee table, a bottle of Jack Daniels in one hand and a glass in the other.
'How long you been here?' Rafe asked, surprised the detective had gotten there first, considering the distance from the airport.
'Just walked in.' Max took a deep swallow and refilled his glass.
Judging by the near-empty bottle, Rafe knew it wasn't his first drink. Even though Max was close to being wasted, he didn't slur his words. Rafe remembered that in college, Max could drink his frat brothers under the table and still ace an early-morning exam the next day.
'So, what's the big disaster here in Podunk, California?' Max asked.
'Our sole witness in the Vargas case – the girl I told you about – was murdered this morning,' Rafe said, suddenly bone-weary and wanting to sleep more than anything else.
'No shit!' Max exclaimed. 'What happened?'
Max already knew about the hit on the transportation van and the deaths of the other eight girls and the drivers. Because the two men had California drivers' licenses, Rafe had asked Max to run their names through the L.A. databases. No hits, but Rafe had figured the licenses were fakes anyway.
'Long, sad story,' Rafe answered, loosening his tie and slipping off his shoes.
He sat on the edge of the bed and stared at his linked fingers. 'Christ, Max, I'm so tired of this crap. Vargas and his organization have destroyed so many lives.' He thought of Isabella and her sister Maria, of the drug overdoses and the girls sold into prostitution. 'If I don't nail this son-of-a-bitch soon, I'll go nuts.'
'You will, old man, you will.'
Rafe shrugged and flipped open his cell phone. 'God, I hope so.' He punched in the speed dial number for Agent McNally at the Department of Homeland Security.
'Excuse me just a minute.' Rafe stepped into the bathroom, lowered the toilet seat, and sat down.
When McNally answered on the other end of the line, Rafe went through the security code protocol even though he felt like a fool. Through the crack in the bathroom door, he could see Max laughing and made a circle with his forefinger at his temple.
'Did you find anything on the prints?' Rafe asked when McNally paused long enough for him to get a word in. He'd called DHS to run the prints on the Mexican van drivers when Max hadn't come up with anything.
'Zip. Which is suspicious in itself.'
'What about the girl Esperanza?'
'The Mexican police don't have anything on her, not even a missing person's report.'
'Damn.' Rafe rubbed at the growing pain in his right temple.
'You've got a leak on your end, Agent Hashemi, and you'd better plug it quick.'
'Or what, McNally? Or you'll take over the case? Don't be an ass. And don't be so sure the leak isn't on
'Trouble?' Max asked when Slater left the bathroom.
'A shit storm,' Rafe growled. 'There's a leak from somewhere and I'm worried it's in my own department.'
'Anyone in mind?' Max asked.
Rafe took three aspirin, downed them with a swig from the liquor bottle. 'Not a single idea.'
Rafe parted company with Max thirty minutes later, and on the way back to the courthouse, he ran the names over in his mind again. Who he'd talked to, even tangentially, about the case, who'd have access to his files, who could be bought off and who couldn't.
By the time he arrived at his temporary office, he'd narrowed the list down to two people, and he didn't think either one was capable of this kind of betrayal. The leaks had to be in one or both of the two county sheriffs' offices. Or Homeland Security.
Not in DEA.
Chapter Thirty-one
When Slater was wheeled from recovery to his room in the intensive care unit, the nurse warned Bella to limit her visit to the allotted five minutes. 'He's stable, but critical,' the horse-faced woman in her starched white uniform ordered, 'so don't tire him out.'
Bella stared at his swollen and bruised face. Tubes and IV lines, along with an oxygen hookup and other machinery made him look like a recovering Frankenstein. He was naked from the waist up and his chest bandaged in criss-crossed sections. His eyes jerked under the closed lids.
The purple and red flesh of his left shoulder contrasted starkly against the white bandage that covered the spot
