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 where the first bullet had been removed. A second bullet had struck a rib from the back, but fortunately missed the lung and the spine. Another bandage wrapped around his right thigh where the third bullet penetrated the skin and barely missed the femoral artery.
"Slater," Bella whispered, touching his arm gently.
He grimaced briefly and opened his eyes a moment later. "Hey, Torres. Glad you're here." He struggled to sit up.
"Oh, no, big fellow. The nurse will skin me alive." Bella carefully pressed him back on the slightly-elevated bed. "And where else would I be but here at a time like this?"
He groaned. "Whoa, I'm weak as a kitten. World's spinning a little."
"You've been through major surgery." She fiddled with the covers and plumped up the pillow. "But the doctor says you'll be fine. Eventually."
He sighed and glanced at the tubes and machines surrounding him. "A hell of a thing."
She pulled up a chair beside the bed and sat down. "I was worried about you." She patted his arm, almost afraid to stop touching him. "Your mom called. She'll be here tomorrow."
"And Kate?"
"She's flying back from D.C." Slater's girlfriend Kate Myers was on special assignment in Washington.
"I don't want them to worry about me." He stared down at his hands, the tube that ran from his arm, the monitors on his chest.
"Can you recall any details of what happened?"
Slater's jaw tightened under the pallor of his skin. "I've been remembering them since my mind crawled out of the damn anesthesia."
His eyes clouded with pain when he looked up at her. "Manuel Ruiz – that damn Ruiz – he was the leak in the department. In my own house!" His fist tightened on top of the covers and he winced when the IV line pulled.
"Ruiz, the new deputy?" Bella gasped. "How do you know?"
"He killed Harris."
"No, no, Harris is okay, recovering, probably faster than you. Big bump on his head, though, You saved his life, Ben." She lowered her voice. "Not McKidd, he's dead."
"Ah, hell, McKidd was a good man." Slater breathed a bleak sigh. "I saw the second shooter go down from my bullet, but when I passed out, Ruiz was aiming his weapon at Harris' head. I was sure he'd killed Waylon."
"No, he's okay, but are you sure about Ruiz, Slater? He's dead, too."
"Hell yes, I saw his face. He was definitely after me and Harris, probably killed McKidd, too."
"I can't believe it," she said. "He seemed so… friendly."
"How could I have made a mistake like that? I vetted Ruiz personally."
"He must've been deep," she said, covering his hand.
He shook his head, throwing off the words of comfort. "I trained him myself. I totally bought that young Hispanic pulling himself up by his bootstraps crap!"
"Nothing popped on him?"
"Nothing. No priors, no gang affiliations. Zip."
"That's all you could've done," she said, "but it makes you wonder why something didn't flag on him when you ran the check. A person doesn't go overnight from a clean record to a hired killer."
Slater was silent a moment, thinking. "Only one way he could've gotten by my screening."
Bella shook her head and frowned, not understanding.
"Deep cover, like you said, but with an assist from someone with deep pockets," he said with grim satisfaction. "Vargas must have recruited Ruiz, kept him clean for years, and placed him in my house."
"To be used like this," Bella finished, understanding at last. "When he needed him inside a police department."
"To silence a witness," Slater ground out.
"He was supposed to kill all three of you – Harris, McKidd, and you."
"Son of a bitch!"
She frowned thoughtfully. "But why get rid of Ruiz? Why would Vargas invest so much in an inside man and then kill him?"
Slater shook his head silently, suddenly looking wan and weary.
"Time for me to go." Bella watched the head nurse stroll by and peer through the glass doors of the ICU room. Checking up on her, she supposed. "The East German nurse just slipped by, spying on us."
Slater tried to laugh, but clutched his side. "Tell Harris to visit me before he's discharged."
But at that moment Harris popped into the hospital room, glancing guiltily behind him and hopping in on a crutch. When his eyes fell on Slater, stretched out like a mummy on the narrow bed, wires all over the place, his face turned dusty. "Ah, hell, Sheriff, are you as bad off as you look?"
"I always liked your tact, Waylon."
"Sorry, sir."
"Looks like you're healing up nice."
Harris tapped his thigh, wrapped in a waterproof cast. "Yeah, I was pretty lucky. The bullet cracked the bone, caused a slow bleed. Otherwise I'd be dead."
He hovered over Slater's bedside and looked seriously into the sheriff's face. "And, 'course, a slug to the head woulda been the end of me." Harris looked solemn while gratitude molded his dark face. "Thanks."
"What are you talking about?" Bella asked, feeling panic rise in her throat. "You didn't tell me about a bullet to the head."
"Slater managed to deflect a bullet meant to kill me. Damn Ruiz – excuse me, ma'am – he tried to take me out. Me, his partner." Anger and indignation glistened on his brow like a slick sheen of sweat.
"Well, Ruiz is gone now," Slater said with deadly pleasure. Bella had never heard him so satisfied over someone's death. "One of the assassins shot him."
"Vargas doesn't want anyone alive to testify against him," Bella said.
"Probably he'll have the last shooter alive killed, too," Harris said, turning to Slater. "What about you? How long before they let you go home?"
"A week, maybe," Slater answered, but Bella was certain it'd be longer. Dark shadowy smudges lay beneath his eyes, and he looked drawn and bone-tired.
The nurse entered, eyeing both Bella and Harris. "What's going on here?" she demanded in a strident voice. "I thought I made it clear – one patient at a time, five minutes, no more."
Properly chastened, Bella kissed Slater on the cheek. "I was just leaving," she murmured, heading for the door.
But Harris simply glowered at the nurse, and against the threat of his large frame, she retreated with a loud humph and a noisy stomp. Bella waited quietly at the door.
"Better get back to your bed, Harris," Slater advised, catching Bella's eye, "or the East German nurse will have your ass."
Harris laughed his deep belly chuckle and then turned solemn. He gripped Slater's hand, the one without the IV catheter, and squeezed hard.
"Ben," he choked out, "I… I can't…"
"I know, Waylon. Me too," Slater said gruffly. "Go on, deputy, get out of here."
All Bella could think of as she left the hospital was coming up with a proposal to entice Santos into turning on Diego Vargas. She had a twinge of guilt at keeping the plan from Slater, but one voice of opposition – and Rafe's was loud and clear – was as much as she could handle.
How on earth had Vargas managed to maintain cover so deep in Bigler County? A rabidly vicious man, nonetheless, he wasn't particularly clever. He tended to react rather than act. She didn't think he could have kept such wide-range and tight control of his organization without a lot of help from men far smarter than him.
Santos, for one. And a whole slew of traitor cops – Sacramento, Nevada, even in Bigler County where Slater was so scrupulous about investigating his new candidates. The hierarchy and organizational structure had to have been in effect for years, decades even.
The enormity of it boggled her mind.
Ruiz was only one of the infiltrators, but there were sure to be others. To uncover them, they had to get their own rat inside Vargas' organization.
And if she had her way, that rat was going to be Santos.
Whatever she had to do to get the bodyguard-lawyer to agree to testify against Vargas – that's what she'd do. When she put her mind to something she was indefatigable as hell and stubborn as a mule.
She wondered briefly about Rafe's department. Slater thought someone inside Rafe's large list of contacts was leaking information to Vargas. Was that possible? She had a hard time believing Rafe wouldn't be as scrupulous as Slater, but even Ruiz had slipped by Ben's cautious vetting.
By the time she reached her office at the courthouse, it was late afternoon and there were dozens of messages to deal with, phone calls to return, and briefs to prepare for her other court cases. She'd been working for an hour when Charles Barrington barged into her office without knocking on the closed door.
"Mr. District Attorney," she said in surprise, "what can I do for you?"
Barrington hardly ever made his way across the street to the old courthouse, preferring to enjoy the comforts and lushness of the brand new structure where he'd set up his own offices. She knew immediately this wasn't a social call. The D.A.'s round pink face was screwed up like a baby getting ready to throw a temper tantrum.
"What's going on with the Vargas case?" he demanded.
"We lost our witness," Bella said as Barrington strode into the room and threw himself in the chair opposite her desk, slouching like a petulant teenager. "Along with a deputy. Waylon Harris is being released today and Slater's out of surgery and stable. Thanks for asking," she added, the sarcasm barely controlled.
"What did you do wrong?" Charles accused.
Bella felt her face heat with anger. "Why do you assume I'm the one who screwed up?"
"You're in charge," he retorted.
"Oh, really? I thought the feds were in charge. The DEA specifically." She didn't want to cast blame on Rafe for the debacle at the safe house, but Barrington couldn't play it both ways. He's the one who insisted they involve the feds.
He waved his hand over his head as if her remarks were unimportant, or worse, ridiculous. "Don't get territorial, Isabella. And whatever you do, don't get on the wrong side of this Hashemi guy."
She definitely wasn't on Rafe's bad side. "We've got a plan to make a deal with someone high up in Vargas' organization." Well, she amended silently, at least she had a plan.
"Who?" he demanded.
Bella hesitated. Charlie Barrington wasn't known for keeping his mouth shut, but after all, he was the D.A. "Gabriel Santos."
"Jesus!" He brightened a bit. "Okay, close this case as soon as possible. It looks bad that you're dragging your feet. Charge someone and get a conviction."
With that he stomped from the office, slamming the door behind him.
The first step Santos intended to take was to contact the Latina assistant district attorney and acquiesce to her no-doubt inadequate plea bargain. He imagined the agreement she offered would not give him the terms he required, but he did not worry about renegotiating.
He could acquire the greater advantage by having her approach him again, but time was of the essence and he could not wait longer for her to contact him. El Vaquero was becoming as dangerous as a trapped animal, and his next movements would be unpredictable.
Santos looked up from his desk where he was examining the books when Jesús Navarro knocked quietly on the office door.
"¿Si?" he barked. He did not like his employees to disturb him when he engaged in the important task of analyzing Diego Vargas' private records.
"Excúsame, por favor, Jefe." The man held his hat in his hands and twirled it between work-worn hands.
"¿Que?"
"Tenemos un problema grande. No sé qué hacer. Ayúdeme, por favor," the man began babbling, the words falling over one another as if he would strangle on them.
"¡Inglés!" Santos commanded. "Speak English." Spineless man, he thought. Why was Diego so unwise in his choice of men to carry out his most delicate assignments?
Navarro took a deep breath and began again. "We have a serious problem. I do not know what to do, Jefe."
Santos threw down his pen and rubbed at the pain that began to radiate from the back of his neck. "What is the problem?"
"The girl from the van, she is dead, as El Vaquero ordered."
"At the sheriff's safe house, sí?"
"Sí, in the foothills to the north."
Santos' brows pulled downward at this confirmation of what Diego had done, and he felt a great white rage build in his mind. ¡Pinche cabron! Vargas was an animal with no sense of caution or finesse. He rampaged through a delicate situation like a bull gone mad with the lust of blood.
The girl could have been spared, shipped back to Mexico. She did not have to die. No one needed to have died.
"What else?" he growled.
"Ruiz is dead."
"¡Mierda, mala suerte de mierda!" Santos ranted, forgetting his own injunction about using English. "What other casualties?"
"Ruiz and the other deputy, but not el hombre negro." The black deputy.
"And Sheriff Slater?"
"Él está condiciones criticas, pero sobrivivrá."
"English!" Santos roared.
After Navarro left, he sat a long while at his desk, refusing to speculate about why he felt a strange relief that the sheriff might survive.