The Wolf (Black Dagger Brotherhood - Prison Camp 2)

As the beam flashed inside, he saw the pool of blood immediately. It was off to one corner.

“Detective José de la Cruz, Caldwell Police.”

In his gut, he knew announcing his presence was a waste of time. And when there was no response, he swept his weapon around in a coordinated movement—which was when he saw the stakes that had been driven into the floorboards. There was nylon rope tangled around each, like someone had been tied to them, and there was a major disturbance in the dust.

Evidence of thrashing.

He thought of the missing officer.

“Jesus H. Christ,” he muttered.

Out to the back of the flat, he caught sight of a rotted kitchen. To the front, there were some rooms, at least one of which was a bedroom, going by the stained bare mattress on the floor.

Moving carefully and choosing his foot placement so he didn’t compromise the scene, he went past the bleed-out and peered into the other spaces. Blackout drapes covered the shitty windows, as they did throughout the place. Nothing was on the bed, on the floor . . . other than some errant trash that, like everything else, had a layer of dust on it.

José went back out to the main room, to the stakes. Lowering down onto his haunches, he inspected the frayed nylon around one of the wooden stabs.

It was bloody.

As his cell phone went off, he checked the screen and answered quick. “Treyvon, I was about to call you—”

The other detective cut him off. “They found undercover officer Leon Roberts in the river. ’Bout an hour ago.”

José frowned. “Leon?”

“Guess my source was wrong. It was a male officer missing.”

No, José thought. It meant there were two of them.

“I know Leon. He was a good kid.” Who was Trey’s age, actually. “I mean, young man. Man. He came up through third district patrol like I did. I met him a couple of times.”

“You remember everyone.” There was a sad note to Trey’s voice. “He was in my class at the academy. He was floating facedown . . . got caught in a residential dock. Owner called it in and the ID was made by one of the first responders who played against him in softball on Saturdays.”

Closing his eyes, José swept his face with his palm. “Dammit. How’d he die?”

“Gunshot to the back of his head. Very professional. Unlikely there’ll be water in his lungs.” There was a pause. “Look, he’s not married, but I know his parents are still alive. I was thinking maybe you as a senior representative of the department could—”

“Yup, I’m on it.” José glanced at the blood on the stake. “But I can’t leave my location until other officers get here.”

“Where are you?”

“It’s your day off.”

There was a rustling, as if the guy were pulling on clothes. “Address, please.”

Shaking his head, José looked to the ceiling. And then said with resignation, “Right where you left me last night, just one floor down. Watch the blood as you come up the stairs.”

Things on the other end of the connection got quiet. “There was no blood on the—”

“There is now. We have another scene. I just called it in—and I think you should stay home with your wife and kids, but you won’t. So do me a favor.”

“Anything.”

José took a deep breath—and rubbed his nose. The weird sweet smell was enough to make him rethink his pending request. But then his stomach growled anyway, a sign he was in the right profession, he supposed.

At least for the next month.

“Bring me coffee and donuts. I forgot to eat when I left. Thanks,” he said before he ended the call.

There was hot water, yes. But no heat.

When Rio’s showering was done and she’d turned off the spray, she was surprised at how quickly the temperature dropped. Yes, there was warmth and humidity in the bathroom’s tiled confines, but not enough. The only solution she had was getting dry and clothed. Too bad she didn’t have a—

“Here, use this as a towel,” Luke said.

Crossing her arms over her bare breasts, she looked at him . . . and caught her breath. He was turned away, facing the wall, the sweatshirt held out blindly toward her.

He was also bare chested, the muscles of his torso fanning out along his shoulders, across his back, around his ribs.

“Thank you,” she said roughly.

Taking what he offered, she put his sweatshirt to work, aware that as she passed it over her skin, that cologne of his was getting all over her. And she liked it. Liked the smell of it, but liked even more the fact that it was his.

“Let’s get you back in bed,” he said. “Quickly.”

“Okay. Thanks.”

She folded the sweatshirt, turning the soft cotton over in her hands . . . and then she dried off her wet hair with it. For some reason, as her breasts swayed, they felt heavier—and hey, she wasn’t thinking about the cold anymore, was she. Suddenly, she was as hot as the tropics.