Page 95 of Deadly Force

I hit dial and call Zack as I'm turning around, heading back toward the Tucson Times.

"Hey, man. I’m chasing a ghost out here. Where’d this intel come from, exactly? Place is empty."

A beat of static, then Zack’s slow drawl. "Not patrol, like I thought. Delilah backtracked it—request came through a restricted channel. Could’ve been spoofed."

My grip tightens on the wheel, jaw locked. Sand spits under the tires as I push the truck harder. "So somebody fed us bad coordinates."

Delilah comes on the line, breathless. "Hey, sorry for hijacking, but I just got done with that background check you asked for. It might be relevant."

I blank for a second, too focused on keeping my hands on the wheel and my thoughts off the woman I left unattended again.

"Remind me who I asked for again."

"Guthrie. The ex-cop who calls Brooke Gonzo."

Right. Got it. "He checked out?"

"Sort of. It's a little mucky."

"Define mucky."

"Ten years back. There was an internal complaint from another officer about him."

"What kind of complaint?"

She's quiet for a second, then Zack pipes up. “IA flagged it as 'unsubstantiated procedural concern.'"

My jaw clenches. "I don't speak cop."

Zack does, and he's drawing conclusions, fast. "There's bad blood between him and the detective who replaced him."

I flinch. "Crowley?"

"Readin' my mind again," he says.

"You think Guthrie's bitter about being replaced by Crowley?"

"I think he got boxed out. And I think he's still connected enough to cause problems."

I nod slowly, even though Zack can't see it. The pieces are clicking into place, and I don't like the picture they're forming. "Send me what you've got."

"It's already in your inbox."

Gonzo.That's what Guthrie calls Brooke. Not with affection—with the kind of familiarity that comesfrom watching someone make mistakes you think you could have prevented.

If Guthrie wants to settle an old score, and Brooke's the leverage...

That's one more problem I'm going to have to solve. Fast.

Brooke

The faint smell of newsprint blends with a cool musty odor, wrenching me fully conscious.

Pain screams through the back of my head. I try to move, but my hands are locked behind me, bound by thin cords that dig into my skin.

Whatever was over my head is yanked off without warning. I blink against the sudden glare of a single bulb swaying overhead, the chain groaning slightly with each swing.

Blinking against the harshness of the light, my muscles tense as Lawrence comes into view.