Ignoring the impulse to hit something, he asked the vet to remove the “faulty” microchip, and retreated to the waiting room to take care of the bill.
Twenty minutes later, he gently laid Blitz on the backseat of the Citroën.“Sorry, girl.”
Moving behind the wheel, he sat in the driver’s seat for a full minute.Ford had led the gunman to the farmhouse, endangered Blitz, and landed Henri in the hospital, where he was currently fighting for his life.
Fuuuck.
Not only that, but Natalie was on her own, injured, in a country where she didn’t speak the language, with a killer on her trail.
A woman walked past the parking lot, dragging groceries in a foldable cart.She didn’t look suspicious, but the tracker could’ve easily led his would-be killers to this location.He needed to quit beating himself up and get the hell out of here, find Natalie.
What if she’d taken the car and run?She could be in Menton by now, or Montpellier, or halfway to Lyon.
Would she be better off on her own?
The private investigator looking for her surely knew by now that Ford had been with her at the hospital in Lucerne.But even if the PI got hold of the police report from today, there’d be no mention of a woman on site at the farmhouse.
He’d still probably try to locate Ford, surveil him until he revealed her whereabouts, just like Deschamps’ men had done for Henri.And it had fucking worked, dammit.But this time, Ford and Natalie wouldbothbe off the grid.If the man couldn’t track Ford, he couldn’t find her.
Despite failing her in the past, and failing Henri this week, Ford still believed she needed him.If nothing else, he had resources in Europe that she didn’t.
Besides, he couldn’t just leave her waiting until she gave up and called Lehmann.He trusted the shadowy operative with their lives, but Lehmann had enough on her plate protecting Henri until he could be moved to a private clinic in southern Germany.Ford wanted her focus there.
Meanwhile, Natalie was counting on him, and he didn’t plan to let her down again.
Waiting was not Natalie’s forte.Really, she sucked at any kind of downtime, which was why the last three weeks had been especially difficult.But today sucked extra hard because there was little to distract her from her concern for Henri and Ford.Not to mention the person who wanted her—and possibly her teammates—dead.Or, the fact that she had to pee.
Another reason to hate Mondays.
Sighing, she resisted the urge to close her eyes and let sleep provide a reprieve from her looping thoughts.Letting down her guard was a bad idea.She’d have to wait until Ford joined her and they found somewhere new to hide out.
He’d been right about the shopping center.There were enough cars in the lot, including several other Renaults, that hers didn’t look out of place.If you didn’t count her sitting in the car on a ninety-plus-degree day for three hours.Still, during the entire time she’d been parked in a shady spot on the edge of the lot, no one had given her a second look.Just to be safe, though, she wore herNYball cap and sunglasses.
With the windows partially open for airflow—and to prevent someone from sneaking up on her—the car was maybe a degree or two cooler than the outside air.Yeah, it was a dry heat, but that didn’t stop sweat from trickling down her sides or making her scalp itch.
Immediately upon parking, she’d fished the laptop and hotspot from the shopping bag in the trunk, scooted the driver’s seat all the way back, and gone online to check the gardening forum.Her innocuous message about cilantro had replies from a few well-meaning gardeners and two spambots, but none from her team.Even if Emma or Dallas saw the message, would they think it was an error?Or maybe a trap?
If she could just call one of them…
But until she better understood the threat, and knew whether or not the team’s communications were compromised, this was the safest option.While waiting, she scoured the Internet for anything she could find on the men the Night Herons had exposed since their inception three years ago.There were about a dozen, and any of them could be out for revenge, just like Earl Price had been.
For all she knew, he’d been working with others.Earl would’ve had to do some serious digging to link her and Emma to his downfall, but someone with enough resources, a very skilled hacker, or enough time and patience could probably piece it together.
The Night Herons covered their tracks well, but she knew from experience that there was always a trail if you knew where to look.It was how her team nailed assholes like Earl in the first place.
For the most part, the men on her list had maintained a low profile, and she only found old or rehashed news.When Nat ran out of material to read on them, she looked up Patrick Deschamps.
Talk about a nightmare who needed to be stopped.The crime lord had been arrested numerous times, but the police could never make it stick.Witnesses disappeared or recanted, evidence went missing or was mishandled.A classic case of a criminal with too much money and power.
He wasn’t in the US, and his harm wasn’t explicitly focused on women, but he ruined lives.He’d killed Henri’s wife, and today his men had tried to take out Henri.Her gut roiled at the memory of him bleeding out on the thin rug, his eyes closed, maybe forever…
Nope.Don’t go there.
He’d be fine.She had to believe that.
Shaking off the dark thoughts like a coat of dust, she returned to the article she’d found about Deschamps’ charitable contributions.Like so many of these bastards, he cloaked himself in respectability through conspicuous philanthropy.If she could find a way to take him down, she’d do it.No question.
Meanwhile, someone else wanted her dead, and everyone she cared about already believed she was.What a fucking mess.
