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Grabbing the satphone again, he called the holding cell in Arizona. When Bruce answered, Hawke said, “You checked under all her nails, right?”
“Yes. Other than the pill she’d hidden beneath her thumbnail, everything else was clear.”
“And her toenails?”
There was a long pause. Then he said, “Her fingernails were fake. Her toenails weren’t.”
“Check them anyway.”
“I’ll call you back.”
As Hawke dropped his head back onto the pillow, the improbability of such a thing hit him. Even as odd and out of character as the foot jiggling had seemed, what would be the reason for her to have anything else hidden beneath her nails? She was dead. There was no coming back from that.
The phone rang, and even before he heard the words, Hawke knew.
“Under the middle toenail of her right foot.”
“What is it?”
“Microdot. I’ll get my tech guys on it ASAP. I’ll call you when I have something.”
“I’ll be there tomorrow afternoon.”
He grunted. “May take us longer.”
“Tomorrow afternoon.”
A huff of exasperation and then, “See you then.”
Letting his mind work through the scenarios, Hawke grabbed the TV remote and pressed the On button. A TV news reporter stood in front of a large warehouse belonging to Garcia Industries, one of the shell corporations owned by the Gonzalez cartel.
He didn’t bother listening to the reporter’s speculation about how or why the fire started. The whole world knowing that it had been a series of small bombs was fine with him.
He clicked on an international news station and was pleased to see another story about an explosion at a port in Cartagena that had destroyed three cargo ships, all belonging to Gomez Holdings, another Gonzalez shell company.
The shower shutting off diverted his attention. Grabbing the medical pack lying on the bed, he sat up. They both had things to say to each other, but this came first.
She walked into the room, dressed in a pair of silky-looking shorts and a cotton T-shirt. They were cheap, probably something she’d picked up at a discount store. Everything they owned during an op needed to be disposable and untraceable. The tags would have been cut out of the outfit immediately after her purchase. The cost of the clothing didn’t matter, though. Silk, satin, lace, or sackcloth, Olivia would look beautiful in all of them.
Her eyes were rimmed in pink, and her skin was more flushed than before. The tension around her mouth had lessened, and her shoulders were less stiff. She’d had a good cry and was now ready for fireworks. First things first.
“Come over here and let me check your cuts and burns.”
She didn’t argue. They both knew how important it was to take care of even the slightest injury while on a job. A small cut could become infected, requiring medical care. Taking care of the problem before it became a problem was their protocol.
Without a hint of embarrassment, she pulled her shirt up and sat on the bed.
He carefully examined her cuts, thankful to see that they were already closing up. He gently applied antibiotic ointment to each one, telling himself it was wrong to enjoy touching her. He never wanted to see her hurt, but the feel of her soft skin beneath his fingertips was a pleasure he sorely missed. It took every ounce of will to not press his mouth against her. He could live a thousand years with this woman and never get tired of her.
Instead, he did the sensible, wise thing and treated her wounds. After applying an aloe-based salve to her burns, his voice only slightly hoarse, he said, “All done.”
She sprang up from the bed like she couldn’t wait to get away from him, from his touch. Not that he could blame her.
When she turned, Hawke took a breath. Now came the part he dreaded and looked forward to the most.
“All right,” he said softly. “Let’s get on with it.”
CHAPTER THIRTY
