“Thought about what?” Wolfe asked, his tone dropping to deadly and his hands starting to twitch with the need to punch through the asshole’s face to the sofa.

The blond gulped and shook his head, his breath turning shallow. If he passed out, he’d stop talking, darn it.

“Somebody texted you to kill her?” Wolfe asked, enunciating each word and trying to keep his calm in place.

The blond winced. “Yeah.”

“When did you get the text?” Wolfe snapped.

“Right before she ran out of that mansion with you. I’m sorry,” the blond whined.

“Why her?” Mal asked, his gun remaining trained on the duo.

The shaky guy bit his lip and a little blood welled. “Nobody said.”

This was getting worse. Whoever wanted Dana dead might have nothing to do with the death of her friend, considering some of the stories she’d pursued through the years. Wolfe tamped down on his anger and tried to concentrate.

“Who hired you?” Mal snarled.

The shaky guy shrugged, his dreadlocks sliding over his shoulders. “Dunno. It’s common knowledge we’re available for odd jobs. Cash, instructions, and a phone came in an envelope. Right to the door. More money was supposed to come after, but it never did.”

What morons.

“There’s nothing more here,” Mal said quietly. “Where’s the phone?”

The blond pulled a phone off the filthy carpet. “It’s a burner, and I’m sure he used one, too.”

Wolfe grabbed up the duffel. “I’m taking it all—even the drugs.” He’d pour them down the toilet. Wait. Wasn’t that causing animals drinking from rivers to get high? Hmm. He’d have to figure out a way to dispose of the drugs later. When the blond started crying, he felt marginally better. Not much. Who was after Dana?

He led the way outside, his mind on the pretty journalist and not his surroundings. When the first bullet pierced his flesh, he was more surprised than hurt.

The second bullet whizzed by his ear.

He dove into some dead bushes as a volley of shots splattered against the house and splintered the front window into deadly projectiles. Quiet descended, and then the sound of screeching tires echoed from a street over. He peered over the bushes to the other side of the door, clamping a hand on his bleeding arm. “Malcolm?”

His friend didn’t answer.

Chapter Eight

Chapter Eight

Dana finished typing the intro to her story, trying to ignore the remaining cinnamon roll on the table. Pippa could sure bake. Dana had never experienced much success in the kitchen, but she’d never really tried, either. There was always another story to chase, and this one mattered.