Several facts were clear.

Martinez was a federal agent, stationed at Ivy Hill as part of a drug-related investigation.

His brother-in-law had tried to kill a law enforcement officer and was involved with a local drug ring that appeared to have ties to Mexico.

And he and Margarita could no longer sit on the sidelines while this drama unfolded around them. Not if attempts were being made on people’s lives.

He’d discuss it with her tonight, but as he hurried across the frozen ground, the frigid wind whistling past his ears, his course was clear.

Even if following it could destroy the life he’d worked so hard to create in his adopted land.

18

ODD.

As Cate scanned the number of the incoming call on her cell, she frowned.

She’d talked to her handler less than an hour ago about another paternal visit. Why would he contact her again?

Brow still furrowed, she maneuvered herself into a sitting position on the dorm bed.

“Is that Mr. Martinez?”

At the out-of-the-blue question from Kayla, she looked up. “Why on earth would you think that?”

“That’s the expression you always get when his name comes up. Like you can’t quite decide how you feel about him.”

“I know how I feel about him.”

“Yeah?” Kayla angled sideways on her desk chair and grinned. “I think that tall, dark, and handsome thing he has going is getting to you.”

She held up the phone. “It’s my dad.”

“Oh.” Kayla shrugged. “Well, you’re not sure how you feel about him either.”

“Yes, I am. I’m mad at him for sticking me in the boonies and ruining my life.”

“Uh-huh. You should get that.” She waved toward the phone and went back to studying.

Cate pressed the talk button and struggled to her feet.

A whole weekend of rest would do wonders for her aching ribs, if she could hang in twenty-four more hours.

“Hi, Dad.”

“People around?”

“Yeah.” She walked toward the door. “What’s up? I’m on my way to the bathroom.” She exited into the hall.

“Let me know once you’re in a place to talk.”

“You got it.”

She walked down the corridor toward the communal bathroom, but halfway there detoured to the stairwell. After slipping through the door, she listened for footsteps.

Silence.

“All clear.”

“I have news.”

As the man briefed her on the incident with Zeke, her lungs stalled.

“Is he hurt?”

“No.”

But he could have died.

A wave of nausea swept over her, and she groped for the stair rail to steady herself.

“You there?”

“Yes.” She forced herself to take a deep breath. To compose the next logical question. The one a person without the history she and Zeke shared would ask. “What’s the plan?”

“The incident will be classified as an attempted robbery to the press.”