Blurring the Line
Authors: Kierney Scott
When DEA agent Beth Thomson recruits ex-soldier Armando Torres as an undercover agent, she knows she has hit the jackpot.
He will infiltrate ‘Los Zetas’, one of Mexico’s deadliest cartels, and expose their drug-running into the USA. In turn, she promises to turn a blind eye to him finding and killing the rival cartel member who shot his best friend. Beth is good at overlooking the gruesome details of her job; her focus is the bigger picture – nailing ‘El Escorpion’, the mysterious and most-wanted leader of the ‘Los Treintas’ gang.
Torres soon climbs the cartel ladder, and has the tattoo markings to prove his loyalty. So when a secret meet with Beth goes wrong, his cover is strong enough for him to save her from his fellow gang members. His silence hints at the horrors he has performed to get him where he is, and his brutality and strength both scare and arouse Beth simultaneously. The heat between them is unprofessional and yet undeniable. But has he gone rogue? Can Beth trust him to put her mission before his own revenge? And can she trust herself with him?
Twice in a Lifetime
Dirty Little Secrets
Blurring the Line
Kierney Scott
K
IERNEY
S
COTT
is originally from California, but moved to Scotland to enrol in the PhD programme in Educational Research at the University of Edinburgh. Four days after she arrived, she met her husband, who persuaded her it would be more fun to get married than to write a thesis. After the birth of her daughter she decided it was time to go back to school, but soon she discovered all she wanted to write was romance novels. She admitted her literary proclivities to her husband, who promptly bought her a laptop and told her to start writing her book.
When she is not writing, you will probably find her at a spinning class or baking (read eating) cupcakes. Her butter-cream icing is legendary, if only in her mind. If you want her recipe, or you just want to chat, you can contact her at
[email protected]
or follow her on Twitter at Kierney
Scott @Kierney_S
For Alistair
In the words of Fleetwood Mac: Sweet wonderful you, you make me happy with the things you do.
And for Silvia. I love being your Gringa.
Thanks to Moroni Lopez Jessop for translating all the words that Silvia is too sweet to know. Who knew there were that many Spanish words for the female anatomy?
Contents
Beth Thomson forced herself to open her eyes. Hot pressure burned behind her lids. She swallowed past the lump in her throat and reminded herself that crying would only excite them. She could pretend to be brave. She wouldn’t show fear. The only thing she could control was her reactions. There would be no screaming, no tears. If this was the way her life was going to end, she was not going to give these men the pleasure of knowing the terror that coursed through her. Men like this thrived on it, required it, it was the currency that funded their regime. She could only pray that the man holding her could not feel her heart’s violent assault on her ribs. Her heart was one thing she could not control. She tried but it refused to listen to her commands to slow: stupid heart.
She took a slow deep breath, conscious of the cold blade held against her throat. Her eyes darted around the hotel room; there was nowhere to go, no escape. Even if there weren’t four of them, she was on the 15th floor. Even in her panicked state, she knew she stood a better chance against four gang members than the concrete 100 feet below.
She needed to think.
She could get out of this. She just needed to be compliant. It went against everything in her to ignore the reflex to fight back. Her training had taught her to fight, but common sense and self-preservation told her this was not a fight she would win. There was no doubt they were armed and she wasn’t. As a precaution she had come to the meeting unarmed and carrying no ID that would link her to the DEA. Her captor leaned in until his nose brushed the side of her face “
Hueles bien
,” he smirked, exposing a chipped front tooth. Ironic that he was commenting on how good she smelled when the only thing she could smell were the stale cigarettes that clung to his breath. She recognised him from his mug shot: Salvador Flores. Unfortunately for her, she also knew every crime he had ever been convicted or suspected of, and the list was long…and gruesome. Even among the ranks of a notorious drug cartel, Flores stood out as particularly savage.
She did not recognise the others, which meant they were not in the system, probably because they were too young. Los Zetas preferred their recruits young as they were more compliant and fearless and their moral compass could be pointed any way the Zetas needed.
Beth studied all their features, mentally noting heights and weights, every scar, every tattoo. If she survived this she was determined to be able to identify them later.
Flores ran a tattooed hand up her side, settling on her breast.“
Pequeno pero agradable
,” he hissed against her ear. When he spoke she could see the missing incisors; a testament to his training with the gang. He had joined Los Zetas as a boy, only 13, and like all young Zetas, or Zetilla, his initiation was murdering someone at point-blank range. And then his real training began: by enduring torture so he would know how to torture. In this case, his incisors had been pulled out. It was hard to say what else had been done. Beth had seen cases where Zetillas had had their nails removed one at a time. Others were burned. It was a brutal coming of age for any young man but the results spoke for themselves; the Zetas wanted killing machines and that is what their system produced.
His words were met with laughter from the other three men, each one staring at her like a vulture eying a dying animal, biding their time, ready to swoop in. Beth’s back straightened but she did not push his hand away and she didn’t let on that she knew he was talking about her breasts being small. She bit the side of her mouth to keep herself from giving away any clue that she understood them. Her Spanish was fluent, but it was in her interest that they didn’t know that. She wanted them to think she was just a silly girl in the wrong place at the wrong time. If they found out she was a DEA agent, she would be better off dead.
“
Quien es el primero?
” Flores asked, but the question was rhetorical as it was clear he intended to be first. He was the leader here. Beth clenched her hands together until her nails bit into the soft flesh of her palms. No matter what happened she would get through this alive. She had a chance if she could get him alone. She needed him to take her through to the bedroom. If she could get him alone she had a chance. More than a chance. She could get through this. She would not let them take her from the hotel. She had seen too many files with women kidnapped by cartels and given as gifts.
That was not going to be her.
Flores grabbed her chin and pulled her face to his and pressed his lips to hers. She couldn’t stop herself clamping her mouth shut. His response was to grab a fist of her hair and violently jerk her head back.
Again the room exploded in coarse laughter. His mouth came at her again, this time she allowed her eyes to close. She needed the small escape. His hands bit into her hips as he pulled her against him. This time she offered no resistance. She could get through this. She had to. A picture of her mom and sister came to the front of her mind but she pushed it away as quickly as it appeared. She could not think of them right now, how much she needed them, how much they needed her. Right now she had to put all of her energy into getting away.
“
Es mia
.”
She’s mine
a low voice hissed from the doorway, the harsh tone like acid, burning through the room.
At that moment everything stopped.
Flores’ hands dropped from Beth as his head shot in the direction of the threat.
Torres
. He was here.
Beth’s heart stopped in her chest. For a painful suspended moment, her blood stopped in her veins, stagnating in its course. And then a staccato beat began hammering against her ribs. There was an audible gasp. She could not be certain but she thought it was from her. When he had not shown up for their meeting, she assumed she would never see him again. No, that was a lie; she’d assumed it before then. She was always on borrowed time with Torres; once he got what he wanted, he would be gone. Lucky for her, he didn’t have it yet.
Torres crossed the room in long strides, the men parting to make a path. His head was shaved now, only a dark shadow gave the impression of hair. He looked bigger than when she had seen him last and more menacing than the photo in his file. He was six foot tall, but he looked bigger, his presence sucked the oxygen from the room. In a room full of armed gang members, at least one with a rap sheet longer than his arm, Torres still succeeded in looking like the most dangerous one of all, hell, the most dangerous man Beth had ever seen. His features were raw and brutal; even his full lips did not soften his face. Everything about him was hard and cold. Large biceps strained under his white T-shirt. His skin was darker now too, a dark bronze that was more to do with the sun than his Mexican heritage.
In second he was beside her. Powerful arms encircled her. “
Hola, Mami.
” The quintessentially Mexican greeting conveyed familiarity. She didn’t know of any other Spanish-speaking country where essentially calling a woman a small mother was considered appropriate, but Mexicans did it all the time.
When he spoke only half his mouth moved, making him look like he was smirking or snarling, or both. His eyes narrowed, seeming to convey a message just for her. He had never been this close. There were gold flecks in his dark brown eyes. They were the only thing soft about him, everything else about his appearance was brutal in its severity, crossing the line from masculine to menacing. He looked as much a nightmare as a man. He was too close. His proximity sucked the air from her chest. He still scared her, even after two years. Few things still scared her, and he was one of them.
His mouth lowered onto hers, publically claiming her as his own. Her tight joints did not loosen; her body would not accept that she was safe.
But she was.
Torres was here. There was no way these men would hurt her with him here. There was fear in their eyes when he came in the room, and deference, even from Salvador Flores. Torres was now their leader. For all the reservations she had about recruiting Torres, he had succeeded. He had not only infiltrated the cartel, he was now higher up the food chain than she could ever have hoped for. Cognitively she knew that she was safe in his hands. Despite her misgivings, she knew he would do whatever it took to get her out safe, not because he had any loyalty to her or to the Administration, but because he needed her. She was a means to an end for him as he was for her, a perfect symbiotic relationship, like a plover and a crocodile. Beth was all too aware she was the small fragile bird in this scenario, and Torres the powerful jaws of a prehistoric creature that could snap and destroy her at any minute.