Blurring the Line (17 page)

“Martinez is smart. He could have figured out that Sanchez ratted him out. We shouldn’t jump immediately to corruption within the DEA.”

“Said the woman who claims to trust no one.”

Beth shook her head. “This has nothing to do with trust. I’m looking at the most likely scenario. Retribution is the most likely answer, but we won’t know anything until we find Martinez. First things first: we need to find a safe place for Alejandra. Her maternal family is in San Salvador. Sanchez’s family are all dead or involved with Los Treintas.” Beth would not leave a dog in their care, let alone a helpless toddler. “I need to call Patterson. I am going to let him deal with the bureaucracy of getting a minor out of the country. See Torres, I can delegate.”

Torres crossed himself. “Isn’t that one of the signs of the apocalypse, you delegating?”

“Believe me, I’m not happy about it, but it will be easier dealing with it from the American end. There is not a lot I can do from here.”

Torres agreed. “I feel like I should take a photo to document the moment you realised you can’t do everything single-handily.”

“I’m really not that bad,” Beth scoffed.

“You really are.”

Torres grinned as Alejandra babbled her agreement.

Chapter Nine

Beth couldn’t breathe. She was submerged in thick water…viscous and warm…dark.

It was blood.

Everywhere was blood: between her fingers, on her face, in her hair. Where was the surface? She needed to get to the surface. But where was it? She couldn’t see; everywhere was blood. Finally she was at the top. She made it. She screamed but nothing came out. She thrashed her body, her hands fisting, beating against the scarlet torrent, trying to make herself heard.

“Oh God,” Beth gasped. It wasn’t blood surrounding her; it was wet sheets. Beth squinted into the inky darkness. Panic seized her. Was it the baby? Was she OK? Had she wet the bed? Beth reached out and laid her hand on Alejandra’s back. It rose and fell in slow cycles. Thank God. She was OK. The baby was OK.

It was Beth: the sheets were drenched in her sweat.

Beth sat up. It was just a dream. She pushed the sheet off her and stood. She was consumed with the desire to run. She had no idea where, she just wanted to run and run until her legs gave out. Twenty-four hours ago she was convinced the nightmare was almost ever. How wrong she was. How epically stupid had she been? Turns out she was worse than her dad at recon. At least her dad hadn’t actually killed anyone.

She needed some air or a glass of water. Hell, a stiff drink wouldn’t go amiss.

She tiptoed out of the room so she wouldn’t wake up the baby.

Beth ran the water until it was cool on her hands.

“Hey, you OK?” Torres asked from the doorway.

Beth flinched, the cold glass slipped through her hands and shattered on the terracotta tiles. “Damn it. I’m sorry.” Her voice broke as a tear slid down her cheek. “Stupid. I was so stupid.”

Torres turned on the light. He was wearing boxer shorts and nothing else, his scars and tattoo were more prominent than she remembered. Half of his broad chest was covered by the morbid illustration. Beth sucked in a sharp breath of air. Instantly her fear intensified. Why? He wasn’t going to hurt her. If he had wanted to hurt her, he would have done it by now. So why wouldn’t her heart slow down?.

“I’m sorry,” she said again. Her voice trembled. She tried to bite her lip to stop the hot torrent of tears but nothing would stop them. They fell faster than she could wipe them away.

“Are you hurt?” Torres demanded, his face contorted by fear.

“I’m fine. I’m sorry I woke you up.” The words barely made it past the sobs. God she needed to get it together. It was just a broken glass. Beth sunk to the ground and started scooping up broken shards. “God I’m so stupid. It’s my fault. It’s all my fault.”

“Beth, stop. You’re going to hurt yourself.”

But it was too late. Beth’s hand was already bleeding. She wished she could feel it. Maybe the pain would dull the ache in her heart. “It’s my fault,” she whispered again.

“It’s not your fault.” Torres leaned down and pressed the softest kiss against her forehead. It was so gentle and tender and nothing she would expect from him. If she hadn’t already been crying, she would have started.

“It’s my fault,” she said again. She wiped another stream of tears away, the salt nipped at the fresh cuts on her hands.

Torres helped her to stand and led her through to the bathroom.

“Sit.” He gestured to the closed toilet lid.

Wordlessly Beth complied.

“It’s not your fault.” Torres examined her bloody palm. He squinted to focus as he pulled a small sliver of glass from the fleshy pad of her hand, just below her index finger. He rustled through his medicine cabinet until he found some antiseptic cream and a box of plastic bandages. He rubbed the cream gently unto her cut before covering it.

“I’m sorry,” Beth said.

“It’s just a glass.”

Beth cried harder. “No not the glass. I’m sorry for everything. I’ve screwed everything up. I’m a bad agent and I’m a bad daughter. I’m a bad sister. I’m a bad friend. I pretend to be good at things but I’m not. I can’t fake anything effectively. Oh God I’m a bad faker. Remember I couldn’t even fake an orgasm.” Beth couldn’t speak any more through the tears. She gulped frantically to get her breath.

“Shh,” Torres said as he scooped her up from the toilet and carried her through to the couch.

“You’re strong,” Beth said between gasps. She probably should slide off his lap but she didn’t want to move. She felt small and vulnerable but on his lap she felt protected. For the first time she was thankful for his menacing appearance. No one would mess with Torres and she felt safe by association. He was like a gargoyle warding off evil spirits.

She felt rather than saw his smile.

“I’m sorry,” she said again.

“Don’t be sorry.”

“Three people died today because of me. Martinez got away. We might never find El Escorpion. All your work has been blown to hell.”

“There is also a hole in the ozone and the national debt is spiralling out of control. You’re not responsible for those either.”

Beth shook her head. “Oh, Torres. I’m a fake. I can’t do this. I’m not brave enough or smart enough. I’m just not. I can’t do this.”

Torres pushed a lock of hair out of her face. “You’re brave, Beth, and you’re smart. You’re just shaken up. I was wondering when it would hit you.”

“No I’m not brave. I’m scared. Flores scared me, you scare me, my mom’s disease scares me. The thought that I really am a cat lady scares me. I’m scared I will die in my sleep and my cat will eat me.” God she was pathetic. Why did she admit these things to him?

“You probably should get rid of the cat. He’s causing you no end of grief.”

Beth choked on a laugh. “I’m serious. I’m faking it. All of it: the good agent part, the loving daughter part. I’m actually angry with my mom for getting sick. That is how bad I am. You said once you like me because I’m so normal but I’m not. I’m faking that too.”

Torres stroked her hair. “Everyone is faking it, Beth. You are brave and smart and kind and a far better agent than you give yourself credit for. Give yourself a break. You saw three people murdered today in cold blood. This right now is normal.”

Beth wiped another tear away. “Really?” she asked dubiously.

“Really.”

“But you’re not blubbering.”

Torres sighed. “It wasn’t my first murder.”

Beth started to cry again. This time her tears were for Torres. Oh god, the things he had seen. The things he had done, she had made him do. They were just details for Beth but for Torres they were real. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry I put you in that position. I took advantage of you.” She had manipulated him, used his past against him. There was nothing nice about it.

Torres laughed softly. “Darlin’, look at me and then look at you. You’ve never made me do anything I didn’t want to do.”

“You wouldn’t have joined the DEA if Archila hadn’t been murdered.”

“Unless you tell me you’re actually a double agent working for Los Treintas, I’m going to have to tell you to let that one go. The list of things you’re beating yourself up over is long enough. Take that one off. No one makes me do anything I don’t want to do.”

Beth nodded. He was right; he had to be. She didn’t need that guilt too. There was no way she could force him to do anything. If she could she would have forced him to give up his plans for revenge. “I’m being stupid.”

“It’s not stupid. I was waiting for this part to kick in. You kept it together far better than most people would.”

Beth’s skin warmed at the praise. She wanted to make him proud. “Except for the kidnapping a small person part. That wasn’t great.” She still didn’t know what she was going to do with Alejandra. So far Patterson had had no joy in locating any family in Mexico or El Salvador. Oh god, what had she been thinking? Part of her wished Torres had murdered her and dumped her in the desert; then dealing with the baby would be his responsibility. She had screwed up. Shit she had really screwed up.

“You were in shock. I’ve seen stupider things.”

“What about you? Why are you OK?”

“I told you. I’ve seen more than my fair share of murders.”

Beth paused. She shouldn’t ask. Torres was very clear; there were certain things he did not discuss. But she needed to know. She even wanted details. Because…because…it was Torres and for some insane reason she had a connection with the terrifying man she was cuddled up against. She wanted to understand him, or at least know him better. “Is this how you were when Archila died?”

Torres tensed; every muscle in his hard body contracted, rebelling against the question. She had gone too far. For a long time he didn’t speak. “No,” Torres finally said. “It wasn’t the same. By that point my emotions had been dulled by everything I had seen in Iraq. There were no tears, just anger, lots of anger and guilt. There has been plenty of guilt since then.”

She shouldn’t press her luck but she needed to know more. Her fingers brushed the hard plane of his chest where his scar was. The skin was raised and knotted, but the texture had the odd smoothness of new skin. The muscles below the skin hardened under her touch. “Was it Archila who pulled you to safety in Iraq?”

Torres nodded. “I was unconscious. My body was on fire. I would have died if it weren’t for Moses. I don’t even know if I remember the explosion, or I am remembering things I have been told. The only thing I remember was waking up in a hospital in Germany. I wish I could remember more then I might know what Moses went through. I might understand. I don’t know.” His deep voice trailed off.

Beth understood the logic. “You think if you remembered, you might understand why he got involved with Los Zetas?”

Torres shrugged. “Maybe. I should have that memory.”

“Because you want to feel that pain too.” Beth said. It was like when she cut her hand and wanted to feel the pain not just see the blood. She understood that need.

Beth pushed further. He may tell her to go to hell but she felt the need to try. “But you have the memory of Archila being murdered.”

“Some of it. I followed Moses. We had a fight. He told me to get lost. But I couldn’t. His life was spiralling out of control. The last thing I remember was being shot and Moses screaming at me to run and save myself. I tried to get help but I had lost too much blood. I collapsed and then I woke up in another hospital, this time in Laredo. Moses was dead. He had been shoved in a barrel and set on fire. And then I met you.”

“I’m sorry,” Beth said again. That was the Zetas’ trademark. She had read about it too many times to count but she never personally knew any of the people involved. Her heart stopped when she realised that the next body in the barrel could easily be Torres.

“Me too.”

For a long time they sat in silence. The strong thud of Torres’ heart beat against her side.

“I had a nightmare tonight. Do you get those too?”

“I find not sleeping helps with those.”

Beth nodded. “But they get better, right?”

Torres smoothed down her hair, the palm of his hand coming to rest on the small of her back. “Yeah,” he said softly. His hand felt good on her body, strong and warm.

He was lying, she could tell, but she was grateful nonetheless. “Thank you, Torres.”

“For what,
Gatita
?”

This time the nickname made her smile “Thanks for talking me through my meltdown.”

“Anytime.”

“Torres?”

“Yeah?”

She had already pushed too far but she may as well go for broke. She ran her hand along his chest again. “Why did you get a Santa Muerte tattoo? Was it an initiation?” She was glad they hadn’t pulled his teeth. Torres had a nice smile.

Torres shook his head. “I didn’t want to look at the scar any more.”

“That’s it?”

“That’s it. The tattoo made sense. People see it and no one questions my loyalty to the Zetas. But I got it for me because I would rather see that than the burns. Santa Muerte means nothing to me in case you’re still worried I’ve gone native.”

“No I’m not worried about that any more.” Beth took a deep breath. “I trust you.” Those were words she never thought she would say to Torres, but she did, on some small level.

Torres tensed. “Why now?”

Beth shrugged. “Because my expectations have changed. I am very intense and I’m pretty black and white. You may have seen that.”

“Yeah it has come up.”

“Well,” Beth continued, “I guess I’ve always thought trust was an absolute. Either you trusted people or you didn’t, so everyone automatically fell in the ‘don’t’ category. It is kind of my default setting. But maybe trust is more situational…a kind of nebulous thing. I may just be talking nonsense, so feel free to disregard all or most of what I say. But anyway, I trust you not to go native or kill me in my sleep.” If Torres were going to kill her, it would have been today when she took Alejandra. She would have killed her if the roles had been reversed or at least battered her to within an inch of her life.

“That’s comforting.”

“It is actually a big step for me.”