Blurring the Line (21 page)

Beth listened as the disembodied voice of a foreign correspondent explained that four heads had been sent to the American consulate with a note warning the DEA to take their spies home. A picture flashed on the screen of the victims but there was no way to make out the faces because the network had pixelated them to comply with decency laws. In truth the viewer now would have no idea what they were looking at had they not just been told.

“Torres isn’t in South America. He’s in Mexico.” She breathed a sigh of relief. Beth should not be happy. They had lost four agents today. Four families had lost someone they loved.

But it wasn’t Torres. She closed her eyes. Thank God.

“Torres was in Colombia as of seventy-two hours ago.”

“Bullshit. I was just looking at a picture of him crossing into Laredo.”

“That was a week ago. He went to Colombia after that. There was supposed to be another shipment of cocaine.”

Beth shook her head. Patterson was winding her up. She knew he could be an asshole but this was out of order. You don’t make jokes about the safety of your agents; it was tempting fate too much. “I never gave him clearance to go to Colombia.”

“You didn’t have to. It’s above your pay grade.”

Beth squeezed the phone until her fingers shook. “What the hell do you mean? This isn’t funny, Patterson. This is a dick move, even for you.”

There was a long silence. “I’m sorry, Beth,” he said softly.

The use of her first name nearly undid her. He only ever called her Thomson or California. No! Her mind screamed.

“Did you send him to Colombia? You asshole!” If Patterson were there she would have punched him in the throat.

“It wasn’t me. This was the first I have heard of it.”

“Bullshit,” Beth screamed. “We are in charge of the Treinta task force. Nobody else could have sent him.”

“It is bigger than the Treintas.”

Beth took a second to process the information. It didn’t make sense. She couldn’t think.

“I’m sorry, Beth,” Patterson said again. “I know he was your recruit. This must be hard for you. I’m genuinely sorry.”

“Screw you. He had no business being anywhere near Colombia.”

“I’m sorry.” His voice was laced with sympathy. This wasn’t the Patterson she knew. Where was her misogynistic and borderline racist partner? This wasn’t right. Maybe it was another dream. Shit she couldn’t breathe. She was gasping but the air wouldn’t move past her constricted throat.

“Beth are you there?” Patterson asked.

She tried to speak but it came out like the squeak of a mouse caught in a trap.

“Take some time off. Go see your family. I can get it arranged this end. We’ll send a few agents with you. Take a week.”

Beth closed her eyes. “No,” she managed to say. She took a deep breath.
Torres is a detail. Focus on the big picture
. She repeated the words over and over to herself until she was focused enough to speak. She hated herself for doing it, making him one of the details she ignored, but she had to do it, she couldn’t keep going if he was real. She licked her dry lips. “Have they been identified formally?”

“We’re still waiting on DNA.”

“That will take too long. I need to see the original pictures.”

“I don’t have them yet. Beth, do you really want to see them?”

Of course she didn’t want to see them but she had to. “Yes. We need to make a preliminary identification. Who are the other three agents?”

“I have no idea. They weren’t ours. There is some talk that they were from San Diego.”

Beth shook her head. That didn’t make sense either. All of Torres’ associates were from Texas or Nueva Laredo. “Maybe it’s not Torres.” She was grasping at straws. “Check his house in Mazatlan. You personally, Patterson, I want you to do it. Also check movement on his passport. If he really flew to Colombia, there would be a record of it.”

“Beth, listen. Torres definitely was in Colombia and there is no record of him leaving.”

Beth shook her head. “He could have driven out. Check his house in Laredo.”

“We have. Both places are empty. He’s not there.”

Beth didn’t hear the rest of the conversation beyond something about DNA confirmation. “I can’t talk right now.” The phone slid from her fingers and hit the glass table.

Her head dropped. She held her face in her hands. Her heart hurt, grief and guilt squeezed it until she could feel her blood stagnating. Maybe she was having a heart attack. Is this what they felt like? Why couldn’t she breathe? How could her body hurt so much? Oh God she was going to be sick. Bile burned in the back of her throat. She ran to the bathroom, barely making it before her stomach clenched. There was nothing in her stomach but her body didn’t care. She was sick again and again until the bile she was bringing up was streaked with blood. She tried telling herself to let go of the details. It was all about the big picture.

But Torres wasn’t a detail.

“Oh, God,” she cried. She held onto the toilet seat as another wave of nausea hit her. Torres…not Torres. She slid down to the floor. The tiles were cold. And wet. Her hands went to her eyes. She was crying.

She lay on the bathroom floor for hours or maybe it was minutes. There was no way to tell. Her body ached all over. But she was grateful for it. She needed the pain. She deserved it. It gave her something to focus on, without it she might scream and if she started she might never stop.

Slowly she pulled herself up off the floor. She needed to get to…shit what did she need to do? There had to be something she should be doing. Should she call his mother? Immediately she rejected the idea. They needed to wait for DNA confirmation. It might take weeks…but those were weeks where Silvia Torres would still have a son. She would be childless after that. She had already lost two sons to gang violence. She needed those weeks. Beth needed to give her those weeks, let her world be whole for a little bit longer.

There was nothing for Beth to do. She looked at herself in the mirror. She could never be described as an American Beauty Rose but now she looked like shit. The blood vessels in and around her eyes had burst. Her eyelids and forehead were covered in a thick dusting of red marks. Even the whites of her eyes hadn’t been spared. She looked like a crime scene photo; it looked like she had blood sprayed over her. She turned on the water and rinsed out her mouth but she could still feel the acidic burn of bile. She swished some Listerine around her mouth and spat it in the sink.

She should get to bed. She doubted she would sleep but she should try. The sun would be up soon, as would Alejandra. Beth dragged herself up the stairs, holding onto the smooth wooden banister for support. The wood reminded her of Torres and immediately her eyes welled up. She ran her hand along the smooth wood. If Torres had built it, it would be better: more intricate. She wiped a tear from her eye and forced herself up another stair.

Tomorrow she would force herself to make Torres one of the details she didn’t think about but tonight she was going to let herself cry. She could pretend to be strong tomorrow.

Beth paused at the door to Alejandra’s room. The brass doorknob was cool. Beth opened the door and tiptoed across to her crib. The baby was sleeping on her tummy, her lips slightly apart, her hands and legs curled under her. Beth fought the urge to stroke her hair. It would wake her up, so she just watched her sleep until her eyes blurred from tears.

Eventually Beth made the trip down the long hall to her own room. If she was lucky there was an hour of darkness left. She would use the time to grieve. She didn’t kid herself that that would be enough time. She knew she might always carry it with her, but she could pretend she didn’t.

Beth closed the door to her room and kicked off her shoes.

Suddenly a hand was over her mouth and another hand was wrapped around her waist dragging her back. She tried to scream but the sound was strangled.

She needed to get the agents’ attention. They were in a van parked outside watching the house. If she could flash her lights, they might see and realise she needed help.

Beth lunged forward with all her might but she couldn’t reach the switch. She was dragged back further, away from the door, away from the light…to the bed.

She bit the hand across her mouth as hard as she could. She didn’t even stop when she tasted blood.

But he did not let go.

Chapter Thirteen

“Fuck
Gatita
, you even bite like a cat,” he whispered against her ear.

Her heart stopped in her chest. Only one person called her that. But he was…unless…

She screamed against his hand again.

“I’m going to take away my hand. Don’t scream. I didn’t think you would want the agents knowing I was here. Next time I’ll use the door and save myself the stitches.”

Beth spun on her heel. The room was dark but she could make out his solid form.

“Torres,” she whispered. Her voice was strangled.

“It’s me,
Gatita
.”

Beth lunged at him, her hands balled into tight fists. She swung her arm and her hand connected with his face. It felt like his nose. She swung again, this time she hit him in the chin. Her knuckles burned from the impact. She flattened her hands and struck his face with her palms over and over. She grabbed his shirt and pulled until the fabric ripped and then she hit him again.

“Fight back,” she hissed. “Hit me back.” She slapped him again and again and when her hands could no longer stand the sting, she kicked him. He didn’t move to stop her or block her punches. He absorbed each one. She shoved him hard against the bed. “I hate you.” She pushed him again. This time he fell onto the bed. “I hate you!” she said again. She climbed on top of him and hit him again.

His face was wet from blood.

“I hate you, Torres,” she said again. She lifted her hand to hit him again but she couldn’t. A sob tore through her body. She convulsed with tears as she fell to the bed beside him. He laid a hand on the flat of her back. “Let it out,” he whispered.

She rose to her knees. She wiped the tears from her eyes. Her hands were not burning any more. She needed to feel something again. She pulled again on his shirt. The small tear she made gave way as she pulled on the soft fabric. Her hands ran across his chest, the knotted scars of burned flesh. “I hate you,” she sobbed.

“I’m sorry.” He reached up to stroke her face.

“No!” She slapped his hand away. “I hate you, Torres.” Her hands ran over his chest again and then lower to the waist of his jeans. She unbuttoned them and pulled them lower on his hips. She couldn’t get them all the way off but they were low enough for her to reach for him.

She wrapped her hands around his soft girth. His body jerked as she stroked him, instantly growing hard in her hand.

“I hate you,” Beth cried. She let go of him long enough to strip off her jeans and underwear. “I hate you,” she whispered again. She crawled over him and positioned herself with him at the entrance of her body.

Torres reached for her again but she pushed his hand away, pinning it to the bed. “Don’t!” she shouted.

She slid down his cock. She didn’t give herself time to stretch or adjust. She wanted him inside her and she needed the pain. She wanted it to hurt so she could feel alive. She winced. Her body was not ready for him but that is what she wanted. It hurt and that is what she needed more than anything else. She rocked against him, her hips crashing against his. She leaned back and rode him, rocking her hips faster and faster. It stopped hurting after a few strokes. She rode him harder, trying to capture more of the initial pain, but it felt good. She was wet now and she slid over him. God it felt good, the way he filled her so completely. She leaned back so each stroke was not rubbing her clit. She didn’t want it to feel good.

“Beth, I’m going to come if you don’t stop.” Was he telling her as a warning or as a consideration? She didn’t care. She kept going until he grunted and she felt the hot release against her inner walls. She collapsed onto him and cried. Her whole body shook from the sobs.

“Shh, don’t cry.” He ran his hand over her back. She was still wearing her T-shirt. “It’s OK.” He said again but she couldn’t stop shaking. “I drove all night to get here,” he whispered into her hair.

Beth’s cheek rested against his; it was wet from her tears and his blood.

She realised she had made his nose bleed. “I thought you were dead.”

“I know. I wanted to get here before you saw it. I’m sorry.”

“What happened? Four people were killed. I thought you were dead.” She started to cry again.

“I know, I’m sorry.”

“I thought they made you,” she sobbed.

He guided her hand over the scarred tissue of his chest. “Nobody questions my loyalty,” he assured her.

Beth sat up and gently kissed the Santa Muerte tattoo on his chest. “I love this tattoo,” she said between sobs. And she did, if it kept him alive. “You’re not a detail I can pretend not to know.”

“I know.”

She didn’t have to explain herself. He understood what she was saying.

“Don’t worry about me.”

Beth shook her head. “How can I not worry about you? I worry about everything. You’re my agent.” She wrapped her arms around his neck and hugged him. “And you’re my friend.”

“If word got out this was one of the perks of going undercover, the DEA would never have a problem with recruitment again.”

Beth smiled. “Oh God, you’re still wearing your boxer shorts…and your jeans.” She covered her eyes. “Oh God. First you do something illegal to me and then I return the favour with a felony. I punched you and then forced myself on you. My God, who does that?” She pushed herself up but Torres wouldn’t let her go.

“Trust me,
Gatita
, we were going to be having sex tonight.”

“Please don’t try to make me feel better about it.” She turned her head. She couldn’t bear to look at him. She had completely lost control.

“Look at me.” He reached for her face but she turned away.

In an instant he rolled her onto her back and pinned her against the bed. He held her head between his hands so she couldn’t move. “Do you honestly think you could make me do anything I didn’t want?”