Caught in the Act (10 page)

He slapped the cap off her head and fisted his hand in her hair, pulling hard. “You know what I’m talking about.”

“I was just trying to help my friend,” she said in Spanish. “She’s scared.”

Chuy accepted that answer; it was the truth. “Your friend better watch out. The next time she talks to the boss’s lady, we’re going to come after her. Break up her store, and her house, and all of her pretty little fingers.” He punctuated each threat with a tighter grip.
“Entiendes?”

“Yes,” she gasped. “I understand.”

He released her hair, watching it spill down her shoulders. Her chest expanded with each frantic breath, drawing his attention. Although her breasts were too small to notice, he looked at them. Her fear seemed to excite him. His gaze returned to her face and his hand to her hair, fingering the fine threads.

“Maybe you need to be taught a lesson,” he said.

She turned her head to the side, shuddering with revulsion. At the same time, she slipped her right hand under her smock, reaching for the pepper spray.

7

As an undercover agent, Ian had a protocol to follow.

If innocent people were in danger, protecting them took precedence over his investigation, with one caveat: he wasn’t supposed to jeopardize his own life. Instead of jumping into the line of fire, he was encouraged to stand by. It was always better to wait for an appropriate time to act. Dead men couldn’t save anyone.

Ian knew he would be killed on the spot if he broke cover at the Hotel del Oro. He wasn’t armed or wearing a wire because Armando patted him down on a regular basis. His only recourse was to walk away and call for backup. He doubted that his colleagues would get here in time to prevent Chuy from harming Maria Santos, but it was worth a shot.

Even as his mind formed that decision, his heart rejected it. He couldn’t leave the scene while she was screaming. Ian hadn’t been able to prevent her previous assault but he wasn’t going to let the same damned thing happen all over again.

He’d wondered about her for four years.

While he weighed his options, Armando stared at him in an openly antagonistic manner, begging him to make a move.

Don’t fuck with the maids
.

It occurred to Ian that Armando’s anger was directed at Chuy, not him. He liked Maria enough to warn Ian away from her. Armando probably didn’t want to stand here and listen to Chuy rape her, either.

Armando was a cagey bastard, impossible to read. When their eyes connected, Ian could only hope they were on the same page. Throwing caution to the wind, Ian lowered his shoulder and charged.

For a lean, average-sized guy, Armando was deceptively solid. Ian felt like he was ramming a brick wall. He slammed his opponent’s back into the office window with enough force to shatter the glass. The entire building seemed to quiver as the crash reverberated through the courtyard.

Ian grunted in satisfaction; he wanted Chuy to hear the commotion and come out to investigate.

Armando was a tough son of a bitch, barely fazed by the impact. He jammed his knuckles into Ian’s midsection, striking a ferocious blow, and it was game on. Ian didn’t worry about being stoic or fighting with finesse. Wincing in pain, he retaliated with a hard left. Although Ian had a slight weight advantage and a longer reach, Armando came up swinging, giving as good as he got. He advanced, socking Ian in the stomach.

Ian fell into a potted plant, breaking it in half as Armando tackled him to the ground. Fists flying, they rolled across potting soil and shards of glass. Ian’s elbow scraped the cement, leaving a bloody trail. Armando grabbed him by the front of the shirt and started whaling
on him. He wasn’t pulling any punches, but he wasn’t going for the kill, either. It was more of a no-holds-barred sparring session than a battle to the death.

If Chuy hadn’t intervened, Armando might have beaten him unconscious, just for fun. “Quit fucking around!” Chuy roared, pulling them apart.

Armando rose to his feet, brushing dirt and glass from his clothes. Still stunned from the final blows, Ian stayed down on the ground, trying to catch his breath. To his intense relief, Maria slipped out of the office and hurried away, her long hair spilling down her back. Chuy watched her go, saying nothing.

Chuy turned to Armando, his eyes blazing with anger.
“Que pasó?”

“He jumped me,” Armando said.

“You were stepping up?” Chuy asked Ian, incredulous.

Ian glanced at Maria’s retreating form, feigning confusion. Chuy wanted to know if Ian was challenging his authority, questioning his treatment of women. “No,” he said, straightening to a sitting position. “Oh, hell no. I don’t care what you do with the maids. If I were you, I’d be getting my dick sucked all day long—”

Chuy slapped him across the face. “Shut the fuck up. What the fuck is wrong with you? How dare you attack one of my men on my turf?”

Ian stared at the mess they’d made of the courtyard, wondering if this was the end. Chuy might take him into the back room and shoot him in the head.

“No me importa,”
Armando said, spitting blood into the bushes.
It doesn’t matter
.

“Fuck you,” Ian said, pointing at his rival like a schoolboy who’d been caught brawling. “This motherfucker
is always taunting me, carving little animals and shit. Everyone knows he’s a shady bastard.”

Chuy glanced at Armando. “Did you carve something for him?”

“Un burro.”

“You are a shady bastard,” he agreed, seeming amused.

Armando spat blood again, not denying it. Other than a minor scrape on his cheek, he looked no worse for the wear. Ian wasn’t so lucky. His shirt was torn down the front, his knuckles were scraped, and his left eye was swelling fast.

He’d gotten his ass kicked.

Chuy reached out, helping Ian to his feet. “Next time he’ll carve your face,” he said, squeezing Ian’s bruised hand hard enough to bring tears to his eyes. “Now get the fuck out of here, and don’t come back until Tuesday.”

Ian didn’t have to be told twice. He limped away with a pocketful of dope and a heap of new troubles, feeling more alive than he had in weeks.

Kari watched Adam out of the corner of her eye while they painted the brick wall.

Over the past few days he’d become even more attractive to her. Maybe because she knew he liked her, or because she couldn’t have him. He was nice, but not
too
nice. Confident, but not self-important. It seemed impossible that a man so good-looking could have an equally appealing personality.

He was wearing casual clothes again, jeans and an old T-shirt. His skin was bronzed, his hair a shiny coal
black. The grain of stubble along his jaw invited her to touch. She liked his lean muscles, his strong white teeth, and the way his jeans fit. Every time he lifted the paint roller, his biceps flexed, and her heart twittered.

His T-shirt got damp at the center of his back; he was working hard for her. He smelled like clean sweat and spicy soap.

Kari wiped the perspiration from her own forehead, trying to concentrate on painting her section of the wall. It was blazing hot out, at least 90 degrees in the direct sunlight. She felt like turning the hose on herself.

God. This was torture.

He wasn’t making much conversation, which was fine. She appreciated the fact that his offer to help her came with no particular agenda, no specific expectations. He didn’t seem to care if she never went out with him. His ego could handle it.

Adam’s relaxed attitude made him harder to resist, ironically. His quiet assurance, that hint of mystery—all very sexy.

“So … fighting terrorism is your main objective?” she said, picking up the thread of their last conversation.

“Most of our day-to-day efforts involve drug smuggling prevention and detection,” he explained. “But yes, terrorism is our top priority. And sometimes the two are related.”

“How so?”

“Drug smugglers and terrorists use the same technology, the same weapons, the same methods of entering the country. Terrorists have been known to work with the cartels. Their activities are funded by selling drugs to U.S. citizens.”

Kari tried to smother another wave of guilt and anxiety.
On Tuesday she’d be doing her part to fund terrorism. Hooray. “What about immigration?”

“What about it?”

She glanced at him, wondering if she should drop the subject. Surely their opinions would diverge on this topic. “Do you ever feel bad for the people you catch? The ones who don’t make it?”

“No,” he said. “I hate seeing kids get hurt, but I don’t have any sympathy for the coyotes who put them in danger, or the parents who cram them into tiny, airless spaces. What they’re doing is criminal.”

Kari cringed, thinking about the box Maria had crossed the border in. “Okay, but I have a hard time judging anyone for wanting a better life. I mean, I’m an immigrant myself. My family did the same thing.”

“Legally, I assume.”

“I wouldn’t tell you otherwise,” she said, only half joking.

“You know who I feel bad for? The legal immigrants, who still get treated like second-class Americans. I feel bad for the ones who do their paperwork, play by the rules, and wait at the back of the line.” He finished painting, dropping his roller into the empty bucket. “You know, some asshole spit on my mother once at an anti-immigration rally. She was there to stick up for Mexican American
citizens
. Because the drug smugglers, gang members, and violent criminals give the rest of us a bad name.”

Kari couldn’t imagine the rage she’d feel if a man spat on her mother. So she could sympathize with him, even though he was wrong. “Why is the immigration debate always about dark-skinned people? No one seems to
think that Canadian and European immigrants are ruining our country.”

“The overwhelming majority of illegal immigrants come from Latin America. It’s not a race issue.”

“Of course it’s a race issue,” she countered. “It’s also a humanitarian issue. We have a responsibility to be good neighbors, and to help those in need—”

“What do you suggest to solve the problem, open borders? Could your store survive the economic crisis that would result?”

She sighed, shaking her head. He had her there.

“I suppose you think we should legalize drugs, too.”

“No,” she said, frowning. Despite her current predicament, she didn’t want street drugs to be more accessible. Immigration had made this country great; illegal substances were destroying it, little by little. Kari hated drugs, and what they’d done to her sister, with a passion. “I’d never support that cause.”

“Really? You look like a medical marijuana lover to me.”

It took her a second to realize he was teasing. They’d just had a heated discussion, but he wasn’t bothered by their differing opinions. He’d treated her respectfully and was enough of a gentleman to want to lighten the mood.

When he set his paint roller down in an empty tray, Kari grabbed a wet sponge from her bucket and threw it at him. It hit the back of his head with a splash.

That wiped the smile off his face. He straightened, staring at her in amazement.

She started giggling, as surprised by the impulsive action as he was. When he picked up the sponge to retaliate, she let out a little shriek, backing away from him. “I
was going for your shoulder,” she said, covering her head with her arms.

“You have bad aim.”

“I’m sorry!”

He caught her before she could run around the corner, trapping her against the wall while he squeezed the sponge over her head. It was clean, cold water, wetting her hair and shoulders. She put up a token resistance, sputtering with laughter.

Trying not to get paint on her clothes, she stumbled sideways and almost tripped over the curb. Still laughing, she reached out to steady herself, grabbing his arm. Before she found her balance, the edge of her foot was pierced by a stabbing pain. When she’d swept up the shards of glass, she must have missed one.

She gasped, lifting her injured foot off the ground.

Adam stopped soaking her with the sponge and looked down at her foot, which was already bleeding. “Shit,” he said, chagrined. In the next instant he’d tossed the sponge aside and picked her up, carrying her toward the storage room.

Kari marveled at how easily he handled her weight. The wound was minor, not warranting this level of chivalry, but she made no protest. While blood dripped from her toes, she clung to his shoulders, enjoying the ride.

“Where are the first aid supplies?”

“Bathroom,” she said, pointing.

He sat her down on the edge of the counter and she put her foot in the sink, studying the gash as water rushed over it. She didn’t think it needed stitches. He dried her foot with a clean towel, patting it gingerly. “Jesus, I’m sorry.”

“What for?”

“I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

“You didn’t. The piece of glass did.”

“Well, I feel bad.”

“Don’t be silly. I’m fine.”

He found supplies in the medicine cabinet and bandaged her foot carefully. She started giggling again, picturing the look on his face when she’d thrown the sponge. The corner of his mouth tipped up, and his gaze traveled along her bare legs, taking the scenic route.