INFORMANT (20 page)

"You're beautiful, Kylie. So damned beautiful."

“So are you.”

He grins at that, dismissing the words even though they’re true. Shifting slightly, he kneels above me, giving me a full and complete view of what I had only caught glimpses of before. Every inch of Beckett's body is corded in lean, sinewy muscle, without a spare ounce of flesh anywhere. He is tight, trim, and achingly beautiful.

Unable to stop myself, I place my hands on his shoulders and feel his muscles contract beneath my palms in response. His reaction not only amazes me, but gives me a quiet sense of power. He enjoys my touch as much as I enjoy his. With that in mind, I take my time exploring his ruggedly beautiful body. I trace the broad expanse of his chest, the power of his strong shoulders and arms, then let my palms drift downward, over the flat, rippled muscles that line his stomach.

My gaze travels next to the most intimate part of him and I reach for him. His shaft is long and thick, firm and erect. I lightly grasp his erection, holding him gently in my palm. The skin there is silkier than any other place on his body but every bit as firm and rigid, throbbing with life. Fascinating. I draw my fingers under his sac, feeling it bunch and tighten beneath my touch. Remembering the way he caressed my breasts, I lightly tease the tip of his penis with my fingers as he teased my nipples with his palms. His cock jerks in my hand, performing a tiny series of involuntary spasms.

Beckett gives a low growl of pleasure, catches my hand, and pulls it away.

"Don't you like that?" I ask, puzzled.

He gives a bark of laughter. "I like it too much, that's the problem."

“All right. Tell me what you do want.”

The lust in his eyes turns glittery hard. Sharp. A wicked grin splits his lips. “For starters? You. On your back. Beneath me.”

I don’t argue. I lay flat on my bed and his hands move over my body with wild abandon, as though determined to reacquaint himself with every part of me. He traces the rounded curve of my ass, the silky flesh of my thighs, the gentle sway of my hips, and tighten around my waist. He cups my breasts, brushing his palms over my nipples with a light, teasing touch until they grew hard and firm beneath his hand.

Then Beckett shifts his position and leans forward, bringing my nipple into his mouth. Shock and delight scream through me. I gasp with pleasure as my body twists against his. Encouraged by my response, he moves lower, tracing hot, lavish kisses over my ribs, across my stomach, and the tops of my thighs. He traces my body with his mouth, claiming me with a savage hunger that finds every sensitive inch.

I echo his movements, wantonly indulging my every whim and urge. I kiss his shoulder, his chest, his neck, matching his passion with my own. I lock my arms around his neck and slant my mouth over his, unleashing all the aching frustration that’s been pent up inside me since we were apart.

My nerve endings spark and sizzle. Impossible to believe I’d forgotten how good this was, or tried to convince myself I could live without him. I arch into Beckett, unconsciously pressing my belly against his groin. My fingers dig into his broad shoulders, drag down the muscles of his back. I need
him
. All of him. His body, his scent, his taste, his touch.

Imagine jumping off a cliff… and discovering you could fly. That’s what’s making love to Beckett is like. I’m weightless in his arms, soaring.

His hand drifts to my thighs. He reaches between my legs, cupping me in his palm. I arch my hips, eagerly pressing myself into his hand. Then he slips two fingers inside of me.

“Beckett,” I protest, giving a gasp that’s a mixture of shock and pleasure. I’m embarrassed, too. I want to exercise more control, more restraint, instead of melting so completely at his touch. “You can’t.”

“Kylie.” His breath comes out in a rush. “You feel so damned good. Hot and wet and ready for me.”

My breath catches in my throat and my pulse doubles. My self-consciousness erased, I lift my hips to receive his hand, biting my lip as he massages my clit in tight, teasing circles. Pleasure sparks within me. I give a small whimper, arcing my back and parting my knees to allow him greater access to my most private places. Heat builds in my belly and drifts lower, pulsing between my thighs. Just when I think I can’t take his erotic stroking a minute longer, he withdraws his fingers. They’re slick, glistening with liquid desire. The scent of my arousal perfumes the air.

Reacting purely on instinct, I grind my hips against his groin. The length of his stiff, hard penis brushes against me with every sway of my hips. Hot sparks of desire pulse through my veins. Hunger surges within me, laced with stunning urgency and sweet, possessive fire. I clench his shoulders, my nails biting into his skin in a desperate plea to bring me satisfaction. His gaze rakes over me, a mirror of my own hunger and raw need.

“Beckett, please.” That’s all I can manage.

He shifts his hips to position himself above me. His eyes lock on mine as he slowly inches his way inside me and my body stretches to accommodate him. Understanding suddenly floods through me. This is what lovemaking, real lovemaking, is all about. This glorious, intimate union between two people.

Then he begins to move. Slowly at first, almost teasingly. Wonder and desire explode within me as I lift my hips to meet his. With each slow, gentle thrust, my nails bite deeper into the bunched muscles of his shoulders. I wrap my legs around him, pressing the curve of my heels into his tight, male ass. I had no idea that coupling could arouse such primitive need. Such frantic passion.

My body strains against his, aching for release. Beckett begins to move faster, driving himself more deeply within me. With each swift, masterful stroke, a shiver of raw delight spirals through my body. I arch my hips, meeting his thrusts, gasping when his strokes find sensitive spots deep within me.

My muscles tense as I hover on the edge of some great, blissful reward. Beckett plunges deeper. Shuddering spasms of pleasure burst low in my belly and rocket up my spine. Ecstasy explodes within me. A cry of startled release escapes my lips as I’m wracked with blissful tremors, then my limbs turn liquid with pleasure.

Just as I find my release, Beckett tightens his arms around me. A shudder tears through his frame and a low groan escapes his lips. The cords on his neck tighten and his shoulders stiffen. His orgasm comes fast and hard.

Beckett collapses on top of me. Then, possibly aware that he’s smothering me, he wraps an arm around my waist and abruptly reverses position so that I’m splayed across his chest. We breathe slowly and deeply, taking our time to recover from the hot, sweet oblivion that possessed us. Beckett’s heart drums beneath my ear, his breath comes in short, shallow gasps. Basking in the afterglow of our lovemaking, I bury my mouth against his shoulder. His skin tastes slick and salty against my tongue.

I can’t contain the sigh of total contentment that escapes my lips. I feel drowsy, safe, secure. Utterly drained.

We stay like this for long, silent minutes. He traces his fingers lightly along my spine and says, “Kylie.”

“Hmm?”

“That’s not going to happen again.”

I leverage myself up on one elbow and look at him. “What’s not going to happen again?”

His eyes meet mine. “I let you slip away from me once. I’m not going to do that again.”

My heart swells, but I swallow hard. My emotions are running like a faucet I can’t seem to shut off. Time to pull it together. I’ve already made a total fool of myself bawling like a baby. No need to repeat that performance. I lay my head against his chest. My hair fans out against his skin.

“We can’t be together,” I say. “Not anymore.”

His body tenses beneath mine. He knows exactly what I’m alluding to. “The meeting’s tomorrow?” he asks.

“Yes.”

“I should be there with you.”

I don’t say anything. I don’t have to. We both know that’s impossible. Beckett lets out a growl of frustration. “What about your brother-in-law? Will he be there?”

“I don’t know. That’s up to Miguel Diaz and Sun Yee.”

At the mention of those names, the languid, post-lovemaking mood we’d been enjoying abruptly shatters. Beckett shifts me off him and sits up. He reaches for his jeans—tangled in the discarded pile of clothing on the floor—and tugs them on. Barefoot and shirtless, he begins to pace back and forth.

I reach for my bathrobe. It’s a red silk kimono thing that I picked up years ago in Chinatown. Tacky, but soft and comfortable. I slip it on and sit on the edge of my bed, watching him. As the silence stretches, I summon my resolve. If he tries to tell me not to go tomorrow, I will refuse him. I don’t care what I’m walking into. It’s not that I’m brave, or reckless, or have some kind of martyr death wish. I just want Dally back, and this meeting is the only way to make that happen.

Beckett must sense my resolve, for he swears beneath his breath. He drags his fingers through his hair. The tension coursing through him is palpable. “I don’t like it,” he says. “I don’t fucking like it.”

Nothing I can say to that, so I remain silent.

“Do you know where you’re meeting?” he asks.

“No.”

“What time?”

I give a small shake of my head.

“Christ.” Beckett studies the ceiling, then he looks back at me. “You still have your mike?”

“Yeah, but… didn’t you tell Reardon that I’m out? That I’m not a CI anymore?”

“No.” Beckett looks slightly sheepish. “I knew you needed a break. I knew you were pissed because I didn’t tell you sooner about Emma. But I never believed it was over between us. It’s not over.” Before I can press my point about not wanting to drag him into this mess, his eyes narrow as he studies me. “You eat anything today?”

I think about it. “No.”

He leaves my room. I hear him rummaging in the kitchen. A minute later he comes back with a half-empty sleeve of Ritz crackers and a glass of apple juice. “You and your mom need to do some serious grocery shopping.”

True. If we had a dog, it would starve. Except for our Sunday night take-out splurges, we rarely keep food in the house. I eat at school or at the Karma. My mom picks up food at work. Like the little old lady in the nursery rhyme, our cupboards are notoriously bare.

He climbs back on the bed and sits up against the headboard, pulling me to him so that I’m stationed between his legs, my back resting against his chest. He brushes his fingers along my thighs while I nibble the crackers and sip the juice.

When I’m done eating, my eyelids feel heavy. My limbs are loose and languid. I glance at the clock, astonished to see that it’s almost 11:30. I watch, drowsy and content, as Beckett slips out of bed and finishes dressing.

Before he leaves, he pulls me to him. “About tomorrow,” he says. “Let me know where and when. I’ll be there. The entire fucking DEA will be there. You’re not walking into that meeting alone.”

Day Seventy-Eight

Morning

Ricco sends word that he’s picking me up at twelve o’clock, so I text Jane the following message:
Bio test results posted at noon today.
Now that the
when
has been established, all I need to let him know is
where
.

In the meantime, I’m a total wreck. It’s been an awful morning. Jess called at six-thirty, panicked that I hadn’t heard anything yet. Naturally, her call woke my mom, who wanted to know what was going on. I know it’s unforgivable not to tell her what’s happening with Dally, but I don’t have a choice. We can’t risk her calling the police, and I can’t imagine her doing anything else.

So I calmed Jess down and lied to my mom, telling her that everything was fine, Jess just wanted me to pick up some teething medicine for Dally. Somehow that spiraled into a heated discussion about whether I’d signed up for too many credits next semester—a ridiculous argument that was nothing but the result of excess guilt, fatigue, and tension, I guess.

I’ve been shaky and on edge ever since. By the time Ricco arrives to pick me up, I’m so nervous I have to clamp my jaw shut to keep my teeth from chattering. I slide into the passenger seat of his Mercedes. He presses a kiss against my cheek, as though this is just a normal date, like we’re headed down to the pier to clam chowder and watch the sea lions frolic.

“Everything all right?” I ask.

He arches a brow. “All right?” he repeats, pretending not to know what I’m talking about.

“
Dally
,” I grit out. “Is he okay? Will he be there?”

Ricco checks his mirrors, then slips out into traffic. After a minute, he reaches for my hand and brings it to his lips. “Everything will be fine,” he says, but his words offer no reassurance at all.

I try again. “Is Ronnie coming with us?”

“No.”

Just that—
no
. Ignoring me, he turns the stereo to a local Latin station and blasts it up high. I don’t bother to ask anything else. The message is clear. This is Ricco’s game. He’s calling the shots and setting the rules. He doesn’t need interference from me. I lean back into my seat and pretend to study the buildings we pass. But out of the corner of my eye, I slant a glance at Ricco.

He’s singing and rapping his fingers against the steering wheel, speeding as usual. His mood is exuberant, almost dangerously upbeat. This has become a pattern, I notice. There’s a definite Jekyll and Hyde aspect to his personality. I don’t know whether he’s on something, or whether just being around his dad gets him jacked up. Either way, he’s feeling good. I remind myself that I need to be cautious. His mood swings are too violent for me to let my guard down.

I look in the side view mirror for a glance of the white paneled van belonging to the DEA. It should be trailing us, but I don’t see it. The vulnerability of my position suddenly strikes me. I have no weapon. My mom and I stash baseball bats in our bedrooms in case of intruders, but we’ve never had to use them. Even if I wanted to carry a gun, I have no idea how to load or fire one. But since Dally’s life is at stake here, not just mine, it’s doubly important that I do everything I can to protect both of us.

Once again, I’ve fastened my mike to my bra strap. I assume Beckett, Reardon, and an assortment of DEA agents are listening—if the equipment works in a moving vehicle. I didn’t think to ask, but I decide to assume that it does, and take a stab at finding out our final destination, just in case they’ve lost us in traffic. Given Ricco’s erratic driving, that’s not entirely unlikely. “Are we almost there?”

“Soon.”

We leave Highway One and head north on Geary Blvd. “I have a friend who lives right around the corner,” I say. “Over on California Street.” Beckett’s apartment. It’s not much—we’re still moving—but at least it will give them a general idea of our vicinity.

Ricco glances at me. He shrugs and says nothing. 

“Sorry,” I say. “I talk too much when I’m nervous.”

He gives a dismissive shake of his head. “It will all be fine. You’ll see. Sun Yee’s men will not dare challenge my father.”

Please, God, let him be right. Don’t let this spiral into a gang war, a shoot-out with an innocent baby caught in the middle.

We head north on Divisadero. Still no sign of the white van. My heart is beating so fast it feels like it might burst from my chest. I glance for another place marker and spy a familiar restaurant. “Ricco,” I say, “when this is all over, I’d like to take you to King’s. We just drove by. Have you ever been there? They have the best sourdough and soft-shelled crab in the city.”

He smiles and spares me a quick glance. “We will do that,” he agrees easily, then he goes back to his singing.

That’s probably all I dare say. Anything else and he might start to get suspicious. He slows as we enter the Marina District and head down Cervantes, passing all the pretty pastel apartment buildings. I practically have to bite my lip to keep from shouting out the street names. We swing onto Marina Blvd, drive a block or two, and then park.

Shock courses through me. I’d imagined the meeting would take place in some grungy, sinister warehouse. I mean, we’re talking two of the biggest drug lords in the city. Instead, Ricco leads me to the Palace of Fine Arts. Next to the Golden Gate Bridge, the insanely twisted Lombard Street, and the cable cars, this is probably one of the most photographed spots in the city. The art-deco style structure is stunning. It’s a huge open air rotunda with a domed ceiling, flanked on both sides by massive colonnade walls. It’s surrounded by walkways and manicured trails. A lagoon—complete with
swans
, for God’s sake—reflects the terracotta beauty of the structure.

“The Palace of Fine Arts?” I say. I’ve just given away our location, but my surprise is so genuine Ricco doesn’t seem to give it a second thought. He grabs my hand and tugs me along.

“Come,” he says.

In the summer, the park surrounding the Palace is packed with locals and tourists But it’s officially winter now. It’s cold, damp, and overcast. A few people stroll by, bundled up and enjoying the chilly Sunday afternoon, but mostly the grounds are empty.

I try to puzzle out why we’re here, rather than somewhere more secluded, and then it strikes me. In the first place, this is probably neutral territory. It’s public enough to warrant good behavior, but private enough for a meeting. Also, it’s hard to get trapped here. There are no walls hemming us in, and lots of ways in and out. If anything goes wrong, both sides can flee fairly easily.

It’s also open enough to prevent police or DEA agents from staking the place out without their presence being immediately apparent. I can only assume this wasn’t accidental.

When we round a corner, I spot Ronnie standing beneath the rotunda. Two of Miguel Diaz’s men are positioned on either side of him. They’re not restraining him, but the threat they emanate is palpable. I don’t see Jess, a fact for which I’m hugely grateful. Despite the cold, Ronnie is pale and sweating. Our eyes meet. I move to go to him, but Ricco’s grip on my hand is firm.

“Stay here,” he orders curtly.

My heart drums wildly. I scan the walkways and paths, but don’t see any sign of trouble—whatever that might look like. In truth, I have no idea what to expect. All I know is what I’ve seen in the movies: steel-eyed men with rifles slung across their chests facing off across a hostile territory. But that’s not what’s happening here.

Ricco and I position ourselves against a tall column. I’ve got so much nervous energy I can barely contain it. I want to
do
something. Instead, all I can do is wait. Minutes pass. I’m so tightly strung I feel as though any sudden noise would shatter me into a million pieces. There’s no conversation, only silence. Once again, my gaze locks on Ronnie’s. His dark eyes look blank, desolate. Just as I’m about to give up hope, just as the horrifying realization that I may never again see my beloved Dally creeps into my brain, there is movement.

Miguel Diaz enters from the north.

A Chinese man I presume to be Sun Yee enters from the south. The timing of their entrances is so perfectly orchestrated it almost looks like a synchronized dance. Crowded behind them both are five or six men—bodyguards, I suppose. They move into the center of the rotunda, and then stop and wordlessly acknowledge each other with a nod.

The air is so thick with tension it’s impossible to breathe. This is exactly the kind of situation that Beckett dreaded. The clash of two warring gangs—only they haven’t clashed yet. There is no overt hostility. The two men are like powerful, menacing dogs, each sizing the other up. They are polar opposites. Miguel Diaz is suave, confident. Sun Yee appears cool and reserved.

Miguel makes the first move. He smiles and spreads his arms upward from his sides, his palms open in a gesture that is clearly meant to signify goodwill. “Sun Yee,” he says. “It is good of you to come.”

Apparently Sun Yee does not speak English. The words are translated into Mandarin by the man standing to Sun Yee’s right. Sun Yee listens, and then favors Miguel with a single nod.

Their awkward dialogue continues until I want to scream,
“You monster! Where is Dally? What have you done with my nephew?”

Finally, Miguel turns and gestures to his men. They roughly shoulder Ronnie to summon him forward. I picture them forcing Ronnie to his knees in front of Sun Yee, but apparently this meeting will have to occur without the forced drama of that symbolism. The Palace grounds may not be crowded today, but this is still a public place. No need to draw undue attention to ourselves.

Miguel casually flicks his wrist in Ronnie’s direction. “Is this the man who worked for you?”

Sun Yee studies Ronnie with contempt. He is silent for a long, tense moment. When he speaks, and his words are translated as, “This is the thief who dared to steal from me.”

Miguel nods, and then turns to Ronnie. “Did you steal from Sun Yee?” he asks.

“No,” Ronnie says, giving a frantic shake of his head. “No, I swear. I—”

“Enough,” Miguel cuts him off. He looks at Sun Yee. “He says he did not do it. I have spoken to him at length. He tells me other men placed counterfeit money in the duffle he brought to you.”

“He lies.”

Miguel stiffens slightly. “Have you spoken to these other men?”

“That is no longer possible.”

“They are dead?”

The question is promptly translated, but Sun Yee takes his time answering. He gives a curt shake of his head and reluctantly admits, “They have left the city. My men have not yet found them.”

Miguel’s expression doesn’t change. “This puts me in a very difficult position,” he says. He turns and gestures to Ricco and me. “You see, the child you took is also the nephew of that woman. She is my son’s woman, and therefore she has my protection, as does the child.”

We all wait as the words are translated. Sun Yee doesn’t acknowledge them. Instead, his gaze is fixed on Ronnie. “This thief stole my money,” Yee says. “He took half a million dollars from me.”

“But you have no proof.”

“I do not need proof. I know it is true.”

“
I
need proof.”

Thick silence descends.

Miguel sighs. “Sun Yee. We are businessmen. We have worked peacefully together, both of us making money. I respect you, you respect me. We understand our boundaries and do not cross them. These are plentiful times. It would be very unfortunate for them to come to an end.”

“This matter should not concern you.”

“I have just explained why it does.”

The two men study each other. No one dares move. Diaz and Yee are playing an insane, sadistic game of chicken. If Sun Yee turns and walks away, Dally is dead. And if that occurs, all hell will break loose. It will be every bit as bad as Beckett predicted. Maybe we’ll live through this moment, but our lives will be over. Ronnie will be hunted down and killed. I’ll likely become a target as well. 

In that event, how will my mother and Jess survive? Horror engulfs me. I try to draw in a deep breath to calm myself, because I’m shaking so badly I can barely remain upright.

After what feels like eternity, Sun Yee speaks. This time his translator doesn’t translate anything. Instead, he turns and barks an order in Mandarin to the men clustered behind them. There is a flurry of movement. One of the men strides forward, a bundle clutched to his chest. I hear an infant’s muffled wail.

Dally. Oh, my God. Dally.

Ronnie tries to move, but Miguel’s men restrain him.

Ricco can’t hold me back. I jerk out of his grasp and lunge forward, wresting Dally from the strange man’s grasp. With my nephew bundled in my arms and nowhere else to go, I race back to Ricco, desperate for his protection should anyone try to take Dally again.

Falling to my knees, I shove aside the swaddling blankets and examine him. Dally’s diaper is a mess, his clothes are filthy, and he’s shrieking in protest at the way I’ve grabbed him, but he doesn’t look hurt. He’s in my arms, and he’s all right. Tears stream down my cheeks.