Combustion: Ensenada Heat Book Two

by Tess Summers

  Hopefully, with him about to leave for his last mission, she’d leave them intact. It was going to be his only form of communication with her, and it wasn’t going to be mutual. The burner phones they had been communicating with had outlived their purpose of secure, anonymous communication, and Mason was going dark, but with CIA-security level phones and computers, so he’d still be able to monitor the CIA-grade cameras in her house.

  He got her text and waited until she finished getting ready and made an appearance in the kitchen, where the camera facing the door leading to the garage was mounted, before calling her. His redheaded beauty was dressed in dark jeans that were tucked into her knee-high black boots, and a tan peasant blouse that was cut lower than he liked with him being so far away. She had disappeared from view when he picked up the phone and dialed her number.

  She answered with a sweet, “Hello handsome. Have I mentioned today how much I miss you?”

  He smiled. “You haven’t, actually.”

  “Well, I do.”

  “I miss you, too. You look beautiful. Where are you off to?”

  “Oh, you saw me? Just dinner with some friends and then bowling.”

  “Ah, yes. I seem to recall you mentioning something about your mad bowling skills and mopping the lanes with me.”

  She giggled. “That’s right. And the challenge still stands.”

  “Soon, sweetheart,” he sighed wistfully.

  “I know, you’ve been telling me that for almost two weeks now. How much longer?” There was a subtle whine in her tone. Not that he blamed her.

  “I don’t have an answer for you. And I’m going to be going dark soon.”

  “Dark? What does that mean?”

  “It means you won’t be hearing from me.”

  “Oh,” she said softly. “When?”

  “I don’t know that either. But I promise I will let you know before I do.”

  “Okay. Well, listen, I’m kind of running late… can you call me when I get home? Will you be around? I don’t even know where you’re at or what you’re doing anymore.”

  Or who you’re doing.

  She didn’t say it, but he knew it was in the back of her mind.

  “I’m still in the country, doing some intel for my next mission. And I hope it goes without saying, but I’m sleeping alone.”

  “I know. But thank you for affirming it. A girl can get insecure, especially when her boyfriend is so sexy.”

  “You don’t ever have to worry about me, Reagan. I picked my flavor.”

  “Well, hurry back and cover me with chocolate already!” she teased.

  “Don’t forget the whipped cream. Go. Have fun. I’ll call you back when you get home.”

  “Bye, babe.”

  Minutes later, his phone alerted to movement on the camera, and she blew him a kiss before walking out the door.

  If he made it through this mission alive, coming home to her every night was going to be worth the hell he was about to endure.

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Reagan

  They had two more conversations, and then Mason Hughes vanished from her life.

  He had asked if she wanted the cameras moved outside, but when he told her he’d still be able to monitor them, just not able to respond, she decided she still wanted them in the house. She’d gotten used to having one-sided conversations with him, and it made her feel like he was still a part of her life.

  It was going on five weeks since he left Fargo, and three since she’d heard from him—the same amount of time they’d actually been together. She knew from when Kennedy would disappear for months that this was normal, but Reagan decided to reach out to her sister for reassurance anyway.

  “There’s no telling where they’ve sent him, honey. If this really is his last mission and he wants to disappear with their blessing, they’re going to make him earn it,” the former CIA operative told her when she called.

  “I know. That’s what he said.”

  “Did he…” Bella hesitated.

  “Did he what?”

  “Did he also tell you it was going to be dangerous? Way more than a usual mission. These are ones where the agency may not have to lie when they say he’s dead. And because you’re not listed as his next of kin, unless Marcus or Jacob reach out to you, you won’t even know. Did you two come up with a contingency plan—like so you’ll be sure to be notified by someone he trusts, and establish a code for how you’ll really know if he’s dead or just listed as dead?”

  “Well, um, no. He had to leave in a hurry. He was worried his cover was blown.”

  “And was it?”

  “I don’t think so. It was Ric Casper and Brian Kurtz who were investigating.”

  “So Fargo PD then. Well, that’s good, I guess. Better than anyone else.”

  “Yeah, but he said there was no telling who was monitoring databases if they did a search using his alias.”

  “He’s not wrong. He did the right thing by leaving like that.”

  “Maybe, but it still sucks.”

  “I know, little sister. But he only wants to protect you; you can’t fault him for that.”

  “I know. I don’t.”

  “Listen, Madison is hungry and starting to get fussy so I gotta go. But if you need to get away, you’re welcome to come stay with us anytime. We’re back in San Diego for a few months while Dante opens a new dispensary on the East Coast. Say the word, and I’ll send you a plane ticket, even if it’s just for the weekend.”

  “Thanks. I’ll think about it.”

  “I’m here if you need me. I love you, Rea.”

  “Love you, too, Ken—er, Bella.”

  She hung up not feeling any better. If anything, she felt more worried. They’d left so many things hanging, and worse, now she was left with the knowledge that if someone showed up and told her Mason is dead, he might not really be dead. How the fuck was she supposed to deal with that?

  She came to the conclusion it would be best for her mental health if no one showed up to tell her that. Period.

  Still, she talked into the air that night in her kitchen in case he was listening.

  “So if Marcus or Jacob show up and tell me you’re dead—am I supposed to believe them? We never came up with a code for something like that, but I’ve been told on good authority that was something we should have established. So, tell you what. If you’re not really dead but I’m going to be told that you are, can you have Jacob be the one to show up and tell me?”

  Never mind that Jacob probably wouldn’t know either if he was really alive, or that Mason would have no control over how she was notified of his death, whether it was real or not.

  So when Jacob showed up at her house ten days later, she had no idea what to think.

  ****

  Mason

  The war zone he’d been dropped in was the ultimate shit show, and he wondered if the agency had found out about his involvement in Cartagena and was setting him up as retribution.

  They wouldn’t do that. Right? Marcus had come home alive with good intel and the yacht was returned no worse for wear. No harm, no foul. The CIA would protect one of its own—especially one as successful as he’d been.

  Kennedy Jones had probably thought the same thing on the yacht in Ensenada. Right before he got orders to terminate her.

  His taxi was pulling up to a white, battle-weathered ten-story building in Damascus. It was one of several that were still standing, even though three streets over, all the buildings were in ruin. The street was deserted, and looking around at the surrounding buildings, there were no signs of his backup. Shit did not feel right in his gut, and as he walked into the office building for a meeting where he was posing as an arms dealer, it hit him: Did the CIA know he had fucked up the Ensenada mission, that Kennedy was alive and well and now going by Mrs. Dante Guzman? Was this all a retaliatory setup? Did they know about Reagan?

  Fuck. Every cell in his body was screaming, Abort!

  He and the agency wer
e parting ways at the end of this mission, no matter how it ended, so before he left, he’d made sure his retirement funds had been transferred into his Mason Hughes bank account. That account was quickly emptied and disbursed into various accounts, and his brother had been given strict instructions that Reagan was to get it all should something happen to him. He also quietly deposited nine thousand, nine hundred and seventy-five dollars into her account—just under the ten thousand dollar limit that would require her bank to file a currency transaction report with the Financial Crimes Enforcement Network. The money was obviously clean, and he’d gone to great lengths to hide the trail to his Mason Hughes account, but he didn’t need anyone poking around trying to trace its origin and connecting the dots between Reagan and a CIA agent. But maybe the connection had already been made.

  If so, it wouldn’t be safe for her—or her sister. It could possibly expose Kennedy’s secret. Having a known relationship with Reagan would raise too many red flags for the agency to ignore. As he sat across from terrorists, promising to deliver weapons of mass destruction with the uneasy feeling that something wasn’t quite right, he had a strong inkling that relationship had already been discovered.

  When an explosion rocked the building, and no backup arrived to pull him out, his suspicions were confirmed. He had been expendable bait to bring down terrorists. He was hurt and bleeding, and left on his own to survive.

  He pictured Reagan’s face just before he blacked out. Maybe that was what gave him the will to regain consciousness. He crawled out of the rubble just before another explosion brought what remained of the building down, leaving little chance of survivors.

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Reagan

  In her heart, she didn’t feel like Mason was really dead.

  “Help me understand this. He’s not really dead, right? It’s just like how Kennedy is supposed to be dead. That was the plan,” she asked Jacob hopefully.

  He brought his arms around her and pulled her in for a hug.

  “This is what I know. His body hasn’t been recovered, but there was confirmation he was in the building before it came down. I’m sorry.” She let out a little sob, and he stroked her hair. “I hate the idea of being the one to steal your hope, but I don’t want to give you false hope, either.”

  “Why are you here telling me, not Marcus?” She was desperate to cling to anything that would mean Mason wasn’t really dead. She’d told him to have Jacob be the one to tell her he wasn’t dead if he wasn’t truly dead. She didn’t care that she had no idea if he’d even heard her tell him that.

  “I’m the only one who knows your real identity, so I volunteered. Although, Mason’s trust is being transferred to you, so as the executor, Marcus is going to need to know who you are and your vital statistics.”

  “Wait, his trust? I don’t understand.”

  “He created a trust with all of his assets and made you his sole beneficiary, after all his debts are paid.”

  “He did what?”

  Reagan knew he’d been the one to transfer the almost ten thousand dollars into her account last month. It had been confirmed when she received a card in the mail a few days after the money appeared—no signature or return address, just a note that said, Promise you’ll buy the flowers I never had a chance to get for you. And some sexy lingerie for when I get back.

  She went out the next day and did both, making sure to keep the vase of roses in view of the camera in case he was watching—which she knew in her heart he was. She had diligently made sure to keep fresh flowers at the house ever since. It was her way of keeping the faith alive he would be coming back to get her the flowers himself someday.

  “I don’t want his money,” she said quietly as tears streamed down her face, then broke out into a sob. “I just want him.”

  Jacob hugged her tighter and rocked her, murmuring, “I know you do. I’m so sorry, honey.”

  Reagan took a deep breath and pulled out of his embrace, wiping her tears with her fingertips.

  “He’s alive. I know it in my heart. This was exactly what he wanted—everyone to think he’s dead. I just need to be patient. He’ll show up. It’s all part of his plan.”

  Jacob’s smile was sympathetic, like the one he’d given her in the cafeteria of the Cartagena hospital when she’d told him she and Mason were in love. He didn’t believe her.

  Well, he was wrong then, and he’s wrong now. She just needed to be patient and keep the faith that the love of her life was going to find his way back to her.

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Reagan

  It was already almost dark out as she made her way home from the Friday class at the community center. Next week was the last one of the year, along with final exams for her students. Reagan stopped at the stoplight and looked at a couple in the Christmas tree lot. They were happy and smiling, holding hands while strolling through the lot looking at trees. Suddenly, she burst into tears.

  The car behind her began to honk, and she realized the light had turned green. She began to move forward, even though her vision was blurred with tears.

  There had been no word from Mason. No call or cryptic text from an unknown number. No anonymous card or letter to let her know he was alive and watching. Nothing. The realization that he was really dead was becoming harder to deny with each passing day.

  What made it worse was that she had to put on a smiling face every day. Other than Delilah, no one in Fargo even knew she’d had a boyfriend—how was she supposed to explain why she was grieving? She’d told her mama they had broken up even before he left. It was safer for Mason that way.

  Despite her protests, Marcus insisted on transferring Mason’s trust. She didn’t want it and dragged her feet sending him her information. It wasn’t her money. When he told her just how much was in it, it made her want it even less. The money he’d put in her account had made her uncomfortable enough; what was she going to do with millions? She still hadn’t touched a dime of the almost ten thousand, other than to buy the flowers.

  When she got home, she realized she’d let the ones in the vase die without replacing them. He was slowly fading away.

  Maybe it was time to stop this and let him go.

  With a heavy heart, she threw the roses out, washed the vase, and put it in the cupboard. Then she put her pajamas on, curled up in her bed, and cried the rest of the weekend. It alternated between sobs so hard she couldn’t breathe and a steady stream of tears. She neither ate nor drank, and any texts or calls were ignored. She was finally mourning Mason; it was gut-wrenching and horrible—and long overdue.

  When her alarm clock went off Monday morning, Reagan woke feeling prepared to face the day. The weekend had been cathartic, and she was ready to take on finals week. Maybe even handle the holidays alone.

  On second thought, she wasn’t that strong yet. She was going to take Bella up on her invitation to spend the holidays with her. Her mother had left when the weather turned cold.

  That afternoon, Reagan got a text from Amy, one of the women in her small group of friends.

  Happy Margarita Monday! It’s been too long since we’ve seen your pretty face! Meeting at 5:30 at The Pub for dinner and pre-bowling drinks, bowling alley at 7:00. Hope you can make it.

  She’d been avoiding going out, afraid Mason would call—or better yet, show up—and she’d miss him. Taking a deep breath, she slowly exhaled before replying. It was time to start living again.

  Reagan: I’ll be there! First round’s on me.

  ****

  Mason

  Good Samaritans had found him near the fallen building. Fortunately, they were vehemently opposed to the insurgents, and seemed to understand he was one of the Americans fighting them and not his arms dealer persona. As they slowly nursed him back to health, they never questioned who he was, or whether he had played a role in the bombing near where they found him that had killed several high-level terrorists.

  Mason hadn’t, of course. Not directly anyway. But his
government had; he was sure of it.

  Throughout his entire recovery, all he could do was worry about Reagan’s safety. He’d lost his phone—his connection to her—so he had no way of knowing if she was okay or what she’d been told about him. She’d have to have been given the news by now that he was dead. How long would she hold out hope that he’d show up? He hoped there would be no backlash for her connection to him, and he hoped Marcus kept his word and followed Mason’s instructions about her inheriting his trust.

  When he had first made the decision to leave her his money, it was with the intention that he’d be returning to her—so basically, he’d still have it, it’d just be under her name. Or, worst case scenario, he’d be dead, and she’d be taken care of.

  But now, Mason realized her life would be in jeopardy if he showed back up in it. Not to mention his—again; her sister’s cover would be in danger of being blown as well. It had been months since he’d left, and they’d only been together less than a month. Had she moved on? Was someone new reaping the benefits of his trust? He’d give anything to access her cameras again—if she even still had them up.

  He needed to get out of the country and back into the US. There were only two people he trusted to know he was alive, and only one had the means to help him.

  “Jacob Smith,” came the man’s curt greeting when Mason’s call showed up from an unknown number.

  “Jacob, you sexy son-of-a-bitch. How the fuck are you?”

  The fixer sat in stunned silence for a moment before replying quietly, “Well, I’ll be damned.”

  “Think you could help a buddy out, for old times’ sake?”

  “What do you need?” he responded without hesitation, his voice stronger now.

  “I need a ride. Out of Syria.”

  “Let me see what I can do and get back to you. How long is this number good for?”

  “Until I hear back from you.”

  ****

  Jacob was able to transport Mason on a cargo plane out of Syria into Athens, Greece. From there, he was getting onboard a chartered jet leaving for America. Slow-moving, he stutter-stepped in disbelief when he saw the fixer waiting for him on the plane.