by Katie Reus
As he cleared away the knot in his throat, his mouth pulled into a thin line. “You’re teaching her terrible slang.”
Selene just continued watching him as if she could read his mind. “I’ll figure out who she is. You know I will—and I won’t use my computer skills either. Just good old detective work.”
He snorted, then cringed when he smelled something unpleasantly pungent. Lifting Faith off his lap, he handed her to Selene. “I got the last one. Your turn.”
Her lips parted, likely to protest, but she stopped when his phone buzzed on the kitchen table. He was never off the clock, so it wasn’t a surprise that he was getting a call after what most civilians considered normal working hours on a Thursday evening. When he saw the phone number of an old friend, he frowned. This wouldn’t be work-related.
“Hey,” he said as Selene and Faith disappeared from the room.
“You busy?” Matias Deleon, one of his oldest friends, asked. Former CIA, now living in sunny Miami, he’d been enjoying his retirement for a little over a year.
“I’m free. Everything okay?”
There was a pause. Slight enough, but Wesley didn’t miss it. “Are you in Miami right now?”
So Matias was avoiding answering by asking a question. Typical. The retired spook knew that the NSA had a covert base in Miami. Whenever Wesley was in town, he got together with Matias. But he could tell this wasn’t a social call. “No.”
Another, longer pause. “I . . . need a favor.”
“Lay it on me.”
“It’s small scale for you, but I’m calling in all my favors for this. It’s about a girl.”
Surprise filtered through Wesley. Much like him, Matias had been a lifelong bachelor, married to the Navy first, where the two of them had originally met decades ago, then to his job. “Okay.”
“Before I retired I bought some condos when the real estate market in Florida crashed. Instead of flipping them, I decided to rent them out, especially since I’m living here to manage them. It’s been a good investment.”
Wesley pulled a water bottle from the fridge and stayed silent as Matias got to his point, which sometimes took a while. They’d been friends a long time and Wesley knew how the man operated.
“One of my renters is—was—a young girl about twenty. She didn’t have much of a credit history, but she’s had a hard life, so I went with my gut and gave her a chance. She’s been the perfect tenant. More than a tenant if I’m being honest. She’s become like a daughter to me.” He snorted self-deprecatingly. “Or maybe like a granddaughter. Whatever. She’s a good kid and she’s gone missing. It’s been about a month.”
Finding missing people wasn’t remotely his specialty, but Wesley had resources he’d lend to Matias if he was able. Before he could respond, his friend continued.
“She’s been living in the condo almost as long as I’ve been in Miami. We have dinner together twice a week and sometimes lunch more than that. She’s been working and putting herself through college, going part-time. Then out of the blue I get a letter from her—a fucking letter, not an e-mail—with the current and next month’s rent, explaining that she’s found a new job and will be moving out of the city. The letter read as if it was from a tenant to an owner with no clear personal relationship. Her place had been cleaned out and all her accounts closed. Not that she had many. There’s been no activity on her one credit card, and her cell phone has been shut off. By her, or someone claiming to be her. It’s not like she lapsed in paying her bills, she just fell off the grid.”
“Have you reported anything to the local police?” Wesley figured he knew the answer but asked anyway.
“Not exactly. I know a few local detectives, but she’s an adult and by all accounts she doesn’t look like a missing person on paper. And my instinct doesn’t count for shit with the cops. Not officially anyway. I’d just come off as an overprotective friend. And before you ask, the check was a cashier’s check with a return address of her condo. I don’t know what happened to her stuff, but it’s not in storage anywhere local that I can find. She quit her job the same way, with a letter. She doesn’t have a boyfriend, wasn’t having any issues with any men, no family, and only a few friends at school. She’d taken a semester off school to earn money, but she was planning on taking a summer class. This just isn’t like her and . . . there’s more.”
Wesley sighed as he heard the garage door opening. Levi would be home now. He figured Selene was giving Faith her bath, since she hadn’t come back to the kitchen. “Tell me.” He nodded at Levi, Selene’s husband and a former operative, as the man stepped into the kitchen. Maybe it was Wesley’s expression, but Levi just nodded once, then headed back to find his wife and daughter. Still, Wesley opened the side door to their kitchen and stepped out onto the porch for privacy.
“I couldn’t let this thing go, so for the past month I’ve done all I can to find more. Turns out there are similar instances of other young women in the same age range who have ‘gone missing.’ Not missing in the technical sense, but they’ve quit their jobs, then fallen off the face of the earth. Completely going off the grid. I’m talking no e-mails, no phone bills, no credit card or bank account use, no rental agreements anywhere, nothing. And the ones I’ve found so far have all ended their rental agreements the same way, with letters worded eerily similarly to the one I received. It could be nothing, but my gut says it’s not. They’ve all got a connection to Bayside Community Center—”
“Bayside?”
“Yeah, you know the place?”
“I know the owner. She’s above reproach.” She was newly married to one of his guys and a sweet woman.
“Maria Cervantes?”
It was O’Reilly now, but Welsey didn’t correct Matias. “Yep.”
Matias let out a breath. “I looked into her as much as I could and she looks clean. She one of yours?”
“More or less.”
“Okay. Regardless, there’s a connection at Bayside, but there could be more links I’m not seeing. I’ve done all I can, but I don’t have the resources you do.”
“Have you asked anyone at the Agency?” Referring to Matias’s former employer.
Matias snorted. “No. I can and might, but I’m asking you first. You have more resources than anyone I know, you don’t care about bullshit red tape, and you’re a friend. I trust you with this.”
“I might not be able to help you.”
“I know.”
Wesley had more questions and he’d get them answered, but for now . . . “Can you send me everything you’ve accumulated so far?”
“Yeah. I’ve saved everything online. I’ve scanned my letter and the copies from the other rental owners. I’ve got everything uploaded to a private file-sharing site.”
He’d been prepared for Wesley’s questions. Good. “Send the info to my personal e-mail. I’ll look at it tonight and let you know what I find.”
“Thank you.”
“Don’t thank me yet.” Miami was a beautiful place to live, but it had a dark underbelly. Drugs, weapons, and women were all sold for the right price. Recently he and one of his teams had helped shut down a huge sex-trafficking ring, but there could be others in Miami. Hell, there probably were. There was a lot of evil in the world, and unfortunately he couldn’t stop it all.
But he was damn sure going to try to help his friend. If the girl was being trafficked, he was going to find her and save her.
Wesley glanced up from his computer as his assistant/super-analyst Karen Stafford half knocked on his open door, already stepping inside. “You got a second?”
He held up a finger, then turned so she could see he had his Bluetooth in. When she started to back out, he shook his head and pointed at one of the cushy chairs in front of his desk. Sleek and polished as always, she nodded and took a seat, setting one of the many tablets she used on her lap. She worked her magic as he hurriedly ended his current call.
As he tapped the earpiece off and slid it out of his ear, he
looked at her. “So?”
“So, I know why your friend was a spook for so long. It’s taken us four days and considerable resources and we’ve found thirty-five more women to his fifteen. I can’t believe he discovered fifteen linked women with basically just doing on-the-ground research.”
Wesley wasn’t surprised but didn’t respond, even as his gut tightened. Thirty-five more women? Not good.
“They’ve all got almost identical socioeconomic backgrounds—tough childhood, placed either in the foster system or with relatives instead of their parents for long periods of time, all in the lowest income bracket. None of them are under eighteen or older than twenty-eight. None have a history of drug or substance abuse. They had a tough time growing up, but none of these women are addicts, something I found interesting and noted in my files. Ethnic backgrounds vary, but basically they’re young, healthy, and from the pictures, pretty women.”
Wesley nodded once. “This is good work.”
“There’s more.” Her tone was dark. “Your contact is right, they’re all connected to Bayside Community Center one way or another, but there are other connections including the owner of a couple local restaurants. Twelve of the missing women have worked for the owner, Amelia Rios, at one time over the last year. She has a background similar to the women’s and according to what I’ve dug up so far, she’s worked very hard to get to where she is. It appears she might have had some dealings with a local loan shark when she started her first business, but she doesn’t have a record. With her similar history and the connection, I wanted to note her too. Oh, and she changed her last name when she turned eighteen, which could be for any number of reasons, but again, I found it interesting.
“This is just the tip of what I’ve found, but after researching I’m convinced your friend is right. Fifty women, all living in Miami at the time they disappeared—that we’ve found so far—all leave their lives under the same circumstances. They’re all basically alone in the world, so no one will miss them, and they’re young and beautiful—and a legal age.”
They were easy prey was what it boiled down to. To hell with that. This wasn’t the type of case he normally worked on, but he was going to make an exception for his friend and because it was the right thing to do. He simply couldn’t look the other way, and he wasn’t letting another agency take over.
It would be tricky, but he was going to reach out to the local PD and set up a small task force in Miami to figure out what the hell was going on. He had enough discretionary funds to make this happen. It was possible someone thought they could step into Paul Hill’s shoes, a man who had run the skin trade in Miami for a long time. A man the NSA and other agencies had brought down—though he’d ended up getting killed in prison not long after. The thought made Wesley smile. He was glad that bastard was dead. “Will you shut the door?” he asked, earning a surprised look from Karen.
But she stood and shut the door before returning to her seat.
He had the perfect agent in mind for this op. “I know you’re friends with Ortiz.”
She nodded. “Yes.”
Nathan Ortiz had been injured in a Metro bomb blast in D.C. months before. He’d recently been cleared for active duty, but Wesley didn’t want to make the mistake of sending him into the field too soon. Wesley was the one who’d recruited him as a Black Death 9 agent. Ortiz was now a member of the NSA’s elite group who took on covert, off-the-books operations, but this would be his biggest op to date, since he was so new. And he was just coming off bed rest and physical therapy. Still, he was from Miami and familiar with the city in a way that would help him blend with the locals. Not to mention that one of his cover IDs was perfect for what Wesley was contemplating.
“How’s he been doing?” Wesley knew what went on under his purview, but Karen likely knew more about the day-to-day workings of their people.
She lifted her shoulders slightly. “He’s more than competent, but you need to put him back in the field. He does all his work without complaint and he does it well. While he has the skills of an analyst, he doesn’t love it the way Elliott or I do. And if you keep him here too long, you’ll burn him out. I think he’s starting to feel stagnant.”
Surprise flickered through him, but he didn’t show it. “He told you this?”
“No, but we’re friends. Tucker and I had him over for dinner last week and he said something about wanting to get back in the field. It was the way he said it. He’s ready.”
Wesley nodded, glad her instinct was the same as his. In the end he’d make the decision he thought was best, but he valued Karen’s insight. “Thanks. Clear your schedule and hand off anything that isn’t a priority.”
“We’re going to find these women?” There was a trace of surprise in her voice, probably because she knew as well as he did that finding missing women wasn’t what they did.
“Women are often used in the sex slave trade, and profits from their sales go to funding terrorism.” That was the angle he’d use for getting this operation off the ground. Because he was already involved and simply couldn’t walk away. Not when Matias had asked him for this favor and not when all these women were just disappearing without a trace. No one was looking for them.
Until now.
Chapter 2
Blown: discovery of an agent’s true identity or a clandestine activity’s true purpose.
Two weeks later
Amelia Rios took the tulip-shaped champagne glass from her date, Iker Mercado, with a smile. At forty-five, he was seventeen years older than her and definitely the oldest man she’d ever been on a date with. Not that she dated much, not with her schedule. But Mercado was interesting, charming, handsome, and he didn’t have a reputation as a man-whore. If he had, she would have declined his invitation. In her experience, playboy types tended to have little respect for her gender. No, thank you.
If anything, the man had practically lived like a saint for the last twenty-five years. She knew from gossip that his wife had died at nineteen during childbirth. He’d only been twenty, yet had raised his daughter and had never gotten remarried or really even dated. If gossip was to be believed, of course. In this case, she believed it.
“You look beautiful tonight,” he murmured, his gaze raking over her appreciatively. But not in a creepy way. Everything about him was so polished, from his tailored tuxedo to his genuine smile. When he looked at people or talked to them, he was always engaged, and none of it seemed forced.
“You look pretty good yourself.” She smiled, pasting on the brightest one she could muster. She rarely came to events such as the auction Mercado was putting on. She always felt like an impostor at things like this. While no one could say she didn’t look the part with her sleek black dress, new manicure and pedicure, and, thanks to a friend, an intricate hairstyle that looked as if she’d paid a fortune to have it done, she still felt like a fraud. It was her own insecurities, something she was well aware of. Didn’t change the fact that she felt like a big fake standing around with so many women of Miami’s high society, all of whom were decked out in glittering, blinding jewelry. Part of her that she hated admitting existed wondered why Mercado had even asked her to this thing. He’d pursued her decently enough too, asking her out three times before she’d agreed.
She was pretty, she knew that, but so many of the women were wealthy and elegant with the right pedigree. She was none of those things. She’d lived in dumps for years before finally getting her restaurants off the ground. Now she made a good living, but some days she still felt like that young girl working double shifts seven days a week and so desperate to claw her way out of her life that she’d have done practically anything. People who think money can’t buy you happiness have never been poor. Not that she actually thought money could buy happiness, but it sure as hell paid the bills and gave her stability.
“So, how do you think it’s going? Or is it too soon to tell?” she continued, taking advantage of it just being the two of them. Considering he was the one putt
ing on the silent auction for charity and was a well-respected man, they’d barely had more than a minute of alone time tonight. Oddly she wasn’t that disappointed. The man was perfect on paper and incredibly nice, but she didn’t feel much of a spark.
“I think it’s going well.” He stepped a fraction closer, letting his hand settle on one of her hips in a loose but somehow still possessive gesture. It didn’t make her uncomfortable, but it was surprising. “Though I now see that asking you to this for our first date was a mistake.”
Shock rippled through her at his words. Did he not think she was the right kind of woman to bring to this? “Was it?” Her words came out icier than she’d intended.
He blinked in surprise, a small frown pulling at his mouth. “We’ve had no private time. I’d like to take you out again soon, just the two of us. Maybe I’ll cook for you?”
Oh God, she felt like an idiot. She wanted to crush all her insecurities, but sometimes they just flared to the surface with no warning. The clenching in her gut dissipated when it registered he hadn’t been insulting her. “I—”
“Iker!” A female voice cut off the rest of what Amelia had been about to say.
Which was maybe a good thing. She wasn’t certain she wanted to go on another date with him anyway. If the spark wasn’t there, she doubted it would magically appear during another date. Deep down she wondered if she’d ever feel that “thing” with anyone. She had once, but that was so long ago. Over a decade. And she was pretty certain she’d just built up the combustible attraction in her mind. No one could have been that sexy, that intense, that—
She realized that Mercado was introducing her to someone. Naomi Baronet. A beautiful woman with bright red hair swept up into a simple twist. She was likely in her forties. Her features were sharp, defined, and elegant. Amelia smiled and shook the hand the woman was offering. Thank God she didn’t have to do the air-kiss thing so many people had been doing tonight. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
