A Tracers Trilogy

by Laura Griffin

  “Elaina.”

  She flinched at the touch and spun around.

  “You’re bleeding.” Troy took her arm and towed her toward the noise and lights of the tourist zone. He pulled her into an empty alcove where a bare lightbulb shone down from above a door. She glanced around for any sign of the two men, but they were long gone.

  Troy took her face in his hands and turned it. “Shit, he got you.” His thumb moved over her cheek. The skin at her temple burned, and she remembered the blade.

  Something fierce glinted in Troy’s eyes. The pulse at his neck throbbed. His skin was slick with sweat, and blood trickled from his lip. She could almost hear his heart pounding right in front of her. Or maybe it was her heart.

  “You all right?” he demanded.

  Her legs felt like noodles all of a sudden. He must have seen it in her face because he clutched her shoulders.

  “Elaina?”

  “I’m okay.”

  His gaze on hers was intense. “What was in the bag? Did you lose your gun? Your badge?”

  “My gun…” Her mind swam. She looked over his shoulder and tried to get control of her thoughts. “I left all that in my safe, at the Sandhill Inn. My bag had—” Her brain went blank. What had been in there?

  “Where’s your passport?” His voice snapped her back to reality.

  She glanced down. A thin cord. She fished the travel pouch from inside her dress. They hadn’t gotten it. She felt the outline of her passport inside it. “It’s here. I didn’t have it in the purse. It’s right here.”

  “Good.” He took another look at her temple and his expression hardened. “Let’s go.” And then he pulled her out of the doorway and down the street. She stepped in something wet. She looked down at her feet and realized her sandals were gone. Probably back in the alley. She glanced around. They were nearing the tourist area again. Some of the shops had closed down for the day, and music drifted from all the restaurants and bars now filling in with tourists.

  She spotted an armored vehicle on the corner up ahead. Beside it stood two uniformed men holding assault rifles. Troy seemed to spot them at the same time she did.

  “Should we—”

  “No,” he said. He glanced around, then tugged her into a nearby store. It was open to the street, the displays crammed in front to lure passing tourists. She watched mutely as Troy grabbed a T-shirt off a table and snagged a water bottle from one of the ice bins.

  “Come on.”

  He handed her the shirt and pulled her into a stream of pedestrian traffic.

  “Wipe your face up,” he said. “We’re almost there.”

  Elaina pressed the shirt to the side of her head. When she pulled it away, it was crimson with blood.

  He’d cut her. That asshole had cut her with his knife.

  Troy stopped at an alley. Someone approached them, and Elaina recoiled before she saw that it was just a kid. Troy spoke to him in rapid Spanish and paid him some money, evidently for guarding his pickup.

  The shiny black Ford was parked just up the alley, and she’d never been so glad to see a vehicle in her life. The passenger door was sandwiched right up against a building. Troy pulled open the driver’s side and held her arm as she climbed in. She crawled over the console and had barely settled into the seat when the engine growled to life, and Troy maneuvered out of the alley. Then they were on the street, cruising past all the shops and bars and brightly lit restaurants.

  She leaned back. Her shoulders sagged. She gazed down at the bloody T-shirt in her hands.

  “Clean that up as best you can,” Troy said. “We don’t need any questions at the border checkpoint.”

  Elaina picked up the water bottle from the console and twisted off the top. Her hands were shaking. God, her knees were, too. She squeezed her thighs together and tried to make them stop. She took a deep breath.

  “You got a car down here?”

  “It’s at a garage,” she said, “just north of the bridge.” She’d heard stories of American cars in Matamoros getting towed, and tourists having to buy them back for obscene amounts of money, so she’d walked the bridge and taken a taxi into downtown.

  Troy turned again, and the bridge spanning the anemic-looking river came into view. No traffic snarls at the moment—just drunken yahoos in sombreros clogging the sidewalks.

  She doused the T-shirt with water and tried to clean up her face. It stung, but she wasn’t sure she wanted to look at it. Troy’s reaction hadn’t been good. Would she need stitches? She tried to imagine herself with a Frankenstein scar down the side of her face.

  Shit, he got you. He’d cut her. What else would they have done if Troy hadn’t shown up?

  She’d done okay against the first one. Better than okay—she’d had him on the ground. She could have just run. She hadn’t anticipated the second guy.

  She should have.

  And then the hands were back, groping and pulling at her. Fear shot through her, so raw she could smell it.

  “You okay?”

  She glanced at Troy. He seemed so calm. So in control behind the wheel of his pickup.

  “Elaina?”

  “I’m fine. Just—” Shaken. Nauseated. Rattled to her bones. “Just flustered a bit.”

  His gaze hardened. He focused his attention on the road. There were several lines at the checkpoint and he chose the shortest one.

  She busied herself cleaning up the blood. It gave her something to do with her hands. She glanced over and realized he needed cleaning up, too.

  “Here.” She reached over, hesitated for a moment, and then dabbed the wet shirt against the side of his mouth. He didn’t flinch, even though it looked as though he’d taken a solid punch in the jaw.

  Elaina pushed away her guilt and resettled herself in her seat. By the time they reached the checkpoint, she looked more like a disheveled tourist than a woman who’d just been assaulted with a deadly weapon. At the American side, she half listened as Troy exchanged casual pleasantries with the border police. Elaina clenched her teeth against the pain and leaned her injured temple against her hand, trying to look bored. The last thing they needed was to be pulled over and detained for questioning.

  The officials waved them through, and she gazed at the side mirror as the checkpoint receded behind them. She closed her eyes and felt a flood of relief.

  Troy cranked up the a/c and turned a vent to face her.

  She swallowed the lump in her throat. “I need to pick up my car. It’s at that garage up there on the right.”

  He glanced at her. “And the keys?”

  The keys. She closed her eyes and cursed mentally. “In my purse. I’ll have to come back tomorrow with a spare.” Why hadn’t she tucked her key inside the pouch with her passport and that extra bit of money?

  She looked at him again. “How did you find me?”

  “It’s not too big a town.”

  “But how did you know I was down there?”

  He glanced at her but didn’t answer.

  “I spotted you outside the café,” he said. “But then you disappeared. Took me a few minutes to track you down again.”

  She heard the edge in his voice, and didn’t want to think about the scene in that alley. She dabbed the T-shirt against her head. The bleeding seemed to have stopped. She peered into the side mirror and tried to see the cut.

  They were in Brownsville now. She recognized the buildings, the exit for her apartment. A sign for a hospital appeared, and Troy skated across several lanes of traffic.

  “What are you doing?” she asked.

  “Taking you to a hospital.”

  “No.”

  He flashed a look at her. “You’ve got a fucking gash on your face, Elaina. You need medical attention.”

  “It’s just a scratch.”

  He glared at her.

  “Have you been to the ER in Brownsville?” she asked.

  “No.”

  “Well, I have. It’s a zoo, especially at night. I’m not setting f
oot in that place.”

  His jaw tightened. He shook his head.

  “Just take me to a drugstore, I’ll get a butterfly bandage.”

  Another glare. She ignored it and gazed out the windshield.

  The truck filled with silence as he took the highway leading to Lito Island. Elaina shifted her attention out toward the gulf. Soon the arc of the causeway lights came into view. He was doing ninety now, and an hour-long drive had been cut in half. He turned onto the causeway. When they were on Lito Highway, he took the first turn into a supermarket parking lot.

  “Lock the doors,” he ordered.

  He got out of the truck and walked briskly into the store.

  Elaina locked the doors. She leaned her head back against the seat and took a deep breath. She would not cry. She would not unravel in front of him again.

  She looked down at herself. A splatter of blood decorated her breast, and one strap of her dress was torn. The bikini she’d worn beneath her sundress to blend in with the tourists was bloodied, too, but she didn’t have a change of clothes. She ripped the second strap to match the first, then tied the two ends behind her neck in a halter. She gulped down the water and took a few deep breaths. By the time Troy exited the store with his cell phone pressed to his ear, she looked halfway normal.

  He passed her a grocery bag, and she stowed it at her feet beside the soiled T-shirt.

  “So,” he said as they turned onto the highway. “What else was in that purse of yours? Anything important?”

  Her mind felt clearer now as she recalled the contents. “Some money, my sunglasses. Retin A, Cipro, Viagra, ketamine.”

  He slid a glance at her. “Big afternoon.”

  “Yep.”

  “Cell phone?”

  “I haven’t had a chance to get a replacement,” she said. That was one bit of good news. At least she wouldn’t have to walk into her office and explain how she’d lost a second Bureau phone in twenty-four hours.

  They drove down the highway, and she gazed out over the marshland. The stars were out now. It seemed so quiet, so peaceful. And just a few miles south of here, everything felt like a war zone. The silence took hold as she let herself be mesmerized by the landscape. The marshes raced by—black shadows interrupted by glimmering fingers of water. She glanced around and realized he’d passed the inn. They were almost to the wildlife park.

  “Hey, where are we going?”

  “No more arguments.” He turned off the highway and onto a gravel road. His gravel road. He was taking her back to his house. Something flashed in the side mirror, and she looked over to see a pair of headlights. Her pulse leapt.

  “Someone’s behind us.”

  “I know.” He pulled into his driveway and cut the engine. A sleek black Lexus pulled up alongside her. A man got out. He wore slacks and a black golf shirt. He carried a briefcase. Moonlight glinted off his completely bald head.

  “Who’s that?”

  “Javier Lopez. Good friend of mine.” Troy pushed his door open, and the interior light came on. He gazed at her across the console, and she saw it again—that fierceness she’d seen in the alley. “He’s a doctor, and he’s here to take a look at you. And I meant what I said about arguments, Elaina. I’m fresh outta patience tonight.”

  Troy had never minded the sight of blood, but watching Lopez sew up that gash in Elaina’s face had made him want to puke. He sat on his deck now, staring out at the surf and waiting for Elaina to finish up whatever she was doing in his bathroom.

  Six stitches. That was it. It could have been worse. It could have been a lot worse if he hadn’t been combing a nearby street when he’d heard that scream. The panic in it—along with his absolute certainty that it belonged to Elaina—had made his blood run cold.

  He picked up the bottle from the table and refilled his glass.

  The door slid open and he turned to see Elaina step outside. She padded across the deck in her bare feet. They’d been torn and bleeding earlier, but she’d cleaned them up.

  “What are you drinking?” she asked.

  “Tequila.”

  “Is it any good?”

  “You’ve never had tequila?”

  “Not by itself.” She glanced around and seemed to hesitate before taking the chair closest to his. “Just in margaritas.”

  He scooted his chair around so that it faced hers. He reached out and tilted her chin up so he could see her wound in the moonlight. Six tiny black sutures. The skin at her temple glistened where Lopez had put ointment on it.

  “You’re going to have a scar.”

  “Probably.”

  He let his hand drop away. For a long moment, he just looked at her and saw that same hint of fear he’d seen earlier. He was glad to see it. She needed to be afraid. She needed to learn some caution and not go flashing her creds in places where cops had unnaturally short life expectancies.

  At the same time, though, he hated that look in her eyes. Anger churned in his gut as he took in her scraped cheek, her bruised arm. Fearless Elaina, who didn’t run when he told her to. Who waded through swamps looking for dead girls. Who spoke to desperate parents when everyone else with a badge wanted to run and hide. She still wore the torn purple dress with the blood on it, and Troy knew that if he had the chance right now, he would kill both those fuckers with his bare hands.

  She broke eye contact with him and looked out at the beach.

  He went inside the house to get another glass. When he came back out, he poured some tequila and slid it in front of her, then sank into his chair, facing the water.

  She lifted the glass and looked at the amber liquid.

  “It’s from Jalisco,” he told her, and then watched in amazement as she tipped her head back and poured it down her throat.

  “Well, shit, that’s one way to do it.”

  Her eyes slammed shut. She bent over and made a sound like a gagging cat.

  “Laina?” He pounded on her back. “Hey, you okay?”

  She shook her head vigorously, and he couldn’t help it—he started to laugh.

  Her head snapped up and she wheezed something at him.

  “You’re supposed to sip it, not shoot it. This stuff’s three hundred bucks a bottle.”

  She winced and shuddered, and he tried to soothe her by stroking her back.

  “It’s awful,” she gasped.

  “You just have to get used to it.”

  “Why would you want to?”

  He laughed again and combed her hair back from her face. It felt soft and cool, and he liked the way it lifted in the breeze. She cast a wary glance at him.

  “Guess it’s an acquired taste.” He picked up his glass and sipped. “Want something else?”

  “I’m fine,” she said, and glanced at her watch. “Anyway, I should be getting back. You mind giving me a ride to the inn?”

  “Happy to,” he lied, but then he didn’t move. Neither did she. After a drawn-out silence she leaned back in the chair and closed her eyes.

  He looked out at the water. The surf rolled against the shore, and he heard the distant sound of rap music from one of the nightclubs not too far down the beach.

  “Feels nice out here,” she said.

  “Yeah.”

  “Cooler than it’s been.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Thank you for helping me.”

  She put it out there casually, but he knew she didn’t feel that way about it. She opened her eyes and looked over at him. “I would have been in trouble if you hadn’t come. I’m not sure what would have happened.” She turned her glass on the table and looked away.

  “Seemed like you were doing okay at first,” he said. “Don’t know what you did to that baseball cap guy, but he was in some serious pain when I got there.”

  “Knee to the groin,” she said.

  “Nice.”

  “It was the other one.” She shook her head. “I didn’t even see him. He came right out of my blind spot. I can’t believe I let it happen. It was one of
the first things they taught us at the Academy.”

  She shook her head again, and he could tell she was disappointed with herself.

  And he knew what he should do here. She needed a friend tonight, a drinking buddy. If he had a decent bone in his body, he’d rise to the occasion and stop fantasizing about getting her into bed. He took another sip of tequila.

  “Don’t beat yourself up,” he said. “You just need to keep training. Take a break from the office every once in a while. Sharpen up your fighting skills instead of your pencils.”

  “I’ve definitely spent too much time at a desk.”

  “Then get out there, do some more training. It’s part of being a good field agent. Only way to learn how to fight is to practice.”

  She gave him a wry smile. “And I suppose you’ve had plenty of practice?”

  “You should know.”

  She’d seen his entire rap sheet, seventeen years’ worth of bar brawls and disorderlies and public intoxication charges. He hadn’t been arrested in years, though. He’d cleaned up his act.

  It startled him to realize he actually gave a damn that she knew it.

  She poured a splash of tequila into her glass.

  “You go to Mexico a lot?” she asked.

  “Now and again.”

  She took a tentative sip and winced. “That where you learned Spanish?”

  “Nah, I learned it growing up. Cinco’s house, mostly.”

  “You guys were friends? He seems younger than you.”

  “He is.” Troy tipped his glass and let the taste slide over his tongue. “He’s got four older brothers, though. He’s fifth. Cinco. Anyway, his oldest brother was my best friend growing up. Spent more time at their house than mine.”

  “Must have been nice, growing up with all those people around.”

  “Yeah, sometimes.”

  “Our house was so quiet.” Another little sip. “I’m an only child. And my dad was always working. Plus, I was sort of a loner.”

  “I can picture that.”

  “Ha. Thanks a lot.”

  “You seem like you’d have been serious, even as a little kid.”

  “I was.”

  “And what about high school?” he asked.

  “What about it?”

  “That’s when you moved to Virginia, right? I bet that was a tough time to move.”