by Elisabeth Naughton, Cynthia Eden, Katie Reus, Alexandra Ivy, Laura Wright, Joan Swan
Her torn voice ripped at his heart like claws. He didn’t speak.
“Please stay safe.” Her voice was so soft he almost didn’t hear her. “Keep Mike safe.”
Goddammit. Deceived, used, tortured, and she was still worried about him. About Mike. She didn’t plead for her life. Didn’t try to use her knowledge of his background to save herself. She didn’t even ask if he’d ever really loved her. Rio couldn’t respect her more. Couldn’t love her more. Couldn’t want her more than he did at that moment.
The pain in her eyes—both physical and emotional—was enough to take him to his knees, but he couldn’t afford the luxury of weakness now. He took her chin in one hand, but not with the love and gentleness he would have preferred. His fingers clamped down, unnecessarily rough. He kissed her in a deliberate, arrogant show of callous egotism, a demonstration of the heartless smuggler he was supposed to be. Not surprisingly, she didn’t kiss him back. But neither did she spit on him.
As he lifted the gun, he walked her backward until the floor of the cargo bay touched her legs. Pulling away just enough to look into her beautiful eyes, he whispered, “I don’t deserve forgiveness, but I am so sorry. I don’t deserve you, but I love you. Forever.”
He released her shirt and splayed his hand over her chest. Put all his strength into that arm and gave one tough shove. She careened into the cargo area with a cry of surprise and slid along the bottom toward the back.
Rio pivoted, took hold of his gun with both hands, aimed, and fired. He hit Saul in the chest before the bastard realized what was coming. Rio zeroed in on Pedro, whose gun was already aimed right at him.
Rio squeezed off several shots but was immediately kicked in the gut by the force of a bullet. Pain speared his belly. His knees went out and he stumbled. His shoulder connected with the truck, and he dropped to the ground. Reflexively, he rolled, gaining cover near the rear wheel. Searing numbness engulfed his abdomen.
He scanned for Tomás, found him crouched by the driver’s door. “Go! Get her out of here.”
But he couldn’t keep his eyes open to see if Tomás obeyed. Rio crossed an arm over his gut to compress the wound and fought to stay conscious, aware Alvarado and Pedro were still out there. Movement whizzed and blurred around him. Gunshots pinged the truck. Shouts filled the arroyo, echoing off the canyon and coming from every direction.
“Don’t worry, partner.” Tomás’s voice pulled Rio’s eyes open. The other man had his back plastered to the truck’s side, his hands pulling at Rio’s shirt to check his wound. “I’ll get you out of here.”
“No!” Rio shoved Tomás’s hands back. “Take Cassie and go.”
Tomás lifted Rio’s arm and started to drape it around his neck. When Tomás tried to pull Rio to his feet, he aimed the gun at his partner’s chest. “Get her out of here. That’s an order.”
Tomás hesitated, reading his eyes. “You sonofabitch.” He dropped Rio’s arm and backed toward the driver’s door. “I swear, if you don’t come home, I’m going to kill you.”
The driver’s door slammed, and the engine kicked over.
Yes. Relief made Rio’s head light. He couldn’t think. His vision grayed out.
“Rio!” Cassie’s cry brought his gaze up. She’d inched back to the door and lay on her stomach, reaching toward him with her one good arm. A shot ricocheted within a foot of her, but Cassie’s focus never wavered. She stretched her good arm out to him. “Take my hand.”
“Goddamnit…” He gasped for air. “Get. Back.”
The truck lurched as Tomás ground gears, then started forward.
“Damn it, Rio, do what I tell you. Take my hand!”
He would have laughed at both her demand and the absurdity of having her, half his size and severely injured, pull him into that truck, but it would have hurt like hell.
A shadow passed in the corner of his eye. Javier appeared behind Cassie, grabbed her around the waist, and pulled her back into the truck. Rio blinked and looked again. They were both gone. Not Javier. Couldn’t have been Javier.
The truck pulled away. Rio thought of cover, of rolling behind a nearby boulder, but his body wouldn’t obey his mind. The adrenaline ebbed, and with it, the initial numbness. An explosive burn seared his gut, joined by a knifing pain. His breath dragged and stuttered.
As the last remnants of consciousness faded, he looked up into Alvarado’s face as the man pulled him into a military-style rescue hold and dragged him along the hard desert floor.
Chapter Twenty-Five
“I have interesting news,” Natalie said when Cassie answered her home phone, “but not about Rio.”
The bubble of hope that had inflated when Cassie had seen Natalie’s number on caller ID deflated. She hit the Speaker button and dropped the handset back into the cradle, awkwardly rising from her bed with slow, deliberate movements. She supported the leaden weight of her cast with the other arm and looked out her bedroom window. Mission Bay lay below, sparkling in the late morning sunlight, but Cassie’s gaze blurred over the water.
“I don’t care about anything else.” She closed her eyes, and a tear slipped out over her lashes. Damn, she thought she’d cried herself dry days ago. “It’s been twenty-three days, Natalie. Twenty-three days.”
Twenty-three days, sixteen hours, and twelve minutes since she’d been driven away from Rio bleeding in the Mexican desert.
And each day that passed with no news of Rio’s status chipped away at her hope. Each day without word increased the chances of her gut instinct becoming reality—that Rio’s injury had been too severe to live through. That he’d been bleeding too much to get him to a hospital in time to save him. She’d seen the lethal results of gut shots too often. And it was taking far too long for information to be released.
“I know, honey.” Natalie’s voice was soothing but helpless, the same tone Cassie often took in the ER. “But remember, Mike said—”
“They only kept me two days.” The fear she’d tried to hold back for weeks broke through. “I know I wasn’t as involved, but I also had two surgeries, stayed in the hospital seven days, debriefed for two days, and I’ve been home a week.”
“I’m sorry I haven’t been able to—”
“What’s your news?”
Cassie couldn’t take any more pity. And she’d hit her threshold for worry too. Fear had been exhausted weeks ago.
She was angry now. So very angry.
“The first is about Sharpe’s attorney,” Natalie said. “I was able to meet with him and confirmed that the payments you tracked from the estates funds were made in payment of Sharpe’s defense. Sharpe’s benefactor, one Saul Flores, now deceased.”
The information hardly fazed her. “The first means there must be a second.”
“Yes.” Natalie hesitated, then, “Second… Blake Sharpe…was killed in prison a few days ago. Seems he’d had a hard time there—didn’t play well with others.”
That did faze her—with a rush of strange emotions. She didn’t know whether to feel relieved or joyous or vindicated. But even Sharpe seemed so inconsequential to her now. Nothing mattered anymore but finding Rio alive.
“You’re…way too quiet,” Natalie said. “You okay?”
“I haven’t been okay for a very long time. I’m just realizing that now. How’d he die?”
“Stabbed—forty-two times. And just for good measure, his throat was slit.”
Cassie’s eyes slid closed. Ray Santiago and his secretary floated in her head, but she forced them away. She couldn’t handle that guilt now, not on top of everything else.
“Guess I won’t have to go to any more parole hearings.” She drew in a deep breath and released it. “Thanks for letting me know.”
She disconnected from Natalie and watched the UC San Diego crew team cut through the bay, leaving little more than a whirl in their wake. Jealousy stirred. It would be many months before her own rowing shell saw the water again. But she was alive. Thanks to Rio.
But she co
uldn’t thank him. She couldn’t even find him. She may not have been able to move from her hospital bed, but she’d still searched for him. At first with the internet and her phone. Then by pulling in favors. When that had gotten her nowhere, she’d hired a private investigator who’d taken over the search while she’d gone to surgery. And after even he’d come up with nothing, she’d resorted to begging Rio’s commander, Karl Kollman, for the most basic information. She’d even threatened him with a lawsuit—both professionally against the agency and personally against him. Not that she would have gone through with it, but she’d made damn sure she’d been convincing enough to make him think twice before turning her away again.
But in the end, Kollman had refused. She still had no idea whether Rio died in that desert or taken off to Columbia or Brazil or freaking Iraq on his next assignment.
And, wow, did that random thought put fire into her gut. If that bastard had gone and jumped the country on another job before explaining himself to her, before giving her the answers he knew she needed to go on with her life, Cassie would dedicate her future to hunting the man down and making his life beyond miserable.
Today seemed like the perfect day to start.
The offices of Immigration and Customs Enforcement were housed in the building for the Department of Homeland Security in downtown San Diego, overlooking the beautiful San Diego Bay. Cassie took the elevator to the sixth floor. Shoulders back, she strode into Kollman’s outer office.
Cassie greeted the secretary, Phillipa, and set a Grande Latte from Starbucks on her desk. The sweet older woman had always been so patient and compassionate with Cassie during her almost daily, and usually distressed, phone calls. And even though those phone calls had more recently turned into office visits, Phillipa’s kindness never wavered.
“Oh, what a pretty dress,” Cassie said. “Blue’s a great color on you.” When Phillipa smiled up at her, Cassie’s stomach pinched with guilt. “I’m sorry in advance. I hope I don’t get you in trouble.”
The older woman’s smile turned, her brow falling in confusion. Cassie strode by her desk and entered Agent Kollman’s office without knocking. Agent Kollman swiveled from where he sat looking out his window, the phone pressed to his ear. Surprise flickered into reluctant acceptance. Dark haired, dark eyed, very tall, and moderately broad through the shoulders, he was intimidating.
She shut the door on a flustered Phillipa, propped her good arm on her hip, and stared him down. Her left arm was already pounding inside her surgical cast. The pain often broke through her medication, and she found herself living in constant agony, either physical or emotional.
She stood rigid, unmoving, while Kollman mumbled understanding to someone on the other end of the line and set the phone back into its cradle. He stood, straightening to his full height, chest out, shoulders back.
“Well.” He pressed his lips together as he glanced at his watch. “Twelve hours. I think this is a record. I’m beginning to see why Rio had so much trouble with you.”
“Trouble?” Fury and pain created twin weights in her chest. Cassie pulled her spine straight to keep from sagging into the pressure. “You think this is trouble? This is nothing. Just wait until I’m not in pain twenty-four hours a day. Just wait until my memory is fully intact and my brain is at one hundred percent capacity again. Then, Agent, you will see more trouble than the Muertos or the Diablos could give you…combined.”
He crossed one arm over his chest, rubbed the other hand across his mouth, serious, intense gaze on her face. The gesture reminded her of Rio and pulled at her heart. “You are a bulldog, aren’t you?”
“And you know how to piss me off, don’t you?” She approached his desk with so much emotion trapped in her body, she was shaking. He stood nearly a full foot taller, but she never looked away from those dark eyes. “Tell me, Agent, what would you do in my position? Human being to human being, all protocol and politics aside, imagine trading lives for a week. Imagine having someone you love—your wife, or girlfriend, or maybe even a child—dragged into the Mexican desert, shot in the gut, and left to bleed in the blistering heat.”
His expression turned grave. His body stilled.
“Then,” Cassie continued, “imagine not knowing how it ended. Imagine tossing and turning all night, every night wondering if she’s dead, alive, or lying in a roach-infested hospital alone? Wouldn’t that make you cause a little bit of trouble, Agent? Wouldn’t that make you want to dig your teeth into someone and shake your head until they were…talking.”
She was sure he’d read between the lines and heard dead instead of talking. He was too intelligent, too sharp to have missed it. Guilt softened the hard line of his jaw. He dropped his gaze to the desk, uncrossed his arms, and slid his hands into the front pockets of his slacks.
She took a breath and forced her voice into something resembling professional congeniality. “I’m not asking you to violate any confidential information or jeopardize the work you’re doing in Mexico. I understand there are legal issues to consider and safety measures in place. All I want to know is that he’s alive, that he’s being cared for in a quality medical facility. If he’s not…” Her breath caught. “If he’s not…” She broke his gaze. “Goddammit, I need to know. This treatment is absolutely inhumane.”
The office door opened behind her. Kollman’s gaze lifted over her shoulder. Cassie didn’t turn, sure security was there to drag her out. She gritted her teeth and looked directly at Kollman. “Tell me that much.”
“I…uh, Phillipa called me.” The familiar sound of Mike’s voice made Cassie’s shoulders sag. “I was already downstairs, so I came right up. Hey, honey.”
She swiveled and hit him with what she knew was a pathetic glare. “I’m not leaving, Mike. I’m not leaving until I know…”
She couldn’t finish the sentence. She turned toward the window, unable to hold the tears back. She tried to wipe them away discreetly and regain control over her emotions, but the pain tore at her.
His large hand descended on her back. “Hang in there, Cass.”
“I can’t live like this anymore.” She heaved a breath, gathering her last ounce of draining determination, and repeated, “I’m not leaving until I know.”
Rio hobbled toward Kollman’s office, trailing behind Tomás, Raymie, Javier, and Xavier. “Don’t wait for me, assholes,” he called at their backs. “I’m good.”
“Someone left a window open,” Javier said. “I’ve got this annoying mosquito whine in my ear.”
Rio laughed. And even though he tried to limit the movement, his abdominal muscles contracted, and pain ripped through his torso. He stopped, braced himself against the corridor wall, and gritted his teeth against the fire.
When he could finally draw air, Rio was shaking and sweating. His eyes watered. And the guys had disappeared around a corner. “Fuckers.”
He limped to a chair nearby and lowered himself into it with the strength in his arms. Once there, he let his muscles relax enough to make the rest of the hundred-yard journey to his boss’s office.
Across the corridor, floor-to-ceiling windows looked out onto grassy expanses, and Balboa Park beyond. Crystal blue skies and the crisp downtown San Diego skyline should have made him feel free. This was the first time he’d been alone and unguarded since the military had airlifted him to the Naval Medical Center. First time since he’d awoken from surgery that someone wasn’t hovering over him with either a needle or a tape recorder.
He pushed from the chair and made his way to the window, wishing he’d remembered to bring the pain meds with him. This began his third debriefing, an unusual interdepartmental situation with ICE and CIA. He’d already been probed by psychiatrists for mental stability. Spent forever with ICE investigators poring over the evidence he’d collected and submitted over the past year. Even recorded interviews for the lead prosecutor in the case. While the lawyer wouldn’t admit to it, Rio figured that was in case the Muertos or the Diablos or Fermin or Suarez or one of
the many other Mexican officials broke through the story ICE had created about Rio’s death and found him alive and recovering in San Diego. Then, even truly dead, Rio could still testify in court.
It was comforting to know these guys planned for every scenario.
Though that scenario made Rio think of Cassie again—it had been all of three minutes since she’d crossed his mind—and he looked toward the ocean. Toward Mission Bay and the sweet little craftsman-style bungalow she owned there. His heart ached. What would he tell her when he could finally see her again?
More than once over the past several weeks, he’d debated which would be more humane—to contact her and explain, or to disappear and let her forget he ever existed. Let her heal. He’d like to think he was a big enough person to let her go. Strong enough to let her move on with her life, even if that meant moving on without him. But…he wasn’t. He’d never stop her from walking away or beg her to stay or screw up her life any more than he already had, but, no matter how long he lived, part of him would never, ever let her go.
But after all the lies, all the manipulation, all the smoke and mirrors… What did they have to build on without her basic trust in him?
She didn’t have all her answers yet, but she would soon. As soon as debriefing was over. And when she knew…everything…he couldn’t envision any way for her to forgive him for his involvement in the tragedy Saul had orchestrated. Rio had all but resigned himself to the fact that it would be far better to end things here, now, than to drag them out and hurt each other all over again three months, six months, a year down the road, when the reality could no longer be ignored.
But while he’d had weeks to prepare, he only hoped he could follow through when he saw her, because every time he tried to play it through in his mind, his virtual self dropped to his knees and groveled.
Rio turned toward Kollman’s office and slogged down the corridor again, a heavy hand on the railing. Mother of God, he needed those pain meds. Only right now, he needed them for his heart, not his body.
