The Edge of Obsession

by Diana Muñoz Stewart

  “A lime-green Cadillac, such a lovely car color.”

  He nodded, grinning like an idiot. The thing in his throat that was supposed to operate airflow, allowing him to utter words, blocked up completely.

  She gestured at the car. “Are you going to unlock the car?”

  Fuck. The door, mate. Mouth still seeking air, he hit the unlock button.

  She went around to the other side, threw a backpack onto the floor, then slid into her seat with one long leg leading the way. He’d thought she was beautiful in her habit. That getup had dulled her. As had her contacts. “Those are your eyes.”

  Reaching up, she removed the hat from her head. “I’m surprised you could tell. Yes. The brown are my contacts.”

  It was the first time he’d seen her hair. Shorn tight against her scalp, elegant came to mind. His hand itched to run along the edges of her face, her perfect ear, her beautiful jaw.

  Looking away, he put the car into drive. “The GPS coordinates are over an hour from here, Sister.”

  “Dee.”

  “For a nun, you sure don’t like to be called Sister.”

  Her fingers moved to the leather bracelet on her wrist. “I’m an undercover nun. Thus, the outfit. Which, by the way, was a good suggestion.”

  Had she changed at his suggestion? Somehow, he felt she was a step ahead, not behind, him. He wished he could trust her. Damn, why did he feel like she’d manipulated him?

  Everything in him told him she was not a nun—she didn’t move like a nun, didn’t act like a nun, sure as hell didn’t kiss like a nun. And, yeah, mind-altering desire clouded his judgment, but logic also told him her being a nun made no sense.

  He’d done research into the group she’d claimed to be from, and though it was possible, it was unlikely.

  Still, he hadn’t had the time to disprove it. So, for now, he’d have to take her at her word. Which meant that she was a nun.

  And he was a heathen.

  With a, “Seatbelt, Sis—Dee,” Sion headed onto the highway, toward the forty-acre property that his research told him the coordinates fell in the middle of.

  #

  It was nearly midnight when they reached as close to the coordinates as they were going to get. Sion pulled over to the side of the dirt road, parking over scrub and brush. His Cadillac had done okay on the dirt highway, but no way could it make it over the brush and large stones that blocked them from the exact coordinates.

  Dada reached into the bag on her lap, and he flinched as she pulled out a gun. Hands tight on the wheel, it took him a moment to understand that she was explaining the weapon to him. “I’ll not be carrying that.”

  “But—”

  “No, luv. Put it away. I won’t touch that thing.”

  Her eyes dropped to his leg. “Oh. I hadn’t considered.”

  He gnashed his teeth together. “Don’t consider it. Please. Don’t.”

  She put the gun back into her bag and went silent. He waited for the questions or sympathy—Does your leg hurt? I’m so sorry, how tragic, or something else that tried to lay claim to his injury or dismiss it.

  But she said, “Do you remember that game in the FAA Cup when you scored three goals and single-handedly defeated a team in the Premiere League?”

  An uncontrollable smile rolled across his mouth. “Best game of my life.”

  Her eyes swung to him, pinned him. “I watched the whole thing online. Me, cross-legged on my bed, laptop in front of me, a pillow hugged to my chest, and...” She licked her lips. “It was so early in the morning, I kept burying my mouth into my pillow, biting it, screaming into it while I watched you. Oh, you were so beautiful.

  “The way you slashed madly down the field, glided and spun and bulldozed. I was captured. When the game was over, I was shaking. Heart full and heartbroken all at once. I never thought to see the likes of that stunning performance again.”

  She paused, shook her head, then lowered her lashes. “But then, years later, you walked into a soup kitchen, and my heart leapt, and everything I had felt that day happened all over again. And my heart was full and broken all at the same time.”

  His throat closed up and his heart pounded. She saw him. Him. It made no difference to her if he was sprinting with all his pre-injury skills down the pitch or limping down the cafeteria line waiting to be served free food.

  “When you asked why I don’t see you as a nun, I had tidy answers. None true.” He shouldn’t do this. He shouldn’t; it wasn’t right. “But the truth was—is—I can’t see you as a nun because that’s a role, an identity that slips from my eyes every time I look at you. I see fire and grace, a woman—black and beautiful, sexy and determined, gentle and fiery. And it doesn’t matter what costume you put on, what’s on your head, hands, or your feet, I will always see that woman when I look at you.”

  An unspoken, boiling need lit her eyes, lit his body. They leaned across the seat toward each other.

  Heaven be damned. Give Satan his due.

  Their lips met in a wild joining that exploded in an instant and intense, throwing-caution-to-the-wind fire.

  The heavy tangle of their breaths, the magnetic pull of their bodies, had him reaching under her shirt, delighting in her tender and full breast. Had her fumbling for the button on his jeans, running a hand over his aching hardness, moaning into his mouth.

  A howl from a coyote, close enough to raise the hair on his arms, arrested their movement. They threw themselves back at nearly the same instant, with nearly the same brutal force, bumping into their seats.

  Breath heavy, as loud as his heartbeat, he adjusted himself. And for that one moment all that existed between them was unapologetic heat.

  When their breathing was more even, she said, “Are you ready?”

  His affection for her ratcheted up another notch. Or seven. “Born ready.”

  Chapter 12

  Armand dragged the girl down the basement stairs. The puta fought like a panther. She swung, missed, tried again, and scratched his arm.

  “Let me go!” she screamed. “My son needs me!”

  “He does not need a whore,’ Armand said, kicking her legs out from under her.

  She fell against him, unbalancing him as he dragged her across the room.

  Her gaze took in the room with the metal chains embedded in the walls, the bloody mattresses, the knives, the drill. “What is this place?”

  “It’s a funhouse, puta,” he said, grabbing her by the hair and raising her to face him. “If you didn’t look just like her, I’d show you how much fun it can be.”

  “No. No,” she said, still wrestling against him, dragging her feet against the bloody cement floor. “You took me, because I look like another? That is why?”

  “The accident of your birth,” Armand said, kicking her again. “Like mine, like all of us. It defines the destiny of every person on this planet. Though some would tell you otherwise. They lie.”

  “Let me go. Please. My son. He is alone.”

  “That is your fault. I sent men with money, but you let a whore buy you a room.”

  “Do you mean Sister Dee?” She jerked away, swung. “She is no whore!”

  He hit her in her face. She put up her hands to protect herself. He punched again. “Your room was paid for by a whore and with whore’s money.”

  His knuckles slammed against her hands, the strikes and her muffled cries sending desire surging through him. It wasn’t until blood dripped through her fingers, until her broken hands dropped from her face that he stopped.

  He let go. She fell onto the slab floor and laid still. He spit on her, handcuffed her to a water pipe. This was all Dada’s fault.

  Merde. What a mess.

  He checked her pulse. Still alive.

  He wiped the blood on his pants. Hands shaking, he pulled out his phone and texted Walid to let him know his “merchandise” had been found and that it would be shipped to the buyer in a couple days.

  The text came back. “Two days.”

>   Armand sighed and stared at the blood-stained woman. Things had been so much easier before Dada came. She was a curse. One that he desperately needed to get rid of. His hands ached with the need for a revenge that had been decades in the making.

  He texted his partner. “Do you still have eyes on her? Is she still asking after the girl?”

  A few moments later the response came. “She left the city with the forger.”

  The forger? Fury rolled up from his stomach as thick and heavy as acid. He spat it out with a curse, texted with rage filling his skull. His thumbs pounded each key. It was time to end this.

  He hit SEND.

  Chapter 13

  Dada gathered her backpack and NVGs, then stepped from the car and surveyed the area. What she could see of it. It was flat. Stars brighter than any she’d ever seen and a glorious, partial moon.

  Sion got out of the car and hit a button. The trunk popped up with a click. She walked around to it.

  A shovel, rope, highway flares, and toolbox lined the trunk’s dingy black fabric. Grabbing the shovel and propping it against the taillight, she placed her backpack in the trunk, unzipped the clamshell and shoved rope and road flares inside.

  Sion removed a headlamp from the toolbox and turned it on. Not really necessary in the moonlight, but he’d disabled all the car lights, even the trunk.

  He picked up the shovel, laid it across one shoulder, then they headed across the desert.

  He pointed at her goggles. “What are those?”

  “Night vision goggles, but I doubt we’ll need them.”

  He put his headlamp on his head and nodded. “This’ll do.”

  Two hours later, they came to the coordinates, so said the app developed by her sister Gracie. It was not available to the public. That was one of the best things about being a League operative—access to things that no one else could get their hands on.

  “Let’s split up to search,” she said.

  “Good idea.”

  He got to work. Never once did he complain about his leg, but she’d noticed his gait had gotten worse as they’d walked.

  “Ach-y-fi.” Sion tripped over a bit of brush with a hop-skip. He bent down to rub his leg. “Things got daggers.”

  “You okay?”

  “Fine. Watch the bushes.”

  She smiled as he gave the shrubs a wide berth. Hmm, watch the bushes. That reminded her of a mission in Costa Rica where the entrance to an underground hideout had been beneath a flowering plant.

  Putting on protective gloves, she went to the nearest shrub and pulled. Nothing. And to the next… Again, nothing.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Once on a mission—” She cursed internally as she grasped the top of a dead bush, fully expecting its withered roots to silently give way, but there was a creak of steel and wood.

  “What the hell?” Sion said.

  Holding up a finger, heart pounding, she pulled the shrub the rest of the way open. She bent to the hole and scanned the outside. The brush was attached to a rusted lid and circular ring that reminded her of a submarine. The mechanics were rudimentary. No alarms. Hugging the inside of the dirt walls, welded to the metal ring around the opening, was a ladder.

  Sion knelt beside her. “Let me go.”

  She put a finger to her lips and shook her head. The creak was loud enough to alert someone to their presence, but no need to give information that might help anyone who might be hiding down there. Like the number of people up here.

  Dropping her backpack, she removed a thin steel, bendable cord. When she inserted it into her cell, the end of the tube lit up.

  Kneeling by the side of the lid, she pulled the cord longer, lowered the end into the chamber. An image appeared on her phone screen. A 360-sweep revealed a five-by-five space tightly packed with boxes and a shelving unit with pottery jars at the back.

  Hmm. Storage? She zoomed closer to the jars. There was a door behind the jars.

  Sitting down, she dropped her legs over the mouth of the opening.

  Sion grabbed her arm.

  She looked up at him, at the concern on his face. “It’s empty,” she mouthed.

  With a nod, he let go of her.

  Heart rocking harder than a drum solo, she took out her gun, flicked down her goggles, then dropped over the side.

  As her feet hit the compact earth in the underground storage facility, she realized she would’ve been better off with thermal goggles. NVGs required more ambient light. Still, she could see fairly well. Gun raised; she scanned the darkness.

  She neared the shelving unit, peered around the jars, and inspected the rusted steel door. The handle and lock looked new. This place was still in use. Chances were good that this area extended beyond what was visible.

  Lords and ladies, the League needed to add more underground warfare to their roster. A firefight in an underground lair would prove a challenge.

  One arm on the top rung, Sion lowered himself down. The area was a comfortable height for her, but he had to bend his six-foot-seven frame at the neck. He scanned the area with his headlamp.

  Keeping her eyes down to avoid any glare through her glasses, she twitched her chin in the direction of the shelving unit. His light fell on it. He signaled to let her know he’d seen it.

  As soundlessly as possible, she visually inspected the jars. No trip wires. She looked under the shelves. No sensors. She slid a few jars. They weren’t attached to anything. She scanned the legs of the shelving unit. Nothing.

  They could move it without fear of setting off an alarm.

  A glance over her shoulder showed her that Sion was making the same inspection of the rest of the chamber. He was a quick study.

  She helped him clear the rest of the area, and then they moved back to the rack. With a few sweeps of her hands, she told him what she needed him to do. He nodded. They moved the jars first, placing them in a corner. And then, together, they lifted and slid the metal rack far enough back to allow the door to open.

  Once cleared, the door, rusted and ancient, practically dared them to enter. Her hands sweated in her gloves. Scanning the door closely, she couldn’t find any alarms. Obviously, no one had expected company in a place in the middle of the desert, miles from humans, hidden under a shrub. No wonder Geraldo had never found it.

  Dropping her backpack, she unzipped a side pocket and took out her lock-picking kit. It took her a few moments to pick open the new locks.

  With a signal to Sion, she kept her gun raised, providing him cover. He grabbed the handle and heaved open the rusted door with one brutal yank. A burst of dust and underground air choked with a rotting, rancid smell pushed out.

  She gagged, turned her head. Sion put his arm up and buried his nose in the crook of his elbow. He issued a low, pained keen that let her know he was familiar with the smell of death.

  Behind the door lay a tunnel braced by wood beams. It sloped downward, preventing her from seeing far inside. Dropping her bag again, she pulled out a compact tactical medical kit. She removed two paper masks, the kind a doctor might wear. Better than nothing.

  After they put them on, she signaled him, advancing past him down the unknown hollow.

  He followed.

  The tunnel expanded and broke off into earthen side chambers stacked with varying levels of decomposing corpses.

  “Fuck.” Sion threw his light along the bodies. He began to scan. “Not here. Not here. Oh, Sophia, please don’t be in here. Not here.”

  His gloved hand reached out to one and then another body. He pushed hair from a face. A heartbreaking choked sound muffled by his mask.

  “Is it her? Sophia?”

  “Too old,” he said, placing his hand over her eyes. He lowered his head. “Who would do this?” he whispered.

  Dada put a hand on his arm. “Sion.”

  He dropped his arm and turned to her. “I… So many.” He wiped his eyes with the back of his hand. “Whatever information you need, whatever I can help with, anything
. I’ll do anything to bring these fuckers to justice.”

  Finding herself struck wordless with affection for him, wordless in the middle of this nightmare, she nodded, silently promising these women that the person responsible for this would pay. Even if that person wasn’t part of the mission she was technically here for.

  Swallowing her distress, she asked, “Do you have a photo of Sophia? This will go quicker if we are both looking for her and Rosa.”

  And she needed it to go quickly. Even if Sion’s heavy breaths and anguished eyes didn’t tell her he would soon lose it, the toxic stew of decaying bodies would have prompted her unease. They gave off hydrogen sulfide, carbon dioxide, and methane.

  He reached into his pocket. He took out a photo of a young girl. A child sitting at an easel, painting.

  She glanced up at him. “Who is she?”

  He swallowed. “After football, I had a long recovery. It changed me and made me want to help others. So I went and taught art therapy in El Salvador. That’s where I met Sophia.” He let out a long breath. Anger this time. Better anger than sadness. “After they killed her father, they came into my class. It was five against one. Hard as I fought, they took Sophia from my class.” He shook his head. “I had to convince her father, had to convince so many parents, to let the kids come to class. It’s my fault.”

  Dada’s heart trembled, cracked, and fell to pieces in her chest. This was it. Why he was here. She’d wondered, but nothing had made sense. “You changed your life, aligned with organized crime, worked for Walid to find this girl? That’s why you’re here?”

  A long moment of silence and then a broken, “Let’s look for them.”

  She didn’t need him to explain all the details; she understood. “If Sophia’s not here, and I pray she isn’t, I will help you find her. Promise.”

  With a nod that seemed all he could manage, Sion tucked away the photo. The stench of death soaked into their clothes. The quiet of the underground tomb surrounded them. Neither spoke as they bent to the gruesome task, holding hope that two lives had been spared this awful fate.