Behind the Mask (Undercover Associates Book 4)

by Carolyn Crane

  Shhh? Nobody said shhh to her. Treated her like this. Ordered her. She was the co-leader of the fucking Associates.

  He torched the needle with a lighter, then rubbed it down with alcohol and threaded it with green fishing line. His technique was good; he was even doing the sterile area. He sterilized his forceps, then he took the ice from her and placed her arm down on the less sterile side of the setup, holding it in place, angled just so. And she found herself thinking about those black leather gloves.

  “You can look away if you like.”

  Right. You couldn’t pay her enough to look away from his hand and his beautiful confidence and his utter commitment.

  She watched him position the needle at the end of the forceps, felt the pierce when it broke the skin, felt it sink. He worked with steady force, pushing and then pulling with the forceps. His technique was excellent, and little by little she let herself relax into his hold, even into the pain. She found she trusted him. This was a man who committed fully on the battlefield and here, now, he was utterly invested in caring for her.

  No—it was more than that. His touch nourished her. And with a lurch in her heart she realized that, aside from the occasional handshake, she’d barely been touched since the Friar Hovde case. And she certainly hadn’t been handled like this. Cared for.

  Her eyes felt warm. Tearing up.

  What the fuck?

  She blinked. She would not let him see her crying. He’d think it was the pain. She shouldn’t care, but she did. She was just exhausted, that was all. And she’d been so frightened.

  His grip tightened on her arm as he drew the needle through. Gentle. Efficient. Ruthless.

  He made a quick, professional knot and then straightened up and looked into her eyes. He was silent for a long time. “It will be all right, señorita.”

  She nodded, flooded with feeling.

  “Two more, okay?”

  She nodded again.

  He repeated the process, completing another perfect stitch. A fighter like this, he’d probably done it on himself dozens of times.

  Protecting his investment, that’s all, she told herself.

  Finally he let her go. “Was that so bad?” he asked, tearing the wrapper from a bandage. He pressed it on carefully, exerting just the right tension for the wound. A pro. But that had never been in question.

  “Thank you,” she said, moving away, as if to get back the distance.

  “De nada,” he whispered, voice trancelike. “It is nothing.”

  There was so much between them now. Too much. It was the thin skin of her. She was overwrought. Fragile. And she had miles to go before sleep.

  With a grunt he brushed past her, as if he, too, needed distance. He pulled open the refrigerator and grabbed a beer and tipped it into his mouth. She watched him swallow, his Adam’s apple bobbing as the cool liquid moved down his throat.

  Hugo had seen his village threatened. He’d killed dozens of men, possibly been injured himself. They’d both traveled far today.

  She turned the meat again, just to have something to do. When she next looked up, he was surveying the mess she’d created. Frowning.

  “How is dinner coming?”

  “Great. It’s going to be great.” No time like the present to start selling it. She heated up the griddle. “Did you need anything else?”

  He walked out and came back a few minutes later with a math textbook written in Spanish, decades old, a product of pre–Fortunato Valencia. Pre-dictator, pre–drug-war Valencia. “This is the boy’s book.”

  The boy. She pressed her lips together. The boy. He could be so weirdly protective and caring, like with the stitches, and then the boy.

  He was holding the textbook out for her. He wanted her to come to him. He wanted her…to take it? Inspect it? What did he want?

  She set the meat cooking and went to him, wiping her hands on a rag. She took the book and looked through it.

  “Do you know this?”

  “It’s written in Spanish,” she said.

  “But the numbers are not. And the boy can translate. Do you know it?”

  “Yes,” she said. High school math. What she didn’t remember she’d figure out; she’d always enjoyed math. Unlike Liza, she’d been a very good student. Knowledge in math would have to be one of the Liza characteristics she’d break.

  “You will go through this book with him each night. You may ignore the parts in the front of the book; he must memorize the drills. He is on fractions.”

  “This book is pretty old.”

  “So? Math has not evolved in the past century, has it? It is my understanding that math is quite ancient.” He flipped to the drill section in the back. “You will keep him doing these until he remembers them correctly. Do you understand? He will eventually memorize every answer.”

  “Memorization…” she said. No wonder Paolo hated math.

  He watched her closely. “Do you understand?”

  “Well…” She stifled the urge to argue the point, suggest a better method. God, what was she doing? This wasn’t a child-rearing conference. Paolo could endure being drilled from a 1970s textbook.

  “He’ll do the drills. Memorize them.” She was conscious of him watching her face. He seemed to like to press her, to push through her compliance until he found her resistance.

  She enjoyed it, too. Her belly heated.

  “Problema?” he grated.

  She handed back the book, ignoring the strange excitement vibrating between them. It was as if, in their friction, another element emerged, the way fire sprang from flint on rough. “Nope.”

  He turned the worn, colorful book in his massive, meaty hand, rough and dark and capable of too many things. “If you have an objection, you will voice it.”

  “Well…” She shrugged. “Drills aren’t how you teach.”

  “It is how the school taught him addition and multiplication. It is how you will teach him fractions.”

  “Even if I know a better way?”

  “Yes.”

  She pressed her lips together. No educational debates, she told herself. No, no, no.

  A light in his eyes. “The boy will learn the drills.”

  The boy. The drills. “Why do you always call him the boy? He has a name.”

  He drew near to her, bullying her with his size. “The boy and I understand each other perfectly.”

  She gazed into the fire of brown eyes. What the fuck was she doing? Liza wouldn’t sit there arguing; she would be frightened of this man. Her gaze fell to his vicious and beautiful brown hand gripping the book, dwarfing it. “Right. Fine.” She turned and grabbed the spatula, shoved at the meat. Then she started the oil heating for the fries. When she turned back he was still watching her. She lifted her bandaged hand. “Thanks for this.”

  He grunted and left. She watched him move, powerful thighs limned in khaki pants. She went back to the meal, vibrating from his care, his presence.

  She slid the steak around in the pan, feeling off balance. A nap and a good meal—that was what she needed. And to get a message to Dax.

  She flipped the steak with a neat flick, added in the grilled veggies and tomato, and adjusted the flame. This was an expensive European stove and convection oven. The place, however spare, was top shelf. It must have taken massive funds to get this built way high in the middle of nowhere; clearly, Hugo was loaded.

  Kabakas was loaded. But then, many people were.

  She moved around the veggies and paused when the door leading to the back banged shut. She was getting to know the sounds of the house and this sound told her she was alone; Paolo had gone out while Hugo had been fussing over her wound.

  The hatch above the pantry. It was time. Quickly she went in there and climbed up on the table, pressing on the panel with her fingertips. It lifted easily. She shoved it aside and pulled herself up into the small attic, happy she’d kept up the workouts.

  Her heart fell as her eyes adjusted to the light; there as nothing that looked lik
e communications equipment. Just an arsenal of exotic weaponry—knives, throwing stars, swords, sticks, training mitts. Fighters were notorious hoarders when it came to weapons. A duffel bag held a selection of guns, but there was no communications equipment. She found the duffel from that day, blades newly cleaned. The barong swords with the street corner mark. Fakes.

  She’d personally debriefed two witnesses back in the day, and they’d both drawn versions of the ouroboros, the blacksmith’s stamp near the hilt of the swords. The blacksmith they’d traced it to claimed to know nothing of Kabakas. He’d suggested his dead father had forged the swords. Total bullshit; the man was clearly frightened. She dug further and touched a bit of leather.

  The gloves.

  Before she could think better of it, she put one on her hand and brought her knuckles to her nose, breathing in, eyes closed, then slid the backs of the fingers along her cheek. Okay, she was entering crazy territory now. She pulled it off and inspected the stitching. Could this be one of the gloves she’d stared at all those years? That she’d dreamed about?

  She stuffed it back, then pocketed a .9 mm and a flashlight. Then she heard footsteps. A voice. Paolo, looking for her. Fuck! He was in the kitchen.

  She closed her eyes, willing him not to come back into the pantry and see the opening.

  The steps receded. Looking for her elsewhere. Stealthy as a cat, she jumped down and replaced the panel, then stashed the gun behind a box of soap. She stole out, just in time to keep the fries from burning.

  Paolo was back, a dog trailing after him.

  “Do you want to help with dinner?” she asked. “We could practice our math.”

  “Where were you?”

  “Rooting for quixotic rumblas,” she said brightly. He wouldn’t know what she was saying, and he wouldn’t ask—the less interaction with her the better, that seemed to be Paolo’s attitude. “Would you like to help while we drill?” she asked, hoping he’d get out.

  He grabbed a banana and left.

  She went back into the pantry and relocated the gun and the flashlight, then inspected the area for signs of disturbance. Hugo, the quintessential predator, would detect the slightest sign of disturbance. It made her nervous as hell, being out of practice like she was.

  She went back and tasted a pepper. A little overdone, but not horrible. She drained the rice and plated everything up, feeling a swell of pride at how beautifully it all looked. She slipped out and cut a few of the wild Wiñay Wayna orchids she’d seen growing along the side of the place…and took the opportunity to stash the flashlight and the gun. Once Hugo and Paolo were asleep, it was marathon time. Back inside she put the flowers in water and set them out on the dinner table atop a bright napkin. The makeshift centerpiece really brightened the place up. It was also a message to Hugo: she could slip out, but she would not run. He could trust her.

  Back in the kitchen, she set to hunting in the drawers for the proper silverware.

  Again she felt him before she saw him.

  Don’t look, don’t look. She needed to stay in the character of Liza. It had always amazed Zelda, the way Liza would just allow things to unfold around her. The clouds could be dark for hours yet the rain would always surprise her. But then she’d open her mouth and let a raindrop splash on her tongue. Liza had always been about fun.

  Zelda rolled forks and knives in colorful napkins. A festive presentation. Very Liza.

  He grunted and only then did she turn to face him, hard-cut cheekbones shadowed under midnight black hair. “We are hungry.”

  “Luckily for you, dinner’s ready,” she said. “We just need to bring all this stuff out…”

  He turned and left just as she’d been about to ask him to take one of the plates to the table.

  Well, what did she expect? She was the servant here.

  She smoothed her apron, tucked the rolls of silverware into the pockets, and brought plates and the steak platter out to the little table. Where were they? Two empty straight-backed chairs stood waiting. Two empty places. As cook, she wouldn’t be eating with them. It was for the best—the less contact, the better. She set down the plates and silverware and went back for more.

  They were there the next time she went out, and they’d changed clothes. There was something quaint and old fashioned about that. Everything was out there now, and she stood by, eyes averted, looking anywhere but Hugo. “Do you want anything to drink?”

  Paolo frowned as he began to unfurl his silverware. “Cola.”

  Hugo glared at the boy. “Cómo se dice?”

  “May I have a cola, please?”

  “Yes, you may, Paolo,” she said.

  “Una cerveza,” Hugo grunted. “Beer.” He seemed tired. Hopefully the lord and master would sleep tight.

  She brought the beverages and lingered. They’d started eating. What was the verdict? Did they like it?

  Hugo looked up at her. “Yes?”

  She thrust her hands in her apron. “Anything else?”

  Hugo eyed her, shadows dancing across his rough face. “We will ring the bell if there is. The boy will take his evening math drill after dinner.”

  “Very good,” she said, and left.

  In the kitchen she slid what was left of the meal onto a plate and ate next to the small corner hearth. It was strange, just sitting and eating. She always ate in front of the computer or in transit. The clink of her fork against the plate seemed loud. Her chewing sounded cow-like. The food tasted pretty good, though. Did they like it? She found she wanted badly for them to like it. She wanted to add something nice to this hard-edged existence of theirs. This man and this boy, rough and alone.

  Never name the farm animals—that was something Thorne, one of their Associates, liked to say. Developing a relationship made a target too hard to kill or take in when the time came. And what if this was really Kabakas?

  She had to find out. She couldn’t leave without finding out.

  She took a deep breath and exhaled, leaning back on the tile surround, feeling like it was the first time she’d breathed all day. Fresh, sweet night air flowed through the fanciful ironwork that covered the kitchen window.

  Past bedtime in Europe. Asia waking up. It was usually this time of night that she checked up on the Association’s capers. So many cataclysmic events to prevent, and so many dangerous criminals to apprehend. Not being able to check on things made the outside world seem unreal, full of stories belonging to somebody else, to some other planet. Even the pirates and the violence they threatened seemed remote.

  But it wasn’t remote for the hundreds of thousands of people along that coast. Most wouldn’t die, but the pollution would threaten their livelihoods. She wondered if the press had gotten wind of the standoff yet. The press would make it worse.

  After eating, she worked on cleaning up the kitchen. They’d need breakfast next. What did they eat for breakfast? She wandered into the dining room, but they were gone.

  And they’d finished every last scrap of food.

  Chapter Ten

  El Gorrion sat at Ruiz’s desk in the greenhouse lab, waiting, tapping a pencil on the wood surface, harder, harder, harder. He wanted to break something. Smash a window. Kill somebody.

  Killing Aguilo had been a start. The man’s body now swung from a pole at the center of the compound. If only he could’ve killed Aguilo before the coward had brought thirty men out to the airfield to see the bodies of his fiercest fighters dead on the field, killed by one man. Tales of Kabakas would have been damaging enough, but seeing his kill firsthand and hearing Aguilo’s account of it guaranteed he’d lose far too many men to desertion if he pushed them up the mountainside.

  He’d vowed he would be back in the village, but he simply couldn’t lose that many men. He liked to keep his promises, but he was not stupid.

  Kabakas.

  No, it could not be Kabakas.

  Yet that level of mastery over the blade was a rare thing. But if this was Kabakas, where had he been all this time? Why retu
rn now, after all these years?

  He’d thought he’d gotten rid of the problem. With his own two eyes he’d watched Kabakas enter the burning building. He’d waited until the man was deep inside before setting off the incendiary devices.

  Yet the way Aguilo had described the attack had the ring of those old tales, and every single one of those men Aguilo had brought out there to see the aftermath had heard that same ring—blades coming out of nowhere. A man unafraid of the bullet. The hacked limbs at the end. Enrico Guzman, El Gorrion’s best lieutenant, chopped to bits.

  And they’d spread the tale throughout El Gorrion’s ranks.

  El Gorrion didn’t like being made a fool. To be made to look like a man who said one thing and did another. It burned him.

  He was not a flashy man. He was a clean-cut man, modest in everything. Except for his sense of honor and pride.

  Buena Vista would be made to suffer; that was the beginning and the end. He could not keep his word without losing an unacceptable amount of men, and for that Buena Vista would pay a steep price. And he’d find this man—Kabakas or not. He’d find him and he, too, would pay.

  The leaders he’d served back when he was coming up had been so pathetically frightened of Kabakas—even shrinking from him. Not El Gorrion.

  El Gorrion was a man of integrity who never ran from the enemy. It was his policy to bring the fight to the enemy, no matter what.

  At the height of the war, Kabakas had been difficult to find. El Gorrion had done the second best thing and attacked his name and his reputation by carrying out the Yacon fields massacre. It had been one of his most brilliant moves, part massacre and part clever staging, complete with blades they’d collected from other Kabakas attacks, shoved through the eyes of women and children. His idea had been to erode Kabakas’s folk-hero status while drawing him out. A man’s name and reputation were the most valuable possessions he could ever have. He’d paid a credible man a lot of money to tell the story as he’d crafted it, painting Kabakas as both a killer and a coward. This man was known and trusted, and widely believed. He’d later gone off a cliff.

  Pity.