Behind the Mask (Undercover Associates Book 4)

by Carolyn Crane

  Hugo asked them for lodging recommendations on the way out.

  At a farmacia down the way they stopped for bottles of water, new clothes, and brown hair dye. It would have about nine hundred different toxins, but it made sense. There was a display of reading magnifiers with sturdy plastic frames.

  “Men’s glasses,” Hugo said.

  “If I can get the right magnification I could ditch the contacts.” She put them on and smiled.

  “Sturdy,” he said. “Good.”

  When they got out onto the street that she, too, felt the prickle of being watched.

  Zelda didn’t believe in intuition. The prickle of being followed had nothing to do with a sixth sense, and everything to do with a wrong pattern of movement, something so subtle that the subconscious picked it up and set off the alarm without the details ever rising to the level of the conscious. Something out the corner of the eye.

  She looked up at him. Caught his eye and looked away. They agreed. Followed.

  “It doesn’t make sense,” she said.

  “Unless you alerted your people.”

  Her stomach sank; she felt guilty even though she hadn’t alerted anybody. When had guilt become an automatic reflex? “I didn’t alert anybody.” Shit. Dax wouldn’t spook and send somebody to follow her, would he? Override her so completely? Treat her like the enemy?

  “Best to split up,” she said.

  “So you can run?”

  She raised an eyebrow. If somebody good was following them, splitting up was the best way to lose them. They walked on the shady side of the street to avoid the merciless sun.

  “I haven’t alerted my people.”

  “So you say.”

  “I gave you my word. I won’t let you down.”

  He took her hand and gripped it. “It’s one of yours, it has to be.”

  “I haven’t alerted my people.”

  He pulled out a gun and let it hang down by his side and sped up, nearly dragging her now. “Keep up.”

  She practically ran beside him. Maybe she deserved it. Maybe Hugo understood the state of her feet all too well—that she’d been tortured and that she’d done what it took to make the pain stop. Those feet—like a scarlet letter.

  His movements changed. He pulled her into a crowd and he seemed to change, to melt. He was good—as good as she’d ever been. He pulled her into a store, but instead of going through it—that was the technique she expected, he grabbed a hat and bounced right out with a threesome, holding her so high and tight, he was practically carrying her, allowing then to move as one.

  It was nearly mystical, the way he moved. She thought of the way he’d been in the battle, hearing, seeing, moving in that fluid way. But it crushed her. He’d taken over; they were no longer partners. When they turned a corner, he broke off and pulled her up some steps and into a shadowy doorway. It was then that he finally put her down.

  “Fuck you.” She hit him, hard, punched him. He caught her hands. “I can pull my weight. You could’ve trusted me.”

  “Could I?”

  The throng streamed past, rushing on their errands, but all she could feel was her grief and guilt and frustration.

  “Let me be a partner,” she said. “Hear me. We’re united to get this formula.”

  He stared grimly out at the street.

  “Goddammit!” She needed him to trust her—desperately. It was stupid, but she needed it. And then, much to her horror, she began to cry.

  He looked at her wildly. “What are you doing?”

  She hit him. “Fuck you. You could’ve trusted me. I’m with you.”

  Again he looked at her, differently this time.

  “Just watch the goddamn street,” she said, hating that he’d seen her tears.

  He pulled her to him, looking out over her head at the street. “Stop it,” he said.

  She sniffled.

  “It’s okay.”

  “It’s not okay.” She wanted desperately for him to trust her. To trust herself. To like herself.

  He held her tight, holding her in the circle of his warmth, his musky scent. Was somebody really out there? It didn’t make sense, but it didn’t have to. They both knew that.

  Her heart beat slow and steady. He would be able to regulate even that; the best agents could. It was then that she felt his cock, steel hard. Some things a man couldn’t regulate.

  His eyes changed; he was flustered. The great Kabakas. She watched herself calculate this new variable. His new vulnerability. Fuck it, she was Zelda Pierce. She ran agents.

  She shifted, let him feel her differently. His breath hitched.

  A second later she had his gun shoved in his ribs.

  “Don’t move,” she whispered. “You’re fast and good, but not this fast.”

  She couldn’t believe she’d actually gotten the upper hand on him. Kabakas.

  She looked into his eyes. So many bad decisions to make now. “I’m telling you it’s not one of my people. I’m telling you to trust me.”

  His eyes sparked. Again she had that feeling of him as a bear on a silken leash. She had him. If it were her people out there, there would be no better time to pull him in.

  “And indeed I’m not that fast,” he said, breath warm on her neck. “But I would take you along.”

  “I know.”

  She thought about what Dax had said about her guilt, her wish to be obliterated.

  She felt his contours; not just those of his cock, but also the contours of his strength, his danger, his desire, his unpredictability. He was the superior fighter even now; only a stupid agent wouldn’t stay keenly aware of that. The gun merely brought things to fifty-fifty.

  And she wanted him even now. Because below it all was their dance, strange and wild. Always escalating in its way.

  “Right here,” he said. His tone was different. He wasn’t talking about death anymore. “Or perhaps we could fuck again. Turnabout is fair play—isn’t that what they say?” He lowered his voice to a whisper. “I could take you right now. Against the wall. I’d put you in that corner and press you there. I’d push down your pants and hold you there perfectly still, señorita. You could hold the gun and I would move into you so completely that the street would disappear.”

  He shifted closer. But he didn’t go for the gun. He knew not to do that.

  “I would take you so completely that even the moon would disappear. You would feel only the brick behind you. And me filling you.”

  Heat built between her legs. It was turning her on.

  It was turning him on.

  “Everything would disappear but us,” he whispered, whiskers warm against her face.

  Everything would disappear. It sounded a little bit like a prayer. For everything to disappear. He wanted the world to disappear.

  She wanted it, too.

  “Is this how it felt in the kitchen?” He bent down to kiss her, nipping her lip. “To have death and fucking twined together?” He kissed her again. “Is this how it felt?”

  “Yes,” she whispered.

  He kissed down her neck.

  Was this a trick? She should never forget she was walking a bear. She shoved the gun harder into his ribs, emphasizing its proximity to his heart. “Here’s what’s going to happen—you’re going to meet me at the hotel.”

  “I would prefer to have you against this wall,” he whispered, “here in the darkness. When you sucked my fingers, I wanted to take you right there in the café. Now, Zelda.”

  Her name again. He knew what it did to her, for him to say it.

  He trailed his lips up the side of her neck. “Do you want me to wear the mask? It’s in my pack.”

  Oh, God, he’d guessed about her Kabakas thing.

  He settled a hand onto her hip. It was Kabakas seducing her now. She pulled away. “Don’t.” She needed him to take her seriously.

  He kissed her neck again, lips sucking in the tender skin at her jugular.

  “When you’re in trouble,” she whispered,
“any shift is good, isn’t it?”

  “Not the mask, then?”

  She pushed her other hand into his pocket, feeling around. “The mask isn’t my thing. The gloves, however…” She regretted it instantly. He’d hear the truth in it.

  She pulled out a few bills without looking at them. “We’ll split up. We’ll meet at the hotel the Aussies recommended. Whoever gets there first checks in under the name Martinez. We’ll stay until dark.”

  A smile played on his lips. “Is that enough money? Perhaps you should count it.”

  “I’m out of practice, not stupid.” She knew how much he had. She saw everything, just as he did.

  He smiled wearily.

  “I’m going to walk away. You’re going to trust me to meet you.”

  The or else was implied. Or else she would shoot. She would draw attention. He had much more to lose out here.

  “We will come back together because we’re both interested in saving those plants.”

  “And you contact your people?”

  “I give you my word that I won’t. I can’t make you trust me, Hugo. But I give you my word.” She cast a glance over her shoulder as a knot of people approached. “I’ll melt in and melt out.” She wanted her word to be enough. Desperately. She had the idea that if she could get him to trust her, it would change things somehow.

  He had no choice but to let her go.

  She pushed away, pocketed the weapon, and headed down the steps, toward the people, melting in, matching up. He was back there somewhere, tracing a parallel path, or maybe the same one, if he felt compelled to watch her. She backtracked and turned, walking all around until she was sure nobody could be following her, and finally arrived at the modern-looking two-story hotel, barely a step up from a youth hostel.

  The lobby was bright and barren with a colorful straw mat stretched out across the floor in front of the counter. There was a rudimentary coffee counter and some tables and chairs. She got a private room under the name Martinez, second floor, corner with access to adjoining rooftops. “One other person will be joining me,” she said.

  “Quiere dejar una nota?” The clerk asked.

  Yes, a note would be good. She took the offered pen and paper and paused. There was so much she wanted to write. I came. Trust me. You can fucking trust me. I’m not a horrible person. In the end she folded the blank paper and slipped it in an envelope.

  She’d showed up, that was all the communication she’d need. Even then it wasn’t enough. Nothing was ever enough, though. It made her feel so tired.

  She went up.

  It was a hundred degrees hotter on the second floor, but the room was bright and clean with traditional style artwork and a hand-woven bedspread. She checked it over and then she took out the itchy contacts, put on the glasses, and set to reading the directions for the hair color.

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  El Gorrion examined the text on his phone and frowned. The ex-agent, Zelda, had arrived in Juachez with the American farmer. They had behaved amorously in a café and then they had split up, knowing, perhaps, that they were being followed.

  On the run together.

  She had seduced the farmer. He was protecting her; that much seemed clear.

  The other pieces of the puzzle were far stranger.

  A fighter in a business suit had arrived in Buena Vista hours after Hugo and Zelda had left. The fighter queried the villagers and then raced up the mountainside to ransack the American’s house. On his way back he’d attacked and completely disabled three of El Gorrion’s best men—seasoned fighters. The man in the suit was highly trained, that much was clear, but it was something more than his training that had spooked them.

  Could it be Kabakas? He didn’t wear the mask or carry the barong swords, but who else could take down three of his best fighters? He spoke fluent Spanish—a Venezuelan, one thought at first. The other said he spoke with a Mexican accent.

  The man wore a red silk shirt and shiny black shoes and he was frightened of nothing. Neatly coiffed; urbane, even. It wasn’t how El Gorrion remembered Kabakas. He hadn’t seen his face, but the impression he had of the man was rough and hulking.

  Once he had the men tied, he’d made a phone call in their presence. The conversation was in English. Even more interesting, he’d used Zelda’s name twice. A colleague of some sort, or maybe a rival. Not Kabakas.

  But Kabakas was in play, and El Gorrion would find him and end him. And this time he would be ready—he was pulling all of his men in, all of his weaponry—grenades, bazookas, all of the heavy stuff.

  He would not be made a fool of again. And his men would not run; he’d see that they couldn’t. He demanded honor; from himself and from his men, too.

  The woman Zelda had gone to a hotel. His men had lost them in the crowds, but El Gorrion had a network of eyes across the town. Even the hotel clerk was his. Zelda had left a note—blank. A signal of some sort.

  His source inside the CIA had told him she had been diligent about hunting Kabakas, driven, a serious hunter. Yes, she was the key, somehow. She knew who Kabakas was, and where he was. Or maybe Kabakas knew who she was. El Gorrion didn’t understand the pieces, but he knew they were connected.

  He texted back: Stay on them.

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  She was still sitting on the bed, reading the instructions to the hair color, when he arrived. Heat built in her core the moment she heard the key in the lock. She moved the weapon closer, just in case she was wrong, in case it wasn’t him. She still didn’t trust herself. It was like missing an arm, missing that trust.

  He walked in. “You’re here.”

  “Of course I am.” He threw the duffel bag on the bed next to her, and a chunk of his inky hair shifted to cover his eyes. He looked sleepy, dangerous, a wild animal woken from hibernation. He put out his hand and she returned his weapon. He checked the windows and the view to the street and then he headed into the bathroom. A creak. He wanted to know that the windows would open, that they could leave fast. She’d gone through the exact same ritual.

  You’re here.

  One of their top agents, Macmillan, would be able to make a recording of that voice and show it visually as lines on a computer screen. She imagined the words as hard slashes with a strong, deep base full of unheard complexity—hate and lust and need. Or maybe that was just her.

  She headed for the bathroom as soon as he came out. “You can sleep while I do my hair. This is going to take awhile.” She pulled the door shut, locked it, and leaned against it. Had he been following her? God, what was wrong with her that she hadn’t run? She could have killed him in that shadowy doorway and run off. He’d made it pretty clear he was only keeping her alive as long as he needed her to save the savincas. Didn’t she deserve more than that? Was showing him she was worthy so much more important than staying alive?

  What the hell was wrong with her?

  But she would never kill Hugo; that wasn’t in her. And then there were the flowers; they alone could save them. Hugo had the muscle, and she had the science. The Savinca verde meant something in this rabbit hole of hers. So did Paolo.

  Doing right meant something to her. Justice meant something to her. Nobody could take that away from her.

  She stripped down to her bra and panties—no sense in getting her clothes full of dye—and started up with the messy business of combining the little bottles of fluid. She put on the plastic gloves that came with the kit and drew the thick, dark solution through her hair, beginning on the side.

  And thought about her priorities. Like survival.

  When her hair was full of dye, she leaned out the open window and studied the raucous street below.

  Deep inside El Gorrion territory. Not ideal.

  Most of the buildings were two- or three-story concrete block structures, shops on the bottom and living quarters above, everything painted in a riot of colors. The Valencians were avid artists, incredible muralists.

  Small groups of people congr
egated at street-level entrances. She traced the scent of fried sausages to a busy stall on the corner. The stall next to that one seemed to be selling fried green plantains.

  She memorized every detail as she waited the recommended twenty minutes for the dye to take…and tried not to think of Hugo on the other side of the door. Or what would happen once this mission was done.

  Or even once she left the bathroom.

  When the twenty minutes were up, she moved to the sink to rinse the dye. A knock at the door. Three raps.

  “It’ll be a while,” she said.

  The lock clicked. The door opened.

  “Hey!” She spun around to face Hugo. He slammed the door shut behind him, gaze roaming wantonly over her mostly naked body.

  Her belly felt melty. “You can’t be in here.”

  He said nothing, chest rising and falling under the dark gray T-shirt.

  She motioned to the goopy helmet of dye covering her hair. “I’m not done with this process.”

  “Zelda,” he grated, rattling off some dark and wildly dirty Spanish. Then he yanked her to him and kissed her, whiskers rough on her skin.

  “Hugo!” she said, pushing him away, leaving brown smudges on his shirt. “We can’t—”

  “We have to,” he panted.

  “Look at me! I’m full of dye. You have to let me rinse it off.”

  He stood there like a predator. It created a kind of vulnerability that she probably shouldn’t like. “You’ll do it after.”

  “That’s not how it works,” she said.

  He reached out a finger and touched her bare belly. Slowly he trailed that lone finger up to the bottom of her bra, taking her mind firmly offline with just one swipe. Then he hooked it under and pulled her to him. “I will rinse it, then.” He kissed her neck. “I will handle it from here.”

  She pushed him away, trembling with arousal. Usually, having goop in her hair would be the most unsexy thing she could imagine, but the way he looked at her told her he didn’t agree. “I don’t need help.”

  “Then explain to me beauty salons, corazón.” He jerked his chin. “In the sink? That’s how you rinse it?”