by Dianna Love
Anger brewed deep in his gut. He’d seen her this time, the face he knew as well as his own. The face America knew. The face he was soon going to cut into tiny pieces.
The house was rigged with alarms and cameras that had been installed because of men like him. He lowered his ball cap a notch and entered on cat feet.
The female agent inside looked like a normal American woman in her baggy sweatshirt and pants. She was standing in the living room, her back to him as she looked out the window next to the stone fireplace at the group gathered by the front door. She was talking on a cell phone, her ponytail bobbing with impatience as she shook her head and rubbed a hand behind her neck.
He listened for a minute, scratching the carefully shaved stubble on his chin as he heard her succinctly describe the scene that had just taken place inside the safe house. As she hung up, he moved in behind her, keenly aware of her size and strength and also of the hundreds of eyes just outside the window.
Blue Sweats tried to yell, but his forearm cut off her air before she could make more than a squeak. Strong legs resisted his weight and she tried to jackknife her body to flip him. They tussled for a second, his extra fifty pounds of muscle, and the fact she couldn’t draw air, aiding him.
Pushing her forward, he slammed her against the fireplace, knocking her head into one of the stones hard enough to daze her but not render her unconscious. Her cell phone clattered to the hearth. She struck out, landing a blow to his throat, and a kick to his shin.
For a moment, he toyed with the idea of raping her, not because she aroused him, but the idea of taking her, or any female agent, in striking distance of other enforcement officials did. But today, this moment, wasn’t about him. He sparred with her for another minute, gained the upper hand, and put his face next to hers. “Where are they taking her?”
She inventoried his coffee-colored eyes, flat nose, and umber skin, and struggled to draw his likeness from her memory. She should have been able to recognize him, but she couldn’t bring his name, his person, to full identity. Like so many of her counterparts, he was simply another one of them.
He repeated the question. She brought her knee up and fought at him, but a constant diet of kicks and punches since childhood had him parrying her attempts with ease. Again, he banged her head against the fireplace and her knees bent and bounced back. He flipped her around to face the stones, one of his hands able now to hold both her wrists. He threaded the fingers of his other hand into her hair across the back of her head and pushed her face into the rough surface. She winced but did not cry out. She would tell him something now.
“I don’t know,” she slurred, the stone pulling her lips out of shape.
The man glanced to his right out the window. The FBI agent on the front steps was waving off questions; his time was nearly up. He pressed harder into Blue’s head and felt the intake of her breath. He shoved his body into her, jamming her breasts, her stomach, her thighs into the fireplace. Then he twisted her head to the left and raked her cheek across the stone. Her eyes squeezed shut and she whimpered as blood seeped down her skin and into the neck of her sweatshirt.
“I’ve already killed one agent and put two in the hospital. I will kill you if you do not tell me where she is going.”
Silence, an internal struggle. He pressed harder.
“California,” she whispered. “L.A.”
With panther-like speed and grace, he grabbed her ponytail, snapped her head back, and slammed it as hard as his well-muscled arm allowed into the stone that had just cut her cheek. Her body slumped to the floor, covering her cell phone.
As the man passed the flat screen mounted on the wall, he blew a kiss to the computer camera it was equipped with. The Federal Bureau of Investigation was no match for him.
Chapter Fifteen
On the flight to California, riding in a nicely furnished Cessna that Celina knew was Dupé’s private jet, she tried to maintain her distance from Cooper both physically and emotionally.
First, she used the plane’s high-tech communication system to phone her parents and her brothers to warn them all she would once again be on their local news. She was worried about their safety and told them to be alert for anything or anyone out of the ordinary. Her mother threw a fit, begging Celina to come home. Celina explained that returning home would only endanger her family. She did her best to reassure her mother that she was going to be safe in the house the FBI had set up for her, but her mother dissolved into tears. Celina spent another half hour trying to reason with her. When she ended the call, she was almost in tears herself.
Immediately calling her youngest brother John, she told him the situation and asked him to drive over to their parents’ house and console their mother. Reluctantly, he agreed.
Sinking down in the padded airplane seat, Celina closed her eyes and rubbed them.
“My mom would be freaking, too.”
Cracking one eye open, Celina saw Thomas sliding into the ivory leather bucket seat across from her. He handed her a blanket. Forester was across the aisle, but appeared to be asleep.
“It’s hard for her, me being an agent,” Celina said, unfolding the blanket and laying it over her lap. “She strokes out just thinking about me carrying a gun.”
Thomas smiled, white teeth perfect for a toothpaste commercial. “When my mom asks what I’m working on, I tell her it’s top secret. National security and all that. Sometimes after a bust goes down and it’s all over, I call her and tell her to watch CNN for the story. But I don’t ever tell her ahead of time. She’d end up in the cardiac unit.”
Thomas was incredibly cute and incredibly nice. His hair was perpetually overdue for a cut, bleached blond by the sun, and curling on the ends over his ears and around his neck. With his lean body and sun-induced freckles, he looked one hundred percent like a Southern California surfer boy. Celina had always had a thing for surfer boys. Their deep tans with the smell of the salty ocean on their skin. Their balance and love of the ride. But try as she might, she couldn’t work up any attraction to Thomas. Oh, she liked him; who wouldn’t? She just didn’t like him.
She hadn’t felt that kind of like for anyone since the first day she met Cooper. For a week after she’d been assigned to his taskforce, she could never raise him on the phone or catch him in his office. Bobbie Dyer, amused at her frustration, took pity on her and finally gave her a heads up: Cooper ran every morning on the beach around six. So the next morning, a Sunday, she’d camped out and waited for him.
Dyer’s description of the SCVC agent-in-charge—“big guy with a buzz cut and a cannon hidden in his shorts”—lacked a few important details. Cooper Harris wasn’t a surfer boy. Cooper Harris was all out sin on a surfboard. So perfectly packed from head to toe, the ex-Marine, ex-cop, DEA operative sported a healthy six-pack, glistening with sweat, a Dues Paid tattoo on his left arm and a mad dog tattoo on his right arm that bulged with every pump. A classic jaw line that still held the night’s worth of stubble growth.
As he’d approached her, she felt his eyes—hidden as always behind shades—rake over her in a salacious hel-lo, but he didn’t so much as check his stride when she fell into step beside him and introduced herself. For the next three miles, he picked up his pace, his long strides making her double hers as she tried valiantly to keep up with him while still answering his questions about her background, training and experience (none, but eager to learn, sir).
The next two miles passed in a silent test. Would she give up? Would she have a heart attack and pass out? She wasn’t in as good of shape as he was, but she had boatloads of determination. After mile eleven, Cooper stopped, looked her sad self over with just a trace of a grin on his face, and told her to meet him the next morning for another run. He’d decide on her assignment then. Barely able to stand up straight, let alone breathe, Celina had thanked him and agreed to meet him the next morning in the same spot, knowing she was dead meat if he kept up that crazy pace.
But her FBI training gave her a boo
st, and the next morning she endured the run again. At the Academy, they’d regularly run seven to ten miles a day. By the end of the week with Cooper, she was running a twelve-mile stretch like a marathoner and had completed her first assignment for Cooper without a hitch.
Two short weeks later, her morning runs with the agent-in-charge came to an abrupt halt as Londano entered the picture. Instead of Cooper handing her an assignment, an assignment—and a wanted criminal—had picked her.
She now stared at Thomas. “What’s it like being Cooper’s partner?”
He dropped his head back against the seat, flipped his hands up off the armrests in an open gesture. “Big opportunity. Big shoes to fill. Could make or break my career with the DEA.”
Not exactly what she wanted to know, but Celina nodded. “Why’d he pick you to take Dyer’s place?”
“The gods smiled on me?” He shrugged and gave her a wink. “Who can understand the mind of The Beast?”
Cooper’s voice came from the front of the cabin. “Watch it, Hawkins.”
So he was listening. Celina sighed. It was just the four of them in the plane. Would it have been so hard for him to be the one to bring her a blanket? To sit and talk? Give her some support?
“We went waterfall tramping one weekend,” Thomas said. “Guess I made an impression on him.”
“Waterfall what?”
“Adrenaline cocktail. Hiking, rappelling, whitewater swimming and cliff jumping. Like a special ops obstacle course. One of the gals in our group got tangled up in a dangerous current. Sucked her under and slammed her up against the cliff below us. I jumped in and saved her.”
One of the gals? Celina started to ask, but stopped herself. Cooper’s past gals were none of her business. And she’d be damned if she’d ask one single thing about them and suggest to the eavesdropper that she might be jealous.
“So,” Thomas said, “what’s it like being hunted by Emilio Londano?”
Forester cracked open one eye and glared at Thomas.
“Jesus!” Cooper yelled. “Hawkins, get the hell away from her and let her have some peace.”
“Sorry,” Thomas said, exaggerating his frown to Celina. “I guess that was insensitive, huh?”
“It’s okay,” Celina said loudly so Cooper could hear her. “At least he cares enough to ask.”
Thomas smiled at her. “Score,” he said softly and held out his closed fist.
Celina smiled back, leaned forward, and banged his fist with her own. “I put Londano away once, I can do it again.”
Forester harrumphed and went back to sleep. Thomas grinned. “Wonder what Time will do with your mug then.”
“My mother framed that issue and hung it beside Jesus in her living room. She doesn’t understand why it embarrasses me, why it ruined my career before it even got off the ground. In my neighborhood, I’m ranked right up there with Shakira and JLo now.”
“And Jesus.”
They shared a laugh. Celina rearranged her blanket. “My brothers are all jealous. The four of them were named after saints while I was named after my grandmother who came from a greedy money family in Cuba. I think they assumed they were all higher in my mother’s esteem simply because of that. Now,” Celina held up her hands in a what can you do gesture. “I’m the golden child.”
“Ever figure out who gave the editors all that information about you?”
“An anonymous source inside the Justice Department was all they would tell Quarters, but I think it came directly from someone inside the FBI—someone trying to undermine me. The editors couldn’t believe the Bureau was upset about the article. I was Cuban American, female and top of my class at Quantico. Hell, I overcome a learning disability during my school years so they could check that box, too. The New Face of the FBI is a poster child for life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness. In their words, ‘it was too good of a story to pass up’.”
She could site quotes directly from the article. In the decade after 9/11, the men in black are giving way to the women of color. Which wasn’t true. White male special agents outnumbered Hispanic female agents forty to one. But Time magazine wasn’t above sensationalizing a story, regardless of the facts.
“It was an inspiring article.” Thomas grinned. “If I didn’t know the real you, I’d be asking for your autograph. Or setting your picture beside my one of Jesus.”
Celina smacked him on the arm.
Two hours later, the Cessna was over the Grand Canyon when Cooper replaced Thomas in the seat across from a sleeping Celina. Her iPod sat cradled in one hand in her blanketed lap, her head on a soft felt pillow. Celina’s chest rose and fell in small puffs.
She’s alive. Contentment filled him as he watched her breathe. He wished he could stop time, for another hour or two, so he could keep her in the air, away from Emilio, where he knew he could keep her safe. Emilio had gotten close, too close, and Cooper knew he would be even bolder the next time.
Only this time, he’ll have to go through me.
Chapter Sixteen
Los Angeles
It was raining. Hard. Pounding the Escalade like a drum and setting Celina’s teeth on edge. Cooper had the wipers on full speed and still the windshield was a blurry mess. A strong gust of wind hit the Escalade as he spun it into the parking garage of the L.A. FBI building and Celina grabbed her door’s armrest. A sudden quiet descended on them and Celina unclenched her teeth.
Inside the building, past the guarded entrance, Cooper pulled her aside, giving Forester and Thomas a hand stop sign to keep them from following. His hat and jacket were gone; the sunglasses left in the Escalade. “First thing.” He pointed a finger at her. “Dupé, Lana, and probably a dozen other Feds are upstairs waiting for you. My taskforce is too, along with my DEA section chief, Kipfer. They’re going to want to hear every detail about what’s happened so far. Keep it simple. Keep it short, and don’t give more information or explanations than necessary. Choose your words carefully. Understand?”
Don’t mention sex against the door. “Got it.”
“Second thing,” he continued, glancing around the entryway, “don’t let Lana rile you. Keep the emotion off your face and out of your voice. Dupé likes you, but you’re still a rookie in his eyes. Your quote to Time tooting your own horn was a rookie move. Quitting Quarters’ unit, same thing. You need to make a good impression here, Celina, if you have any hopes of coming back to work for him in Southern California. Lana is now Dupé’s right hand man and she’ll be trying to trip you up. She doesn’t like you. Doesn’t like anyone. You’ll have to stand your ground with her, but the best way to do that is to ignore her insults and snide comments and remain professional. You show emotion, get upset, she’ll crucify you in front of everyone.”
Lovely. “Can I make a voodoo doll of her when this is over and stick her with pins?”
The hint of a smile tweaked the right corner of his mouth. “Whatever gets you through the next hour in one piece, kid.”
Kid. Even after everything she’d been through, she was still kid in his book. Well, they’d see about that.
Dupé was waiting for them on the twentieth floor with a squad of agents. A woman, a red-headed version of Dolly Parton, was standing next to him in a gorgeous Mediterranean-blue suit. Forester and Thomas were on Celina’s sides, Cooper behind her.
Like their male counterparts, women were creatures of evolution. They instinctively sized up each other without giving it a second thought. Celina looked at the woman again and thought, efficient, calculating, manipulative.
Lana? No way. Lana was a black belt who benched two hundred pounds. The woman standing next to Dupé looked like she’d tip forward on her air-bag breasts if she lifted so much as a coffee cup.
Yet, when their eyes met, her expression was hard, eyes cold.
Lana’s assessment of Celina took all of a second. She took in her kinky hair, her wrinkled clothes, and the boots on her feet, and Celina saw a mocking shadow cross her features. She shifted one petite, s
tilettoed-foot forward like a model posing.
Cocky, Celina added to her list.
“Celina.” Victor Dupé stepped forward and reached for her hand. Celina dropped her overnight bag to the floor and accepted his handshake. There was more salt than pepper in his hair, more worry than laugh lines around his eyes. He was broad-shouldered and medium height, and when she shook his hand, he used his free one to squeeze her elbow. Very Bill Clinton, not quite regulation, but not solicitous either. He was a good man—energetic for his age and this top position—and one who cared about his agents. Celina let out the breath she was holding and gave him a small smile. She was glad to be back under his umbrella.
Dupé turned her toward the woman and introduced her. Lana Custov, ex-DEA, and now his section chief, but instead of shaking Celina’s hand, Lana put her hands on her hips, a deliberate move that both snubbed Celina and opened her jacket to reveal her badge.
And her cleavage.
She had good reason to be cocky. But I’ve been in Iowa where they grow them just as big and all natural.
As Celina went to introduce Chief Forester, however, she realized the effect Lana’s chest had. Forester was a deer frozen in headlights. Celina ignored Lana’s look of conquest as she introduced the Chief to Dupé.
Then she asked for an update on Ronni.
“She’s out of surgery,” Lana said.
“I know that,” Celina said. “Has her condition been upgraded?”
Lana breathed impatience. “She’s in serious condition, but she’ll survive.” She turned to Dupé. “Everyone’s in the conference room waiting.”
Dupé nodded. “We have a lot to cover.” He motioned them toward the bank of offices down the hall to their left. Forester fell into step beside Lana. Thomas lagged behind, exchanging a funky handshake with one of the Feds passing by.
