Deadly Deception (SCVC Taskforce)

by Evans, Misty

  DEADLY DECEPTION

  by

  Misty Evans

  Deadly Deception

  Copyright © 2014 Misty Evans

  ISBN-10: 0985872942

  ISBN-13: 978-0-9858729-4-6

  Cover Art by Hot Damn Designs

  Formatting by Author E.M.S.

  Editing by Marcie Gately and Judy Beatty

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, events, locales or organizations is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner without the express written consent of the author, except in brief quotations embedded in critical articles and reviews.

  eBooks may not be resold as it is an infringement on the copyright of this work.

  Dedication

  To Mark

  “…it’s been an honor to share the field of battle with you.”

  ~ The Replacements

  Acknowledgements

  Thank you to the Deadly series fans who voted for Ronni and Thomas to go undercover inside a cult. And to all the fans who share my love for Deeks and Kensi…you might see echoes of them in Thomas and Ronni. This book is for all of you…you made the story what it is.

  “I am not afraid of an army of lions led by a sheep;

  I am afraid of an army of sheep led by a lion.”

  ~ Alexander the Great

  Chapter One

  “I’ve already had a bitch of a day,” Agent Thomas Mann said to the teenage punk he’d cornered. “How about we do this the easy way and you give up?”

  The Kid Rock look-alike shoved him—hard—breaking the hold Thomas had on his arm and knocking the new Oakley’s off Thomas’s face. Then Mr. Rock took off.

  Goddamn kid. Thomas picked up his sunglasses, brushed them off. It’s always the hard way.

  Taking off after his target, Thomas dodged through the San Diego airport and the throngs of people getting ready to enjoy their holiday weekend. Everyone grabbing one last summer vacation.

  The kid bumped a few people and got some gruff looks and curse words thrown his way. Thomas skirted and parried around the same folks, trying not to cause the innocent travelers more distress. He hopped luggage, sidestepped the elderly, and barely avoided crashing into a group of twenty-something women blocking the main thoroughfare.

  An off-balance toddler careened into his path. Thomas jumped over the pig-tailed girl and her mother screamed. Behind him, men yelled.

  So much for being the good guy.

  Protocol said he should announce he was DEA. Undercover protocol said he damn well better not.

  But undercover protocol also said he shouldn’t be going after this perp in the first place. Blowing his UC identity was an absolute no-no, and apprehending the thief stealing smartphones at the airport wasn’t his job. Nor was nabbing a pickpocket thief more important than maintaining his status in the Ortega-Sandoval cartel.

  “Hey you!” Two men in dark blue uniforms appeared on his left. “Stop!”

  Airport security. Finally. Where had they been while the thief was lifting the phone of a young mother with three kids under five? Her complete life—including the photos of the kids—was probably on that thing.

  The teenage thief had stolen at least six cell phones while Thomas waited for Ronni’s plane to land. After the third snatch, he couldn’t stand it any longer and had called airport security. He hadn’t ID’d himself, but they said they’d look into the matter. After the fifth phone got lifted, Thomas had started following the teen.

  “Security! Stop!”

  And now he was the one being apprehended. Go figure.

  Definitely doing this the hard way.

  Flying by the security guards, he jumped a planter of ferns, slid down an escalator railing, and tackled the perp at the bottom. Together, they fell into a group of people heading for baggage claim.

  More screaming and jostling as they rolled free of the crowd, the teenaged thief struggling underneath Thomas. Stolen cell phones flew left and right, the kid in an all-out panic. “Let me go, asshole!”

  Thomas pinned the kid’s wrists, saw a tat on the inside of one of them. A US flag with a sword plunging through the center. Stringy hair, blue bandana, cowboy boots, and a wild-eyed look…no surprise the kid was one of the Yank’s anti-government militia. He fit the stereotype to a T.

  Only one sword through the flag—meant he was still a newb, a wannabe Yank. Stealing phones was probably an initiation. Smart phones offered identities and banking info, and identity fraud kept the militia in funds and fake driver’s licenses. Next step for this kid would be stealing weapons. And using one on a government employee in order to earn the second sword.

  Looked like the kid hadn’t killed yet. At least not what the Yank Militia considered a kill worth the second sword through the flag. Maybe this kid could be saved…

  “Harbor Police!”

  Thomas heard the click of a gun behind his head. The Harbor Police roamed the terminals as part of airport security. Someone had called in the chase, and from the way Thomas was dressed, combined with his beard and long, greasy hair—Duck Dynasty and Sons of Anarchy incarnate—they probably thought he was every bit as guilty as the kid lying underneath him.

  Gig’s up. Getting shot or tased over this dumb wannabe Yank wasn’t worth it. Thomas released the kid’s wrists, raised his hands in surrender. “DEA. Don’t shoot.”

  The kid’s eyes got even bigger.

  “Right,” one of the men in blue snorted under his breath. “Both of you, up!”

  The kid, of course, ran again the moment Thomas released him. He was smart—the police wouldn’t fire a gun into the crowd. But he was also dumb. Two officers were on his tail instantaneously.

  The crowd parted, letting the kid and officers pass. The perp started to jet by a cleaning cart when a petite woman dressed in a bright pink halter top and a dark gray skirt stepped forward. One swing and she cold-cocked the kid right in the face with her briefcase.

  The kid’s head snapped back and he dropped at her feet. The officers lunged for him, and the woman glanced down the open aisle of on-lookers, lifting one dark brow at Thomas.

  Ronni.

  Thomas’s heart knocked hard in his ribcage, signaling nothing in his sad little world had changed when it came to her.

  But she had changed. The apricot hair from six months ago was gone. The lighthearted look in her eyes, absent. Her hair hung soft and shiny black around her elegant jawline and long neck. Her brown eyes sized him up from his badass motorcycle hair, to his scraggly beard, to his ratty cargo pants and combat boots. She strutted down the aisle in sensible heels that added two inches to her height, her matching gray jacket over one arm, as she maneuvered a rolling suitcase behind her.

  Along with her loud hair and lighthearted attitude, Agent Ronni Punto had lost a few pounds since the last time he’d seen her. Being stabbed in the back—literally—by a ruthless psychopath could change a person inside and out.

  She stopped in front of him, planted her suitcase off to the side and searched his face. “Thomas? Is that you?”

  One of the Harbor guys pulled his arms behind his back and handcuffed him, reading him his rights in a bored voice. Thomas gave her his brightest smile. “I’m supposed to pick you up and bring you to HQ for a meeting.”

  “What happened?”

  “The kid was stealing phones. I stopped him.”

  “I meant”—she pointed at his attire—“what happened to you?”

  He could ask her the same th
ing, but he knew. His calls to the hospital and her home had gone unanswered. His messages unreturned. After the stabbing, he’d wanted to stay in Des Moines and be there for her, but his job required him to return to California. She’d been laid up in the hospital for nearly two weeks, had spent another couple of months in physical therapy. Celina, his boss’s girlfriend and a former agent inside the Southern California Violent Crimes Taskforce, had told Thomas that Ronni was emotionally and mentally messed up after the stabbing.

  Who wouldn’t be?

  The FBI had kept her on disability, only allowing her to return to the field ten days ago. The docs and the therapists had vetted her as being one hundred and ten percent clean, but it was a sick joke that she’d drawn a new assignment that put her with the SCVC—the taskforce that had brought Petero Valquis to her door. The taskforce made up of people who reminded her of the hell she’d just been through.

  The taskforce Thomas lived and breathed. “I’m undercover,” he told her.

  At least I was.

  Ronni glanced at the policemen searching his pockets, and gave a sigh. Her luscious top lip thinned ever so slightly. “So you don’t have your badge, which means you’re going to be tied up for a while. I’ll grab a cab.”

  “Show this guy your ID and tell him who I am.”

  “And steal all your fun?” She grabbed the handle of her luggage. “I wouldn’t dream of it, partner.”

  Partner. So she knew about that already. Fucking FBI couldn’t keep an internal secret if it killed them. The good old boys and girls in their Bureau offices looked down their noses at DEA operatives—the running joke in the FBI was that the DEA was for those who couldn’t cut it as a Bureau agent. But the gesture went both ways. The DEA referred to Bureau agents as Famous But Incompetent.

  For those actually working together in the field, camaraderie ran deep between them, regardless of the letters beside their names. The suits in their shiny offices didn’t understand that.

  Partner? Hell, yeah. They’d make a great team. If she could get over her hang-ups about him being DEA and part of the taskforce. A big if.

  Ronni drew on her jacket, hefted her briefcase onto her shoulder. With one last look, she left him standing there being frisked by airport security. Her curvy hips swayed in the skirt, giving Thomas an instant hard-on.

  Always the fucking hard way.

  “Looks like you screwed up, son,” the officer said, patting Thomas on the back. “That lady is a class act.”

  Thomas ground his teeth. In Ronni’s case, she was Fabulous But Irritating. “Yeah, she is. She’s also gonna be trouble for me.”

  The guy made a crude noise in the back of his throat. “That’s my kinda trouble.”

  Mine too, thought Thomas. Mine too.

  “Wait,” Cooper’s voice barked in Thomas’s ear. “You did what?”

  Thomas moved the phone several inches away. He had enough audio damage from working with Cooper, and he was pretty sure there was about to be more yelling. “I lost her.”

  “How do you lose a hundred-and-twenty pound woman?”

  “She sort of walked off and left me.”

  “Jesus.” Thomas heard the scratching of Cooper’s hand over his three-day growth of beard. He was giving Gerard Butler a run for his money these days. “Celina’s going to kill me.”

  “Only after she kills me.”

  “What did you say to piss her off?”

  “Nothing. She just didn’t want to ride with me.”

  “Why?”

  He cringed. “I was in handcuffs at the time.”

  “Hers?”

  His cock jumped at the thought. “Harbor Patrol’s.”

  A beat of silence. “Explain later. Right now, we have to find Ronni Punto. Dupé’s briefing is in one hour.”

  A taskforce meeting Ronni was the star of. “I’m on it.”

  “Do you have any idea where she went?”

  Not the slightest.

  But he had ways of finding out. “I’ll have her there for the meeting.”

  “You better, or both our asses are in deep shit.”

  “Roger that, boss.”

  Thomas disconnected and headed for the exit door of the police station. He’d given the nice police officers a phone number to call. Not Cooper’s. No need for the boss to know his cover might be blown. Another friend and coworker. One who worked behind the scenes with the SCVC taskforce and who was tight with the local cops. After Bobby Dyer had set things straight, the cops had locked up the Kid Rock lookalike, taken Thomas’s statement, and then released Thomas.

  But of course, Cooper had called to inquire about Ronni and the gig was up.

  Outside on the sidewalk, he stopped. His car was at the airport. He had less than an hour to find Ronni and get her to the briefing. And San Diego was one big fucking place.

  Don’t panic. How far could she go?

  Not far, apparently. As Thomas blinked in the late afternoon sun, he spotted a hot pink halter top now paired with conservative black pants, leaning on a cherry-red convertible across the street.

  Ronni took a sip from the convenience store drink in her hand, pursed her lips, and lifted the sunglasses from her nose to give him a slow perusal. “Need a ride, Boy Scout?”

  He hardly looked like a Boy Scout in his current state. “You offering?” he called across the expanse, waiting for a car to pass. Once it had, he jogged across the street, stopping in front of her, his eyes raking over every inch of her body. She’d looked good in Des Moines. Now, she looked incredible. “Not sure I’m that desperate.”

  Her full lips, tinged a dusky pink, wrapped seductively around the straw, drawing another sip. She gave his body, and his getup, a second open appraisal as she licked those lips. “Look pretty desperate to me.”

  “Are you kidding?” He struck a fashion model pose. “I’ve got lots of pretty woman wanting to take me home.”

  She smiled around the straw, speculating. Or working up a comeback. She was never speechless.

  Then her nostrils flared as she got a good whiff of him. “When was the last time you bathed?”

  He sniffed his armpit. Yeah, not good. “Been a few days.”

  “Must be one hell of an op you’re working.”

  “If you take me to the Mickey D’s down the road, I’ll clean up. We have a briefing with Victor Dupé and the taskforce in an hour. I’ll tell you about the op, and the meeting, on the way.”

  She nibbled the end of the straw, and Thomas’s cock jumped again. Handcuffs, Ronni…what meeting?

  The setting sun shone on her latte-colored skin and he itched to touch it. “I like the clean-cut Boy Scout look you had in Des Moines better.”

  “What? You don’t go for bad boys?”

  “I don’t go for stinky vagrants.”

  “Vagrant is politically incorrect. It’s ‘street person’, and I was going for the bad-boy biker look, not the homeless look.”

  “Uh, huh.” Her tone said she wasn’t impressed. “Well, Mr. Street Person, get in but don’t soil the leather.”

  Yes! That was easy—finding Ronni waiting for him and scoring a ride—and damn, but the easy way was so much nicer than the hard way.

  He did a small fist pump as she pushed off the car and climbed into the driver’s seat.

  He hopped over the passenger door and gave her a charming grin as he slid down into the seat. Taking out his phone, he sent Cooper a short text. Found her. All’s well. Then he put it away. “I’m sorry about earlier. At the airport. I couldn’t let that kid get away with stealing.”

  Ronni replaced her sunglasses, set her drink in the cup holder, and started the car. “That’s because underneath that disgusting vagrant appearance, you really are a Boy Scout.”

  “True, but you like Boy Scouts, remember?”

  Her lips thinned. “You ever stand me up again, Mann, and it’ll be the last time you walk without a limp.” She put the car in drive, sent him a look through the sunglasses he felt in his balls. “W
e clear?”

  Damn. Fabulous But Irritating didn’t begin to cover it. He grinned. “You’re going to make my life hell on the taskforce, aren’t you, Punto?”

  She was quiet again, staring off into the distance. She didn’t answer, only shoved the car in gear and squealed the tires as she pulled into traffic.

  Chapter Two

  Twenty minutes later

  McDonald’s parking lot

  Just her rotten luck.

  Not luck…Murphy’s Law. Whatever could go wrong would go wrong. She and Murphy were long-standing friends. He liked to ruin her life.

  Like throwing her into the SCVC taskforce six months after Petero Valquis shoved a knife in her back and changed the course of her career. Like having sexy Thomas Mann as her new partner. Why couldn’t she have Celina back?

  Because Celina’s no longer a field agent. Her old partner was now a crime scene photographer. And she was engaged to the Terminator, Cooper Harris. Harris exemplified the typical DEA agent—big, bad, and machine-like in his take-downs and arrests.

  Terminator Junior was now inside the McDonald’s cleaning up. Cooper had trained Thomas and brought him onboard the SCVC taskforce. Thomas was no Boy Scout, regardless of how she teased him. He was two-hundred-plus pounds of tough male with the West Point creds and a stint with an off-the-books special ops branch to prove it.

  Smarts came with the muscles. He’d moved onto the Department of Defense after a dozen Spec Ops assignments, doing God-knows-what, and then decided field work was more his thing. The FBI, CIA, NSA…they’d all wanted him. He’d chosen the DEA.

  The guy played his cards close to his vest, and no one knew why he picked the drug enforcement agency. Ronni suspected it had something to do with his past—someone in his past. He may have been smarter than Bill Gates and tougher than the entire US Army put together, but there was always a reason for the choices one made. The past was never really the past.