Deep Under (Tall, Dark and Deadly #4)

by Lisa Renee Jones

  “You mean Alvarez,” I state, while Myla’s expression tightens and she turns away from me, putting several steps between us.

  “You don’t need to name him,” Juan states, a reprimand in his words, while Myla sits on the edge of the tiled ledge surrounding the giant tub. “He doesn’t like to be named,” he adds.

  “Tell Alvarez to call me,” I reply to spite him, while Myla squeezes her eyes shut, as if she wants to block out everything I’m doing. I wonder what else she’s blocked out just to survive this past year and if she knows she’s done it.

  “You deal with me,” Juan snaps. “And I’m sending a team up to re-install the devices, and if you don’t like it-”

  “If you want to know if she’s loyal,” I say, leaning against the sink, and placing Myla in profile. “She has to think you aren’t looking. She has to believe you aren’t watching.”

  “Knowing we’re watching keeps her loyal. Where is she now?”

  “In her room,” I say, “and pissed at me because she’s afraid she’ll be blamed for my actions.”

  “She should be afraid,” he replies. “You should be afraid, too.”

  “Fear isn’t loyalty. Fear is a motive to run. You need to know what she’ll do when she thinks you’re not looking. Do you really want to tell Alvarez that her fear equals her loyalty and then let her burn him later?”

  “It’s you I’m worried about burning us.”

  “And yet you’re paying me a million dollars for eight weeks of work.”

  “We are paying you a million dollars,” he agrees. “And we expect compliance in exchange.”

  “Compliance isn’t success, and my failure comes with consequences that I’m not willing to pay. I won’t operate with my hands tied. If that’s what you want, then this isn’t the job for me.”

  “Take her to dinner while we re-install the room devices,” he bites out, the reply telling me Alvarez won’t be happy if I quit.

  “I told her that Alvarez ordered the removal of all devices,” I counter.

  “You did what?” He all but growls into the phone. “You are pushing my limits, but this changes nothing. In fact, this is good. She’ll never know we’ve re-installed the equipment.”

  “She knew they were here the first time,” I lie. “She’s smart. Don’t let her be smarter than you. Alvarez needs to tell her he removed them because he trusts her, then, and only then, will you find out if she rises to the challenge or runs for the hills.”

  He doesn’t immediately answer, remarkably silent considering his big mouth, before he says, “I’ll be in touch.”

  “Make it fast,” I say, “because time is money that I won’t waste.”

  “I said, I’ll be in touch,” he snaps, ending the call, and the moment I lower the phone, Myla is standing in front of me, green fire in her eyes.

  “First and foremost,” she says, “do not speak for me. Telling Juan that I knew about the equipment and didn’t tell Michael is bad for me. It means I knew and didn’t tell Michael.”

  “Why is that a problem?”

  “It matters,” is her only reply. “They’re paying you a million dollars to be here with me?”

  “Yes. They are. Clearly you mean a lot to Michael Alvarez.”

  “Silence means a lot to Michael Alvarez,” she counters, inferring she isn’t what’s important, but she’s already moved on. “Were you actually hired to protect me or test my loyalty?”

  “Both.”

  “If you’re testing me, then why would you tell me that?”

  “Because if you fail their test,” I say, sliding my phone back in my pocket, “then so do I.”

  Disappointment flares in her eyes, and quickly shifts to anger. “So this is self-serving.”

  “This is what you call mutually beneficial. We both stay alive.”

  “You assume I’m going to betray him,” she says, guarding herself as any survivor would.

  “How long have you been with him?” I ask, despite knowing the answer.

  “Why does that have to do with anything?”

  “How long?” I push.

  “A year.”

  “Then you know him well enough to know that his definition of betrayal and yours might be different. And his is the only definition that matters. I’m not leaving this up to his interpretation.”

  She inhales and takes a step backward, leaning on the wall directly across from me, several beats passing before she asks, “Why did he choose you over someone else?”

  “My FBI background.”

  “Because of my sister,” she says, her voice turning raspy.

  “Yes,” I confirm. “Because they think I’m the right person to keep you away from her.”

  “Well then, you’re going to impress them because I have no intention of contacting my sister now or ever,” she declares, her fingers curling into her palms. “She thinks I’m dead. I’m not going to give her any reason to start a new mission to find me again.”

  “Because she won’t approve of Alvarez?”

  “Of course she doesn’t approve. She’s FBI. Or…I guess you are too, and it doesn’t matter to you, but it would to her.” She hesitates. “Do you know her?”

  There are equal parts hope and fear in that question, and I know that this is a moment of truth or lies that I will have to live with later, a decision thankfully delayed when a phone starts ringing in her pocket. She reaches inside her dress pants, removing it, but all too aware of the potential of Stockholm syndrome controlling her actions, I close the space between us and catch her wrist before she can answer the call. “Are you crazy?” she demands, her eyes and voice sparking with anger. “That’s going to be Michael, and the last thing either of us wants right now, I promise you, is for me to ignore him.”

  “Tread cautiously,” I warn. “He wants to trust you and I’ve given you the resources to ensure he does. Understand?”

  “Yes. I understand, so let me go before he starts thinking the wrong thing.” I want to know what the “wrong thing” is, but right now the content of her conversation with Alvarez is all that matters. Her phone stops ringing. “Damn it,” she hisses. “That’s bad. Let me call him back.”

  “He’ll call back,” I say, “and we need to get our facts in line.”

  “I heard the call with Juan. I know what to say.”

  “You tell him that I told you that I was instructed to remove the recording devices.”

  “I know,” she insists, and her phone starts to ring again. “I have to take his call.”

  I study her for several more beats, assuring myself we’re on the same page, before I release her and when I expect her to quickly answer the call, she doesn’t. Instead, her gaze drops to her phone, and she stares down at it. One second passes. Two. “Answer it,” I urge softly, instinctively settling my hand on her waist. “You can handle this.” For the briefest of moments, that “something” that keeps passing between us is there again, a magnet pulling us together.

  It jolts her. I see it in her eyes, and she reacts, cutting her stare, to murmur, “I hope you’re right,” before with a trembling hand, she answers the call. “Hello,” she says, pushing around me to exit the bathroom and enter the bedroom. Seeing this as an opportunity to assess her relationship with Alvarez, I stay where I’m at, listening and observing, in search of the true heart of Myla. “Sorry,” I hear her say. “I had to run to the bathroom and left it on the bed. Yes. I know. I was just a minute.” There are beats of silence, then, “Of course I knew you monitored me. I didn’t know it was a secret, but I do wish that you knew that wasn’t necessary. Not with me, Michael.”

  It’s exactly the right thing to say to feed the narrative I’ve set up. She wants his trust. He can give it to her and with it, enough freedom for me to walk her out of here without gunfire, but then there is silence. And more silence, and without seeing her face, I can’t know if that’s trouble I need to be ready to handle. Standing, I exit the bathroom, bringing the bedroom into view, finding her sit
ting on the couch, her body angled away from me, the phone at her ear, as if she’s trying to shut me out. I lean on the wall, listening, waiting. And watching.

  “He’s fine,” she finally says. “He’s better than Juan. You know how I feel about Juan.” She hesitates. “I want you to trust me. You can trust me. I know it’s hard for you to believe it anyway, but you won’t be sorry for this.”

  The sincerity in her voice grinds along my nerve endings with such force, it damn near crushes bones. Maybe she’s gotten really good at faking it with this man. Or maybe she’s actually come to care for him, even if it’s Stockholm syndrome, or simply her mind’s way of letting her survive. But if I assume she’s just surviving, when she might really be in love with Alvarez, the people who care about her, and that I care about, could end up dead.

  “I will,” she promises. “Yes. I’m very excited about my meetings tomorrow and about how this helps you, too.” There is more silence. Then, “Yes. Goodnight.” She ends the call and stands, whirling around to face me, steel in her eyes. “You’re playing with fire. You’re missing the big picture and you need to get a view right now.”

  “It sounded to me like the call went well.”

  “A call means nothing,” she says. “It’s a temporary reprieve for both of us but we’re in the same hotel room around the clock for weeks. Those recording devices made sure he didn’t have to use his imagination about what’s happening when we’re alone. The minute he decides we’re sleeping together, we’re dead.” Somehow we’ve moved to the middle of the room, standing toe-to-toe again, as if a magnetic pull wants us together, and she realizes it at the same moment as me. I see it in her eyes. Feel it in the shift in the air. “This is dangerous,” she whispers, and it’s clear she’s talking about us.

  “But I’m not,” I promise her, “and on some level you knew that, or you wouldn’t have pushed me to take this job.”

  “I don’t know what I thought. I don’t know what I think now, but Michael’s possessive. The longer you’re with me and unmonitored, the more he’ll read into who and what we are.”

  “Do you really want him to read into every interaction we have?”

  “No, but…maybe you taking this job was a mistake.”

  “Nothing about this feels like a mistake,” I assure her, letting her read whatever she wants into it. “You need protection and I’m going to do whatever it takes to ensure you stay safe. So yes. I’m close and if I have to get closer, I will.”

  “What part of “you’re going to get us killed,” do you not understand?”

  “No one is dying that I don’t kill or let die.”

  “No one lives that Michael Alvarez wants dead,” she counters, her eyes narrowing, realization of some sort filling her face. “You’re not afraid.” She sucks in air and then lets it out, before calmly asking, “This is part of the test, isn’t it?”

  “I’m the one who told you about the test in the first place.”

  “What better way to make me trust you and then try to convince me to turn on Michael?”

  “No,” I say, my voice hard steel. “That is not what is happening here. I’m not setting you up.”

  “But I can’t know that, now can I?” She takes several steps backwards. “Please go.”

  “I’m not setting you up,” I repeat, my voice as solid as the wall I can feel between us now that she reinforces by once again folding her arms in front of her. “Myla-”

  “I need you to leave and please shut the door behind you.”

  The urge to refuse, and to demand she trust me, is instant, but I have to force myself to repeat the golden rule of undercover work: Earning trust is critical. Earning trust takes time you won’t want to give it. And finally, assuming you have it too soon, can get you and everyone else killed. Accepting these things, knowing they are about survival, I inhale, and with Herculean effort, force myself to walk to the doorway, pausing under the archway without turning.

  “I explained my motives and they stand. I’m looking out for only two people. You and me and no one else.”

  Exiting into the living area, I pull the door shut behind me, accepting the divide she’s demanded, but not for long. In fact, as I walk away, something is clawing at me, warning me that I’m missing something. I stop walking, fighting the urge to return to Myla, every instinct I’ve honed over the years telling me to pull Myla close and keep her there, and do it really damn fast.

  Chapter Four

  Kyle

  Twelve months of looking for Myla… That I’ve found her hits me as I walk to the spare bedroom by the front door, and I come to the realization just inside the entryway, my fists pressed to the wall, my head low between my shoulders. “Twelve months,” I repeat softly, the timeline surreal. “Twelve months and I found her.” Twelve months of knowing in my gut that she wasn’t dead, and living with an intense drive to find her.

  No. It was an intense need, like I was supposed to be the one who saved her. But I haven’t. Not yet.

  Now I need to think through a way to make that happen. I replay my interactions with Myla, looking for her motives, her alliances that I might have to fight. My first focus is on the very real fear in her eyes, but I quickly dismiss that as a conclusive way to evaluate where she is with Alvarez. Lord only knows that I understand how you can condition yourself to feel, and even embrace fear, as a way of being reminded that you’re alive. It can be a high you start craving and even needing. So I move on, remembering the shared looks between myself and Myla, so intense that she’d called us “dangerous.” I come to one conclusion. If she is truly seduced by this life, or by Michael Alvarez, even by way of being brainwashed, there is no way the attraction between us—and there is an attraction between us—could have been this hot and instant. Out of the blue, her statement about Kara replays in my head: I have no intention of contacting my sister now or ever. Those words deliver a jolt of reality and a rationale as to why she’s seemingly loyal to a kingpin.

  Shit. I push off the wall, and run my hand over the newly forming stubble on my jaw. I’m speculating, but I have damn good instincts, along with a year of studying all things Myla. I would bet money that Myla believes Alvarez will hurt Kara if she does anything but show undying devotion to him. And the thing is, I believe she’s right, a problem Royce and I never talked about because we simply didn’t think finding Myla would be this easy, if at all. Cursing softly at what could be an imminent threat to Kara, I push off the wall and start unpacking my equipment, with the goal of securing the room and setting up private communication I can use to contact Royce.

  A few minutes later, I’ve unpacked, set up three MacBook Pros on the desk, and claimed the chair in front of them, two of the dozen disposable phones I have with me charging next to me. I then move on to a quick hack of the hotel computer system, pulling up views inside and outside the building, though irritatingly nothing for this floor, where you’d think high profile clients would dictate monitoring. Once I have eyes on every spot I can manage, and I’ve confirmed nothing is needing attention at the moment, I reach for a phone, but hesitate as I glance at the door I don’t want to shut.

  I leave the phone where it’s plugged in, and instead return to my keyboard, opting to activate a private messaging system to ping Royce and type: The assignment starts now. I’m in the private wing of the hotel for several months.

  Royce: Who are you protecting?

  Caution prevails, out of fear Kara and Blake are with him and I type: Are you alone?

  Royce: Yes. Can you call me?

  I really need to have a real conversation with him, but concerned the exterior hallway outside the room might be bugged, I’m stuck right where I’m at, with Myla in potential hearing distance. Standing, I scan the area and head to the bathroom, stepping inside to muffle the sound, but still managing to maintain a view of the hallway before punching in Royce’s number.

  “Talk to me,” he demands, answering almost instantly.

  “I will,” I say, “but so
ftly. I’m not in as private of a location as I like. However, I’m in the private wing of the hotel, where they want me to work for the next eight weeks.”

  “Protecting who?”

  “Myla,” I breathe out, keeping my voice low. “I’m protecting fucking Myla.” Even saying those words is surreal.

  “You have to be shitting me.” He sounds as disbelieving as I felt when I first saw her. “You have Myla?”

  “I do. She’s still his woman, but in my professional opinion, she’s surviving and protecting Kara only.”

  “Holy fuck. Of course, Kara would be his leverage against her, and so would any other family she had, if they existed. Is she suffering from Stockholm syndrome?”

  “Considering how quickly she gravitated toward me, I don’t think so, but she’s scared. I think she might panic if she finds out I’m connected to Kara and I’m not sure how she’ll react. But my gut instinct is to get her out of here quickly, even if I don’t tell her what’s going on before we extract her.”

  “If we do that, then we force her, Kara, and Blake into hiding for the rest of their lives if we aren’t careful. Hell. We might force ourselves there.”

  “Then we have to do a turnaround on him. Let’s make him think she’s dead.”

  “He could kill you for that.”

  “I can handle me. Let’s get a plan that gets her out of here safely and I’ll frame my exit plan. And if that means I need to get out of the country for a while to ensure I don’t lead Alvarez to the team, so be it.”

  “We aren’t throwing you into a black hole.”

  “Someone will need to acclimate Myla to a new life. It makes sense for me to disappear with her, at least for a while. And…” I consider a moment. “Kara leaving the country right now, at the same time Myla disappears, might be suspicious and bring attention to her.”