by Dana Marton
All Walker needed was ten minutes with the guy. Hell, even five. He was pretty confident he could get Ben’s killer’s name out of the bastard.
He looked up as he hung up the phone, saw Clara at the back door, and hurried toward her with a muttered curse.
“Who did you call?” She tried to peer into the house over his shoulder, open curiosity sitting on her face.
He turned her around and pushed her outside, closed the door behind them. “When I want you to know something, I’ll tell you.”
Which would happen—never. He wanted her to know absolutely nothing about him or what he was doing here.
Her face and hair were wet. She’d lost her hat in the river. The blond locks that had been previously tortured into that tight little bun at her nape now swung softly around her shoulders.
She wasn’t beautiful. She wasn’t even pretty. But he was beginning to find her sharp-with-intelligence eyes and her pursed-with-disapproval mouth interesting.
She’d held up under duress so far. A lot better than he would have predicted. That intrigued him. Where did that toughness come from? Why was her hopeless mission so damned important to her?
But while he had plenty of questions, he made no attempt to discover her secrets. She wouldn’t be around long enough for any of that to matter to him.
The only thing he wanted from her was for her to leave, with as little fuss as possible. First thing tomorrow morning, preferably. He had dangerous places to be and ruthless criminals to see.
He turned toward the fire-escape ladder to his left and stepped close enough to pull down the rusty metal ladder. He went up without looking back at her. “Yank it up behind you.”
She did as he asked, which boded well for their continued cooperation, as brief as it was going to be.
He went up all the way to the top of the ladder, then climbed the window frame another level up, unlocked the padlock on the shutters, and ducked in through the small, round window of the attic, gun in hand just in case.
He stood blocking her out until his eyes adjusted to the low light and he could see that the room was safe.
Then he tucked his gun away and stepped forward. “Come in.”
And he wondered, even as he said the words, what in hell he was doing. He’d never brought anyone here before. The attic was his secret hiding place.
He’d known Clara less than a day and he’d already broken one of his own rules because of her. As he watched her climb in, he swore he wasn’t going to break any others.
Chapter Six
Walker breathed in the hot, stale air of the attic. The accommodations were meager: a tarp-covered mattress on the floor—in case the roof leaked—mosquito netting, a rickety table, a washstand with an empty bowl. Dust and more dust, dead bugs in the corners.
“We’re spending the night here,” he said, then waited.
She didn’t cry him a river.
Clara scanned the dim space, her spine straight, her shoulders back, an impassive expression on her face. “I’ve been in safe houses before. I’ve been on stakeouts. It’s not always ideal,” she said, as if sensing his thoughts. “I can handle unpleasant things.”
“Wouldn’t know it from the way you screamed in the jungle when that tarantula fell on your shoulder.” His ears were still ringing.
Her impassive expression dissolved as she shot him a look of pure death ray.
Apparently, she didn’t like being reminded of her girly side. Did she think it made her less of a hard-hitting DOD investigator?
He walked to an ancient wooden chest in the corner, rummaged through it until he found a pair of cowboy boots about her size, scuffed but serviceable.
He handed them to her.
She looked the boots over. “Whose are these?”
He shrugged. “Stuff was here when I moved in.”
He searched some more and threw her a pair of shorts that were probably going to destroy what little peace of mind he had left, but they were the only thing in her size. “You’re going to fry up here in long pants.”
While she changed pants and footwear, he turned his back to her and hung up his rifle and machete, then put his handgun on the table. Having no chairs, he folded up the tarp and sat on the edge of the mattress. He kicked off his boots, took off his socks. In a moist environment like this, letting his skin dry was the best defense against swamp feet.
Instead of sitting next to him, she sat on the folded-up tarp four or so feet away, probably thinking she was out of his reach.
He watched as she took the Glock from her waistband and stuffed it into her right boot, rubbernecking to take in the details of the room. She crossed her long, bare legs in front of her.
The shorts had been a bad idea, he could tell that right then and there. They were a light material, red, an inch-long lace edging the hems. Combined with cowboy boots, they created an interesting effect. In his pants.
He had enough control over his dick to ignore that, but he couldn’t ignore her entirely. She’d have to be dealt with one way or the other. She didn’t belong here—neither in his safe room, nor in this part of the country. She stuck out. She’d gotten tangled up with Pedro. If Walker hadn’t shown up, she probably wouldn’t have survived the day.
Not his problem, really. He had his own difficulties. Yet he did owe the DOD a favor. So he decided to hear her out before he sent her on her way.
“Tell me exactly who you are and what you’re doing here. From the beginning.”
As long as she was talking about herself and her case, at least she wasn’t asking questions about him.
“DOD Investigator Clara Roberts,” she introduced herself formally.
He’d expected someone different. When word had come down from the DOD, it’d only been that an investigator would be arriving and Walker was to offer assistance. He’d expected a guy, a grizzled old-timer, but realized his mistake as soon as he’d walked into the cantina. He knew a US government employee when he saw one. She’d stuck out like a kitten in a caiman nest.
He’d been pissed. Why in hell would they send a woman? Alone at that.
Then again, the DOD had no idea what Walker had set up, that the border region was about to go up in flames. And even if the DOD had sent a man, no matter who came, Walker would have done his best to turn the person around and get him to leave.
She was saying, “And you’re Light Walker, doing…” She paused. “What exactly are you doing here?”
If she asked that question one more time, he swore to God… “Just Walker. I can’t help you.”
Anger and disappointment flashed across her face. “You said you’d think about it.”
“I just did.” He shrugged. “Something else came up.”
“You are my local facilitator.” She practically growled the words.
He liked her growly voice. He was beginning to regret that they had no time for him to make her growl and moan under different circumstances. The woman needed loosening up, and he wouldn’t have minded being the man who stirred her up a little. Or a lot. The thought of her long legs wrapped around his waist definitely held appeal.
Except, while he was contemplating talking her out of her pants, the look in her eyes said she was contemplating shooting him.
He needed to get her the hell out of town. Not that he thought she was going to be reasonable about it.
“I work for Civilian Personnel Recovery,” she said with a slight uptilt of her chin. “It’s a new department at the DOD.”
Just what the world needs, another freaking government initiative.
She must have read the thought on his face, because she shot him a withering look. “As I said, I’m here to recover Rosita Ruiz. US citizen.”
Disappeared on July 1st, from in front of some cousin’s house, she’d said in the jungle.
Walker thought for a second. At the beginning of July, he’d been smuggling guns across the border to Guatemala. “Have you uncovered any eyewitnesses to the kidnapping, Detective Cupcake?�
��
The death ray flashed from her eyes. “I’m an investigator, not a detective.”
He held back a grin. “Let’s not split hairs so early in the game.”
She toned down the death ray, but only just. “Rosita’s cousin was the only family member home at the time of the kidnapping, but she was inside the house. She didn’t see anything. Nobody else came forward either as far as the cousin knows.” Clara paused. “I wish I could see the police reports, but I’m going to steer clear of la policía for now.”
Maybe she wasn’t completely clueless.
He decided to give her a little more specific information than he’d shared with her before about the local cops. Once she accepted that Walker wasn’t going to help her, he didn’t want her to turn to the cops and get burned. “The chief of police is Carlos Petranos’s brother-in-law. La policía is an extension of Carlos’s private army. They protect him from his enemies.”
She blinked, then her eyes widened. “Carlos Petranos as in cartel boss Carlos Petranos?”
One and the same. “As you said, it’d be better if la policía didn’t know that you are in town to investigate anything.”
“I’ve been playing tourist.” She pulled a half-dry square of folded paper from her back pocket, then opened it and scooted closer to show him a photo of three high school girls mugging for the camera, inside a typical American mall. The picture looked like it’d been printed off a social media site. “That’s Rosita in the middle.”
“How old is she?”
“Eighteen.” Clara set the printout on the floor next to her to dry, then tugged on the lace of her shorts in a futile attempt to cover another inch of skin. “Almost.”
He watched her. There was more there. “Who asked for US government help? The girl has family down here. She disappeared here. Her relatives would go to the local law, corrupt as the cops are. For the right bribe, they would look into it.”
Clara inspected her new boots as if she hadn’t heard his question.
“Is this some kind of a special case?” he asked.
She said nothing. Then, “It’s a personal case.”
Her evasive maneuvers piqued his interest. “Is Rosita a friend of yours?”
She remained silent.
He thought for a second. “Not friend or family. You wouldn’t have to print a picture from online if she was your niece. You’d have your own photos. And I’m not sensing the kind of urgency from you that comes with ‘my brother’s kid is missing.’”
He thought some more. “She’s connected to someone at your department.” He paused. “But not to another investigator, or he would have come himself.”
The connection had to be a man. Clara had been uncomfortable with Rosita’s age, as if almost eighteen was too young for something, and Walker had a fair idea what that something was.
He liked puzzles. “Your supervisor’s teenage girlfriend,” he guessed. “He probably has a wife.”
Clara clenched her even, pearly teeth and watched him with angst first, then speculatively, as if trying to determine how much to tell him.
“She’s connected to…someone I work with.” A small sigh escaped her that he didn’t think she was aware of. “There is a lot at stake,” she finished, her normally self-assured tone tinged with desolation.
“How long have you worked for the DOD?”
Couldn’t be long. For one, she was young. Two, she didn’t move or talk like a seasoned investigator who’d spent a decade in the field. She clearly had potential, but she wasn’t there yet. She needed the kind of experience that came with time, which she wasn’t going to get if she got killed down here.
“Over a year,” she said.
Babe in the woods. And the woods around here were dark and dangerous, teeming with deadly predators.
“And before that?”
“I was a forensic accountant at the FBI. Recruited straight from college. I tracked down criminals through their financial records.”
He could see her as an accountant. Straitlaced could have been her middle name. Investigating from behind a desk was the safe way to do it, for sure. “Why did you leave the Bureau?”
“None of your business.”
He held her gaze. “Keep in mind that you desperately need my help.”
“I can handle this without you.” She looked like she was trying to talk herself into believing that. She squared her shoulders and kept her voice full of confidence. “I just need you to brief me on the area, the power structure, certain people I need to look out for, basic local background. Then we go our separate ways.”
A reasonable suggestion. So hearing himself say, “No,” surprised him.
He barely knew her. She meant nothing to him. Yet he wanted her safely away from here. Apparently, the last, deeply buried shred of his conscience had chosen this moment to float to the surface. Inconvenient little shit.
Her eyes narrowed at his refusal of help, and she looked as if she was about to growl again, but, to his disappointment, caught herself. “What’s your connection to the DOD?” she asked instead.
“No connection. I owed someone a favor. A small favor,” he added. “So let’s not stretch it. If you don’t die on my watch, I’m going to consider the debt paid. Which is why I’m not letting you go back to Furino tonight.”
The sooner he put her on a plane back to Washington, the better. In fact, maybe a visit to Jorge was in order. That would scare her out of Chiapas for sure.
She watched him in silence. He didn’t expect it to last. It didn’t.
“You shouldn’t have killed Pedro.” Her voice tightened with disapproval. “I wanted to talk with him.”
“Pedro doesn’t talk with women.”
Her expression turned smug. “We talked before you got there.”
Unlikely. When Pedro saw something he wanted, he took it. He would have dragged her out of that cantina. By next week, the DOD would be sending Investigator Number Two to look for Investigator Number One’s body.
“How did you get away from him?”
Her smug factor doubled. “I outdrew him.”
Walker quirked an eyebrow. Nobody outdrew Pedro, which was why Walker had gone for the knife.
Pedro had only had eyes for the rifle. If Walker had gone for that, or reached for his SIG, Pedro would have gone for his fancy pistols. But since Walker’s hand merely moved to the front of his belt…
Pedro simply hadn’t seen the knife as the primary threat. He was an old-fashioned gunslinger. He would reach for his gun first, a hundred times out of a hundred.
Sitting on the mattress, Walker went for his knife again, meaning to only touch the blade flat against Clara’s collarbone to test her. But she had her Glock aimed at his heart while his knife was still two inches from his target.
Shit. Okay, then.
Definitely more to her than meets the eye.
He bit back an impressed smile, returned his knife into its sheath, and looked her over with renewed interest as she shoved her gun back into her boot.
A man’s—or woman’s—chosen weapon said something about the person. Her Glock 19 was the reduced-size version of the Glock 17, a popular weapon for concealed carry. Semiautomatic, 9mm cartridges. Handy in many ways, not the least because it was compatible with Glock 17 magazines. An all-around solid, reliable gun. A sensible, dependable weapon for a sensible, dependable woman. He had a feeling it’d been carefully evaluated and selected.
And it wasn’t for show only. She was definitely fast with it.
“But can you hit what you aim at?” he asked, because that was the only thing that mattered.
Her tone didn’t hold a hint of bragging, the words said matter-of-factly as she told him, “Third in my FBI class.”
Not bad. He’d been fourth in SEAL training. And some of the guys he’d competed against had gone on to become professional sharpshooters.
He kept his eyes on Clara. So she was a good shot. And she’d outdrawn Pedro.
Thank Go
d she didn’t have boobs. A woman with a quick draw and serious curves might have tempted him into doing any number of really stupid things.
* * *
Clara sat in silence as she mulled over her situation. The attic room was a hovel, no two ways about it. But it was serviceable. And she would eat broken glass before she would complain, before she let Walker think she couldn’t handle it.
He’d tested her with the place, had waited for her reaction. She was glad she hadn’t given him any. He’d tested her with the knife attack as well. She hadn’t failed that either.
But by no means did she think she had the upper hand. She couldn’t let her guard down for a second.
She had only one major problem with the attic: that it wasn’t bigger. The man took up a lot of space, not just physically but mentally. She wasn’t crazy about them being in such close quarters. She found it impossible not to be aware of every breath he drew, every move he made. She didn’t like a thing about him.
She watched him while he muttered something under his breath about everybody needing a pillow.
He fit the bare-bones attic room. Probably not his only hidey-hole. She had a feeling he pissed off seriously bad guys on a regular basis.
She couldn’t pin him down, and that unsettled her. He was ex-special ops and came with her father’s recommendation—two points in his favor—but what she’d seen of him so far wasn’t reassuring.
Maybe he’d been a good man once, but good men went bad all the time, molded by their environment.
“How long have you been in Chiapas?” she asked.
“Too long.”
“Are you a mercenary?”
“Isn’t everybody? You do shit for other people, and you get paid.”
“Do you work for criminals?” she clarified. She needed to know at least the basics about him. She should have asked her father, but at the time, her mind had been too preoccupied by his confession.
Walker gave a one-shouldered shrug. “Define criminal.”
Which meant yes. Not that she hadn’t already known that he was a criminal, since she’d seen him kill a man. She still had no idea what she was supposed to do about that. As he’d said, she had no jurisdiction down here.
