Dead Right

by Cate Noble

  In spite of his crude comments, elation swept through her. He didn’t know. He thought Marco was a boyfriend. Did that mean her other secrets were safe, too?

  Possibly.

  If he knew what she had, he wouldn’t be sitting here playing head games.

  “Hope your memory is good, because you’ll never see him again, Cat.” Dante’s demeanor went from cold to heartless. “As much as I’d like to prolong this, we’ve wasted enough time. I know you probably think this is part of an official interrogation, but that will come later. This is about payback, Cat. It’s between you and me. Let’s start with the video.”

  The video. She’d suspected he’d known, but hearing him say it—

  “I spent months trying to figure out why you did it. Seemed like there was more to it than money. But after I escaped—”

  Escaped? Cat struggled to lift her head but couldn’t.

  “And started putting together all the pieces, I realized you and Giselle must have been crooked from the start. There was nothing that turned you bad, you were rotten from the get-go. You’ve probably been selling secrets all along. And when Remi decided to close shop, you figured you had nothing to lose. Until I returned. Then you and Giselle decided to permanently cover your tracks. Starting in London. MI6 and the Mossad are waiting their turn at this, too, Cat.”

  Cat had no idea what Dante was talking about, but she recognized disinformation when she heard it. Spin a false tale, the more embellished the better, obliging her to correct it.

  Wait, you’ve got it all wrong, was what he wanted to hear.

  No. What he wanted to hear was, Let’s make a deal: Zadovsky’s notebooks in exchange for…

  For…

  Cat looked at the ceiling, felt a single skimpy tear roll down from her eye. The only thing she wanted in the whole wide world was for Marco to live and be happy. To be safe.

  Her son had a chance at that now.

  Without her.

  Even if Cat did the unthinkable, bartered Zadovsky’s secrets for her freedom, she’d never really be free. They’d follow her—certain she’d kept a copy somewhere, sure there was more.

  It would never end.

  She’d be on the run the rest of her life. Dear God, Sister Dores was right. Her past would haunt Marco forever.

  And yet…never to see her son again? To lose the last person she loved. Marco.

  She’d lost Remi.

  She’d lost Giselle.

  And she remembered the day when she’d first heard Dante had died. A part of her had died then, too. The part that had loved him as no other. The part that had dreamed of a happy ending for the three of them.

  The part that hoped.

  Now she’d lost…everything.

  Her shoulders shook as sobs overtook her, setting off a new and painful round of muscle spasms. But the physical agony was nothing compared to her heart shattering.

  She heard the door open and close, hating that there were now two people watching her cry. She breathed deeply through her nose, ordering herself to stop. To not feel. To go blank.

  She glanced at Dante, ready for him to do his worst.

  But he was gone.

  Dante’s hands shook. He white-knuckled the kitchen counter. He couldn’t tell himself it was contained rage any longer. Or that the trembling was a side effect of a barely controlled fury that wanted only to strangle her, to snap her in half like a twig. To make her feel all the things he’d felt in prison. Desperation. Betrayal. The bleak hopelessness.

  Right now none of that applied, though, because the damn truth was he was shaking because he wanted to hold her…

  Yes, a part of him still wanted to hurt her, but a bigger part was horrified by that thought.

  Where was the elated vindication he thought he’d feel from exacting revenge? From the joy of payback?

  Was this what Rocco had been trying to tell him?

  His friend had been concerned about Cat’s condition for the last two days. When they’d first brought her here and she hadn’t roused, they’d been concerned she’d had a reaction to the drug.

  But it quickly became apparent she was sick. Dante had insisted on caring for her—telling himself, telling Rocco—that he wanted her well enough to witness his revenge.

  Now the thought of her suffering sickened him. Jesus, he sickened himself.

  He closed his eyes, remembering the hell he’d been through in prison. The beatings, the savage humiliation, the endless suffering—

  Stop. He wasn’t a prisoner anymore.

  Or was he?

  It dawned on him that every time he remembered what they’d done, he surrendered. It was like he walked back in the cell and closed the door. No more! This had to stop. No. Fucking. More.

  He opened his eyes. He heard Cat’s ragged cries come across the monitor and felt like scum. He’d denied her the basic right of presumptive innocence. Worse, he’d judged her guilty and was meting out his definition of punishment. That wasn’t justice.

  He had a choice to make. Do the right thing. Or—

  Shit. There wasn’t another choice. Not for him. Not if he ever hoped to reclaim that part of himself that was honorable, decent, compassionate.

  Rocco had been correct; Dante had no objectivity when it came to Cat. But it wasn’t because of what he had suffered overseas. It was because part of him still cared for her.

  What she did—or didn’t do—would be sorted out by others and dealt with via proper channels. He tugged out his phone; called Rocco. His friend had left a short time ago under the auspices of doing a perimeter sweep. The truth was they’d been close to coming to blows.

  Rocco had been torn between loyalty and decency. Dante felt ashamed.

  “You were right,” he said when Rocco answered. “I’m not removed enough from this. I want you to take her in. I’ll call Travis.”

  Rocco cleared his throat. “Man…I…I don’t know what to say. I feel like I let you down.”

  “Don’t go Brokeback on me.” Dante had to clear his own throat now. “See you in a few.”

  After disconnecting, Dante headed for the bedroom.

  He’d call Travis after he settled one final score with Catalina Dion.

  Chapter 33

  Mexico City, Mexico

  July 15

  (Present Day)

  Rocco drove away from the small roadside market. A jet rumbled overhead as it swooped in low to land at the airport.

  The small house they were using was located in a mostly vacant commercial subdivision not too far from Mexico City’s airport. Not too far meant the bigger, newer commercial complexes farther up the road were closer, so the other place had steadily lost its tenants.

  But considering the clandestine nature of their business, mostly vacant worked really well.

  The watermelon he’d just purchased started to roll across the front seat when he turned. He caught it, then used the seat belt to secure it. They’d been in town only two days and still had plenty of food. Nothing fresh, though. And after going this long without food, Cat would have to be coaxed to eat.

  The relief Rocco had felt after receiving Dante’s call had surprised him. St. Travis of the Franks had been right again.

  Travis had told Rocco to let Dante handle Cat and to step in only if things got out of hand. Problem was Travis hadn’t defined “out of hand.” In his typical Obi-Wan Kenobi fashion, Travis had simply said, “It’ll work out.”

  Rocco hadn’t given it much thought at first. The desire to see someone pay for what Dante had gone through had clouded reality. Reality settled in when he saw Cat tied down to a bed and he found she was burning up with fever.

  That’s when Rocco had discovered his own inner conflict. He knew better than to let gender distort his judgment—women were capable of evil, too. But seeing Cat so damn sick…

  It had bothered Dante, too. Though the other man hadn’t wanted to admit it, Rocco could see that Cat’s presence reminded Dante of all those horrible months in prison.
To watch his friend suffer once again kept Rocco torn.

  He’d left, using the excuse he was scouting the area. In truth, he’d needed distance to sort out his own feelings. When Dante had called, Rocco had already been on his way back, having concluded that both of them were too close to this situation to handle it impartially.

  Rocco had worked with Cat once way back when and had liked her. But Dante had lost his fucking heart to the woman. Cat had been The One. Rocco sighed. Been there, done that, have the tattoo.

  Bottom line: If Catalina Dion was guilty of even a tenth of what they claimed, she deserved a harsh sentence. But if Rocco and Dante had meted it out, they would have proved they were no different than those motherfuckers Dante had escaped in Thailand. Heavy shit.

  He slowed as he turned back into the complex. Now, that was interesting. The brown Taurus was back, parked at the side of the Gutierrez Ice building. The deserted ice building.

  He’d noticed it yesterday and had the tag run. It had come back registered to a local handyman. By the time Rocco had crept back for a closer peek, the car had been gone.

  Tugging out his cell phone, he dialed his Mexican contact, the same one who’d rented this place to Rocco. “Yo. That tag you ran yesterday. Can you find out what they’re doing at Gutierrez’s?”

  “Sure. What was the name of the handyman service again?”

  “Angel or Angelo—”

  His contact snorted. “Never mind. I’ll look it up myself.”

  Rocco had barely closed his phone when it rang again. He glanced at caller ID. “That was fast.”

  “Sí. That’s why I charge more. I just pulled up that record again to get the name and found that tag was reported stolen this morning.”

  “Gracias.” Disconnecting, Rocco continued past and turned right.

  Someone was spying on them, but who? He quickly discarded the Brits and Israelis. MI6, and the Mossad for that matter, wouldn’t be this careless. Nor would they need to steal car tags. Taking another right, he pulled over and climbed out. On foot, he followed the overgrown hedgerow that ran behind the ice building.

  Hidden by the bushes, he had a clear view of the Taurus now. It was empty, making him wonder who was inside the building.

  Rocco heard a voice. Ducking, he slipped closer and found a better position. A balding, sandy-haired man, fifty-something, finished taking a leak. When the man turned and headed back toward the Taurus, Rocco realized he wasn’t talking to his dick after all. A Bluetooth earpiece was stuck in the man’s ear.

  And he was talking in Russian.

  Dante carried Cat, free of all restraints, into the bathroom and lowered her into the tub of warm water.

  She still hadn’t spoken, but her wariness and distrust were evident in her eyes. While Dante was in the kitchen having his big epiphany, Cat seemed to have come to some resignation as well. That or she’d simply cried herself out.

  She hadn’t struggled when he’d free her—not that she was strong enough to do much of anything.

  He had massaged her arms, knew they’d cramp from being tied down. He suspected she was hurting in other places as well. Dehydration could trigger muscle cramps. He’d gotten her to drink more water, though not nearly enough, which he’d deal with later.

  Dante had told her he would be leaving and that she would be turned over to other agents, at which time formal charges would be pressed.

  “But I’ll get you cleaned up and dressed first,” he’d said.

  She had looked wild-eyed when she first spotted the tub of water, clearly expecting to be drowned. Or perhaps electrocuted. Her attempted struggles confirmed that she wasn’t strong enough to bathe herself. Hell, she couldn’t even stand. And he wasn’t about to dress her and leave her so filthy.

  Dante knelt down beside the tub, a washcloth in one hand and a bar of soap in the other. She exhaled noisily. Embarrassed.

  “I figured it might be easier to have me do this than Rocco,” he said.

  She closed her eyes. If the tables were turned—hell, they had been—Dante knew he wouldn’t trust his captor either. Nice was always a setup.

  Just get it done and over with.

  Picking up her limp arm, he realized just how weak she was. Guilt stabbed him again.

  He washed her hair first. The ends were blunt cut, as if she’d hacked it off herself, but the thickness surprised him. The color was almost as dark as his. Even though he’d adored her as a blonde, he had to admit she looked even more gorgeous with the longer, darker hair.

  And as much as Dante tried to be impersonal, lathering and rinsing efficiently, he noticed everything about her. While she had good muscle tone—workout?—she was at least fifteen pounds lighter than he remembered. The missing weight showed in her breasts, which he avoided staring at; her ribs and hipbones showed, too.

  Her slender hands—which had always moved with expression when she’d talk, with passion when she’d stroke—seemed as if they belonged to someone else. The nails were short, chipped, and framed with ragged cuticles. Calluses covered her palms and fingertips.

  What the hell had she been doing the last year? Digging ditches?

  He wished she’d open her eyes; talk. But maybe that would make them both too self-conscious. Him, because he’d realized he wasn’t detached. And her because…Shit. She had a fucking boyfriend.

  He moved up her leg, realized he’d never seen her with anything but silky smooth gams and a Brazilian bikini wax. He swirled the washcloth along her inner thigh. And higher—expecting that to get a reaction.

  It did. But not at all what he’d expected. Her face had tightened with fear. Jesus, did she really think he’d—

  That was when he saw the scars high up on the inside of her thigh. Both thighs. The thin horizontal ridges had faded to white and were probably only visible at certain angles. Anger trickled into his bloodstream.

  Unable to stop himself, he lifted her breast, her armpit. More scars there. There were probably matching ones behind her knees, and under the cheeks of her ass.

  Someone had taken a razor and made cuts in the places she’d typically perspire. Nothing serious, except it stung like hell with sweat and movement.

  Dante knew, because he had similar scars. The cuts had healed quickly enough—which called for another. And another.

  He met her eyes. They were open, vulnerable.

  “I don’t suppose you want to tell me where those came from?” he asked.

  She didn’t speak, but at least she shook her head. Dante finished bathing her, noting the scars on her feet as well. These were rougher, deeper. What the fuck was going on here?

  He turned and grabbed the bottle of water he’d set on the counter. “Drink.” He held the bottle, coaxed her to finish it.

  She was trembling again and Dante realized the water had cooled. He lifted her from the tub and wrapped her in clean towels before carrying her back to the bedroom. He’d already dug out clean clothes from her confiscated backpack.

  Dante set her down in one of the chairs and began toweling dry her hair. He was trembling now, too. The thought that she’d been subjected to what he’d been through ate at him. And made no sense.

  He moved to dry her legs. Immediately, the wariness returned to her eyes.

  “It was the last job we worked,” Dante started talking again, wanting to put her at ease. He also hoped that maybe if he offered some explanation first, she’d reciprocate. “Harry, Max, and I. I don’t remember what happened right after the shack caved in. There are big chunks of time that are…gone. It seemed like one day, I just woke up in prison. Wasn’t even sure who I was. Or how I got there. Or what I’d done.”

  He slid her threadbare white cotton underpants up her legs. These belonged to the woman who claimed to have trained silkworms who spun her underwear? He quickly slipped her bra on and covered it with a shirt.

  “Better?” He knelt, guiding her feet into a pair of khaki trousers. “The guards’ only job seemed to be to torment me. I escaped once,
later learned it was in-house training for new guards.”

  He had to lift her to fasten her pants. She looked even tinier dressed. And while she was sitting up on her own, her arms shook with the effort. The look on her face—confusion, fear, pain…

  He dropped his hand, realized he’d been about to stroke her cheek. “I don’t understand what the hell’s gone on—maybe you’re as perplexed as I am. But I swear to you, Cat. Nobody’s going to hurt you again. Especially me.”

  She swayed sideways off the chair then. Dante caught her, swinging her up in his arms before hugging her close to his chest.

  “Jesus. We need to get more fluid in you. Some food, too.”

  He carried her into the main part of the house and set her in one of the dilapidated recliners that faced a television.

  Back in the kitchen, he grabbed water, a straw, and a can of warm ginger ale. The ginger ale sprayed like a geyser as he opened it.

  Ignoring the mess, he poked a straw in the can and offered what was left to Cat. “The sugar will do you good. I’ll get another in a minute.”

  She took a sip, grimaced.

  “Throat pretty sore?” he asked.

  At her nod, he wondered if that was part of the reason she remained so silent.

  “Look, you’re pretty dehydrated. When Rocco gets back, I’d like him to start an IV of saline.”

  She shook her head violently, refused to meet his gaze. Shit! She had every right to be scared of him.

  “After what you’ve been through, after what I’ve done—” He rubbed the back of his neck uncertain how to apologize. “I’ll get another ginger ale. And we’ll try some soup in a few minutes.”

  In the kitchen, Dante’s cell phone vibrated.

  It was Rocco. “I’m pulling in now. But heads up. I’ve got company.”

  Dante straightened. “Who?”

  “Not sure. Caught him down the road. Spying on us.”

  The garage door opened with a muffled whine. Dante returned to the living room and set another can of soda on the table next to Cat.

  Behind him, in the kitchen, he heard the door open.