BOUND

by Akeroyd, Serena

  As a reward, because she knew he'd handle Sam, Lucia asked him, “Do you want a cookie?”

  Chapter Two

  “You want a cookie, Eva?”

  Lucia blinked at Hector, the guy Ramon Hernandez had sent as her lookout. “Do I want a cookie?” she asked a little dumbly. This last week had been a bitch. Seven nights of two hours or less of sleep and she wasn't firing on all cylinders.

  That meant remembering she was Eva, her undercover identity, and not Lucia was harder than it should have been.

  “Yeah. They're fresh.”

  She shook her head, her stomach churning at what she was about to do. The bitch of it was, she wasn't nervous. Oh no, it was excitement that put her on edge. The thrill of the chase that had her nerves twitching to life and her heart beating like she'd taken too large a dose of meth. “I'm alright,” she told the lookout, not wanting to talk, not wanting to do anything but concentrate on what she was about to do.

  Hector grinned, displaying gummy yellow teeth. Apparently not sensing her desire for peace, he confided, “If I had to do what you did, I wouldn't be eating for a week. But then, that's what happens when a hoe looks to make it to the top of the ladder.”

  Even in the tight confines of the front of the car, Lucia's speed was impressive. Her hand slammed out, flat, to jab the edge into Hector's throat. When he immediately started to choke, she reverted her attention to the apartment she was staking out. “Don't call me a hoe.”

  “You crazy bitch!” he garbled around a cough, clutching at his throat, and rubbing at his Adam's apple.

  “You've been fucking warned. Don't do it again.”

  She didn't care if he spoke the truth, which he did. The head honcho of the Lobos Rojos’ gang was testing her. Making her prove her mettle.

  That didn't mean this filthy piece of shit could call her all the names under the sun, though.

  Being female and in a gang meant being a sucker. Hiding weapons and drugs, shielding members who were on the run.

  Active roles in 'management' were unusual.

  This gang was different. They didn't exactly have equal opportunities, but she'd been given a test, and she didn't intend on failing it.

  She'd killed before, and she'd kill again, but this…? What the bosses wanted her to do? It was extreme. She was supposed to fail, but Lucia never failed in anything she aimed at.

  Even if that meant a quick hands-on lesson in decapitation was in her future. It really was a shame there wasn’t a ‘How To’ YouTube video for her to check out.

  When Hector finally stopped spluttering, she peered up at O'Shea's building.

  A dirty cop with his eye on a high-class whore ring owned by Martinez, the Lobos' leader, O'Shea was a very naughty boy. It was one of the reasons she could contemplate slicing the bastard's head off.

  He'd murdered one of the women in the ring. He'd tried to muscle in on the Lobos' patch, not sneakily, but violently. And the man was cheating scum. He had a wife and kids, with a baby on the way, but freely took advantage of his new position as pimp.

  Lucia firmly believed in an eye for an eye. It was why, only two months into her undercover position in the gang, she was finding she rather liked it here.

  Being a cop meant following the rules. Boring rules. Sure, those rules could be broken, but if they were, out came the rats in Internal Affairs. Here, there were no rats. If someone aimed a gun at her, she didn't have to warn them, or ask them to take heed. She could shoot them. Bang, bang. Problem solved.

  The law of the jungle was a law she found disturbingly comforting. It highlighted, for the millionth time, how unusual her thought processes were. She remembered setting fire to her parents' bed like it was yesterday. And she'd done that because her mom had needed to be taught a lesson.

  Tonight, she was going to do that again. Be the teacher, and O'Shea, that scum-sucking bastard, was going to get a lesson he'd die learning.

  The thought filled her with a peculiar pride. A sense of fulfillment she'd only experienced a few times in her life—when she was given free reign to mete out justice.

  It was better than sex. Better than the best ice cream.

  It shot adrenaline through her fucking system with the speed of a bullet slicing through her gut.

  She needed the high. And tonight, she'd have it.

  There would be consequences. This time, Pops wouldn't be here to make it all better, to cover up the situation as he'd done countless times through her childhood. Hiding those moments when she broke rank, when her natural inclinations gave way.

  These repercussions would last a lifetime, and no number of excuses would ever pardon what she was about to do.

  But when the lights to O'Shea's lock up flickered on, she didn't hesitate. Palming the gun in her hand, she murmured, “I'll call you when I need the equipment.”

  Not waiting for Hector to garble out a reply, she climbed out the car and crossed the road without a single doubt in her mind.

  Nor a single query.

  O'Shea had to pay, and she was the arm of the law that was jungle justice.

  The role of judge, jury, and executioner was one she easily wore. And if she said so herself, she wore it well.

  Chapter Three

  Present day

  Coming home to an intruder in the house wasn't the highlight of anyone's day, but for Lucia Kingston, it was the cherry on the shittiest cake she'd eaten in a long time. And considering she'd been eating fucking terrible cake for ages, she'd become a connoisseur.

  Her first day back at the precinct after forty months undercover had been, putting it mildly, hell. Her colleagues didn't trust her, so they'd hardly spoken to her. Only high school segregation had been worse compared to lunch in the break room.

  Close to four years with Los Lobos Rojos, and everything she'd known and loved about being a cop was being questioned. Who she was, and what she stood for, all of it was being doubted. Not just by her brothers and sisters in blue, but by herself too.

  So, yeah, the intruder in her apartment was the best way to end a shitty day. Why not round off the work shift from hell with a burglar? At least she'd get the chance to shoot someone. Or maybe that was wishful thinking.

  The door had been expertly picked. There were only the faintest marks around the keyhole that indicated the truth, and she'd only noticed them because shit like that meant life or death when a cop was working undercover.

  She fingered her weapon, since the Glock felt weird in her hand. Heavy, somehow. Cumbersome. One thing she could credit the Lobos for was a decent armory. She'd had a slick little beauty during her time with the gang. With custom bullets that slipped through flesh like a spoon through cookie dough ice cream on a hot summer's day.

  She really wished she had the Beretta now instead of this piece of regulation shit.

  Twisting the handle, she slowly opened the door, and with her free hand, brought out her weapon. Her door opened into the living room, and if someone was after her TV—the only thing worth anything in her dive of an apartment—then, they were probably in there.

  Gun raised in front of her, she spotted no one. Slipping into the bedroom, she eyeballed the tiny room and headed over to the fire escape. Peering out of the window and seeing nothing, she moved on, looked under the bed, headed over to the bathroom when the coast was clear, and kicked in the shower curtain before sliding it open to reveal nothing. Nobody. Which was weird, considering she knew someone was in her apartment.

  Or, had been in there.

  Maybe that was it. Maybe someone had tried but failed? Or they'd long since gone.

  The kitchen yielded nothing more than sour milk, and save for the TV in the lounge, the bookshelf contained her most prized hidden possessions, but none of the books had been disturbed. There was nothing of value in the bedroom either, not unless burglars had started getting hard-ons for clothes from Kmart or bed linen from discount stores.

  Her ears pricked up, scanning the flat for further sounds of a stranger, but when they
picked up on no sound at all, not even the noise of the fridge, she realized she'd been under too goddamn long. Pretty soon, she was going to start firing bullets at her own fucking shadow.

  Sighing at the thought, and wondering if signing up for time with the department's shrink was worth the effort when she was already so many leagues beyond fucked up, she headed for the kitchen.

  Opening the fridge, she grabbed a beer, popped the lid on the counter, and raised the chilled bottle to her lips. The instant the fizz hit her tongue, she sighed in relief.

  God, she needed that.

  Lifting the cool glass to her forehead, she let the slick perspiration coating the bottle transfer to her sweaty flesh.

  She was nervous, on edge. It was natural after what she'd had to do for close to four years, but still... this was getting beyond ridiculous.

  Trouble was, the shrink would help if she were normal, but she wasn't. Lucia was anything but, and though she could manage all the lies she'd have to tell to hide in plain sight, the energy she'd have to expend to do so required too much effort for time with a pro who wouldn't be able to help her anyway.

  Her problem wasn't dealing with the aftermath of the paranoia and fear of being discovered. That came part and parcel of working undercover. It could never be so simple for Lucia…

  She missed it.

  She missed that life, that world. She'd found her home, and now, being back in the real world, she was homesick. Desperately so.

  Swallowing another gulp as she tucked her Glock into her shoulder holster, Lucia shrugged off thoughts of homesickness, because they were getting her nowhere, and moved away from the kitchen into the lounge again. A move that took two steps.

  Her crappy apartment was another one of the many downsides of no longer being a member of Los Lobos Rojos.

  High risers in gangs lived in decent cribs. Not like detectives. Who said crime didn't pay?

  Hell, she'd seen exactly the opposite. It did pay.

  She'd gone in deep undercover, too deep she realized now. Wading out of it was looking to be an impossible task.

  Closing her eyes at the sight of the postage stamp-sized, one-bed apartment, which made public restrooms look spacious, she ignored the nasty print on the sofa, the clunky TV, and the shag carpeting that belonged in a Starsky and Hutch episode.

  Before going under, she hadn't given a shit about this stuff. Now, she was even grimacing at her uniform wardrobe.

  Who the hell was the Lucia Kingston standing here today?

  She truly didn't know.

  Glumly, she headed toward the bedroom and kicked it open with her foot. The instant she did, her eyes connected with the bed and the guy lying on her cheap duvet.

  Did she freeze?

  Fuck, yeah.

  Did her guts twist?

  Big time.

  Did a smidgen of happiness flood her?

  Yeah, it did.

  And it was the latter that pissed her off when her heart was still trying to return to its normal thud-thud.

  “What the fuck are you doing here, Martinez?” she gritted out, her voice hoarser than she'd have liked.

  The gangbanger on her bed, at any other time, would have had her reaching for her gun and shooting the fuck out of him, no questions asked. But this was Martinez.

  The Martinez.

  He didn't even have a first name, for fuck's sake.

  He was Los Lobos.

  Her evidence and testimony had put away his hermano, his brother, and countless lieutenants. But, despite having evidence against him, not Martinez. She couldn't. Hadn't been able to say a word against him.

  Even knowing it went against every single oath she'd sworn to the department, to herself, she couldn't put him away.

  If she had, he wouldn't have been here, lying on her fucking bed.

  He'd be in Sing Sing with his homies.

  She'd miscalculated, Lucia realized now. A move that was unlike her, but this was Martinez. He was the first man she'd ever protected, save Pops. He was the only one who had ever counted.

  She didn't have to like the truth to acknowledge it. The one person Lucia was consistently honest to was herself.

  Eying him, she had to suppress the emotions flooding her. Those emotions were too confusing because she wasn’t used to feeling anything, never mind this gamut, and she didn't have time to be confused. Not when the bastard was lying on her bed like he owned it; legs crossed at the ankle, hands laced and resting on his lean belly.

  He wore a suit that belonged on a lawyer, and Italian leather shoes that had been tailored to his feet. His shirt was made of a linen blend that cost an arm and a leg, and his aftershave was as custom-made as the cufflinks adorning his wrists.

  The man screamed sleek businessman.

  No one would guess exactly what that business was.

  Guns, drugs, prostitutes...

  The only thing Los Lobos had backed away from was trafficking people. Be it for sex or other kinds of slavery. Even their whores were well treated.

  Any pimps beating their girls soon found themselves in front of Martinez himself.

  One of her first hits had been a dirty cop who'd murdered one of his prostitutes.

  She'd made a name for herself with the upper ranks with that hit. It had been the first of many, and the key to this man's door.

  Bizarre though it was, the gang respected people enough not to trade in them. They only traded in the shit that could do people harm.

  “You weren't here two minutes ago. How the hell did you hide?”

  He smiled. And the smile twisted her belly.

  God, he was handsome. He really shouldn't have been, not when she knew what he was capable of. He was a monster, and she knew what they were like, because when she looked in the mirror, she saw one in her reflection. Only, Martinez was different. His was hidden, and that ability to cloak intrigued her.

  Black silk for hair, shorn close to his head but with a slight quiff at the peak, Martinez had caramel brown eyes with flecks of gold around the pupil. He had a clean-shaved, stubborn jaw, and French-cut facial hair framed those delicious morsels called lips, lips made for kissing.

  He was golden brown; his skin gleamed with vitality, and his body, oh Christ, his body. She'd had the privilege of seeing him work out. He'd tended to lift weights as he took care of business, and she'd seen those biceps bulge as he bench-pressed, had seen his obliques flex with every move.

  The devil's advocate should not have been able to put her panties in a twist. But he did.

  God help her, he did.

  At night, when she needed to come more than she needed to breathe, she pictured him. Fucking her. Rutting away between her legs, pumping her full of his cum, slamming into her until her body was exhausted from too many orgasms.

  It was a dream, and that was the only reason it was possible. But the possibility, just the idea of it, had a flush cresting over her cheeks. She hoped to God he hadn't noticed.

  His ease, when she felt the exact opposite, rubbed her the wrong way, and she wanted to growl at him when he murmured, “I wouldn't be in my position, if I didn't have a few tricks under my belt. Hiding in plain sight isn't a problem for either of us, is it?”

  His voice, hell, it was like silk over gravel. A low rumble, with that delicious hint of Spanish, and deep enough to have her body singing in response.

  “How did you know where I live?” she asked, ignoring his question.

  He cocked a brow.

  Stupid question. She didn't have to hear him utter the words to know that was his answer.

  “What do you want? Revenge? To kill me?” she hazarded a guess. “Bring it, Martinez.” Hell, put her out of her fucking misery.

  “If I wanted that, you'd have been dead the moment I realized it was you ratting us out.”

  “And when was that?”

  His eyes darkened, his lips twisting a little with an anger she sensed was self-directed. “Months ago. I didn't want to believe it, so I looked elsewhere.”


  She nibbled her lip at the memory his words triggered. The manhunts...

  On the second of such manhunts where they'd been seeking the pig in their midst, about four guys had died in her stead.

  At some time or another, they'd had the misfortune of being seen with a cop, and with paranoia running high in the gang at the time, a few deals she'd shopped to her superiors, crashing and burning before the monies had been exchanged, that had been enough to sign their death sentences.

  She didn't think about the men who'd died. Their loss was unimportant in the scheme of things. Four less thugs roaming around made the world a better place, not a worse one.

  She wasn’t a hypocrite. If Martinez took her out now, she’d think the same: one less monster on the streets.

  “What are you doing here if you don't want revenge?”

  She stepped through the doorway, approaching the bed rather than running from it. Mostly because there was no point in running; he sure as hell wouldn't be here alone. But also, she didn't bother because crazy though it was, it was good to see him.

  That homesickness she'd been feeling since her superiors in Narcotics had made her leave the gang, the ache, and the emptiness that had been there ever since, all of it was disappearing. And it felt wonderful.

  The intensity of her current feelings was disturbing to someone who lived in a constant state of apathy.

  “I didn't say I wanted you dead, but revenge is another matter.” He eyed her, a moue of distaste curling his lips as he raked his glance down her form. “What the hell are you wearing? I thought you wore some shit in the gang, but this stuff is even shittier.”

  Despite herself, and angry for it, she flushed and tugged at her shirt. “What's wrong with it? It covers me, doesn't it?”

  “There you have the problem.”

  She sneered, “The rest of the women in the gang might dress like whores, but I'm not one of them.”

  “You weren't one of the women in the gang either, were you?”

  As he moved his hands, crossing his arms behind his head and further settling into the pillows, she watched him with the caution owed to any predator. “Are we really talking about my wardrobe here?”