The Naughty Nine: Where Danger and Passion Collide

by Nina Bruhns

  She heard his footsteps before he whistled a sweet upbeat tune usually used to call a dog.

  “Come on, baby. You can’t hide. Your time is up.”

  The accent was unmistakable—too incredibly like her own to be someone who worked for Blake.

  Marisela squeezed further into the maze of crates, one ear trained to hear if someone was approaching from the other side. This wasn’t a test. This wasn’t about Blake. Marisela could smell reality in the overpowering stench of her hunter’s cologne.

  She caught sight of a slim space between two crates across from her. In a dash, she folded herself into the suffocating darkness, willing her lungs to accept what little air she could give them, desperate not to pant and give herself away even when she brushed her wound and jolted her body with another explosion of pain. Not twenty yards away, where the crates opened up to reveal the hull of a large ship docked alongside the mooring, she could hear the continued whoop and victorious hollers of her stalker’s compadres. She could, maybe, take this one. But what about the others?

  She shook her head—forced away the treacherous thought of failure and focused on the here, the now. With one hand, she raised her weapon, prepared to kill or be killed.

  Again.

  This was wrong. She was supposed to meet Blake here. Where the hell was he?

  “Come on, puta. We’re just having fun. You know, we just want you to tell us where you put Nestor. He’s our boy, you know. We can’t let some bitch turn him in every time she needs new shoes.”

  Marisela grimaced. New shoes? Who was this asshole kidding? For the money she’d made bringing Nestor Rocha in, she could afford a whole fucking outfit.

  She winced, certain she shouldn’t joke about the dead, particularly when she’d pulled the trigger. She cleared her head and assessed the situation.

  Apparently, his boys thought she’d only dragged him into custody somewhere. They weren’t the brightest bulbs in the string of Christmas lights. Rocha had been gone for two days. Didn’t they realize he would have made his one phone call by now?

  She twisted her hips and wedged her shoulders between the walls of the crates for leverage, determined not to be taken down by such idiots. The minute she caught sight of a gun, she kicked out with her boot and sent the weapon flying. When he dived forward for his gun, she jumped out and kicked him hard in the small of his back, sending him flat to the ground.

  She kept him there by jamming her gun into the exact spot where his spine met his skull.

  “Don’t,” she warned, her eyes trained on the two inches between his fingers and his gun. She grabbed his hair and yanked back, glad to see the shells beneath their feet had sliced his cheek. Pain and fear could buy her the time she needed.

  “You won’t shoot me, you bitch.”

  She didn’t have the time nor the inclination for a conversation and she had nothing to prove to this pendejo. The car that had been spinning around them now idled loudly, the passengers shouting for Miguelito to bring her out.

  She pistol-whipped him to silence.

  “Looks like you bought a few more hours of life, Miguelito,” she whispered, then took his gun and proceeded forward, a deadly weapon in each hand.

  “Two guns won’t cut it, vidita. There are at least four of them out there, sniffing for your blood.”

  The voice twisted up her spine like a wild, determined vine. She didn’t bother to turn around. Frankie Vega possessed an icy smooth timbre unlike that of any other man.

  “Aren’t they your hombres, Frankie?” she asked, careful not to move. “Did you come to help them out, maybe shoot me in the back?”

  He chuckled, but she refused to let the sound relax her. She scanned her surroundings, but with less than two feet of space between the crates, a known enemy behind her and an unknown army of angry, possibly drunk Latinos seething for her blood somewhere around the corner not twenty yards away, she had nowhere to run or hide. She glanced up, but the crates were smooth and stacked three or four high.

  “As much as I hate to admit it, I’m not here to shoot you, Marisela; I’m here to save you.”

  Footsteps chomped and skidded up ahead. Voices shouted in Spanish. Directions. Orders. They were coming for her. She spun to the side, pointing one gun in front of her—and one leveled on the threat that had snuck up from behind.

  Frankie didn’t have to move—his weapon, drawn and trained on her, glinted black in his leather-clad glove.

  She swallowed, her legs quavering from a showdown she’d never intended to face today. “Make sure you tell my Mami how you saved me, okay?”

  The corner of his mouth quirked beneath the thin strip of his moustache. “I will,” he said, and then he fired.

  DIRTY LITTLE SECRETS

  by Julie Leto

  Dirty Little Secrets: Chapter Seven

  She didn’t really think he was going to shoot her. When crossed, Frankie Vega could be lethal, but if he’d wanted to kill her for what she’d done to him the other night, she’d be dead already. Instead, he fired at the cabrón with the .38 special who had just rounded the corner. Without a second glance at the jerk who’d dropped to the ground like a stone, Frankie shoved his gun in his waistband, hooked his hands together into a makeshift stirrup, and ordered Marisela to climb.

  She hadn’t thought there was space to move up the crates, but with Frankie’s help, she hoisted herself out of the line of fire. The crates on top, slightly smaller than those on the base, allowed her a two-foot ledge to hide on. Before Marisela threw herself flat on the space between the two crates, the three gang bangers rushed to where their boy lay bleeding from a wound to his shoulder. With one glance at their injured buddy, three arms raised to fire.

  Marisela twisted so she could fire blind, but one of the men yelled, “¡Alto!” stopping the violence before it began.

  “Frankie? Frankie Vega? What the hell you doing here? Why’d you shoot Leo?”

  Marisela willed herself completely still, lifting her face only enough to see the top of the three men’s heads and a distorted, diagonal view of the action below. Frankie hadn’t run with these boys for years. They had no loyalty to him and they outgunned him three to one.

  “The maricón came at me, gun drawn. I didn’t even know who he fucking was. He’s lucky I only popped him in the shoulder.”

  Judging by the guy’s groaning, Marisela was fairly sure Frankie was right. Men on the verge of dying tended to stay relatively quiet.

  “Why you here anyway?” José asked. “Where’d you come from?”

  “I was looking for someone.”

  “That bitch, Morales? She grabbed Nestor, ¿comprendes? He told us he had a line on paying her back for his stint in Starke, man, then he disappeared. Thursday night. We haven’t seen him since. We think that puta got him locked up again and we gonna make her pay.”

  She heard Frankie sniff, as if the man’s plea meant nothing to him one way or another.

  “She ain’t here.”

  “We followed her here, man!” a different guy objected. On the ground, Miguelito groaned. “We saw her.”

  “She’s gone,” Frankie said, emotionless.

  Marisela heard someone cock a hammer on a gun. She hoped it was Frankie. God, she hoped it was Frankie.

  “You let her go?”

  “Put that away, hombre. I have no argument with you,” Frankie said, his voice level and strong. “I didn’t let her do anything. I’m here on business—my business. Not yours. Not hers. She left. End of story.”

  “She go on that fancy boat?”

  “Yo no sé. But I don’t think you want to follow her.”

  From her perch, Marisela peered through a break in the tower of crates across from her and saw a large, luxury yacht tied to the dock, sparkling white with regal blue stripes slashing across the hull. She couldn’t judge the full breadth of the vessel from this vantage point, but she could see what the gangbangers on the ground apparently could as well—a dozen men standing along the railing on
several decks, armed with fierce looking automatic rifles.

  About fucking time the cavalry showed up.

  She rolled onto her back and waited while Rocha’s boys gathered their injured men. Before they left, she heard Frankie speak to them, but she was too far away to hear his message. After they were gone, she braced herself against the burning pain in her bicep and lowered herself to the ground, straight into Frankie’s waiting arms.

  “You got shot.”

  She pushed away from his hot, musky scent and bone-melting tone. The last place she wanted to be right now was in Frankie’s powerful embrace. He might have saved her life just a few minutes ago, but he could easily change his mind and pay her back for her trick the other night.

  “Just grazed me,” she said.

  “We’ll see.”

  “Did you follow me, too, or was I only oblivious to one car trailing me?”

  Frankie’s subtle grin lessened the shooting pain in her arm. “You’ll grow eyes behind your head soon enough.”

  “I used to have them,” she spat, knowing she’d been so wrapped up in finding the marina that she’d left herself open to attack. She’d screwed up once. She wouldn’t do it again.

  “What did you tell them?” she asked.

  “I told them you were gone.”

  “No, what did you tell them before they left?”

  Frankie gestured toward the opening between the crates and Marisela had no choice but to follow. “They could hurt my family,” she explained.

  “They won’t.”

  “How can you be so sure?”

  “Because I told them Rocha was dead and that the crazy bastard deserved to die for double-crossing his boss, who happens to be the man who owns this yacht. I also told them that if one Morales family member so much as got a paper cut, I’d hunt all five of them down and slice their throats.”

  She nodded. Yeah, that ought to do it. Frankie never did beat around the bush.

  “Gracias, “ she said, then marched to a stop even as Frankie headed toward the gangplank that led up to the deck of the largest boat Marisela had ever seen, short of the cruise ships that docked in the Port of Tampa. “Wait a minute. How do you know what happened with Rocha?”

  Frankie, juggling the guns he’d retrieved from the gang members, cursed and then threw all four weapons into the bay. Marisela had the fifth and followed suit, watching as the black snub-nosed sank to the bottom of the grayish, murky water.

  “Cheap pieces of shit,” Frankie said.

  Marisela grabbed his wrist. “How did you know?”

  He yanked away from her. “Damn, Marisela…haven’t you figured it all out yet? You’re supposed to be smart.”

  “Humor me,” she snapped. She was in too much pain to think.

  He rolled his eyes, stepped directly into her personal space and despite her squeal of protest, lifted her into his arms.

  “I know because I’m the one who gave your name to Ian Blake. Welcome to Titan International, Marisela. I’m your new partner.”

  * * *

  The armed sailors had disappeared by the time Frankie took one step on board. A good thing, since Frankie doubted Marisela would stay sedately in his arms if she knew other people were watching. He didn’t doubt the woman couldn’t board a frickin’ multi-million dollar yacht without finding trouble. But he had no one to blame but himself for her presence. He’d given Ian Blake Marisela’s name, even touted her quick-thinking and determined nature as a perfect combination for the job in Puerto Rico. If he’d kept his mouth shut, Marisela would not have killed Nestor Rocha, not yet anyway, and she definitely wouldn’t have been shot.

  Luckily for him, she didn’t speak again until he’d squeezed them through the narrow door into his stateroom.

  “You’re shitting me, right?”

  He laid her on the bed, then retrieved the first aid kit from the bathroom. He laid the kit on the bed beside Marisela and selected the surgical scissors first.

  “Shitting you about what?” he asked.

  She yanked her arm away, paying the price for her quick movement with a hiss of pain. “Cutting my jacket. Do you know how hard it is to find the perfect denim jacket? Bolero-style? In a size eight?”

  He grabbed her sleeve and pulled, attempting to jab the sharp edge into the material so he could cut the denim away. “Check eBay next time.”

  “Fuck you,” she snapped, scrambling to her feet and darting halfway across the room.

  Coño. He really didn’t have the patience for her attitude right now. If Frankie didn’t gain control of the situation—and Marisela—quickly, all bets would be off when Ian Blake slid back into the picture. She was mad—and there was no negotiating with her when she was pissed off.

  “You don’t really want to go there with me, Marisela,” Frankie warned, “Not now.”

  She wavered, despite her balanced stance. If the rusty stain on her jacket was a true indication, she’d lost a lot of blood. And seeing him again likely hadn’t helped. Goddammit. Maybe if she passed out, he could dress her wound without dealing with any lip.

  “I want to know what the hell is going on,” she insisted.

  “I’m trying to stop your bleeding. Two minutes ago, I was hoping to take care of you before you fainted, but now I’m thinking a little unconsciousness would be a good thing.”

  “Why? So you can cop a feel?”

  At this, Frankie laughed. “Yeah, Marisela. That’s it. Entertain yourself with that thought if the fantasy makes you feel important, but verdad, I’ve never stayed in such a nice room before. I’d rather you not bleed all over my carpet.”

  Furious, she took a step forward and nearly lost her footing. He caught her and helped her to the corner of the bed. She shook her head, but he knew the action wouldn’t clear the fog from her brain as much as a good wound dressing and a belt of tequila.

  “Why were you meeting me? Where is Blake?” she managed, forcing out the words while she stretched and gingerly unfolded herself out of her jacket.

  “Blake’s around. I told him I wanted to talk to you first. Before you boarded and heard him out.”

  “He told me not to talk to you.”

  “Yeah, well, after his goons picked me up, there was a change in plans.”

  She winced and hissed while he wiped away the blood, but otherwise contained her agony. He examined the wound as she balled the denim in her lap. It wasn’t the worst gunshot he’d ever seen, but pain was pain. The bullet had torn a gulley through her skin, luckily leaving the muscle and bone unscathed. Too wide to stitch, she’d just earned herself another scar. Still, she’d recover relatively quickly, a good thing in their current circumstances.

  He fished a square of cotton and gauze out of the kit, then doused the sterile pad with antiseptic.

  “This might sting.”

  “It already stings.”

  He applied the sopping square to her arm. If not for the fact that he held her down with his other hand, she would have leaped right off the bed.

  “Shit, Frankie!”

  “I warned you.”

  “I ain’t never been shot before.”

  “All those years with las Reinas and this is your first bullet?”

  “It’s an experience I tried to avoid.”

  “Smart thinking,” he quipped.

  “You think? Then why’d you get me into this?”

  Her voice was barely a whisper, but her question punched through his chest and wrapped cold fingers around his heart. Did he really want to drag Marisela back into such a dangerous life? Did he have a choice?

  No. Not any longer. From the minute she stepped foot on the deck of Blake’s boat, the choice became entirely hers. “You’re right for the job.”

  “Tell me more about this kid I’m supposed to rescue.”

  He shrugged. “Not my place. Blake will fill you in on the details.”

  “Can you at least tell me why you thought I was so right for this work that I’ve had to face down killers fo
r the second time since Thursday? How do you know Blake anyway?”

  “From prison.”

  “Blake was in prison?”

  He didn’t like the way her voice sounded so disbelieving. “Blake and Titan contract with the DEA, FBI, and CIA. They’re a private investigation firm, but they’re also independent contractors, so to speak.”

  “Mercenaries?”

  “Nothing so skanky. They contract out their agents to do some of the dirty work the government can’t. I was working a sting for the DEA when Titan sent operatives into the prison. They were my backup. I met Blake when he came in to check on his men.”

  Frankie gingerly lifted the saturated gauze and tossed it into a nearby garbage can. He applied a new strip, then directed her free hand to apply pressure while he fished out the rest of the supplies.

  “I don’t understand,” Marisela said. “You were working with the DEA? You mean, you only went to prison to work undercover for the feds?”

  Laughter burst from his gut. “Not by a long shot. I was one of the few guilty men in prison, vidita. Grand theft, assault, attempted murder. I did them all.”

  “Because of the gang,” she said, attempting to rationalize, though why, he didn’t have a clue.

  Frankie had come to terms a long time ago with the fact that he didn’t play by any rules except his own. He had no idea why he’d so easily gravitated away from the straight and narrow path his hardworking parents had charted for him, but he had no one to blame but himself. And he certainly hadn’t gone to work for the feds out of any sense of good. Or more asinine, out of guilt. He’d worked for the feds because it beat staring at four walls twenty-three hours out of a day and provided a nice income for luxuries like cigarettes and deodorant.

  “In the hole,” Frankie explained, “the DEA sought me out, promised me a shorter stint if I helped bring down some asshole Columbian kingpin. I didn’t have anything better to do, so I helped them out. They liked my work, so they started moving me from lockup to lockup, never keeping me in any joint long enough to get shanked or ratted out.”