by Nina Bruhns
Marisela’s face blanched. “You had them killed?”
Ian quirked an eyebrow. “Nothing so dastardly, I assure you. Their specialty was execution by explosion. They particularly enjoyed blowing up boats. Last month, they were working for a drug kingpin in Brazil, eliminating a dealer who was skimming too much off the top. Apparently, something went wrong. They went down with the ship, so to speak. Had they lived, we simply would have detained them until our operation was complete.”
Frankie glanced at Marisela. The locket, while still in her hand, seemed to no longer be a concern, though her thumb rubbed lightly over the smooth gold finish.
“Are you certain Perez doesn’t know they died?” Frankie asked.
Ian grinned. “Oddly enough, yes. We had the good fortune to intercept the Toscas’ moneyman shortly after the accident. They’d only received half their payment from the Brazilian and since they had completed their task, their accountant pretended they were alive in order to collect the rest. In the interest of earning some easy money, the accountant kept the fact that his bosses blew themselves up to himself.”
Frankie chuckled at the guy’s ingenuity and greed. Couldn’t blame him for going for the big bucks since his meal tickets had just blasted themselves into a million fleshy pieces. “He took the money and ran.”
“And then some,” Ian verified. “But we discovered his secret. Since he’s a great lover of cash, he’s now on our payroll. During our initial surveillance of Perez, we’d intercepted the messages between the Toscas and Perez’s men. We knew about his interest in hiring the assassins even before the Toscas died. We’ve promised the accountant one hundred percent of his boss’s normal fee on the job for Javier Perez if he helped us orchestrate the hit in their stead.”
Marisela leaned forward, her eyes wide, not so much out of surprise, but disgust. “So we’re going to kill some dude just to get into Perez’s good graces?”
“This ‘dude’ is a first-class killer, if it makes any difference to you.” Ian tapped a few more keys, bringing another photograph onto the screen. “Ricky Ochoa. Razor Ricky, as he’s called, for his practice of cutting the throats of anyone who displeases him, from hotel housekeepers to unruly dogs. He used to be the main enforcer for a drug dealer out of southern Venezuela. His brother, the head of the crime family, met with a rather gruesome death two years ago. Slashed across the neck, not surprisingly, by his younger sibling who then took over the operation himself. He’s a ruthless, cold-blooded murderer with a long résumé of deaths at his hands.”
Marisela shook her head, her eyes wide. “I didn’t sign on with you to play avenging angel for a bunch of assholes who can’t take care of their own nasty business.”
Frankie leaned back into his chair, wondering how bad he’d screwed up by bringing Marisela to Titan. He finally recognized what had changed the most about her in the past decade. She was angry. Angrier than he’d ever seen her, even compared to when she’d signed on with the las Reinas years ago. But why? Marisela had family, friends. In his experience, only people who were alone held tight to their anger because rage was all they had.
Ian leaned slightly toward Marisela, and as Frankie expected, spoke in a keen whisper. Frankie rolled his eyes. He didn’t really think she’d fall for such transparent seduction, did he?
“I don’t ask my operatives to kill, Marisela.”
“But they often have to, or we wouldn’t be so well trained,” she countered.
She put up a valiant fight, Frankie thought, observing how smoothly Marisela kept Blake on topic, ignoring his tempered voice and smooth gestures. But Frankie didn’t fool himself. No woman could fight a guy like Blake forever once Blake determined that he wanted her. He’d seen this before with Tasha, code name Eris. Frankie had been new to the operation then and just like every male agent in Titan, he’d wanted a shot at the sleek, sexy operative. But after a cursory game of hard to get, she’d ended up with Ian. If Marisela wanted her boss in her bed as well, who the hell was Frankie to get in the way? He didn’t own her. He didn’t have the right to ask her to remain faithful to him, not when he had no promises to make in return.
But he didn’t have to make Ian’s inevitable seduction of Marisela easy.
“She’s got a point,” Frankie agreed. “You’ve made sure our workouts include all the skills the Toscas had, right down to the bang.”
Ian’s sneer only showed in his eyes, but it was there, causing Frankie to grin.
“I do not intend to sully Titan’s reputation by taking on a murder for hire, not even to advance an important and lucrative case. You and Frankie will pose as the Toscas and we’ll stage the assassination of Ochoa and then spirit the man away for a few weeks of rest and relaxation until the case is complete. The Toscas moneyman has indicated to Perez that the Toscas are interested in taking on more work for him if he’s satisfied with the outcome in Miami. That will facilitate a meeting after the hit is complete. Since Perez will be leaving soon for Puerto Rico, the meeting will likely occur at his private compound. If we’re lucky, you’ll then be in place to recover the girl.”
He switched the screen again, this time displaying a map of the island of Puerto Rico, with a smaller remote island off the northwest coast highlighted with arrows and coordinates. “Once you are on Isla de Piratas, you’ll find the girl and pick an exit strategy.
Blake’s subtle flirting with Marisela was over. Back to business. Good.
“How will we contact you?” Marisela asked.
“Our agents have another yacht, which will cruise just out of range of Perez’s security zone, which we’re told includes radar. We’ll move in at pre-set times to intercept communications from you. We’ve also devised a satellite phone jamming system that will keep Perez from picking up our exchanges so long as we keep them short. Max will provide you with a schedule. When the time for extraction comes, one of your assignments will include knocking out radar capabilities entirely so we can sweep in undetected on a smaller vessel, one built for stealth and speed. But we’re a long way out from that. First, we’ve got to get you in.”
For the next twenty minutes, Ian reviewed the plan for their arrival in Miami, with Max stepping in to provide all the specs regarding the fake assassination, which would hinge on the very real demolition of Ricky Ochoa’s prized yacht, the prophetically named Sharp’s Destruction. From there, Frankie figured they had fifty-fifty odds of infiltrating Perez’s compound, and after that, a generous twenty-eight percent chance of getting out alive. The minute they moved to grab the girl, they’d be marked for execution, likely at Perez’s own hand.
At least he knew that though Marisela drew the line at killing in cold blood for money or strategy, she’d kick, claw, shoot, or strangle anyone who tried to kill her first.
“You’re awfully quiet, Frank.”
He turned toward Blake, who eyed him with his usual cold assessment. Not that Frankie gave a flying fuck, but he’d like to remove Blake’s expression of superiority—permanently.
“What’s there to say?” Frankie replied. “Max has the whole plan worked out. All we have to do is follow through. Piece of cake.”
Marisela snorted. “You work with explosives before?”
“Max has. He’ll make sure we know what we need to.”
Marisela quirked an eyebrow, surprised at the second showing of respect Frankie had paid to Ian’s right-hand man. She wondered if the two of them had shared a past—perhaps a mission? Didn’t matter. Right now, all she wanted was a few minutes alone with Blake. She had concerns she intended to voice without any witnesses, particularly a witness like Frankie who would undoubtedly interfere.
Ian finished the last of his brandy, then gestured to Max to join them again at the table.
“Your training tomorrow will focus on how we’ll remove Ricky Ochoa from his yacht prior to blowing it up,” Max assessed. “He’s not a cooperative sort. He won’t go quietly, even if his life is on the line.”
Frankie nodded and Marisela
noticed a dullness in his normally sharp eyes that testified to his exhaustion. This could also work to her advantage. She really didn’t want to deal with the aftermath of their afternoon in the gym—if he insisted on an aftermath at all—tonight. And maybe by tomorrow, he’d forget that they’d surrendered once again to the lust they’d harbored since they’d become aware of the temptations of the opposite sex.
Yeah, right.
“In your rooms, you’ll find dossiers on both Dolores and Rogelio Tosca,” Ian added. “Study them. The Toscas didn’t have a high profile, but I know Perez has checked them out. Before he makes the final payment or invites you to his private island per our plan, he’ll demand a face-to-face. I want you both completely in character. Do you have any acting talent, Marisela?”
She bristled. “I act like I trust you, don’t I?”
Ian disengaged the computer and projection screen. “Not in the least. I hope you’ll do better with Javier Perez.”
With that, they were dismissed and Marisela followed Frankie out of the room. Halfway down the hall, she touched Frankie’s arm.
“I have something I want to run past Blake. See you in the morning?”
Frankie grunted. “Marisela, don’t mess with things you don’t understand.”
“What don’t I understand? This doesn’t have anything to do with you. Go to bed. You’re whipped.”
His slanted grin responded to her accidental innuendo. “Not likely, vidita. I learned my lesson the first time.”
She rolled her eyes. “You know what I mean.”
He nodded, then grabbed her by the hand and reeled her flush against his body. Her breath caught, not so much because his move surprised her, but because the anticipation of what would happen next reignited the sexual awareness between them that never seemed to really cool, but had only settled into a steady simmer, ready to flare at the first intimate touch.
But he didn’t kiss her, though her lips ached to press hard and hot against his. Instead, he seduced her with his half-closed bedroom eyes, so dark, they reflected the pure raw need swimming in the black depths.
‘Marisela pulled away, knowing her resistance wouldn’t hold for long, not in light of the fact that following Frankie to his stateroom would be a hell of a lot more fun than confronting Ian Blake. But she’d had enough fun for one day. Tonight, she had to concentrate on work. On survival.
Without another word, Frankie disappeared down the hallway. She broke out of the mesmerizing aura he’d left in his wake and marched back into Ian’s office.
She found him sitting on the leather couch near the window, sipping a cognac.
“Yes?” His smile was as silky and intoxicating as the liqueur in his snifter.
“Didn’t you expect me?”
She pulled the locket Elise had given her out of her pocket and holding tight to the chain, let the charm drop and dangle.
“I’ve been trying all night to figure out why you brought Elise here in the first place and I decided that this little trinket answers my question.”
She tossed the locket at him and he caught the charm in one easy snatch. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“You brought her here to tug at the old heartstrings, to make me feel for her and use my well-known temper to keep me on task.”
He popped the hinge on the locket and glanced at the picture inside, the one Marisela hadn’t been able to ignore, no matter how hard she’d tried. A tiny angel with dark eyes the size of saucers, sweet, bowed lips, and skin not the Caribbean dark of her father, but the porcelain alabaster of her mother. Yet the beauty of the child hadn’t been the clincher. Marisela had seen the young Jessica in the photos during the first briefing and frankly, she didn’t care if the baby was pretty or not—she’d still care. What pushed this photo into unacceptable territory, beyond the means of delivery, was the inscription.
Return to Me.
Had Elise worn this trinket all these years, her silent wish pressed against her heart? Marisela couldn’t imagine this gold charm coordinating with all the Ralph Lauren and Oscar de la Renta in Elise Barton-Ryce’s closet, but then, accessorizing expensive clothes wasn’t Marisela’s concern. The fact that she’d come all the way from Boston to give Marisela the charm—that’s what had her hackles up.
“Why would I need to manipulate you?” Ian asked, relatively unconcerned judging by the flippant way he tossed the necklace onto the table in front of him. “You’ve agreed to do the job. So far, you’ve trained hard and learned fast. I have no need to resort to emotional tricks in order to motivate you to perform.”
Marisela listened to his claim and didn’t buy a single word. She hadn’t known Ian Blake long, but his type was easy enough to peg. His confidence ran deep and he demanded perfection from everyone around him, but he also went the extra mile to ensure success. And if that meant playing with the emotions of his underlings, then that’s what he did.
Well, not with her.
She crossed her arms over her chest. “You’re not so certain about what I’m going to find with Jessica, are you? You’re thinking I need to be emotionally devoted to returning this child to her mother, just in case the kid hates her guts for never trying to find her in the first place.”
“That’s not true! I did try to find her!”
She turned and found Elise standing in a door that must have led to her private stateroom, still wearing her outfit from dinner, only without all the spit and polish. Her hair had loosened from the twisted upsweep and a few wisps dangled alongside her face, providing a natural softness that contrasted with the stricken look on her face.
“I’m sorry, Elise,” Marisela offered. “I didn’t mean to imply that you didn’t search for your daughter. But think about Jessica. She’d had fifteen years to cook up scenarios where you hated her, maybe because of her black hair or because she cried too much as a baby. Maybe her father told her you took money as payment for her or that you begged him to take her away so you didn’t have to live with the shame of raising a bastard child. Bottom line, whoever goes after your kid’s walking into an emotional minefield that could prove deadly. So why not throw me in, not just as a competent agent,” she turned back to Ian, spearing him with a glare that insisted that’s all she wanted to be, “but as a woman on a mission involving a child ripped away from her mother? Go for the emotional jugular, you know? Make sure I know that if I fail, I’m not just jeopardizing the mission, but I’m leaving behind a young woman who was once a doe-eyed little girl clinging to her mother.”
“And why not?” Elise shot back, beating Ian to the punch. She strode into the room with such venom in her eyes, Marisela had to fight all her instincts not to move into a defensive stance. “If you fail, that’s exactly what will happen. This is my child we’re talking about. My baby. She was torn away from me and if I have to appeal to your maternal instincts in order to make you care, then so be it.”
Marisela didn’t spare another word or look at Elise Barton-Ryce. She didn’t blame the woman for her manipulations, not when Marisela knew that Elise Barton-Ryce never would have set foot on this yacht without Ian Blake’s approval.
“Are all of your agents briefed this way?”
He put down the brandy and sat back, relaxed in the chair. “Of course not.”
“Then I’ll consider this a one-time lapse in judgment. I’ll do my job because it’s what you pay me to do, what I’ve trained to do, not because I’m some bleeding heart girlie-girl with an overactive supply of estrogen. I’m not going to get sucked in to every sob story that goes along with your missions. I did that once and the results weren’t pretty.” She pointed at Ian, jabbing the air with her finger to make sure he understood the intensity of her emotions now, because he wasn’t going to see them again. “Don’t fuck around with me. Treat me the same way you treat anyone else in your employ, got it?”
She didn’t wait for an answer, but swept out of the room and slammed the door, careful not to look at Elise on her way out. It was
n’t as if she didn’t care. She did. She wasn’t some coldhearted bitch with only her own paycheck on her mind. But she wouldn’t let Ian use her heart against her—not without a fight.
She didn’t take a normal breath again until she was locked in her stateroom. She scrubbed her makeup violently from her face, brushed her teeth, peed, and then settled under the silky covers with a bilingual curse. Yet before she clicked off the light, she retrieved the dossier Ian had, as promised, had delivered to her room.
Turning to the first page, she caught sight of the entry and slammed the folder shut. How could Ian send this after all she’d said? With a second curse, she realized her warning rant had obviously preceded the delivery of the documents. This one time, she’d give him the benefit of the doubt.
She opened the folder one more time and with a sense of heavy foreboding, read the complete letter written in a child’s hand begging her mother to take her home.
Dirty Little Secrets: Chapter Twelve
Three days later, Marisela and Frankie departed the Oceanus via a tender that slid them into the port of Miami unnoticed. Once there, a dark sedan met them, driven by someone Frankie referred to as Dion, a thick-muscled man with a sly smile. The men didn’t chatter during the drive, but they exchanged enough conversation to allow Marisela to conclude that Dion was on the Titan payroll and would be instrumental in the abduction of Ricky Ochoa. They’d be briefed further after they checked into their hotel, changed clothes, and assumed the lethal roles of Dolores and Rogelio Tosca.
As they drove, Marisela couldn’t help peering through the tinted window, wondering about the city outside, the one she’d never seen except in movies and television shows. Neon lights streaked by, as did the unmistakable silhouettes of tall, spiky palms. Cars whizzed alongside them on the highway, the thump of extreme bass from jacked-up stereos injecting into her veins. Here was a city that would welcome her, a city with the same soul as Marisela’s—rhythmic, dangerous, and open to a million diverse wants, each contrasting to an equal number of different needs. She could lose herself here in Miami. She sat back into the seat. Perhaps she was better off locked inside the car.
