by Kaylea Cross
They would check Malcolm’s story against Agent Hamilton’s when they interviewed him in a little while. Every eyewitness piece of information they collected on Ruiz was another nail they could use in the courtroom to pound into the lid of his richly deserved coffin.
They all turned when someone knocked on the conference room door. Rowan put a hand to the back of her neck, hid a wince as the tender muscles protested.
Commander Taggart poked his head in. He nodded at Freeman, then settled his gaze on Val. “Sorry to interrupt. Can I have a minute?”
“Of course.” Val stood. “Back shortly,” he said to them, and left.
As soon as the door shut behind him, an awkward tension took hold of the room. Rowan steeled herself and turned back to face Malcolm, meeting that dark chocolate gaze across the table. He had a way of looking at her that made her feel like he could see right through her. It made her squirm inside.
He folded his arms casually, emphasizing the thickness and power in his biceps as the sleeves of his dress shirt pulled taut across the muscles there. He looked amazing in a pair of jeans and a T-shirt, but in a suit, he was irresistible. It made her imagine him tossing the tailored jacket aside, those long, strong fingers undoing each button on his shirt one by one as that dark, intense gaze locked on her.
She swallowed, trying and failing to shove the image aside. He’d been wearing a suit the night she’d met him, too, at the veteran’s charity event here in D.C. last summer. She’d noticed him from across the room as soon as she’d walked in, and when her brother had introduced them soon after, the mutual attraction was undeniable.
Looking at him right now, recalling the way he’d touched her, kissed her, it was hard to remember all the carefully thought through reasons why she’d decided to end things with him. She’d enjoyed his company, and she’d had fun with him too. Dates where they’d gone to see the latest action movie, late night dinners that had cost her sleep but had been so worth it, and of course braving the coasters he loved so much.
She’d thought breaking it off early would be easier for them both, had been as gentle about it as possible, but she’d still hurt him. She was sorry for that.
She searched her mind, trying to think of something to say that would dispel the unspoken tension simmering between them. “So—”
“You gonna cut a deal with Ruiz?”
The abrupt change in topic took her aback for a second. She couldn’t read his expression, or his tone. “Maybe. There are a lot of variables to consider.”
He studied her a long moment. “A guy like him, he’ll want a deal.” This time there was no mistaking the disdain in his voice. Whether it was aimed at her or Ruiz, or both, she wasn’t sure. It stung to think he might think badly of her and her job now.
“It depends on how strong a case we can build against him, and what he’s willing to give us in exchange.” Malcolm understood how this worked. And that she couldn’t divulge any details about it.
Sometimes her job meant doing things she didn’t like to protect the greater good, but she’d known that going in and had learned how to put aside her personal feelings. In this case, if Ruiz could give them something solid that would lead investigators to El Escorpion or even give them something to take down the other lieutenants in the cartel, Rowan would view it with the hard-nosed professionalism that was expected of her and cut a deal that would reduce Ruiz’s sentence. Even though she’d rather see him serve a long sentence before dying behind bars for what he’d done.
Malcolm shook his head slightly, his eyes burning with an almost merciless light. “You weren’t there that night. I was. I saw what he and his men did to women. Just… Whatever happens with this whole thing, promise me he won’t walk.”
An answering anger smoldered inside her, the need to see justice done. “No. He won’t walk.” She and everyone else working on this case would make damn sure of that.
THE FIRE IN her sapphire blue eyes when she said those words triggered something deep inside Malcolm. A tingling, bone-deep awareness he couldn’t ignore no matter how much he wanted to.
She wanted Ruiz to pay for what he’d done. It must turn her stomach to offer deals to pieces of shit like him. It would Mal’s.
He’d never seen her in work mode before that meeting a few weeks back. She was so different here in her professional element, even that tailored pencil skirt suit hugging her lean curves like a suit of armor, concealing the true woman from the rest of the world.
There was so much more to her than her profession.
In the short time they’d dated he’d gotten to know the other her, see some of the softer layers hidden beneath that professional exterior. Her dry sense of humor, how impassioned she became when she talked about something that excited her. She was smart and kind. The way she’d smiled whenever he reached for her hand or wrapped his arm around her.
The woman in front of him now was determined, driven and self-assured. A little cool and reserved. Sexy as hell in her own right. But the woman he’d gotten to know a year ago, the one who had laughed with him, clung to him and melted under his kisses…she was beautiful, inside and out. He missed her.
She’d kept the keychain. He’d noticed it as soon as he’d leaned over to get her insurance papers this morning. It was just a damn keychain, had cost him five bucks. Yet she’d kept it this whole time. Why? It wasn’t because she hadn’t noticed or was too lazy to throw it away. Rowan was as hard working as they came, and didn’t do anything by accident.
Sitting here across from her was a special kind of torture. She was sore from the accident, he could see it in her restricted movements, the way she kept rubbing at the back of her neck. His natural inclination was to help somehow. He would have run to help anyone involved in the accident this morning, but when he’d seen her car get rear-ended and then that asshole slam into her passenger side before taking off, all his protective instincts had roared to the surface, strong as ever.
He’d tried to tell himself he was over her, and had been for many months. Now he realized he had to call bullshit on that. She was the one who got away. He still cared. Still wanted her, even if she didn’t want him. And that wanting wasn’t going away anytime soon, no matter how much he wished it would.
Showing the first signs of discomfort under the weight of his stare, Rowan cleared her throat and pulled a bottle of pain relievers from her purse. He bit back the words of concern he wanted to say, along with the urge to go around the table to knead the sore muscles in her neck and shoulders. She wasn’t his, hadn’t been for a long time.
Hell, she’d never really been his in the first place.
All the old questions he’d tormented himself with in the weeks after she’d broken up with him came rushing back now as he watched her down the pills with a few sips from her bottle of water. Did she miss him? Think of him at all? Regret her decision even a little?
Right from the start he had known how special she was, that she was different from any other woman he’d ever dated. He’d been ready to dive headfirst into their relationship, give himself completely to her. Then bam. She’d pulled the plug, and to him it had seemed so damn easy for her to walk away.
He hadn’t seen it coming. Still couldn’t understand why she’d done it.
Rowan was the first woman he’d been with whom he could see himself having a future with, and the first one who had known what he did for a living. She understood what his job entailed, the effort and sacrifices it took to be a FAST member. Her rejection had stung not only his male ego, but hurt him more than he’d ever admit to anyone, triggering all the old insecurities he’d carried around as a kid.
He stared at her now, wishing he could see what was going on in her head. Why wasn’t I good enough for you?
Deep down he’d already feared he wasn’t when he’d asked her out. Her breaking up with him so suddenly had confirmed it, and worse, that she obviously didn’t think he was good enough for her either.
Mal kept his expression im
passive as she set the water down and made an attempt at small talk. “How’s your brother?”
“He’s good. How are your grandparents?” she asked in her soft Georgia drawl. He’d always loved the sound of it.
Maybe small talk was a bad idea. He had no interest in talking about personal shit with her. Just like he no longer had the right to be involved in her life, she didn’t have the right to know about his. “They’re both fine.”
Her smile was a little strained. “That’s good.”
He nodded once. He’d grown up in a rough neighborhood in Detroit. After his mother had died of complications due to diabetes, her parents had taken him in. They’d been strict. Pops was a preacher who demanded integrity and high standards in everything from manners to school to how Mal treated people. He’d been tough but fair, and ultimately was responsible for Mal becoming the man he was today. And even though he’d overcome the odds and made a success of his life, Rowan dumping him brought it all back.
“Your whole team must be extra busy with all these meetings and interviews we’re adding to your load, huh?” she asked.
“It’s fine.” What the hell was taking Taggart and her boss so long? Christ, he just wanted the hell out of here. Being forced to see her, talk with her, especially alone, made it seem like there was a concrete slab sitting on his ribcage.
She opened her mouth to say something else, and relief swept through him when her boss walked back in. “Thanks for coming in, Agent Freeman. I think we’ve got what we need for now.” Val’s gaze shifted to Rowan. “You up for a meeting over at the prison?”
Rowan hid her surprise well, shoving the bottle of pills into her purse as though they were some sign of weakness. “Yes. Why?”
“Ruiz wants to see us. He wants to see what kind of deal we can offer him.”
“All right.” She was up and clearing her things off the table in a heartbeat, only a subtle stiffness in her movements giving away her physical discomfort. Then those gorgeous eyes met Mal’s, and his damn heart squeezed at the flicker of wistfulness there. As though the thought of not seeing him again made her sad. But why the hell would that be, when she’d been the one to walk away? “Bye. It was good to see you.”
For his sake, he hoped it would be the last time. “Yeah, you too.”
When the door shut behind her, Mal expelled a long breath. Their paths probably wouldn’t cross again anytime soon.
This ache in his chest was only temporary, so he wasn’t going to waste time torturing himself thinking about what might have been. He wasn’t going to wish things were different. Or wish that he could be there for her tonight. Drive her home. Make her dinner. Rub her neck and shoulders. Put her in a hot bath before tucking her into bed beside him. Take care of her.
He wasn’t going to wish she was his.
In fact, starting right now, he wasn’t going to think about her at all anymore.
Chapter Three
Carlos Ruiz sat with his spine ramrod straight in the chair in the prison interrogation room as he waited for the U.S. Attorney to arrive. The orange jumpsuit was uncomfortable and smelled musty, his ankles and wrists shackled, and they wouldn’t allow him the use of his cane. Ridiculous overkill procedures designed to make a prisoner feel like a trapped, whipped dog.
There was good reason why he and the other cartel members would do anything to avoid being extradited to face trial in the United States.
This wasn’t anything like being imprisoned in Mexico. Here he couldn’t easily bribe or threaten his way out. Couldn’t run his operation from behind bars the way he was used to. Here there was nothing but the monotonous daily routine of the incarcerated. A mind-numbing cage designed to break his will and spirit.
That would never happen. He was stronger and more resourceful than they gave him credit for. And even though he faced the probability of being convicted of most charges laid against him, he was not defeated.
His lawyer shifted beside him, anxious. They couldn’t talk openly here. Everything was being recorded and watched. Not that it mattered. Carlos still had his ways of finding out what he needed to know, even in here.
The door opened behind him. He refused to turn around, sat perfectly still facing the far wall with its two-way mirror while the federal lawyers came around the table and took their seats. A fifty-something man with a paunch and pasty skin that told Carlos he rarely left his office.
And a hot, raven-haired beauty around thirty or so, her firm, trim body outlined so nicely by a snug skirt and tailored jacket. Classy. Attractive enough that she would have fetched a nice profit from one of his Asian buyers.
Setting a pile of folders on the table in front of him and leaning back, the male lawyer regarded Carlos with a no bullshit expression before introducing himself and the woman. She wasn’t his assistant, as Carlos had assumed. She was an Assistant U.S. Attorney.
Rowan Stewart.
He would remember that name, and her face, for later. If he ever got out of here while he was still vertical, after he got even with the people who had put him here, he would punish both these bloodsuckers as well. For building a case against him that could keep him behind bars here in the U.S. until the day he died.
The man he’d have killed in a creative way that made an impact. The female, he’d make wish she were dead.
“Since you asked for this meeting,” the man went on, all business, “I assume you’ve got something new and important to give us.”
“What are you prepared to offer my client in exchange?” his lawyer countered. He had instructed Carlos not to say a word. Not to give a hint of emotion during this meeting. So Carlos stared at his current adversaries, letting the rage burn inside him.
“Nothing, until he gives us something we can use on El Escorpion and the cartel bosses.”
Carlos repressed a snort as his lawyer shook his head and answered on his behalf. “You know that’s impossible. No one within the cartel even knows El Escorpion’s true identity.”
“So he’s a myth, then,” the female said, a Southern kind of drawl doing nothing to soften the disdain in her voice. “A figment of everyone’s imaginations.”
“He’s real,” Carlos’s lawyer said. “But my client has never met him. His only dealings with him have been over the phone.”
“Then this meeting’s pointless. If he gives us nothing, he gets nothing,” she finished.
Carlos squeezed his hands into fists beneath the table, seething inside, both from his current predicament and the female’s attitude. If he had anything on El Escorpion, he would give it to the Americans willingly.
Someone from inside the cartel—high up inside it, where he used to be until recently—had turned on Carlos prior to his arrest. It was the only explanation for how the Americans had known he was on that plane.
His source here at the prison had told him the rumor was El Escorpion himself had been behind it, out of disapproval over the kidnapping of a DEA FAST member’s young daughter. Apparently the secretive head of the cartel had decided that damage control was in order and cut Carlos loose, handing him over to the Americans like a naughty dog that had pissed in its own bed.
Carlos would do anything to destroy the traitorous bastard.
The male attorney drummed his fingers impatiently on the file folders before him. “So why call us down here, then? Wasting our time and not cooperating with the federal investigation isn’t going to do your client any favors.”
“He can’t give you what he doesn’t have,” Carlos’s lawyer answered.
“Then what?” the woman demanded, raising her coal-black brows in a haughty expression Carlos longed to wipe off her face.
Her arrogance was so like another woman who’d thought herself untouchable. An American investigative reporter named Victoria Gomez who had learned the opposite in a way she wouldn’t soon forget. It galled him that she was walking free instead of living a life of sexual slavery in Asia as he’d planned, likely a star witness for these same two prosecutors while
he was trapped in this shithole they called a prison.
His patience snapped. “Nieto,” he snarled, stretching his legs out beneath the table to help alleviate the deep ache in the right one. Not that it helped much. The bullet wounds had healed but the nerve and soft tissue damage was permanent. A permanent reminder that the bitch reporter Victoria Gomez had nearly cost him his life in a shootout with the DEA.
Carlos shook off his lawyer’s warning hand on his shoulder, holding the female’s intense blue gaze. To hell with legal advice, to hell with all of them. He was stuck in here, and likely wouldn’t be getting out. But he was far from beaten.
“What about him?” the female said.
“I can give you whatever you want on him. In exchange I want a transfer and a reduced sentence.”
“A transfer to where?”
He gave her a cold smile. “Somewhere more befitting my status and importance to this investigation.”
She tilted her head, watching him. Analyzing him. Because she thought she held all the power now.
Oh, how he longed to prove her wrong. Spring a trap that would wipe that infuriating superior look right off her face and replace it with one of stark terror. In here, he had one thing in abundance. Time. Plenty of time to fantasize about the revenge he could wreak against all those who had betrayed him.
“That all depends on what you’ve got.” She paused a beat. “Start talking.”
Carlos did. He told them everything he knew about that traitorous son of a bitch Nieto. A nobody interloper who had moved in the moment Carlos had been arrested, to take over his hard-won territory. Reaping the fruits of Carlos’s years of work without a qualm.
Beneath the anger and resentment, a warm glow of satisfaction spread through his chest as he talked. Because now Nieto’s daughter and mistress were missing. He would be frantic to find them—and stop them from talking.
But Carlos knew things about him that Nieto’s only child and mistress did not. He’d already begun meting out punishment on his rival from right here, right under the American’s noses. “I know all his operations,” he began. “Because they used to be mine.”
