The Agent's Covert Affair

by Karen Anders

  “Now that wasn’t so hard, was it?” Reyes purred. Derrick punched him and Reyes reeled backward. “I’ll give you that one,” Reyes said. Scowling, he wiped blood off the corner of his mouth, all humor gone from his face. “Hand over your weapons, two fingers only, and let’s take a walk into the trees. I don’t have time to deal with dragging bodies into the woods.”

  “I’m going to kill you with my bare hands,” Derrick said, the promise of mayhem in his eyes so potent, Emma shivered.

  His scowl darkened, winging his brows low over his dark eyes. He extended his hand toward Emma. “Your weapon.”

  Emma pulled out her gun and handed it to Reyes, who tossed it, and when Derrick followed suit, he repeated the action. Derrick put his arm around her waist and leaned in as if he was comforting her. “When I tell you to run, run,” he whispered in her ear.

  She nodded imperceptibly.

  Without comment, Derrick took her hand and did as they were told, the other one palming the knife. Emma understood.

  As soon as they cleared the trees, Derrick stumbled and Reyes stepped forward to shove him hard, but instead, Derrick twisted and sunk the knife into Reyes’s shoulder, then punched him in the face. He stumbled away. “Run, Emma!”

  He didn’t have to tell her twice. She bolted. Moving targets were difficult to hit, especially after the shooter had been stabbed and punched.

  Several shots went off, but Emma kept her legs pumping. The sound of anger broke the silence a few moments later. “I’m coming for you!” the man shouted. “This time there won’t be any hope of a quick death.”

  Neither of them slowed. They rushed through the underbrush, jumping over logs and muscling through bushes, heading deeper into the forest.

  There were only two thoughts streaking through her head: kill him and go for Matty. But to do that, she had to stay alive.

  Her lungs burned, the heat and humidity cutting into her strength as she slipped over more logs and down a ravine. They had to do a kind of careful jog to control their forward momentum down the steep incline. Trees towered above them. Derrick grabbed her shoulder and together they dove into the brush for cover, hitting the ground hard.

  Instantly he rolled to his feet at the same time she did. They concealed themselves behind a thick tree trunk.

  Breathing hard, she managed, “Plan?”

  “I’m going to circle around, take him from behind. He’s a cocky son of a bitch, but I don’t want to give him an opportunity to call for backup. He’s not leaving here alive.”

  “Agreed,” she said, sweating freely. “I guess that leaves me as bait again?”

  “You play that role so well.”

  She shoved him and he grinned. “Be careful,” she whispered.

  His eyes narrowed and a look came over his face that chilled her to the bone. “Don’t worry about me, babe.”

  He flicked the knife around, offering her the handle. She stared at it wordlessly, then looked up at him. “Won’t you need it?”

  Another chill went down her spine. “No. I won’t.”

  As soon as Derrick melted out of sight—how did he do that?—she started to thrash around in the bushes, making enough noise, Reyes couldn’t possibly miss it. She heard him approach and as he came into view, she cried out and started to crawl. Focusing on her, his eyes scanned the forest. “He left you here to die?” he said skeptically, looking around.

  “My ankle,” she whined.

  He took another step and raised the pistol. There would be no quarter from Reyes. But Derrick was there, as he pushed Reyes’s arm into the air and the gun discharged harmlessly. Derrick hit Reyes in the throat. Reyes choked and stumbled backward, and Derrick advanced with a menacing look on his face. Emma went for the gun, snatching it up. She aimed, but there was no clear target to hit; Derrick was too close. Reyes swung wildly, but Derrick was calm, almost serene as he ducked the punch. Reyes was off balance. Derrick stepped in, got him into a chokehold and didn’t let go.

  Reyes struggled, but it was too late, the life going out of his eyes. As he slumped, Derrick let him go, his body dropping to the forest floor. Then he was moving, grabbing her hand, and they were running back the way they had come.

  Back at the car, they retrieved their weapons. A soft groan made Emma’s head whip around. She ran to Velasco. “Derrick, he’s still alive.”

  Derrick opened the back door to the sedan and went over to Velasco and slipped his hands under the man’s body, maneuvering him onto his shoulders, then lifting him with a strong push of his thighs.

  He placed him carefully in the backseat. Emma got in behind him, belted him in and ripped off a piece of his shirt, pressing it to the wound. Velasco roused. “Ah, Emma, you are an angel,” he murmured.

  “You’re going to be all right,” she whispered, having no idea if that was true or not. Derrick texted lightning fast on his phone.

  He turned to her and said, “Hang on!”

  Dirt and gravel spit out from under the wheels of the car as they raced along the road, Emma doing her best to brace herself against the bumpy ride.

  In minutes they were back at the Ortegas’ hacienda, ready for a fight. But to her horror, the ground was littered with bodies. She grabbed Velasco’s hand and placed it against his wound. “Keep up the pressure,” she said and he nodded.

  They exited the car and walked cautiously toward the house. The door was wide open and more bodies lay prone and bleeding in the foyer from numerous gunshot wounds. Derrick said, “Clear,” when after searching the living room, he found no one alive. Upstairs, they found the nanny and several more dead guards. When they went down the hall to Gilberto’s room and pushed open the door, the drug lord was absent. But there was a body facedown on the bed soaked in blood.

  Derrick went to turn him over and they stepped back and gazed down at Arturo Ortega, his throat cut.

  “That’s another cartel’s calling card,” Velasco said, leaning heavily against the door frame, his hand over the gunshot wound in his shoulder. “They formed from the remnants of the Medianoche Cartel, swearing retribution.”

  “Gilberto just wants us to think he was attacked by the rival cartel,” Derrick said, backing away. They headed back downstairs and into the kitchen. As Emma went around the counter, she called out, “Derrick!” Gabriela Montoya lay on her back, gasping for each breath.

  Emma knelt down and supported her. “Gilberto’s gone, taken your boy.” Her eyes were anguished. “I tried to stop him, but he knew that I told you everything. Hurry. He’s gone to the Caliche Airport. I think he’s taking your nephew to Colombia. You must hurry.”

  She choked several times, clutching at Emma. She stiffened, then went completely lax as she died. With a heavy heart for the woman’s bravery, Emma released her and rose.

  Velasco had his phone in his hand as he leaned his hip against the countertop for support. “Go. I will take care of this. Good luck!” he called as they raced out of the house and got back into the sedan.

  With an angry set to his jaw, Derrick said, “It’s about fifteen minutes from here, Emma, a small, private airport—”

  “If he gets on that plane with Matty—”

  He glanced at her, the sick, naked expression in his eyes making her throat contract. “I know. Get on the phone and call the police,” he said as he gunned the car, and the speedometer rose past sixty.

  She called the chief inspector of the Caliche police and he promised he would contact the forces near the small airport. She relayed the information to Derrick, his jaw clenched, his expression grim and determined.

  They approached the small airport’s gate at top speed, not even slowing as the sedan busted through the metal barrier and guards started running and shouting. In the distance, Emma saw a small private jet, the stairs down, and Gilberto Ortega holding her nephew stepping up into
the plane.

  Then that dark, silent man turned and surveyed the speeding car. He rushed into the plane and pulled in the stairs as the engine fired up for takeoff, the sound loud in the car’s interior. As soon as the vehicle came to a screeching halt, Emma was out the door and rushing toward the jet, Derrick on her heels. Dread like lead in her stomach, she raced down the runway, her throat burning, tears running down her face, the dread turning to panic. Gravel from the tarmac flew from her running feet, and she stumbled, twisting her ankle, but that pain was insignificant compared to the fear racing through her system.

  Even as she gained, the small plane accelerated and her heart dropped as it lifted off into the air. She was suspended by horror, rooted to the runway, the only sound penetrating her senses the powerful sound of the plane’s engines taking her beloved nephew into a terrible and blood-soaked future. Suddenly cold, she clenched her fists at her sides, her gaze riveted on the silver and white plane rising even higher into the sky.

  A soft breeze stirred, ruffling her hair against her cheek, like the flutter of butterfly wings, the scent of new mown grass buried in the wind. The sweet fragrance made her insides clench even more.

  Derrick stood next to her, his chest heaving as he, too, watched her sister’s son get farther and farther away. She dragged her hair back, frustration and a sense of helplessness raging through her. Letting her hands fall, her mind racing, her stomach knotting, she whirled, but there was nowhere to go, nothing she could do.

  She looked at Derrick, uncertainty racing through her, and she folded her arms tightly in front of her; she needed to hold everything in right now, bleakness chilling her.

  Gripping her forearms, Emma tried to will away the thickness that was growing in her chest, a thickness that was rooted in monumental pain.

  The banked rage in Derrick’s eyes exploded, and he twisted and swore viciously. He looked at her, his eyes blazing, the veins in his neck distended with fury. “Goddammit!”

  His tone filled with disgust, the air sizzling with tension as he walked away. Stopping a few feet from her, he jammed his hands on his hips and tipped his head back, trying to level out his rapid breathing. Finally, he exhaled sharply and turned to face her, his voice subdued. “I’m sorry, Emma. I’m so sorry.” He bent his head and rubbed his eyes, his expression set. “We’ll track him again. We’ll find him!”

  Her breath suddenly wouldn’t come. She dropped her arms as if all feeling had left her body. Trying to fight the increasing tightness in her throat, she nodded.

  Emma pressed her thumb and middle finger against her eyes to try to stall the ache that kept spreading. She knew it was going to be extremely difficult to track him now. Ortega had unlimited resources. Time was on his side, and before too long, Matty wouldn’t even remember them.

  That thought sliced through her like the sharpest knife. Her strength was fragmenting on her, but she hung on to it, using it to block out the pain. Her sweet baby boy wasn’t going to be raised by a notorious drug lord.

  She thrust her hands into her hair, trying to process the awful realization. Raking her hair back from her face again, she tried to make her mind focus, shock draining the warmth from her.

  Sirens blared and people were running toward them, but Emma couldn’t move.

  “I’m sorry, babe.” She heard the agony, felt his pain, and she clutched her stomach. Her throat so cramped her jaws ached, she sank down to the concrete; a broken sob escaped her, tears blinding her.

  His face ashen, Derrick knelt beside her, his eyes shadowed by some emotion she couldn’t understand. “It’s going to be all right, Emma.”

  “Matty,” she whispered brokenly.

  He looked away, the muscles in his throat convulsing, and desolation stripped her bare.

  “Ah, Emma,” he murmured, his face contorting with raw emotion as he reached for her. “It’ll be okay.”

  Catching him by the back of the head, Emma closed her eyes and hung on to him. Deep sobs were wrenched from her, and Derrick crushed her even closer, his fingers tangling in her hair as he tucked her face against his. “It’s okay, babe,” he choked out. “It’s okay.”

  Having Derrick here to support her meant everything. It felt so damn good to lean on him. Let him comfort her. She needed that desperately. Needed him.

  Overwhelmed by her feelings that one revelation set off in her, she went blindly into his arms, holding on to him with all the care and strength she possessed. With a gruff sound, he enfolded her in a fierce embrace, holding her as if she was the foundation of his world. Fighting against more tears, she closed her eyes and cradled his head against her, needing him so much she felt almost suffocated by it.

  He kissed the side of her neck as he smoothed down her hair, trying to comfort her by touch alone. Then inhaling deeply, he caught her face between his hands, her chest so full she could barely breathe. She leaned her head against his jaw, the muscles there contracting. She looked up at him, the rawness in his eyes going straight to her heart.

  The richness, the wholeness of her feelings nearly overwhelmed her as she slipped her arms around his neck. “I’m glad you’re here with me, Derrick,” she whispered vehemently.

  He caught one of her hands, then laced his fingers through hers with a crushing grip. His expression scored with a range of emotions, he closed his eyes and pressed her hand against his mouth, his voice hoarse. “Emma—babe—”

  Fighting against the swell of tears, Emma tore her hand free and clutched his shirt, a soft sob wrenching loose when he looked at her with his eyes so full of concern. Despite all the things that had gone wrong, this was right. So damned right.

  Derrick raked her hair back, cradling her head against the curve of his neck, his breath warm against her skin. “We’re alive. We can fight again. I’m not going to give up, Emma,” he murmured hoarsely.

  “Thank you,” she whispered.

  He held her tighter, his fingers spread wide as he cupped the back of her head. “I’m going to move heaven and earth to find him. I vow on my life that I will place him in your arms.”

  Emma’s breath caught in her throat, suddenly scared, but this time it was for Derrick. Softly cupping his face, she gave him a reassuring look. “Together. Don’t leave me hanging,” she whispered, a hint of censure in her tone. “You promised.”

  Derrick stared at her, then closed his eyes and hugged her hard. “Emma...” His voice broke on the word.

  “Promise.”

  He drew in a deep, uneven breath, his voice raw with emotion. “I promise.” Moved by the depth of feeling in that hoarsely spoken declaration, Emma shifted her head, her mouth connecting with his in a kiss that was filled with so much emotion, with such open, unfettered sentiment, that it drove every conscious thought out of her mind. Rising on tiptoe, she molded herself to him as he shifted his hold, bringing her fully against him from shoulder to thigh. He held nothing back in that kiss—nothing. And she felt the fire in him—the wonderful, hot, all-consuming fire that seemed to come from his very soul. It was so overpowering.

  A shout from down the runway blasted them back into reality.

  Unable to check her tears, Emma tightened her hold and made an anguished sound as she opened her eyes and over his shoulder saw the plane, now a speck in the bright blue sky, disappear along with her hopes.

  She couldn’t believe this was happening.

  She’d failed Lily. She’d lost Matty.

  She couldn’t shake the feeling that she was going to lose Derrick, too.

  Chapter 15

  Over the Pacific Ocean

  Through the window of his private jet, Gilberto Ortega watched the moonlit clouds course across the sky over the dark ocean below. Beside him, Francisco was furious, delivering his outspoken tirade in a constant stream of Spanish, punctuated by butchered English when he wanted to make a par
ticularly damning point.

  “This is dangerous. Entrusting yourself and your young son to Lopez’s cartel and their leader, Diego. Far worse than finding a place to lay low in a different country.” His second-in-command had been vocally unhappy from the moment Gilberto had decided to make a risky decision to eliminate everyone in his organization, including his eldest son, and to start over from a new location.

  “All will be well, Francisco. We have an established network in every city in the United States.” He corrected Francisco’s last statement. “We have something very valuable and lucrative to offer. We’ll build something bigger, bolder, and my name will be whispered with fear on the lips of every man who decides to cross me.

  “You should have let me stay back and kill them,” he grumbled. “Reyes was a bumbling fool and now that NCIS agent and that woman are free and alive. That agent is trouble, Gilberto. I guarantee it. I know a threat when I see one and he’s very, very dangerous. The St. John women can cause a lot of problems for you, including the old woman pressing the State Department about the boy. Let me handle this.”

  “No, Reyes will be the one with the blood on his hands. There tends to be a lot of interest in the death of a federal agent. Let Reyes earn his pay and take the heat. As for the surviving mother and grandmother, they will get lax and there will be a time to take care of them once the danger seems to have passed. We will bide our time. We have plenty of it.”

  He rubbed his hand over the tattoo of Santa Muerte, saying a prayer to her for his fallen employees and Arturo.

  His future lay in a carrier, strapped in the seat across from him. The beginning was always so exciting, and Lily St. John’s son would become Gilberto’s shining legacy, as dangerous and feared as his father.