The Traitor

by Jo Robertson

  The Traitor

  A Romantic Thriller

  by

  Jo Robertson

  Copyright © 2011 Jo Robertson

  All rights reserved

  Acknowledgements

  Thanks to the many women who've enriched my life and supported me on my writing journey: my daughters Shannon, Kennan, and Megan; to the extraordinary women at Romance Bandits. Thanks also to the writers who've helped me along the independent publishing trail.

  And gratitude to the men in my life. They balance out my overwhelming estrogen moments: Boyd, my husband, and my sons, Lance, Robb, Tyler, and Rand.

  I love hearing from my readers. After all, you're the folks I write for!

  If you enjoy "The Traitor," I'd love you to leave a review at http://www.amazon.com. To express my appreciation for your support, I'd enjoy sending you a free download of any one of other of my books.

  You can contact me at jorobertson44@yahoo.com.

  Life-time readers, life-time learners!

  Other Books by Jo Robertson

  The Watcher

  The Avenger

  Dedication

  This book is dedicated to the lovely boy, the chuckling baby who entered our lives and left five months later. Baby Tyler, I knew you for forty minutes, but I'll miss you forever.

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-one

  Chapter Thirty-two

  Chapter Thirty-three

  Chapter Thirty-four

  Chapter Thirty-five

  Chapter Thirty-six

  Chapter Thirty-seven

  Chapter Thirty-eight

  Chapter Thirty-nine

  Chapter One

  Gabriel Santos was not a man to cross.

  His name among the Mexicans was El Diablo and although his given name reminded José of a holy angel, the street runners had forewarned him. Indeed, the persistent rumors of the man's ferocity and the myth that he had made a pact with Satan seemed true.

  Stepping from behind the industrial waste bin, Santos emerged from the shadows and caught José off guard. El Diablo's enormous bulk morphed from among the gray shades of the alley into one dark silhouette as he stood at the narrow end like a legendary titan.

  José trembled like a leaf in the wind even though the drug runners had also told him to show no fear around Santos. With his long black hair tied at the neck, his lean hard form, and his dark scowl, he looked like un angel caído, a fallen angel.

  But José knew the man was no angel.

  "A good soldado does not keep his jefe waiting," Santos said, lips barely moving, a puppet whose strings were pulled by an unseen force. "Nor does he flinch to show his fear."

  The warning was clear, and José worked to control the shaking of his body. Sí, El Diablo. And did he only imagine the smell of sulfur? He crossed himself and scurried to close the distance between them.

  When Santos motioned toward the opposite side of the alley, José stationed himself at the brick corner of the building. Then he followed Santos' lead and crouched down to wait in the shadows. In this way as their target approached them, he would be flanked on both sides of the alley's narrow end.

  There would be no escape.

  Long minutes crawled by and the muscles of José's thighs began to cramp. He longed for a cigarette, but did not dare risk lighting one. He wondered, not for the first time, why Santos had chosen him for the job tonight.

  José did not mind smacking the girls around. He was very good at controlling putas. But to take the life of a man, that was serious business.

  He shifted position, dislodging minute chunks of debris under his feet. The small plink of gravel sounded like thunder to his taut nerves. Seconds later, the scratch of a match being struck preceded a tiny flare of light, and the rich, smoky odor of a cigarillo wafted across the alley.

  El Diablo enjoyed smoking these so-called seven-minute cigars, unconcerned about alerting his victim with the pungent odor. The boss once claimed if he could not dispatch a target in the seven minutes it took to finish his cigarillo, he himself should face a firing squad for being such an inept assassin.

  José had no doubts the man they now prepared to kill would be dead long before his nostrils detected the scent of the cigarillo.

  In the brief moment of the lighted match, José glimpsed Santos' battled face, the vicious scar that carved its length from brow to chin, the thick black hair, the hollow eyes. Not for the first time, he wondered how so stone-hearted a man had won the trust of Diego Vargas.

  And the greater mystery – how he had won the affection of the beautiful Magdalena Vargas. Wife of Diego, El Jefe de Jefes, the big boss. The one they called El Vaquero because he was descended from a long line of cowboys who roamed the plains of Mexico.

  Ay, what a dangerous life Santos lived!

  The clink of steel-toed boots striking gravel at the street end of the alley attracted José's attention. He saw Santos rise, reach for his weapon at the small of his back, and draw the silencer from his jacket pocket. Unhurriedly, he fitted silencer to gun barrel, his gloved hands steady, his damaged face impassive.

  ¡Un qué corizón frío! A cold-blooded man.

  Preferring the deadly quiet slice of the knife, José had his long blade in hand by the time the man reached ten feet of where they lurked in the shadows.

  Santos waited until the man passed between the two of them. "Hombre," he spoke, his voice a deadly whisper in the night air.

  The man seemed unsurprised. Without turning, he lifted his arms out from his sides, parallel to the ground as if to show that he was unarmed. At a nod from Santos, José stepped forward, knife swinging loosely from his left hand. Carefully, he patted the man between the legs and around the chest.

  "He is not armed," he said.

  "Ah, amigo, mi buen amigo." Santos addressed the man's back. "How foolish of you to walk alone so late at night." The man turned around slowly to face them. "Especially in such a part of town. Es muy peligroso. Very dangerous."

  "I have important information for Diego Vargas," the man said, arms still extended. "Information concerning el árabe."

  José knew by the look on El Diablo's face that Santos was surprised at this news, and it was no small thing to take a man like Santos unawares.

  "The Arab, el terrorista?" Santos asked.

  "Sí." The man smiled, revealing yellowed and broken teeth. "Ashraf Hashemi, the agent who works for the federal government."

  José knew that the man he spoke of, this Hashemi, was not really a terrorist. It was the name the Norteños had given the Arab-American DEA agent who so trailed them so doggedly.

  Un dolor en al asno. A pain in the ass, Diego Vargas had claimed many times, one whose relentless pursuit of the Norteños and the location of their latest drug routes had caused his organization a great deal of trouble. />
  "What information?" Santos prodded.

  "I have learned the name of Hashemi's informant."

  "Tell me," Santos commanded, lowering his weapon, "and I will pass the information along to Diego."

  The man let out a whoop of laughter. "Ah, I think not, my friend. I will take the information to El Vacquero myself. I am not so eager to die this night."

  Santos smiled, but not with the black holes of his eyes. "Perhaps you will die, nonetheless."

  There was a fraction of a second between the realization of the deed and the deed itself during which José knew the man about to meet his death clearly saw the foolishness of challenging one like El Diablo. He was a cold-blooded killer, but he was a practical man, which was why his next move startled José.

  Santos slowly removed the silencer from his gun and placed it in the pocket of his pants. Then he lifted his jacket and stuffed the gun into the waistband of his pants.

  Finally, with a motion so quick José could not follow and the target surely never anticipated, Santos slipped a blade from his jacket sleeve, palmed it, and in one swift slash, slit the man's throat. The mark clutched both hands to his neck. Blood spurting from between his fingers, his eyes wide and vacant, he fell to his knees and toppled face down on the asphalt.

  Santos squatted beside the body and slowly wiped his knife on the man's jacket. He removed the cigarillo from the corner of his mouth, glanced at the tip, and ground the butt out. He placed the remains in his jacket pocket. "Sé el nombre." I know the name.

  Seven minutes, José confirmed, glancing at his watch.

  "A good soldier knows when to keep counsel," Santos said, grinning up at José with perfectly even, white teeth that flashed with startling beauty in the scarred face. "And when to speak."

  Dios. Now they would both have to answer to Diego Vargas for what happened here.

  There was no doubt at all in José's mind. El Diablo had not only made a pact with the devil, but él está loco.

  Chapter Two

  "You're a big coward!"

  Isabella sneaked another peek around her sister's shoulder in the dim lighting of Stuckey's Bar. "No, I just don't like taking risks."

  "Same thing," taunted Anita, flashing her wide, sexy eyes heavily rimmed in blue shadow. Her tarty-eyes look, Consuelo claimed.

  "Chaquitas, silencio," Consuelo commanded. "Stop bickering." She reached across the circular table to cover her younger sister's pale, slender hands with her own blunt-fingered one. "Bella." She spoke slowly as if to a child or a dimwit. "We went over this already. Tonight you are a fully grown and very desirable woman."

  "Sí, and not an automaton," Nita piped up.

  The girl fell silent as Consuelo glowered at her and turned back to Isabella. "You are going to flirt and dance, and maybe meet a delicious and very sexy man."

  Isabella clapped her hand over her mouth and giggled between her fingers. The Margaritas and Piña Coladas had begun to affect her. "I think I'm a little tipsy."

  "Good," Connie replied. "You need to loosen up. You are fearless in that courtroom where you work way too many hours, but Madre del Dios, Anita is right. When it comes to men, you are un cobarde."

  "A big, fat coward," Nita repeated.

  Isabella eyed her evening attire. Dress neckline practically down to her belly button, thanks to Nita's wardrobe. Dangling from her ear lobes, the red and gold earrings borrowed from Mama. Hair a tumble of thick curls that hung around her bare shoulders rather than the usual tight knot she forced them into. She didn't look like an overworked and uptight lawyer tonight.

  Bella caught the misty look in Connie's eyes. No, she looked exactly like the pictures scattered around their mother's house of their beautiful dead sister Maria.

  A pain shot right below Bella's ribs, deep into her bones, and throbbed like a migraine. She knew when Connie thought of Maria, gone these many years, she wanted to stick herself away in a nunnery and spend her days on her knees bargaining with God to take her instead of their innocent sister. But God didn't want Connie's lighted candles and Hail Mary prayers.

  "Connie," Bella interrupted softly, knowing where her sister's thoughts had wandered.

  "You should march right over there." Connie wagged her forefinger under Bella's nose. "And sit down in the empty side of that booth where that man has been hanging out for over an hour and ask him to buy you a drink."

  "Yeah," Nita added. "He's been checking you out, girl, for the last ten minutes. I see those snappy green eyes whipping around the room and landing right on you."

  Isabella frowned.

  "I'm telling you, the man can't take his eyes off of you." Anita brushed thick straight bangs off her forehead, swiping at the beads of sweat that glistened on her round, pretty face. "Trust me, chica. The man wants you."

  Isabella sneaked another look at the man across the room. "He's looking at the door. He's waiting for someone," she protested.

  "You have a chance to get out of that stuffy district attorney's office and meet someone for a change," Connie insisted, glancing casually at the stranger in the corner booth and meeting his direct gaze. "Muy hermoso."

  Bella followed her gaze. At first glance, she'd thought the man was Latino, but now she saw he was a strange mix of something else, maybe middle eastern, maybe Hispanic, but definitely darkly exotic and very easy on the eyes. "He could be a serial killer," she mumbled.

  "He's too clean," Anita said. "It's just talk, Bella, and a little dancing."

  "You're the clever one, Bella, the law school graduate with top honors, already an assistant district attorney." Connie gave her sister a gentle shove. "Now it's time to get a life outside that job."

  "Just go over and say hello on your way to the little girls' room or something," Anita urged.

  "And on the way back," Consuelo added, "see if he wants to dance." She grinned and watched Isabella make her way towards the bathroom, her hips swaying gently.

  Isabella looked back at the two of them perched on their chairs where they wiggled their fingers and smiled. She dipped her lashes down once and tossed her head like a proud mare. She could do this.

  #

  Because Guadalupe Juan Diego Rodriquez had been born on December 12, the feast day of the Virgin Guadalupe, his mama had named him for La Virgen de Guadalupe and also for Juan Diego, the Mexican to whom the virgin appeared in 1594.

  Lupe didn't care about the origin of his names, but he did feel unreasonably blessed. He had been a happy baby and became a cheerful man, and at this moment he delighted in the prospect of passing along information to a man he considered his friend as well as his employer.

  The paper he'd tucked into his pants pocket and which he would, within the next hour, deliver to his connection, was muy importante, significant enough to bring down the man who'd been responsible for the deaths of many young Latinos. Thus, Lupe admitted to himself that he did this work gladly, and not solely for the money.

  But, of course, the money was welcome.

  At the moment, however, he glanced nervously around the dark streets. Having no car, he had walked the twenty blocks or so from the apartment of his girlfriend to the club. Twenty very edgy blocks because at first he was certain someone followed him.

  He zigzagged back and forth, left turn, right turn, making the twenty blocks closer to forty, in order to shake off the phantom shadow that tailed him. Crossing himself and kissing the Virgin of Guadalupe medal that hung around his neck, he made the final turn and ended up at the rear parking lot of Stuckey's Bar.

  He lit a cigarette and leaned against a car parked at the darkest corner of the lot. From there he observed the movements of patrons and workers who regularly moved in and out of the popular singles bar.

  Five, ten, twenty minutes passed while he smoked yet another cigarette, grinding out the butts on the asphalt beneath his feet. Nothing suspicious. Absurdo, he chastised himself. He was acting foolish. The only danger was in his stupid imagination. No one had followed him.

  Si
nce Francisca had become embarazada – with a strapping baby boy he hoped – Lupe had been increasingly edgy and nervous, like una vieja mujer, an old woman. Now that he was to be a father, perhaps it was time to put this dangerous business behind him.

  #

  Rafe took another long pull on his beer and let his eyes glide one more time around the softly lighted room. Stuckey's Bar was a classy place with high-end clientele from the looks of them. Agents, lawyers, all kinds of L.A. power brokers. He wondered briefly why his informant had chosen a fancy-priced singles bar like this for their meet.

  Beneath the booth he stretched his legs, glanced at his wristwatch for the tenth time in as many minutes, and swore under his breath. Damn Lupe! Even though notoriously late, he'd never failed to show up altogether. Now the man was nearly an hour overdue.

  The dumb bastard probably got himself made. Or worse, the somber thought intruded, killed by some very bad hombres. The possibility of losing his informant disturbed him, not only because Lupe Rodriquez was an excellent source, but because he genuinely liked the man.

  Nah, he finally concluded, Lupe Rodriquez was far too wily to be caught.

  Chapter Three

  Rafe slouched against the plush bench of his corner booth, idly running his finger around the wet circle rings on the table. He'd give Lupe fifteen minutes more. He checked his watch again as if sheer will power could urge the lethargic minute hand forward. He suppressed a yawn, loosened the knot of his tie, and finally reached for his wallet.

  That's when he noticed the three women.

  They surrounded a small round table across the room, flimsy, high-heeled shoes on their feet, their bare legs swinging above the floor as they sat on backless stools. A healthy row of Margaritas and Piña Coladas lined up on sturdy paper coasters in front of them, and the empty glasses showed they'd been at it a while.