The Traitor

by Jo Robertson

  "Nope, you weren't. And you don't have to translate Spanish for me. And," he flashed a cocky grin, "maybe I already checked the office."

  "Look, Hashemi, you have no right to make demands about how I spend my time."

  "I like the way you pronounce my name," he responded irrelevantly. "I'm the lead on the case. I have every right."

  He was so damned infuriating. "I'm the ADA on the case," she countered.

  "We've had this conversation already." He rose to meet her, stood inches within her personal space, and put his capable hands on her shoulders. She shivered and pushed him away a second too late to be effective. Damn pheromones!

  "Okay, truce," she said, lifting her hand in surrender, stepping back to put distance between them. "I'll tell you what I've done – but you can't get angry."

  He looked suspicious, but nodded.

  "And remember, I don't have to give you an explanation at all."

  "We're supposed to be working together," he reminded her, stopping when he caught the mutinous look on her face. "We'll talk about that after I hear what you did today."

  Buying time, thinking how much to tell him, she looked into the refrigerator. "Beer or wine?"

  Settled with a glass of fine rosé, Rafe propped his feet on Bella's coffee table while she tucked hers beneath her. This position was beginning to look both familiar and dangerous, but she didn't ask him to leave again. They spoke around the case for nearly thirty minutes before she decided to tell him about her proposed deal with Santos.

  "We've dried up the small talk," he said placing his wine glass on a coaster. "What about tonight?"

  She cleared her throat and sighed. "I went to see Santos." She looked at him from beneath her lashes, waiting for the explosion, but to his credit, he controlled his temper. However, his jaw worked and his eyes blinked as he made every effort to refrain from yelling at her.

  His words confirmed her suspicion. "I'd like to throttle you," he said tightly, "or turn you over my knee and spank the daylights out of you. Or – "

  "Okay, I get the idea." She stood and took both their glasses into the kitchen. "Do you want to hear the rest, or just pummel me?"

  "I want to do both," he grumbled, following her into the kitchen. "What happened?"

  She shrugged. "Nothing. I decided to offer him a deal and he said he'd think about it."

  Rafe scoffed. "A deal? You can't offer him a deal. He's going to get federal charges and do federal time, no plea bargaining, nothing."

  "Right now, he's in my jurisdiction and if I say plead him out, that's what will happen." She tried to remain calm, but really, the man was a bully.

  He crossed his arms and leaned against the counter, a thoughtful look on his face. "What did you offer him?"

  "Full immunity."

  "Jesus Christ, Torres! You can't give a man like Santos full immunity!"

  She bristled with stubbornness. "I can and I will."

  "What do you imagine he can give you for this full immunity?"

  "Diego Vargas."

  "Just like that? On a silver platter," he jibed. "What part of Vargas?"

  "Everything," she answered smugly, "the drugs, the trafficking, and the girls, enough to put him away for life, or give him the needle if we can show special circumstances."

  "And who do you think is going to take over Vargas' business?"

  "No one. The organization will be over, finished, destroyed."

  "No, it won't. It's like a star fish. Chop off one part and another grows back. It doesn't matter," he said dismissively. "Santos will never betray Vargas."

  "I think he will."

  "Don't be so naïve, Torres. It doesn't become you."

  Somehow his disappointment in her hurt more than his anger.

  He snatched his jacket off the wing chair and headed for the front door. "I'll see you in the morning."

  He'd turned the knob and begun to open the door when she struck out viciously. "Go ahead. Run away again. I don't know what made me think I could work with a ... a giant lug like you."

  She blinked furiously so he wouldn't see the tears threatening to spill down her cheeks. And why was she crying anyway?

  He waited for long moments before he answered, back facing her almost as if he didn't want to look at her. Then he spun around, anger etched in every line of his face, his eyes dark and furious.

  "Damn you," he ground out before he grabbed her and kissed her.

  The kiss was hard and punishing and bruising, and she couldn't say when exactly she wound her arms around his neck and clung for dear life. When he released her, she staggered back, breathless and weak in the knees.

  "Don't go," she heard herself say as if from a distance.

  "If I stay, it won't end like last time, Isabella," he warned softly.

  God, the sound of her name on his lips made her tremble. "I don't want it to be like last time."

  "The case – "

  She stepped closer and wound her fingers around his neck, running them through the thick, soft hair at his nape. "I don't want to talk about the case."

  She felt hot and cold at the same time, lethargy and urgency warring within her. Her heart thundered in her chest, her breath caught in her throat, and fire raced through her veins.

  She longed for the slow, exquisite pleasure-pain of arousal, but her arms, legs, and body had a mind of their own. She ground her hips against the thrusting bulge in his slacks and pressed against his chest, her nipples hard and peaked through her thin blouse and filmy bra.

  "Oh, God," he spoke against her mouth. "You have no idea how sweet you taste." He trailed a line of soft, moist kisses down her neck. "How incredibly soft your skin is."

  When his lips met hers, she opened her mouth beneath them and met his tongue with her own. His breath smelled of the faint tanginess of wine and a clean sweetness. She felt the sharp nip of his teeth against her bottom lip as he drew it into his mouth. She ran both hands through his hair, loving the way the dense strands curled around her fingers. He reached behind her to undo her hair clasp, and her unruly mane of hair tumbled around her shoulders.

  "So beautiful," he said, running the hair through his long fingers, rubbing the ends with his thumb and forefinger as if he were assessing an expensively-textured fabric. Undoing the first three buttons on her blouse, he shoved the edges aside, exposed the lacy top of her white brassiere. He trailed his fingers down her throat and scraped his knuckles over the tops of her breasts.

  She shivered again, an uncontrollable spasm like the start of an orgasm, threw back her head, and invited him to devour her neck. He followed his hands with his lips, gently pressing kisses along her breasts, pulling down the bra and exposing her nipple to the cool air. She gasped as he took one peak into his mouth and gently licked it, swirling his tongue around the hardened button. Then he sucked, softly at first, but harder as she pressed his head against her chest and moaned quietly.

  A wet gush of sex flowed between her legs and suddenly she couldn't bear the gentle teasing. She wanted hard, pounding passion. As if he'd read her mind, he returned to her mouth and deepened his kisses until the assault left her bruised and swollen. Lips locked with his, she scrambled to unbutton his shirt. He labored to help her, jerked out the tails, loosened his trousers, and kicked them to the floor.

  "Bedroom," he gasped against her open mouth. "Where's the bedroom?"

  She gestured with her head down the hall behind her as he stepped out of his pants, picked her up and gripped her buttocks while she wrapped her legs around his waist. He continued to assault her face and neck as he stumbled down the hall. Reaching behind her to open the bedroom door, Bella almost tumbled out of his arms, but between laughing and panting, they made it to the edge of the bed.

  Rafe fell clumsily, turning to keep his weight from crushing her. Holding himself off her by propping up on his elbows, he framed her face with his large hands.

  "We can stop now, Isabella." He pushed her hair back from her face and trailed his fingers
over her cheeks. "We don't have to finish. We don't have to do this."

  "You're kidding, right?" she panted. "There's no way we're going to stop now."

  She twisted her body to flip him over, knowing he let her because her weight was too slight to accomplish the move without his help. Straddling him, she finished opening his shirt and spread her hands over the fine, springy hair on his chest. His erection pushed aggressively through her slacks, the thick head seeking her wet, hot center.

  "I can't wait any longer," she whispered as he watched her climb off the bed and unfasten her slacks. She stood in her bikini panties and disheveled bra, arms akimbo, as his eyes raked hungrily over her.

  He clutched his hand over his heart. "Jesus, you're killing me."

  She smiled, heady with sexual power, and reached around to unclasp her brassiere, letting it dangle from one hand before she dropped it to the floor. He sat up and pulled her close so that she stood between his knees. Licking each nipple in turn, he began sucking on them again. Oh, God, she felt as though she would explode even before he entered her.

  Trailing his mouth under her breasts and down to her stomach, he kissed her navel and dipped his fingers under her panty waistband to slide the garment slowly down her body. He gently spread her legs and touched her between them, probing the wetness there.

  "You're amazing," he said, sliding a finger inside her and flicking his thumb on the taut button of her sex. She felt her climax build and wriggled her hips against his hand.

  "Now," she said, "I want you inside me now."

  He pulled her down to the bed, shoved his shorts off and covered her body with his heavy weight and her lips with his mouth. "Is this what you want, Isabella?" Her name on his lips was an aphrodisiac as she thrust her hips upward to meet the hard, moist tip of him at her entrance.

  "Yes," she groaned.

  His voice sounded as if he were in control but his heart raced on top of her, a filmy sheen of sweat broke out on his forehead, and he strained to hold himself back. "Say it, sweetheart, say you want me."

  "I want you. Oh, God, I want you!" she fairly screamed and at that moment, he thrust into her hard and fast, filling her until she knew she'd come without any movement on his part.

  But he held himself still, held himself back, and held her quietly, willing the sweet release of climax to subside. He lay on top of her, breathing heavily until he began a slow, sexy thrusting in and out of her. She felt the pressure building again to an exquisite pleasure that exploded through her body like a dam bursting. She bit her lip and tried to hold the sounds back but they erupted in tiny, helpless gasps and moans.

  Rafe pounded into her long moments as she rode the length of her climax out and he emptied himself into her. After their hearts had slowed down and he'd slicked back her hair from her forehead, he kissed her softly and rolled off her, tucking her backside tightly against him.

  Bella must've drifted off to sleep, or at least thought she'd dozed because when she awoke, the room was chilly and Rafe was gone. She stretched and looked at the bedside clock. One o'clock. She slipped from the bed and pulled a robe over her naked body.

  In the kitchen Rafe leaned against the counter, talking quietly on his cell phone. When he saw her in the doorway, he quickly snapped the phone off.

  She padded quietly across the cold tile floor. "Who was that?"

  "A cop friend in L.A. I think I've mentioned Max Jensen?"

  She smiled slowly, still languid from their lovemaking. "I remember Max. I met him at your office."

  "Right." He reached over and pulled her against his side, planting a kiss on her cheek. "Hey, you're cold. Let's go back to bed. I'll warm you up again."

  She laughed and ran her hands up his chest, feeling the smooth muscles and sinews beneath the skin. "I'd like that."

  In bed she snuggled beneath his arm as he pulled the covers over them. She loved feeling her naked body against his side, the strength in his arms and the power in his thigh nestled between her legs. She trailed her fingers over his chest. "What did Max Jensen want?"

  "Personal stuff." He paused to cup her breast and nuzzle her neck. "Family trouble."

  "Hmmm."

  His hands slid up and down her hips to distract her completely. "Max is taking a couple weeks off work and coming up here. He'll give me a hand on the Vargas case."

  "Oh," she said. And then again, louder this time, as he worked his magic with his clever fingers and hands.

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  The untraceable cell phone by Santos' nightstand blared out a strident sound, Diego Vargas' tone signal. Santos glanced at the clock before reaching for the phone. Two a.m. Ay, did El Vaquero never sleep?

  "¿Sí?"

  "The shipment has arrived."

  A shipment of China White through the Port of Wintuan. Why had Vargas called to relay information which would have come to Santos within the hour?

  "¡Venido aquí rápidamente!"

  Santos was instantly alert. "¿Por qué? Why? What has happened?"

  "There are problems." Vargas coughed out the words.

  "What kind of problems?"

  "Do not speak over the phone," Vargas growled.

  He spat out the next words almost as if he'd forgotten the disrespect Santos had shown. "And do not ask why when I tell you to come. Get your fucking ass over here! Now!" He cut the connection.

  Santos' security men swept Diego's phones and home every week. There was no possibility that he was being bugged, but El Jefe had become rabidly paranoid. A man like that made serious mistakes.

  Santos arrived less than twenty minutes later. This current shipment was scheduled for distribution north to Reno and south to Bakersfield. If something was wrong, they would have difficulty getting the price they'd asked. Their contacts did not like to wait for their product.

  As he approached Vargas' guarded fortress, Santos noted the added security men at the gate and outside the front door. They recognized him, however, and passed him through at once.

  At the door, he knocked lightly, not wishing to awaken Corazon, and seconds later, Diego swung open the heavy oak door and waved him in. For the first time since Santos had come to work for Vargas at the age of nineteen, Vargas looked haggard – old. He'd been a robust forty-year-old man then and now was nearly sixty, but tonight he bore the lined face and stooped shoulders of a man nearly a decade older.

  Perhaps now was the time for Diego Vargas to retire.

  "What is the problem with the shipment?" Santos asked, looking around the huge industrial kitchen where Vargas had led him. This room was Magdalena's sanctuary. She loved to cook and the low ceiling dangled with an array of cooking utensils.

  Vargas poured himself a Jack Daniels neat, and Santos could tell by the slack mouth that this was not the boss's first drink of the as-yet very early day.

  "Pedro thinks the shipment is light. We must weigh it again." Vargas threw back his drink in one swift gulp. "Mi Dios, I do not have time for problems!"

  "How light?"

  "He did not say."

  "Pedro always worries unnecessarily," Santos said, leaning against the island counter. "Tomaré el cuidado de problema."

  "You will straighten it out tonight?"

  "Sí, right away." Santos turned to leave as the wall phone in the kitchen rang.

  A flash of panic ran over Vargas' slack features. "¿Qué ahora?" What now?

  He grabbed the phone off the hook and muttered into the receiver. "Who?" Pause. "Yes," he said shortly. Another pause. "Are you certain that it is him?" Pause. "Allow him to pass."

  He hung up and turned to Santos. "Another problem. Alejandro is here."

  That meant something had gone wrong with the hit.

  Alejandro was brought by two armed guards into Santos' office. El Jefe sat behind his gaudy, over-sized desk of expensive teak that he'd had specially made several years ago.

  Vargas took in Alejandro's appearance. "What happened?" An ugly line of stitches crossed Alejandro's forehead
and ran along his right arm. His face was bruised and battered. "You reported that everything went well." Vargas twirled the liquid in his third drink since Santos had arrived.

  "Creímos que todo estaba muy bien," Alejandro babbled, "pero entonces – "

  "English! Speak English!" Santos roared.

  "¿Que?" Vargas asked, his tone like death. "What went wrong?"

  The man was too frightened of Santos looming over him to remember his English. "Uno de la muchacha escapada."

  ¡Mierde! One of the girls escaped.

  "¡Qué!" Vargas screamed again. "How could that happen?"

  "No sé, El Vaquero," the man whispered. "No sé."

  "Calm down," Santos said. "Here." He thrust a drink into the man's shaking hands. It was hard to believe Alejandro was a hired killer, but his fear of Vargas and Santos ran deep. "Give us the details."

  "There was a great deal of confusion. We thought the job was complete, but later, when we counted the bodies, we were short one."

  "Which girl?" Santos asked because that was the most important question.

  "Tell me she is not one of the older girls," Vargas said, rising abruptly. "Or one who speaks English."

  An older girl might be more outraged about what had happened to the younger girls. One who spoke English could relate a compelling story. Often Mexican girls who spoke English were educated, intelligent, and outspoken. Vargas did not like either older girls or ones who complained.

  "I believe it was Esperanza," Alejandro said. "Most of the bodies were small."

  Ay, Esperanza, she could cause serious trouble. "Where is she?" Santos asked.

  "Our contact in Nevada told us she's under guard at a hospital near the Tahoe turnoff. I don't know which one. She is under heavy guard."

  At the sound of the girl's name, Vargas turned ashen and then angry. He raised his hand to strike the man, but Santos stepped between them.

  "Do not blame the messenger, Diego," he cautioned and motioned Alejandro to step outside.

  After the man had left, Santos said, "I will find out where the girl is."

  "She can destroy me," Vargas said. "She knows too much and she is the only girl who speaks fluent English."