Hidden Agenda

by Lisa Harris

  The bottom line right now was that he had no idea who he could trust or who was out to get him, but he needed to trust this woman. Because for whatever reason, she’d risked everything to save his life.

  “Well, Michael Hunt, what kind of man are you?”

  He struggled to stay upright against the continual movement of the boat. “I’m not sure I remember anymore, beyond the fact that I’m tired of fighting.”

  And that he was a man partially responsible for Kendall’s death. A man who’d broken his mother’s heart. A man who for months had let his family believe he was dead. All for what? Duty? Justice? None of that seemed enough anymore. Too many had sacrificed and too many had lost.

  Ivan signaled Olivia, interrupting their conversation.

  “My car is parked close to the dock,” she told Michael. “We’ll be there in just a few minutes.”

  “And if our welcoming party is there?” he asked.

  “Then we’re in trouble.”

  Michael felt himself being tugged back into the darkness again, back to relive the haunting memories that refused to leave him alone. He tried to fight it, but he was there again, this time staring out across the Atlantic’s barren shoreline, broken only by a few scattered piles of driftwood. Summer hadn’t arrived yet, but it was already hot and humid. The ache in his leg from the explosion still throbbed despite the pain medicine the doctor had given him.

  Shifting in the lounge chair on Valez’s veranda, he took a sip of his iced tea, wishing it was his mother’s favorite lemonade-flavored sweet tea. The thought surprised him. He couldn’t remember how long it had been since nostalgia had grabbed hold of him so tightly, but he missed his family. Missed the normal life he used to have. He especially missed the regular spiritual feeding he’d never fully appreciated until it was gone.

  It was his mother’s birthday, another reminder of how much he craved the normalcy of life. Perspiration beaded on his neck as he struggled to hold on to the memories. As soon as he could get off the island, he was going to drive back to Atlanta for the weekend and spend some long-needed quality time with his family.

  Valez walked onto the veranda from the house, the smoke from his cigarette trailing behind him. He’d lost weight over the past few months, presumably due to stress, though he’d yet to lose his edge. Valez might be ruthless, but no one could deny the fact that he was a brilliant businessman.

  Valez sat down across from him in one of the wrought-iron chairs, dropped a newspaper onto the table, then flicked the end of his cigarette into the glass ashtray.

  “It’s good to finally see you out of bed,” Valez said. “How are you feeling?”

  “Better, though I still feel a bit like I was run over by a truck.”

  “A hundred pounds of explosives will do that to a person.” Valez let out a lazy puff of smoke, then leaned back in his chair. “I spoke with the doctor before he left this morning. He says a couple more weeks of rest, and you’ll be back to normal.”

  Michael’s hand automatically touched the back of his leg where he’d received the worst damage from the explosion. The doctor was caring for the third-degree burns, the wounds from the shrapnel, and his concussion, but his treatment didn’t cover the psychological impact of the bomb.

  “Two weeks,” Valez repeated. “You’re lucky. It was touch-and-go for a long time there.”

  “And my memory?” Michael asked. “What does the doctor say about that?”

  The holes in his recollection continued to torture him. From forgetting where he’d put his toothbrush to the missing details of the case he’d been working on. If he made a mistake, said the wrong thing, everything he’d worked for over the past few months would be for nothing.

  Valez played with the edges of the folded newspaper. “The doctor said some form of amnesia was normal after what happened to you. And that there’s a good chance that most of your memory loss—if not all of it—will go away eventually.”

  Michael could only pray the diagnosis was correct. What wouldn’t go away were the dreams. So vivid that sometimes he couldn’t tell anymore what was real and what were leftover pieces from those dreams. At least once a night, he’d wake up in a panicked sweat, reeling from flashbacks of the explosion.

  “We haven’t had time to talk since the accident.” Valez snuffed out his cigarette. “What do you remember about that day?”

  Michael swallowed the rest of his tea, not wanting to revisit that moment. “I remember enough to give me nightmares, but not enough to remember the details. It’s like a dream that constantly fades in and out.”

  There were other things he remembered he could never tell Valez. The fact that his name wasn’t Michael Linley. That he was here to take down Valez and the upper ranks of the cartel beneath him, along with any dirty cops who were on the man’s payroll. He wasn’t sure if those memories were a blessing or a curse. Remembering who he was made him want to forget why he was here.

  “You saved my life,” Valez said. “Do you remember that?”

  “Pieces.” Michael dug through the memories he was able to access. “I remember the explosion … the heat from the fire … the pain ripping through my leg. And looking up and seeing you beside me.”

  “You were lucky—we were both lucky.” Valez smiled. “But you still don’t remember why you were there, do you?”

  “We were there to make an exchange. Cocaine? Weapons? It’s still all a blur.”

  All those hours of staring out at the ocean, breathing in the salt water and resting as he’d been ordered, had only just begun to help him fit the pieces of that day back together.

  “It doesn’t matter.” Valez slid the folded newspaper across the table toward Michael, then opened it. “But this matters. I’ve been waiting for the right time to show you this.”

  Michael leaned forward. “What is it?”

  “Third obituary on the left. Read it.”

  “An obituary?”

  He started to read the small print.

  Michael Linley, 33, died Saturday in an accident. Michael worked as an accountant for a local business, but enjoyed anything to do with the outdoors, especially rock climbing, hiking, and diving. An only child, he is survived by his parents, Clarence and Patsy Linley of Ailey, Georgia.

  Michael Linley … Accident … Dead …

  “Michael?”

  Michael winced as he opened his eyes, the images dissolving into the darkness of a night sky. He tried to remember where he was. They’d left the island on the boat … Valez’s men had come after them … If they found him, they’d kill him along with Olivia and her brother. Kendall had been right to warn him. Returning to the island had simply traded in one vial of deadly poison for another.

  6

  Olivia gripped the steering wheel and watched the mile markers go by one by one as they headed down Interstate 16. The brightness of the oncoming headlights, a sharp contrast to the blackness of the night, blurred her vision. But that didn’t begin to compare to the turmoil churning in her gut. They’d somehow made it to her car without any further signs of her father’s men, but that didn’t mean this was over. Which had her scared. Michael had warned her that he couldn’t go to the authorities, because he wasn’t sure who he could trust. But if they couldn’t trust the authorities, then who in the world could they trust? And even more than that, why should she believe a man who’d admitted to her that he worked for her father? As far as she knew, he could be one of them.

  She turned on the radio, searching for something to soothe her disheveled nerves, and finally found a praise song, but even the uplifting words weren’t enough. At least their passenger was able to rest. The rearview mirror painted a picture of him snoring softly in the backseat.

  Michael Hunt. Undercover cop. Mystery man.

  She’d seen the fear in his eyes when they’d cut him loose at the cottage. Heard the sincerity in his voice when he told her why he was on the island. But was he telling the truth? All she knew was that he stood in the way of Antonio
Valez. And that he was a man her father presumably wanted dead.

  Even if the accusations against her father were true, Antonio Valez was still exactly that.

  Her father.

  Olivia tried to blink back the tears as she stumbled on the real source of the turmoil. She gripped the steering wheel tighter. Whether or not Michael was truly innocent, she’d stopped doubting their decision to rescue him. Whether her decision had been right or wrong, it didn’t matter anymore. Because nothing she did now could undo what she’d done.

  How was she supposed to choose between her father and the man who had managed to entangle his life with hers and put their lives at stake? What do I do, God? Dump him off by the side of the road? Turn him in to the local authorities, despite his protests? Or just keep running?

  She switched off the radio, craving the quiet in the search for peace. None of the options seemed right, which made her fear how this was going to end.

  She’d returned to the island and her father’s house, Castillo de la Reina—The Queen’s Castle—as he fondly called it, to find out the truth behind the anonymous accusations. Now she faced far more questions than answers, but one thing seemed clear. Antonio Valez wasn’t the father or man she’d believed him to be.

  Olivia flipped on her windshield wipers as drops of rain began to splatter against the glass. Thirty years ago, her mother had fallen in love with a handsome man from Monterrey, Mexico. Tall, charming, and charismatic, he’d promised her the world, and she’d believed everything he’d told her.

  Olivia had believed him too. As distant as he’d always been, she’d still loved him. Trusted him. And now … all of the memories of the two of them together over the years were tainted with the reality of who he might really be.

  She wiped away a stray tear. But even that truth didn’t mean she was responsible for the man lying in her backseat. She’d drop him off at one of his friends’ houses, and let them deal with the repercussions of whatever it was he’d done to invoke her father’s anger. There had to be a logical explanation. Michael had to have done something … and whatever that something was didn’t need to affect her and her brother.

  Michael stirred in the backseat.

  She glanced in the rearview mirror as he struggled to sit up. She was glad he was awake. There were questions she needed to ask. “You’re awake.”

  “Groggy, but yeah. For the most part. Where are we?”

  “About halfway between the coast and Atlanta.”

  “What time is it?”

  Olivia glanced at the clock on the dashboard. “Just past nine.”

  She passed a sign for the next rest stop and changed her plan to push nonstop to Atlanta. He’d need another round of painkillers soon, and all of them had missed supper. Maybe before she started throwing her mountain of questions at him, they should grab something to eat and stretch their legs.

  “Are you hungry?” she asked.

  “Yeah, I actually am.”

  “There’s a rest stop coming in a mile known for their wide range of vending machines.”

  He laughed at her weak attempt to lighten the mood. “That works for me.”

  A minute later, Olivia clicked on her blinker and pulled into the quiet rest stop, choosing a secluded spot in the parking lot, beneath a row of shade trees. She’d tried to ensure they hadn’t been followed, but knowing there could be armed men after them left her nerves on edge.

  Ivan woke up beside her as she turned on the dome light and started rummaging through her backpack for some money.

  “Hungry?” she signed.

  Ivan nodded, then offered to go grab a few things to hold them over until they could get some real food.

  “Any preferences?” she asked Michael.

  “A drink to take some more pain medicine, and some kind of energy bar would be great.”

  Olivia gave Ivan the order, then glanced again in the rearview mirror as Ivan exited the car. A semi was pulling off the freeway. Ahead, a woman walked her dog in the light of a streetlamp. Olivia shifted in her seat and stretched out the muscles in her back, tight more from the stress of the day than from driving.

  She turned sideways until she was facing Michael, then gripped the top of the seat with her fingers. “Before we go any further, I need to know what’s going on.”

  “Okay. Ask me what you need to know, and I’ll tell you.”

  Her defenses dropped slightly, uncertain if he was being truthful or simply trying to placate her.

  “You told me you couldn’t go to the authorities,” she said. “You also told me you were an undercover cop, but for a cop, you sure seem to be doing a lot of running.”

  “I’ve crossed a few people along the way, and now it’s not safe.”

  Not safe? Really. She’d just seen the body of a man who’d been executed in cold blood by her father’s henchmen, and as far as she knew, the same men were after them. “Not safe” seemed to be a bit of an understatement at the moment.

  “You’re going to have to give me a whole lot more than that, because now my brother’s life and mine are at stake. Why don’t we start with the dead man in the cottage? Did you know him?”

  Michael leaned back against the headrest, ready to deny that he knew Kendall, then stopped. Had he gotten that used to telling lies? Whatever person he’d become, whatever game he’d been playing, he was going to have to find a way to get out.

  “Yeah, I knew him. His name was Sam Kendall. He had a wife and two boys.” He shot her a wry grin. “He loved playing golf, though he was terrible at it.”

  “I’m sorry he’s dead.”

  “Me too. He was a good man.”

  “Then why was he there?”

  Michael considered her questions, wondering how much information he needed to give her. Because she wasn’t the only one who had questions. For instance, why had she been on the island?

  He shifted his weight, trying to ease the pain radiating through his rib cage. “I’ve been working under him. We met in Atlanta yesterday. He tried to warn me that my life was in danger.”

  “And you chose not to listen … why? Because clearly his warnings were right on target.” She stared at him with those piercing brown eyes as if trying to read his mind. “The thing is, I’m trying to decide why I should trust you. I don’t exactly like the thought of ending up like your friend.”

  “I suppose you need to trust me for the same reason I have to trust you.” Michael frowned, just as unhappy with the situation as she was. “Because we can now assume that Tomas knows you helped me escape, which means there are now men after both of us who want us dead. Like it or not, Olivia, we’re in this together.”

  Ivan slipped back into the front seat with a bunch of junk food from the vending machines. Olivia handed Michael two painkillers, a Coke, and an energy bar.

  “Thanks,” he said.

  She nodded at him, ripped open a bag of Fritos, and reached for a chip.

  Michael popped the pills into his mouth, praying that they’d bring some relief. He was tired, physically and emotionally. The never-ending fight for justice wasn’t motivation enough anymore. He wanted out. Knew that once he walked away from this situation—if, in fact, he was able to walk away from it—he was going to walk away from all of it.

  Maybe he could take the heat off himself. “What about you? What brought you to Valez’s island?”

  “I’m not sure I’m ready to switch the subject so quickly.”

  Michael sighed. “Okay. What else do you want to know?”

  Ivan watched their conversation while Michael weighed his decision. According to Tomas, his cover was already blown, and with a probable contract out on his life, he didn’t have anywhere else to run.

  “What do you know about Antonio Valez?”

  “Authorities suspect he’s not simply a wealthy businessman but involved in laundering money for the Cártel de Rey.”

  “And you? What do you believe?”

  Michael searched her guarded expression. She was
fishing for something, but he wasn’t sure what yet. “I believe he’s far more than a money launderer. I think he’s the leader of the cartel. La Sombra.”

  Olivia shivered, a frown flitting across her face as she shot a glance at her brother. “The Shadow.”

  “You’ve heard about him?”

  “Murder … kidnapping … torture … I’ve read he’s ruthless. That he kills migrant workers for refusing to become drug mules. Beheads his victims simply to make a point.”

  “That’s a fair description.”

  “But if that’s true, why would he be here, living in the States? I thought most cartel leaders tend to stay south of the border.”

  Michael took off the wrapper and bit into his energy bar. Fishing for information, but also informed? She’d been on the island. She had to have a connection to Valez, and he needed to know what it was.

  “The border has become fluid,” Michael answered. “A few years ago, high-ranking members of these criminal organizations wouldn’t have chanced it, even with passports and visas. Now authorities are discovering more and more of them living right here in the US. A majority in south Texas, yes, but Valez discovered his piece of paradise along the coast of Georgia and doesn’t want to give it up. He found a way to rule his soldiers from there, taking trips as needed.”

  “So if you go to the authorities, what happens?”

  “Kendall warned me that another undercover cop was recently killed, and they believe it was organized by someone inside the department.”

  “So if the police find you—”

  “I’ll probably be arrested, and could potentially end up like Coates, dead in my cell.” Michael scrunched the empty wrapper in his fist. “Which is one of the reasons why I’ve been looking for evidence. Not just evidence that Valez is laundering money through his business, or that he’s La Sombra, but evidence of who’s working within the department.”

  “And once you know who the bad cops are, you can go to the authorities?”

  Michael nodded. “Now that I’ve bared my soul, what about you and your brother? What were you doing at Antonio Valez’s house?”