Dirty Little Secrets

by Julie Leto

  Too damned exciting.

  God, she missed it. The adrenaline. The strategy. The money.

  With that thought to propel her, Marisela took off her shoes and tiptoed up the driveway. The house was dark and quiet, her father’s car parked silent and cold beneath the carport. She had no desire to disturb the peace. If she was lucky, she could sneak to her room and take advantage of the “purple-headed passion” vibrator Lia had given her for her birthday. That ought to shake the last of the pent-up tension our of her body

  As if.

  Marisela entered through the door from the driveway, sneaking into the kitchen with practiced stealth. She didn’t need either of the two sources of light—the timer over the oven and the moonlight from the window—to make her way inside. She could traverse this house blindfolded. Or at least, blind drunk. She’d pulled that off more than once.

  Wiping her feet on the kitchen rug, Marisela attempted to remove all the moisture from her skin. The house was carpeted, but like any good Latina woman, her mother had hard plastic runners protecting the light-colored shag from dirt. Moist feet tended to make a sucking noise even Marisela didn’t have the grace to mask.

  The same sucking noise she heard just before she rounded the corner.

  A gun barrel glinted, flashed beside Marisela’s cheek. With a burst of fear, Marisela grabbed the gun and yanked forward, slamming the man attached to the weapon into the plaster arch of the doorway. When the attacker sprung back with a grunt, she kicked out his knee, knocking him to the floor. She stomped his wrist, heel first and hard, dislodging the gun from his grasp. With a swipe of her foot, the weapon skidded beneath the couch. Marisela jumped back, her fists in front of her, her weight balanced, her ears trained for any sign that someone else was in the house.

  She heard nothing. No one. Not even her parents. Bottomless dread threatened to drown her as she reached for the phone. But a hand shot out of the darkness, snaring her wrist. Pain sliced up her arm as a finger squeezed between her muscle and bone. The handset clattered to the floor, the plastic casing shattered, as her captor stepped out of the shadows.

  “No, no, Marisela. No cops, chiquita. And now, no witness.”

  Light flashed. A deafening pop rent the air, followed instantly by an anguished scream from the guy on the floor. Then silence.

  The man who’d captured her arm spun her around, and jabbed the barrel of his gun into her stomach. The warm steel was as deadly and unpredictable as the man who held her captive. The man who knew her name.

  She forced stillness into every muscle of her body.

  “Ooh, honey,” the man purred. He rubbed the barrel up her body, sliding the gun against the undersides of her breasts, then pressed his face into her neck and inhaled through his mask, which Marisela saw was nothing more than panty hose. “You smell like you’ve just been fucked.”

  He must have been confident that she wouldn’t move with the gun still squashed against her chest, because he released her wrist and used that hand to grab between her legs.

  “Are you still wet with his come, puta, or did you clean yourself up before coming home to your mamacita?”

  Ignoring him, she focused on what she needed. Information. A break. A chance to turn the tide. Who was he? He knew her name. He knew her. His voice sounded only half-familiar, muted by the nylon stretched across his lips. Whoever he was, he’d just killed his partner, or at least, silenced him. Had he done the same to her parents? Were they dead in their chintz and floral bedroom, their blood spilled on her mother’s new mauve carpet simply because they’d invited their risk-taking, violent daughter back under their roof?

  “Who are you?”

  He abandoned his grinding grip on her crotch to grab her backside, squeezing her hard, but not enough to hurt. If he thought manhandling her would humiliate her into submission…Marisela pushed the acerbic thought aside. She forced herself to whimper and sent a shimmy through her body so that she shook in his grasp. Let him think I’m afraid. Let him think I’m terrified enough to do whatever he wants.

  “Someone who’s wanted to fuck your ass for a long time.”

  He pushed her back, slamming her against the kitchen table while he worked the buckle of his jeans. The edge of the table had jammed into the sensitive small of her back and she grunted, using the pain as an excuse to turn, half-crouched, flinging her-hair over her eyes so he couldn’t see her face. He still had the gun aimed at her, but his grip had loosened. He wasn’t going to shoot her. Yet. He was going to rape her first.

  Or die trying.

  He was sloppy, overconfident. Just like a man.

  Through the curtain of her hair, she sighted him. Still bent low and whimpering for effect, she stamped his instep and butted her head hard against his stomach. She used his surprise and her full weight to smash him into the counter. She rose fast, smacking the back of her skull against his chin.

  Light exploded behind her eyes, but she latched onto his gun hand, twisting his wrist upward until she heard the snap of bone.

  His shriek echoed in her ear, adding another layer of pain to her aching body. She scrambled, retrieved his lost weapon and retreated, her back to the refrigerator, the gun aimed at her attacker. She took an instant to register the model of the gun. Cheap piece of shit. Six rounds. One spent on his partner. Two on her parents? God, no. But either way, she had at least three bullets left to put him down if he made one more move. If it had been fully loaded to begin with.

  Clutching his broken wrist to his stomach, the intruder had dropped to his knees. “You fucking cunt!”

  She bit back the urge to pump bullet number four into his thigh. Since she didn’t know who else was in the house, every round had to count.

  “Who the hell are you?”

  “Fuck you, bitch,” he grunted.

  She needed to remove his mask. She needed to get the hell out of the house. But she couldn’t leave until she knew her parents were safe. Maybe they were tied up, guarded by a third man, alive until the intruders had what they wanted. Only this attack wasn’t a robbery. She could see, the light from the DVD player blinking in the living room. The television hadn’t been touched and though her father owned a business, he kept no cash in the house.

  So many possibilities, she couldn’t discount any. But until she knew her family was safe, she wouldn’t abandon them.

  She pulled back the hammer on the gun, unnecessary on the semiautomatic weapon. Still, the sound was hugely influential in getting jerks to talk.

  “Take off your mask, or I’ll do it for you. After I shoot you.”

  Her fingers throbbed as she clutched the gun and her heart slammed against her chest. She broadened her stance, her vision swimming with colors and shapes that, thanks to the smack on her skull, didn’t really exist. Maybe she should just shoot him and take her chances that no one else would show.

  He pulled off the mask and looked her straight in the eyes, his gold teeth gleaming between lips permanently split thanks to a knife slash he’d earned in prison. Nestor Rocha. A three-strike junkie she’d once picked up for jumping bail, a creep who pushed his wares on the whores that walked Nebraska Avenue, when he wasn’t beating them to a bloody pulp.

  “Recognize me, puta?” he said, the shakiness of his voice nearly covered by his bravado.

  “Yeah, from my nightmares, Rocha.”

  She buoyed her gun hand. If she had to make this shot, she wouldn’t miss. Rocha was a killer and she had no doubt he’d like to prove his evil right here, right now.

  “What do you want?”

  “I told you. I want to feel my cojones slapping against your culo, bitch.”

  One-track mind. What a pendejo.

  “Sorry to disappoint you, Rocha. Who’s your dead pal?”

  He shook his head and Marisela watched his uninjured arm drop limply to his side. For a weapon. Fuck.

  She shifted right and pulled the trigger. The sound of her bullet hitting his chest popped at the same moment he fired his hidden gun i
nto the refrigerator. When his body fell, limp on the linoleum, the gun he had strapped to his ankle dropped from his hand and spun across the floor.

  She grabbed the gun and tucked it in her pocket. She leaped over him, then over his partner in the hall, a demented game of hopscotch. She ran down the hall and kicked open her parents’ bedroom door.

  Empty. The bed was still made. She glanced at the clock. It was nearly three in the morning, where in the hell were her parents? Even for weddings and quinces, they didn’t stay up beyond midnight.

  Suddenly sensing a presence behind her, Marisela dived across the bed, tucked into a roll that knocked the lamp off the end table, but landed her out of the line of fire. She hated to shoot blind. What if her parents had come home? What if neighbors had heard the gunshots and had come to investigate?

  “Who’s there?”

  “Don’t fire, Ms. Morales. We’re not here to hurt you.”

  “Could’ve fooled me.”

  She glanced to her side. The window was far to her right. No way could anyone sneak up behind her again. She didn’t dare look over the mattress, so she quietly flattened herself to the floor, attempting to peek beneath the bed. True to her mother’s form, not even a dust bunny hampered her view. She could see two polished shoes in the doorway. One foot lifted to step forward.

  “Unless you want your toes blown off, you’ll back up. Slowly,” she said.

  In the distance, sirens sounded. Not unusual for this part of town, but not typical, either. Her neighborhood had no code of silence for criminal activity. They might not have loads of money, but the residents looked out for their own.

  “Hear that? You’d best beat it,” she warned. “I’d hate to have to explain three dead bodies in my house.”

  “I’m sure you would. I’m also sure you don’t want to try and explain five.”

  Marisela had no head for math, but this guy sounded different. Calm. Educated. Maybe even a hint of an accent lilting the clear threat against her parents.

  She came up from behind the bed, her gun pointed at his chest. He held out his hands, showing that any weapon he had was at least safely tucked away. For now.

  “Who are you?”

  “My name is Max.”

  She stood, certain that though this man looked perfectly harmless, he was likely nothing of the sort.

  “Great to meet you, Max,” she said, forcing the fear out of her voice. “Where are my parents?”

  “Safe. For the moment.”

  Marisela swallowed, her vision swimming again. God, if he hurt them…She blinked the fog away.

  “Prove it,” she demanded.

  He turned his palm, produced a card and tossed it on the bed. Her father’s driver’s license.

  “That doesn’t prove anything. You could have lifted his wallet.”

  “True. It also doesn’t prove that if I do have him that he, and your mother, are alive and well. You have no choice but to believe me and take a chance. One that could save their lives.”

  “I could wait for the cops, let them sort out your story after they book you…for trespassing? Breaking and entering? Maybe a little attempted murder?”

  He nodded, a tentative but practiced and eerily sharp smile on his lips. “I hate to admit I’m expendable, Ms. Morales, but the truth remains. Are your parents? I don’t believe my associates can guarantee their safety if I’m arrested.”

  She swallowed hard. She could take care of herself. But her parents wouldn’t stand a chance against professionals. Especially sloppy ones.

  “What do you want?”

  “There’s someone who wants to make your acquaintance.”

  Inhaling loudly, Marisela filled her lungs, trying to tamp down the anger shooting through her veins. “Couldn’t this someone have just issued an invitation? Something engraved, maybe? Little R.S.V.P. action?”

  Max, nondescript in a plain, but well-fitting suit, chuckled at her sarcasm. Good. He didn’t need to know she was scared spitless. This man wasn’t some ordinary thug. His confidence at her inevitable compliance was tangible, and yet, he wasn’t cocky. He knew what she didn’t know—plus everything she did, which wasn’t much.

  In the darkness, she couldn’t judge his hair or eye color. He bounced on the balls of his feet, which combined with her blurred eyesight, made it hard to judge his height. If she had to describe him to the cops, she wouldn’t do a very good job. Probably his intention. A man like him could easily get away with murder.

  “Tonight’s operation wasn’t supposed to include homicide.”

  “You should have told that to Nestor,” Marisela snapped.

  “We did not anticipate his killing one of our agents.”

  “Nestor didn’t work for you?”

  “His assignment was temporary. Please, Ms. Morales, my employer simply wants to speak with you,” Max insisted. “He’ll explain with much more detail than I am at liberty to divulge.”

  “And why should I believe you?”

  The sirens grew louder, then seemed to fade.

  “My people have diverted the police for a few moments, long enough for us to clean up and get out. If you want your parents to remain unharmed, you’ll come with me.”

  He dropped one hand, and curled his fingers so the other beckoned her with cool politeness.

  She took a step, but he chastised her with a clucking tongue. “Leave the gun. Someone will see to its disposal.”

  Marisela had no choice, not if he really had her parents—and she could think of no other reason why they wouldn’t be tucked into their beds at three o’clock in the morning, snoring softly, oblivious to the violence that had crept into their home. She dropped the revolver on the bed and walked around slowly, slightly comforted by the feel of Rocha’s tiny .22 in her pocket. Max stepped back as she approached, giving her plenty of room to walk. So far, so good. When she turned into the hallway, she noticed the man Rocha had shot was gone.

  “Where?”

  Max gestured toward the door. “Everything will be explained soon. Please, Ms. Morales. We haven’t much time if we wish to avoid police questioning. Further delay could put your parents at risk.”

  Marisela nodded. A man who was confident enough to escort her away without the benefit of a gun—at least, one that she could see—probably had the experience and skill to take her where he wanted her to go with or without her cooperation.

  He diverted her through the living room instead of the kitchen, so she couldn’t see if Rocha had been “cleaned up” as efficiently as the guy in the hall. Outside, the street was quiet, though several neighbors peeked through drawn curtains. Marisela took a deep breath, then exhaled, hoping her parents truly were safe, praying her mother and father would be around tomorrow morning to field the barrage of nosy questions the neighbors would undoubtedly throw their way.

  The minute her foot touched the edge of the driveway, an ordinary, dark-colored sedan eased to a stop in front of the house, just behind her Corolla. The back door flew open and Max hurried her inside. She barely had time to settle into the seat before the car lurched forward, quietly speeding down the street without benefit of headlights.

  She stared down at herself, suddenly aware of every ache. Her arm throbbed from where Rocha had grabbed her. Her neck and skull still reverberated with pain. Her temples pounded and despite several deliberate blinks, her vision wouldn’t quite clear. Still, so far as fights went, this one was rather tame. But where fists rattled her body, gunplay rattled her soul. And Marisela found her shaking hard to control.

  “You put up quite a fight,” Max noted, his eyes scanning the road ahead and behind them, likely checking if the police had followed.

  Marisela wasn’t sure if she hoped they did or not. She had, after all, shot and likely killed Nestor Rocha. Not that he was any great loss to the human race, but murder was murder.

  “It was either him or me.”

  “An unfortunate turn of events.”

  “Really?” she asked, raising her voice
a decibel louder than she intended. Her sarcasm must have hit the mark because he closed his eyes a few seconds longer than a typical blink.

  “Errors were made. I offer my sincerest apologies.”

  She crossed her arms, seeing no need to hide her anger. “You can shove your apologies, Max. And for the record, if one hair on my parents’ heads is out of place, I’ll be shoving something a lot more painful than an apology up your ass.”

  He returned his gaze to the road. “I don’t doubt that, Ms. Morales.”

  Good, because neither did she.

  Four

  IAN BLAKE RAISED a finger to his ear, adjusting the tiny device so he didn’t miss a word.

  “…if one hair on my parents’ heads is out of place, I’ll be shoving something a lot more painful than an apology up your ass.

  Ian winced. He could only imagine what Marisela Morales might choose as her weapon of choice for such a reprisal. Likely something steel—and with double barrels.

  One of these days, Ian was going to learn to stop underestimating women in terms of their potential deadliness. Marisela Morales’s reputation had been brought to his attention by a credible source and she’d proved her abilities tonight, even if his test had never been meant to go so far. He’d had no idea the orchestrated scenario at her home would go from bad to fatal in the blink of an eye, but he couldn’t change the past or alter his plan now. Too much money had been exchanged and too many people were in place.

  All except for his lead operatives. But by tomorrow, he’d have cleared that hurdle as well.

  “Are they on the way?”

  Ian glanced at his slim, professionally blonde client, Elise Barton-Ryce, who tugged at her stylish cashmere gloves. In Boston, her fashion choice would have barely registered, a simple sign of her ultra-traditional upbringing and perhaps, the weather. But here in the Florida heat, he knew she wore gloves for one reason and one reason only. If something went awry, she didn’t want so much as a fingerprint to tie her to Titan International.