by Julie Leto
“After the pendejada with Rocha, you still want to hear what Blake has to say?”
Marisela narrowed her eyes, clearly trying to pick up a clue from his expression, which he was careful to keep guarded. She had to make this decision for herself. His opinion of Marisela’s potential effectiveness as a partner had not changed. With her on his side, they could complete this mission and he could milk Blake for the last cash injection he needed to kiss this life goodbye forever. She was smart and fast, and wouldn’t screw him over unless he screwed her over first.
“Your old homeboys tried to kill me, Frankie, not Blake. And as for Rocha, he would have hunted me down at some point, so I’m just glad Blake’s guys were there to clean up the mess. The only thing your rich friend has done for me so far is make my bank account fatter than it’s ever been—and that’s just a good faith deposit. My family is safe, thanks to you, and I’ve got a shot at something…”
Her voice trailed off. She likely had no clue the level of danger their assignment would entail. And he wasn’t entirely sure he wanted to tell her.
“Something what? This isn’t the movies, Marisela. This isn’t fake bullets or cartoon bad guys. This is the real world. I don’t know if you’re ready.”
He cursed the minute the words spilled from his lips. Shit. Determination flashed in her eyes like fireworks.
She stood, tossed the bloodied jacket onto the bed and marched to the door, which she wrenched open with a powerful tug. “I’m up for anything you’re up for.”
Frankie clucked his tongue, certain the condescending sound would keep her from leaving. “Your competitiveness could get you killed, Marisela.”
She spared a glance at her bandaged arm, then leveled her stare at him. “So could your cockiness, Frankie. Why don’t we give this a go and see which one of us comes out alive?”
Eight
MARISELA RAISED HER fist, but stopped mid-knock. She stared at the door—a plain, simply white slab of wood—and recognized the significance. She was about to walk into a whole new world. The shivers racking her body since her conversation with Frankie had subsided to barely noticeable quivers, but the emotional fallout of Frankie’s long-standing involvement with Ian Blake would have to wait.
She focused on the essential information, starting with Blake wanting her enough for this operation to make a generous deposit in her bank account. The cash she’d withdrawn for emergencies prior to heading to the dock scratched at the tender skin of her left breast. But money wouldn’t buy her out of trouble—instead, the lure of real life-and-death excitement was dragging her in.
She expelled a frustrated breath. Memories of her initiation into las Reinas flashed in her brain, causing her to lift her uninjured right arm and turn her hand so the tattoo on her wrist blazed like black fire. She’d been so young, so desperate for control over her life, hungry for danger and adventure. Was she headed in the wrong direction again for the same damned reason?
She had to hear Ian out before she made her choice, but deep down, she suspected the details didn’t matter.
She wanted in.
She banged on the door, but didn’t wait for a response before she charged inside. If she was rude, too bad. Nearly getting creamed by five hoods with loaded weapons tended to screw up her manners.
“Ms. Morales,” Blake said, standing. Goddamn, but the man was stunning in a light colored linen suit, shirt, and tie that captured the sunlight pouring in from the windows. The crystal clear glass reflected nothing of the ugly warehouse or crates outside. Just the peacock blue sky.
“I’m pleased to see your injury isn’t serious.”
“No thanks to you or your heavily armed men. What took them so long to ride to the rescue?” She stomped over to his desk, rage propelling her forward. Hand-blown glass winked at her from a decanter filled with what she guessed to be a very expensive single-malt Scotch. “Seems to me your boys could use a little lesson in teamwork.”
He arched one eyebrow, and then whispered to Max, who stood ever-present and oddly invisible at his side. The man sure could blend. Max nodded and moved to leave, but not before giving Marisela a quick once-over.
Was that respect she saw in his colorless eyes? She heard Max close the doors behind them, but she didn’t turn, determined to retain eye contact with Ian Blake. She’d arrived at the showdown. How he responded to her questions—or how he avoided straight answers—would make the difference in her decision.
Yeah, she wanted the money and she craved the excitement and a chance at a job she could sink her teeth into—but she couldn’t very well enjoy her success if she was dead because her boss double-crossed her.
“I can see how you would believe that Titan operatives don’t work well together. But you must understand that since our debacle the other night at your home, I’ve opted to take Mr. Vega’s lead on all matters pertaining to you. Perhaps your ire should be directed at him.”
His glance over her shoulder diverted her attention behind her. Frankie leaned against the closed door, silent as a statue.
“You’re not fooling anyone, Mr. Blake. You’re calling the shots here,” Marisela said as she turned back to face the Brit.
His grin bordered on indulgent, which injected her blood with the hot fire of intense annoyance. This man could push her buttons with just an expression—and she suddenly suspected that had been his intention all along.
He tugged at his slacks and eased into his calf’s leather chair, inviting her to sit with the curve of his hand. She hooked her thumbs in the belt loops of her low-riding jeans and waited for his reply.
“You’re entirely right, Ms. Morales. Mr. Vega is currently in my employ, so the ultimate responsibility for your skirmish today is in my hands. However, I must say, you handled yourself beautifully.”
“If I thought this was another one of your tests, Mr. Blake, you’d be dead right now.”
“If I thought you had real reason to kill me, I would have directed someone in my employ to confiscate your gun before you barged into my office. But as it is, you are still armed and I’m still in charge, so let’s not ruin what we’ve established between us with empty threats.”
She tilted her weight onto one hip. “So far, all we’ve established is a quick exchange of cash. What I want to know now is the specifics of this rescue mission, with all the details, start to finish.”
Marisela glanced back at Frankie, but he stared straight forward, his gaze lost in the bright blue sky visible through the generous windows behind Ian Blake. His expression revealed nothing—not what he knew, not what he didn’t know.
Suddenly, the room darkened. Marisela turned to see Blake engage a series of buttons that operated the window shades, blocking all light from outside, while a screen dropped from the ceiling.
Instinctively, she slipped into the nearby chair just as a photograph, a candid shot clearly taken from a distance, materialized on the screen.
“This is Javier Perez. He’s a Puerto Rican national, born in San Juan on March 23, 1961. His father, Roberto Perez, operated a small hotel near Old Town in San Juan. His mother, Maria, ran the laundry and directed the housekeeping staff until her death in 1970. Roberto died ten years later, leaving the business, now a burgeoning hotel and resort catering to the elite, in Javier’s hands.”
The photograph changed. The subject was still Javier, but now he was standing proudly in front of an illuminated hotel sign proclaiming the grand reopening of Casa de la Mar.
“Casa de la Mar is a five-star resort, complete with a world class golf course and a casino that rakes in millions every night. Perez turned out to be quite the entrepreneur and the resort has allowed him to mingle with an incredibly diverse group of people.”
The next picture, black and white and grainy as if reproduced from a newspaper, showed a young couple frolicking on a sandy beach. The man was undoubtedly a younger Javier, in his twenties, with his shoulder-length curly hair tied back, his arms possessively encircling a strikingly thin you
ng woman with cool, seductive eyes.
“Who is that?” Marisela asked. “Movie star?”
“Socialite,” Ian answered. “Elise Barton-Ryce, though at the time, she was Elise Michele Barton. She spent her summer after finishing school in Puerto Rico at Perez’s resort. Javier was twenty-five. Elise was seventeen. They had a wild affair. The society columnists of the time reported every salacious detail.”
Marisela eyed Ian warily. “You mean like the tabloids?”
“Have you been to Boston, Ms. Morales?”
“You know I haven’t,” she sniped.
The left side of his mouth tilted up in a grin. “Yes, I do. You’ve never left Florida. Your travel experience will change soon enough. As you might have guessed, I was born in London, but spent a good deal of my formative years with my mother’s family in Massachusetts. In Boston, polite society rules and they have their say in the legitimate press. At the time, Elise’s dalliance was not exactly headline news, but gossip abounded. Unfortunately, this affair had long lasting effects.”
Marisela wondered briefly why this mysterious man would offer personal information about himself, then figured he was trying to gain her trust. Couldn’t blame him. But when the picture changed, this time showing a very poised, very posed portrait of an absolutely adorable baby decked out in yards of lace and ribbon, her attention was diverted. Marisela had to bite her lip to keep from cooing at the angelic little face. Not that Marisela saw herself having one of her own anytime soon, but she loved children. She always had. She figured it was cultural. In her neighborhood, even little girls who played cork ball in the streets with the boys or sported switchblades in their back pockets turned into mamacitas whenever babies were around.
“This is Jessica Margaret Barton, born April 2, 1988.”
Marisela saw a certain darkness in the skin tone she hadn’t noticed before. “Javier’s kid?”
“Yes, though Elise didn’t realize she was pregnant until she’d returned to Boston. When Russell Barton, her father, discovered her condition, he ordered a thorough background check into his daughter’s lover. At this point, Javier was already dabbling in industries beyond the hotel—including the one that produces his income today. He’s an arms dealer. Very rich and very dangerous.”
A chill sneaked up Marisela’s spine. “And he wants his daughter back?”
Ian chuckled. “Javier Perez is not our client. Elise Barton-Ryce is. She tried to keep her condition a secret, but too many of the Boston elite vacationed in Perez’s resort. He found out about his daughter and tried to establish visitation. He was denied. Two years later, Jessica was kidnapped from her nursery. My father, who started Titan, worked on the original case.
They traced the baby to Javier Perez, but were unable to recover her.”
Marisela watched Ian out of the corner of her eye. She witnessed no sign of disappointment or even the slightest hint of irritation. He told the tale with cool professionalism, as if he cared about nothing except dispensing the facts. So why did her gut tell her differently?
“Perez lives in Puerto Rico, right? That’s a U.S. Territory. Why didn’t the feds just go in and take the baby back, charge Perez with kidnapping, and lock him away where he couldn’t sell any more cheap .38 specials?”
Ian’s eyebrow arched. Undoubtedly, he was surprised by her knowledge of the law—and of basic geography. Well, fuck him. Just because earning her high school diploma had been a monumental pain in the ass didn’t mean she was uneducated.
“Perez vacated his home in Puerto Rico and ran the operation from various locations in South and Central America. For several years, he avoided extradition to the United States. His travel also gave him powerful contacts with terrorists and freedom fighters he might not have ever met otherwise. His arms dealing business multiplied until he became one of the most powerful suppliers of illegal weaponry in this hemisphere. I doubt he deals in .38 specials.”
Marisela shifted in her seat. Talk about a dangerous initiation into the world of international intrigue.
“Where is Perez now?”
“On his way to Miami for a meeting with his U.S. suppliers.
Marisela sat up. “His first trip to the States?”
“Not quite. Elise married not long after the kidnapping. Her new husband discouraged her from searching for her daughter and even pressured the authorities to forget about the warrants for Perez’s arrest.”
“Why?”
Ian shrugged. “That’s unclear. About ten years ago, Javier moved back to Puerto Rico without incident. He owns most of the authorities down there, though he lives on a private island just off of Puerto Rico. Because Elise dropped the kidnapping charges earlier, the government refuses to expend the manpower and resources to intervene in a muddy custody dispute.”
Ian changed the picture. Clearly shot from a distance, the photograph showed a young, dark-haired teenager flanked by bodyguards. The shot wasn’t clear enough for Marisela to see a resemblance between the teen and the baby, but she figured a seventeen-year-old on an island of gunrunners wouldn’t be hard to pick out.
“Elise recently divorced,” Ian continued, “and she has renewed her efforts to retrieve Jessica before she turns eighteen. Elise still has legal custody, but she has no idea what lies Javier has told Jessica about why she has no mother. She wants to plead her case before her daughter has the legal right to—”
“—tell her to go to hell?”
That was from Frankie, who so far, did done nothing but lean against the door.
Ian frowned, animosity reaching the center points of his eyes. Marisela caught sight of Ian’s hand, which had tightened into a ball.
Frankie looked no less angry, his hands pressed into his jacket so tightly, Marisela wondered if his fists were going to rip through the pockets.
Okay. Anger crackled between the two men, yet neither one breathed a word of discord. What was that about?
Ian tore his gaze from Frankie and focused his attention on her, his calm demeanor forced, but absolute.
“We have no idea how Jessica will react to her mother, but all our evidence so far points to a potentially joyous reunion.”
Suddenly, Max was beside Ian, causing Marisela to yelp. She glanced aside, embarrassed, while the mysterious Max handed Ian a manila folder, which he presented to Marisela. Inside was a letter, written in what was obviously a child’s hand. Marisela had to read no more than the first few lines to know that the child wanted her mother.
Dear Mommy,
Where are you? I miss you. Why haven’t you visited me?
She flipped the file shut and held it over her shoulder, but Frankie waved the papers away. He likely didn’t give a damn about the emotions of the case—which is precisely why Marisela didn’t read beyond that first impassioned plea. She couldn’t let her heart make this decision. Not when her life would be at stake in an arms dealer’s nasty, violent world.
“So our job is to retrieve Jessica in Miami?” she asked.
“Not exactly,” Ian replied.
“Then what exactly?” Frankie didn’t even try to keep the irritation out of his voice.
He pushed off from the wall and stormed to Ian’s desk. Slamming his palms flat on the polished teak, Frankie leaned forward just enough so his dark eyes were level with Ian’s cool blue.
“Tell her straight, Blake. She needs to know what she’s putting at risk. She needs to know she has a lot to lose.”
Ian cleared his throat, but Marisela saw his spine harden, as if he’d rather die than back down one inch to Frankie’s rough demand.
“In Miami, you’ll infiltrate Perez’s organization and finesse an invitation to his private enclave in Puerto Rico. Once there, you will contact Jessica, take her, and then utilize one of five exit strategies my team has created for a clean escape back to the mainland. Once you reach Florida with Jessica in your custody, I have assurances from the federal government that they will enforce the custody order Elise compelled the court to issue afte
r the kidnapping.”
Marisela listened, her mind swirling as she sought to put all the pieces together. “You want us to steal her back?”
“Yes.”
“From an international arms dealer who has access to an arsenal equal to the United States Army?”
“Probably better than the U.S. Army, truth be told.”
“And we’ll be undercover?”
“Clearly,” Ian answered. “Several Titan operatives will be on call as backup. Some of my best people are already in Miami setting down the groundwork. But this operation depends on you and Frankie. Perez trusts no one and he trusts non-Hispanics even less. We have created a cover for you that will at least garner you a face-to-face introduction. Once you’re in, the rest of the team will follow your lead. You have two weeks to retrieve the girl. One week to train, one week to complete the mission. That’s our time frame.”
Marisela listened carefully, but her attention had not strayed far from Blake and Frankie’s standoff. Neither man had moved an inch, save for the occasional twitch of the eye or tick in the jaw. It was a real, old-fashioned Wild West showdown, without the guns or the hot, noon sun.
Bored with their testosterone-enhanced animosity, Marisela grabbed Frankie by the back of his jeans and tugged him away from the desk.
“I need a few minutes to think,” she said. “Just me and Frankie.”
Ian stood. “Of course.” He glanced at his watch. “The Oceanus must depart in no less than one hour.”
Marisela nodded. “One hour it is.”
“Please, avail yourself of anything in my office that will make your stay more pleasant.”
“Wait!” she said, suddenly wishing Blake hadn’t ordered her to leave her cell phone so she could call Lia and tell her…what? That some rich dude on a yacht bigger than city hall wanted her to go undercover with Frankie and steal back the daughter of a man who sold rocket launchers and surface-to-air missiles to killers like Osama bin Laden? Not likely. “I left my bag on the side of the warehouse, stuffed under the—”
