Wicked Firsts

by Naughton, Elisabeth

  Before she could speak, he'd turned to Taft. “Just for the dancing, Walker. Then you may come back, si?”

  Taft's gaze held on Zoe. “Brooks is a little nervous.”

  “I'd be far more…loose and fun…if he was here,” Zoe said, stroking Picasso's arm. When the man frowned down at her hand, she pulled it back and darted a look at Taft.

  He stepped forward. “We agreed Brooks would get to choose.”

  The door to the next room opened, and a beautiful Asian woman hovered in the doorway. She wore a formfitting, short red dress, had legs that went forever, and perfect porcelain skin. A demure but enticing smile lifted her mouth, painted the same color as her dress.

  “I've secured you a room right here, and some company as well,” Picasso said. “I'll simply knock on the door adjoining our rooms when we'd like you to join us.”

  Zoe felt control slipping away as if the floor swayed beneath her. “I'd really like Walker-”

  “Brooks made her choice,” Taft said.

  “I'm sorry,” Picasso said as the bodyguards closed in on Taft. One drew a weapon but held it down. Zoe gasped. “I must insist.”

  The change in Taft was immediate and fierce. His entire persona seemed to go rock hard-expression, body, tone, presence. “Picasso-”

  Zoe lunged toward him and pressed a hand to his chest. “Shh, baby.” His gaze pried away from Picasso and landed on hers. A sliver of fear lived there now. She shook her head. “It's okay. Just a dance, baby. I can handle that. You know I can.”

  His breath came faster. Fear burned brighter.

  “Walker.” She put a touch of steel in her voice. “You know I can.”

  Please, please, please believe in me.

  His fear turned to terror. He swallowed, the movement of his throat rough, and gave one small nod. He lifted his hand to her face and pressed his lips to her forehead. “Of course you can. I know that.”

  Picasso closed and locked the door behind Zoe, but the sight of the guard raising his gun at Taft's back as he gestured him toward the room next door burned in her memory.

  She had to make this work.

  Zoe spun toward Picasso with her best smile. “Do you have a music preference?” She glanced around in search of a sound system or radio. “I can dance to just about anything. I can even dance to silence if you prefer-”

  “No dancing.”

  With her back to Picasso, Zoe froze. Her eyes closed. Her heart took off racing. Breathe. Slow down. She turned back, tilted her head. “You changed your mind? That's fine. I'll get Walker-”

  “And no Walker. I don't trust him.”

  “What?” She frowned and dropped her hands. “Why not?”

  “A man is always unpredictable around a woman he loves.” Picasso's face compressed in the first real frown Zoe had seen. A different side of the man was coming out. Not a surprise. She'd seen this happen time and again with suspects-wearing one face when they wanted one thing, putting on another face when the tables had turned. He jerked a finger between Zoe and the room next door, where Taft was presumably being kept. “I thought that was against policy.”

  An icy chill slid over Zoe's cheeks. Spread down into her neck. She forced a laugh and a shrug. “I don't think places like this have a lot of policy, if you know what I mean.”

  Picasso stood between Zoe and the door and pulled a Beretta forty from the back of his slacks beneath his blazer. “I don't have a lot of time. So I'm going to be straight.”

  Zoe swallowed. All she could think about was Taft. “I prefer straight.”

  “I know you are Supervisory Agent Zoe Brooks of US Customs and Border Protection.”

  The base of Zoe's spine blasted with heat, then went ice cold. Her mind darted to the tracker. But she couldn't trigger it and signal the team to retrieve her, because she didn't know where Walker was or in what kind of danger.

  “What are you talking about?” she asked, looking at him like he'd gone crazy. She put up both hands in a stand-off gesture. “I think that bartender put something in your drink.”

  “I know that you lead a team of agents who have taken over thirty billion dollars' worth of drugs from the Diablos. Drugs that should have gone to Cantos.”

  Her gun lay heavy against her thigh, but she wouldn't reach it before he shot her.

  She gestured to herself. “Look at me. I couldn't possibly…do whatever it is you just said. I don't even know what it means. Listen, let's just all go home and forget this happened-”

  “And I know you are perra blanca.”

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  TAFT SECURED THE WOMAN’S HANDS with the zip-tie cuffs and checked the gag’s security one more time.

  The woman tried another muffled, “Why are you doing this?”

  He ignored her. He’d already tried reasoning, but of course that hadn’t worked.

  There was no adjoining door to the room Zoe was in with Picasso and there was at least one, probably two, gorillas outside the main door. The same gorillas who’d taken his Glock and his cell. Luckily, they hadn’t found his ankle holster with his Browning. Dumb asses.

  Taft opened the sliding glass doors off the bedroom. It led onto a tiny deck, barely deep enough to fit a bistro chair. Eight feet away, the deck off Zoe’s room offered his only viable access.

  The drapes of the other room were closed. No music played—not a good sign. Because if Zoe wasn’t dancing for the bastard…

  He pushed the thought out of his mind and climbed to the railing. The distance between the balconies was too far to jump. He glanced down—two long stories—and winced. It always looked so much farther from this point of view.

  Taft refocused on his own railing and climbed up. He steadied himself in a crouch, his hands gripping the edge of the horizontal plank beneath his feet. After another guestimate on the jump he was about to make, Taft pushed with all the strength in his legs, lunging for the opposite balcony. He stretched his body. Reached with his arms. His chest hit the other railing first, and he closed his arms over the top. He found footing and pushed himself up and over.

  Dropping low again, Taft pulled the Browning from his ankle holster and realized…his options sucked.

  If he didn’t take the man fast, Picasso would most likely take Zoe hostage. Taft had no lock pick, no way to access keys, not even anything on him that would break glass, except —he glanced at his Browning—a bullet.

  But, hell, wouldn’t that create a cluster fuck? The gorillas were right outside, and everyone else would be running for the room…

  Which would be a great way to get the agents’ asses the hell up here, since he had no freaking phone.

  Taft weighed the risks for a millisecond, angled the Browning through the window, toward the floor, and fired.

  The glass exploded. Taft pushed through the fluttering drapes, yelling “Freeze!” and came face-to-face with a nightmare—Picasso held a gun to Zoe’s head.

  “Federal agent,” Taft said, his mind in pinpoint focus. “Drop the weapon now.”

  Shouts sounded in the hallway. The gorillas pounded on the door.

  “Stop.” Zoe put a hand up. “Don’t shoot, Walker.”

  Taft barely heard her. In the hallway, more shouts echoed his own from fellow agents, followed by gunshots. Two pairs of double taps told Taft the agents had killed the bodyguards.

  Taft shifted to get a better angle on Picasso’s head. “Drop your weapon. Let her go. Your guards are dead.”

  “Taft,” Zoe said, “Please—”

  More pounding on the door, followed by Aurora’s stern, “Open up. Federal agents.”

  Picasso panicked, caught between Taft and the other agents. He turned and backed against the wall, holding Zoe as a shield with his arm around her neck.

  “You’re SOL, Picasso,” Taft said. “Let her go and drop the weapon.”

  “This is why I didn’t want him here,” Picasso said to Zoe.

  The door burst open, and Alex and Aurora swept in, their weapons aimed at Zoe and
Picasso.

  “Zoe,” Picasso said, his voice a rasp of fear. “Zoe, make them stop.”

  Zoe. Taft’s spine lit on fire.

  He broke his target site on Picasso’s face to look at Zoe. “What’s going on?”

  “He’s not what you think.” The words came out in a rush and she had to gather air again. But when she started to speak, Picasso cut her off.

  “They have to go,” he said, indicating the other agents. “I only talk to you and him.”

  “Not happening—” Taft started.

  “It’s okay,” Zoe said. Their eyes met again, hers begging. “Please, let us talk to you.”

  Fuck.

  He clenched his teeth. Glanced at Aurora. “Wait in the hall.”

  She hesitated, waiting for Taft to nod in confirmation of his original request before she and Alex lowered their weapons and exited the room.

  Picasso walked Zoe backward. “Close the door, please, Zoe.”

  She reached out and pushed the door closed. “Ernie,” she said to the man, her voice filled with firm compassion. “I told you he was a straight cop. If he wasn’t, you’d be dead. But because he is, if you don’t put the gun down, he will shoot you, and you won’t get that chance to see your wife and daughters again.”

  Ernie. Wife and daughters.

  “What the fuck is going on?” Taft growled.

  Zoe sent Taft a hold-your-temper message and stroked Picasso’s forearm. “Come on, Ernie. He’s a good man. We can help you if you put the gun down.”

  Help him. A sick feeling expanded in Taft’s gut. He knew every game these bastards played. But he’d sort it out once the man’s gun was down.

  “He puts his down first,” Picasso said.

  “No fucking way,” Taft said before Picasso had even finished speaking. He gave Zoe a harsh look. “Zoe, this is way outside the limits.”

  She closed her eyes in a painful look and nodded. When she opened them again, they were filled with apology and resignation. “I’m afraid Rio was right. I think my tactics are too Wild West to fit into undercover. But please, Taft, trust my instincts.”

  “Fuck, Zoe…” His mind spun through the scenarios, each worse than the last. He had all the training, all the experience, but none of it helped when he was dealing with a gun to Zoe’s head.

  “If I were in your position,” she said, drawing a stuttering breath, “and Cody were in mine, asking me to help him by trusting his instincts…I would.”

  Taft’s brain did some strange gymnastics, bending back in time. And he remembered the things that had most helped his mother had been the hardest for him to do—developing tough love, breaking codependence, finally putting her in a home.

  Keeping his gaze on Zoe’s, Taft released his double grip and turned his hands palms up. A smile quivered on her mouth. Her eyes filled with gratitude, relief…and love. At least he hoped it was love. Only time would tell. And they had to get out of this to get that time.

  He set a firm gaze on Picasso. His face was covered in sweat, drawn. He was shaking. “When my weapon touches the floor, you give yours to Zoe. Got it?”

  “My wife,” he said, breathless, “my daughters…”

  “Will be protected,” Zoe said. “We will send someone to pick them up immediately.”

  “Someone from the United States,” Picasso confirmed. “Someone trustworthy.”

  “Yes.”

  Picasso met Taft’s gaze and nodded.

  Taft crouched, never taking his gaze off Picasso’s hand on the trigger. Any flinch and Taft would shoot the bastard. But the man’s hand remained loose, and Taft carefully set his Browning down in a position allowing him to quickly pick it back up.

  Before he released it, he darted one more look at Zoe. She nodded.

  He pulled his hand from the trigger and released the weapon.

  A moment of panic flooded his gut with nausea. Then Picasso melted, his body going limp against the wall, the weapon falling into Zoe’s waiting hand, his head falling to Zoe’s shoulder as the man wept.

  RELIEF SOFTENED ZOE’S MUSCLES.. She took the weapon from Picasso’s hand and supported his weight as he slumped to the floor, then knelt beside him to offer comfort as his head rocked on her shoulder with sobs of relief—ones that had been building for years.

  She met Taft’s gaze as he crouched in front of them. “Thank you.”

  He nodded, his expression a little dazed. Brow drawn, he glanced at the door. He needed to let the other agents in. But returned his gaze to Zoe. “Want to give me a quick brief?”

  “The Diablos have his wife and three daughters under surveillance in Spain,” Zoe said. “They’ll kill them if he doesn’t design the tunnels they want. They’ve already threatened his family and hurt them several times. I can tell by the descriptions of the incidents he’s given me that they’re both real and El Diablos’ signature. And I can tell, after being fed thousands of lies over the last eight years, that he’s telling the truth.” She gestured to Picasso, still balling on her shoulder. “As if this isn’t enough confirmation.

  “And the porn was a cover. He’s been squirrelling away the money from the bonuses so when he gets the chance, he and his family can disappear. If the Diablos don’t see him spending it and they don’t see it in his bank account, they’ll suspect. So he pretends to spend it on porn.”

  Taft blew out a long breath. “How’d he know about you? Is there a threat we missed?”

  “The coyote who attack her at the border,” Picasso said, lifting his head to rub at his wet face with the sleeve of his blazer. “I cross paths with him at the airport in Mexico City. Your Border Patrol flew him from here to Mexico City, and I flew out of Mexico City to come here after meeting with an engineer on designs for another tunnel in Arizona. I know him from other encounters.

  “When I saw Zoe dance, the tattoo on her arm matched the one the coyote described seeing when he ripped her uniform sleeve—”

  “You didn’t say anything about that,” Taft said to Zoe, still suspicious, looking for every hole in this story. She didn’t blame him.

  “That’s one of the things that confirmed he was telling the truth,” she said. “The only people who would have known about the ripped sleeve were the people there that night.”

  Taft’s shoulders relaxed a little, and he gestured for Picasso to continue.

  “He was sure the tattoo would identify the perra blanca the Diablos wanted to get rid of,” Picasso said, “but couldn’t because they didn’t know who she was. He was headed back to Tijuana to tell the cartel. When I saw the Z on Zoe, I knew who she was and why she was in the store next to Fumar. And I knew it was my chance to try to get free.”

  Taft lowered one knee to the floor and pushed his weapon into the waistband at the back of his slacks. “And why did you decide you didn’t want me here at the last minute?”

  Picasso shook his head, then lowered his gaze to the carpet. “I see you on the dance floor with Zoe and know neither of you will think straight with the other in the room.” He looked back up at Taft with a frown. “They should not let couples work together like this. Emotions cloud judgment. Love is a very dangerous thing in these situations. I tell Zoe, you and she are much like my wife and I. Candente.”

  Zoe met Taft’s grin over Picasso’s fervent description of them together as red hot. “I tried to explain that we were pretending—”

  “Ey, los cajones.” Picasso muttered the slang equivalent of bullshit, and Taft chuckled.

  But his amusement suddenly vanished. and he met Zoe’s gaze again. “I guess you do have a credible threat out there.”

  “Not from the coyote,” Picasso said. “I slit his throat in the men’s toilet at the airport.”

  Zoe gasped. “Why?”

  “Because the more money you take from the cartel, the less money they have to build these tunnels and the more chance I have of being released.”

  Zoe looked up at Taft with a sense of success rising in her chest. But movement in the da
rk expanse of the broken glass doors behind him caught her eye. Then the glint of a silver barrel.

  Zoe’s thoughts seemed to cluster at once—government agents carried matte black weapons, announced themselves. Then the hint of a face wove through the night. Cantos? Or her imagination? Stress?

  He confirmed his reality with a rasped, “I knew you were rotten, Picasso.”

  Zoe lifted the gun in her hand as Taft rolled to his back and raised his own. They both shot at the same time. Picasso shouted prayers in Spanish and covered his head with his arms.

  Zoe didn’t know how many shots she’d fired when she stopped pulling the trigger to listen. Wait.

  Taft, lying in a half curl on the floor, arms rigid, weapon still aimed, lifted his gaze toward Zoe.

  And he grinned.

  A sound gurgled from her throat. Part laugh, part mewl, Zoe wasn’t sure. She crawled to Taft. He grabbed her and pulled her on top of him, wound her tight in his arms.

  Alex and Aurora burst through the door a second time. Neither Taft nor Zoe moved. But Zoe said, “Make sure he’s dead. I shoot for shit in the light. But I can hit anything running in the dark.”

  Taft laughed, the sound vibrating through his chest and spreading joy into Zoe’s. “I heard him hit the ground,” he murmured against her neck. “It’s a long freaking fall, baby. I saw it.”

  Zoe looked down into his eyes for a moment, found all she expected—happiness, warmth, trust, respect—and lowered her head to kiss him.

  Someone kicked Taft’s foot, shaking them and breaking the kiss. “Cover’s over, brother,” Alex teased. “Stop rolling around on the floor with your partner.”

  Taft just kept smiling at Zoe. She knew after everything that happened tonight got out, she wouldn’t have to worry about working with Taft again. But other concerns popped into her mind.

  When Alex and Aurora had taken custody of Picasso and all that entailed, including ensuring the safety of his family in Spain, the room remained quiet a few moments.

  Taft and Zoe sat on the floor, leaning against the wall. Taft held her against his chest and combed his fingers through her hair. “You were”—he started, his voice a tempered tone she couldn’t read, and she closed her eyes, bracing for criticism—“amazing,” he finished. “You really know your shit. And you worked Picasso like a pro. You relied on your intuition and it was good.”