Blurring the Line

by Kierney Scott

  But Torres did not respond. Half of her was relieved; physically she was outmatched. He could snap her like a twig, but he did not appear angry. He didn’t even appear interested.

  Beth traced the groove her toe had created in the dirt, tracing it over and over. Time to change tactics. “As you know, the man who shot you is a member of Los Treintas. My job is to find their leader – El Escorpion.”

  “Good luck with that.”

  At least he looked at her, if only for a second. It was a start. “The drug trade is the tip of the iceberg for Los Treintas. They are heavily into arms dealing. They pose a grave danger to national security. As a Marine—”

  Torres’ head snapped round. His gaze bore down on her. “As a Marine what?” There was no mistaking the edge to his voice. She had a hit a nerve. She took another breath to try to steady her already frayed nerves. She felt uncomfortable with him, off balance and back-footed. It didn’t make sense; Beth stared down criminals for a living. But this was different, he wasn’t a criminal…yet…but what she was proposing would take him there. Beth licked her dry lips, suddenly forgetting where she was going with this argument.

  “Is this the part where you appeal to my patriotism? Maybe bring up the fact that as a son of immigrants I know better than most the importance of preserving the American dream. Trust me darling, I’ve done my bit, got the scars to prove it.”

  He also had a Purple Heart, but he didn’t mention that. Beth’s shoulders dropped. She wasn’t getting through to him. Maybe Patterson was right; this was a lost cause. Maybe her time would be better off sweet-talking jailbirds. She sighed. The only thing she had left was honesty. “Yeah it was, but clearly it’s not going to work. So tell me, Torres, what would work? What do I need to say to you to get you onside?”

  “You’re wasting your breath, Ms. Thomson. I’m not buying what you’re selling.”

  Beth shook her head. “Your best friend was murdered in front of you. I thought you would be more vested in getting justice for him.”

  His jaw tightened, tan skin stretched over taut muscles.

  The movement was subtle but she saw it. It was something; there was the emotion she was looking for. She remembered what Frazer had told her – use his emotion against him. Beth latched onto it. Moses Archila was the key. “I saw you with his sister this morning at the funeral. I get that you don’t care about getting justice for yourself, but Archila was your best friend. He saved you, don’t you owe it to him to bring his murderer to justice?”

  Torres stared at her. The anger in his eyes was palpable. There was no doubt that had she been a man she would no longer be standing.

  “What do you know of justice, Gringa?”

  “I know that if someone murdered my best friend I would not rest until I saw them behind bars.”

  Torres lifted his shoulders. “Moses would still be dead.”

  Beth let of a stream of air. She had played her last card. “Yes he would,” she admitted. She followed his gaze out to the great expanse of open land. With Torres, she had not found the man she expected; she had found something scarier and far more complex. She had naively hoped he would be easier to manipulate.

  Suddenly she had a thought, a niggling feeling. She turned and studied his hard features. Torres wasn’t unfazed because he was apathetic, he was unfazed because he had a plan of his own. She opened her mouth but stopped before she threw her Hail Mary pass. “We’re both looking for him. We will find him faster together.”

  He shrugged but he didn’t refute her statement.

  “We both want justice,” she pressed.

  Torres shook his head. “We don’t want the same thing. You want information. What I want is a whole lot uglier but we won’t talk about that because you’re a lady and ’cause that shiny badge of yours means our ideas of justice will never be the same.” His dark features were encased with raw unmitigated hatred; there was the emotion she was looking for, but she didn’t know how to act on it. Her body seized up, her thoughts froze. But she was right: he did have a plan.

  “Do you know who shot you?” she asked. She took his silence as an answer. “I can find him.”

  He turned and looked at her. Half of his mouth curled into a smile. “If that were true, you wouldn’t be here, would you?”

  She sighed. “You’re right. I need you. But you need me too, Torres.”

  Torres made a sound that could have passed for a laugh. “I don’t need you. Go back to your office, Gringa. Or better yet, go find yourself another Mexican to sweet-talk. That is why you’re here isn’t it? Because I’m Mexican? I already look like a thug, right? I’m already halfway there. Just give me a couple of tats and I will look like you plucked me fresh from the prison yard.”

  Beth shifted from one leg to the other. She considered how to answer him, wondered what Frazer would say. She was sure the Department psychologist would be able to phrase things in a way that wouldn’t offend anyone. But Beth wasn’t a psychologist and she wasn’t good at bullshitting. “Yep,” she said simply. When she saw the flash of a smile on Torres’ full lips, she continued. “I would be a pretty crappy agent if a tried to recruit a Gringo to infiltrate a Mexican gang wouldn’t I? But you looking like a thug is an added bonus. It is also a bonus that both your brothers and your best friend were Zetas. It wouldn’t take much work to get you in. So to answer your question, yes I want a Mexican, but not any Mexican. I want a Mexican who has proved himself loyal, who has a vested interest in bringing down Los Treintas, and has a tie to Los Zetas. Unfortunately for me, you are the only Mexican in the free world that meets those criteria. If you know anyone else, by all means, please point me in the right direction.” She held up her hands. She had played all her cards.

  Torres picked up another piece of wood and positioned it beneath the teeth of the circular saw. “That is unfortunate.”

  Her shoulders dropped. She was losing him, she could feel her tenuous connection to El Escorpion falling through her fingers. She could not let it happen. She needed to find him. “What do you want? What can I say to make you understand?”

  “I understand perfectly. I’m just not interested.”

  Beth took a deep breath. There were lines she didn’t cross, values she did not abandon. That was how she could deal with the less savoury aspects of her job. She would be no better than the men she chased if she compromised her morals.

  But she needed this, she needed Torres onside.

  “I will find him, even without you. I have all the resources of the Department of Justice behind me. Do you know what will happen when I find him? I will cut a deal. I will get all the information I can and then I will cut him loose. He is nothing to me, just a link in the chain that leads to El Escorpion.”

  Torres’ hand tightened on the wood, his knuckles turning white under the strain. There was no emotion on his dark face but she knew she had hit a nerve. “But it could go another way. Once I have the information I need,” she took a deep breath to fortify her nerve, she wasn’t just blurring the line: she was annihilating it. There was no morality in what she was about to do. In that moment she knew there was precious little she wouldn’t say or do to complete her mission. “Once I cut him loose, it is over. He doesn’t exist. If something happened to him, it wouldn’t even be a blip on the radar.” She left the rest unsaid. The words were bitter in her mouth. Her mind screamed at her to take them back but she couldn’t.

  All she could do was pretend that she had not just given consent for a man to be murdered in cold blood.

  ***

  Beth opened one eye and peered at the hard pillow she had just been sleeping on. She sat bolt upright when she saw that the uncomfortable pillow was actually the solid chest of Torres. He was staring at her, his dark face expressionless as usual.

  Beth’s hand flew to her head. Had she hit it on something in her sleep, because her temples throbbed like she had been clobbered over the head with a crowbar. And her mouth… It tasted like someone had stuffed a dirty dishcloth
in there. This is why she didn’t like to drink things that didn’t come with pink umbrellas. The pain was never worth the temporary distraction.

  She glanced over at the clock on the bedside table: 7:27. Shit. She had fallen asleep and spent the night with Torres. Apparently the cat lady was also unprofessional. She noticed a small wet patch on Torres’ white shirt. Her hand flew to mouth. Drool! She had drooled on him in her sleep. She was really killing it on the charm offensive.

  Beth stood up and straightened her T-shirt. At some point in the night it had ridden up above her navel. She instantly regretted the sudden movement as the room spun around her.

  “Morning, Gatita.”

  Beth scowled at the name but immediately wished she hadn’t. How could such a small movement hurt so much? “Aspirin. I need some aspirin…and I need to call my sister.”

  Beth covered her eyes with her hands. Why was it so bright? She did not need this assault on her retinas. She could feel him staring at her again but she was too sore to care. He could study and judge all he liked. Thank God it was Saturday and she did not need to make an appearance at the office. She was going to be spending the next twelve hours on her couch, watching made-for-TV movies and promising herself she would never drink again. “I need to call a taxi.” Beth’s hands went to the back pockets of her jeans. “Damn it, I left my phone at home.” It seemed the sensible thing to do last night but this morning she wished she had it.

  She leaned over and reached for the hotel phone.

  Torres stopped her. “I’ll take you home.”

  Beth held up her hand. “It’s OK. I’ll just get a taxi.”

  Torres took the phone from her hands and returned it to its cradle. “We slept together. It’s the least I can do.”

  Beth’s head shot up. Surely they hadn’t! She wasn’t that drunk. Her heart picked up speed, but then she noticed the small curl to Torres’ full lips. He was teasing her again. He really needed to stop doing that.“Very funny.”

  “I try.” Torres stood up and peeled his shirt off. He folded it before laying it on the back of a chair. “I need a quick shower. Give me ten minutes.”

  Beth nodded because she couldn’t speak. She tried not to stare but she could not look away. In addition to the tight ropes of muscles that encased his body, his torso was also covered in the scars of an old burn. Her breath caught in her throat when she saw it. She shouldn’t have been surprised, she knew about the injury, but she wasn’t fully prepared for the degree his skin had been ravaged. And she wasn’t prepared for the large Santa Muerte tattoo that covered the entire left side of his chest. It reached from his shoulder down below his ribs. The artist had incorporated the worst of his scar into the design. Santa Muerte: Saint Death. Many gang members, especially Los Zetas, gave homage to the saint. She was thought to protect them and keep them safe while they inflicted misery on others. If there were a patron of drugs and murder it would be Santa Muerte.

  Beth flinched. Why did Torres have this tattoo? He didn’t have it when she recruited him. She knew for certain because there was a detailed description of every scar and mark on his body in his file. The DEA had collected the information in case he was killed in the line of duty. Los Treintas had a nasty habit of decapitating their victims and sending the heads to their families as a warning. Two years was a long time. Long enough for him to become fully immersed, long enough for him to become sympathetic to the Zeta cause? If he had, Torres was a threat, to her, to finding El Escoprion, even to himself.

  Beth opened her mouth to speak but shut it again. She needed to pull him in. She bit her lip until she tasted blood. Her conscience screamed that this was her fault. She was his handler. She was supposed to support him and debrief him, make sure he was handling everything. And shit if she had not messed that one up. She accepted his grunts and nods as communication and assumed he was doing fine because nothing ever bothered him. Shit, why hadn’t she noticed this before? She had let herself get so focused on El Escorpion and now they were paying the price. Not all details should be overlooked.

  She tried to take a deep breath to fill her lungs but a stronger force was squeezing out all the air, making her breath come in small pathetic pants. Beth closed her eyes and counted slowly to ten. “How long has it been since you talked to Frazer?” She tried to sound relaxed but her voice sounded strangled.

  Torres’ dark eyes were impossible to read past the cold anger that roiled behind them. He had changed again, going from the smiling teasing man she had seen glimpses of last night, to the terrifyingly emotionless man she knew. The change was so sudden and fluid, like a switch being tripped. Everything about his appearance changed, even the soft lines that fanned his eyes when he smiled, turned cold.

  “Why do you think I need to see the psychologist, Beth? Do you think I have gone native? Think I get off on watching the boys make el guiso? Am I thinking about it right now? Stuffing a body into a nice 55-gallon drum, adding just enough diesel so it burns slow. I know you love details. Ask me, Beth. Ask me how long it would take to burn you down to nothing.”

  Beth tried to look away but Torres grabbed her chin and held her firmly in place, his dark eyes burning into her with venom only matched by the ugliness of his words. He scared her. There was no shame in admitting that. She would be a fool not to be scared of him. By choice, she only knew the beginning of what he was capable of, and that was enough.

  “Ask me, Beth!” he demanded.

  “No,” she whispered. She forced herself to look at him.

  “What do you weigh? 140 lbs? Five hours. I would add a little iron, keep it burning nice and hot, and that’s it, in five hours it would be like you never existed. Your life, your identity gone.”

  Beth’s joints went slack. She fought the urge to scream and tell Torres to shut up. She didn’t because she knew he was talking about Archila. He had never spoken about it with her before. She only knew the details through the police report. Torres knew all the details though, because he had seen it happen. He had seen Archila shot in front of him before Martinez turned the gun on Torres, shooting him in his left shoulder. Beth’s gaze went to the tattoo again. Under the ugly marking was proof of an uglier crime.

  Beth’s back straightened. Fear told her to keep quiet but something else compelled her to tell him, “It’s not your fault. You couldn’t have stopped them. Archila knew that. That’s why he told you to go after you were shot. You couldn’t have stopped them. He was already dead, the moment they found him.”

  Torres dropped his hand from her. “Don’t,” he warned between clenched teeth.

  But Beth didn’t listen. The pain she thought she saw in his eyes made her continue, her compassion trumping her fear. “It’s not your fault Archila didn’t adjust when he got home from Iraq, and it’s not your fault he got involved with Los Zetas. He made his choices.”

  “And I made mine?” Torres shook his head.

  “That’s not what I meant.” Beth shrugged her shoulders. She wasn’t good at this part. She didn’t know what to say to make it OK. “Look, it’s normal to feel some guilt about what happened in Iraq and in Mexico. You survived, that’s what’s important. Why don’t you talk it through with Frazer? I know he can see you this week. Come in.” She realised she sounded like she was begging, but it was because she was. Torres needed to come in from the field. The DEA had gotten enough from him. She had used him enough. They had found Martinez, the man who killed Archila, and it was a dead end.

  Once Torres was properly debriefed, he could stay with the Administration or he could go back to carpentry, or do whatever he wanted. He just needed to be away from Los Zetas. She needed him to see that.

  “This,” Beth gestured to the tattoo, “this isn’t you. And this won’t bring Archila back. This will only get you killed.”

  Torres shook his head. “I haven’t gone native, Beth. You’re alive right now because of this.” Torres slapped the design. “The reason you weren’t killed last night is because of this. You don’t want
details, Gatita, but this one you need to know, I hate this.” His voice was low, shadowed by emotion she had not heard from him before. “But I hate what is under it even more and that is why I am going to find El Escorpion. So take a good hard look at it, because this is what is going to save us both. And, no Beth. To answer your question, no I don’t want to see Frazer.”

  Beth nodded. She took a step back until her knees hit the side of the bed and she collapsed down onto the mattress.

  A few seconds later she heard the sound of water splashing against tiles. Beth held her head in her hands. Not for the first time that week, she questioned her career choice. It wasn’t too late to change, who needed a pension anyway? No, she just needed an aspirin. Once her head was sorted out she could worry about her guilt. Had she signed Torres’ death warrant when she recruited him? It had all seemed so perfect, he was an in to Los Zetas that she could not pass up. She hadn’t seen Torres as anything more than an asset, a human pawn she would happily sacrifice to get to El Escorpion.

  Christ, when had she become that person? When did people’s lives become inconvenient details? She closed her eyes and let shame settle over her.

  A few minutes later Torres returned, faded jeans slung low over his narrow hips.

  “Ready?” he asked.

  “Yeah.”

  Torres opened the door to the bedroom. Stretched on the couch were the three men she did not recognise, all passed out cold, the television playing soccer highlights in the background. In the corner of the room Flores sat, still awake, his tattooed hand wrapped around the neck of a beer. It was early to be drinking but he probably had not stopped from the night before. The fear she had felt towards him had given way to anger. It took all her energy not to spit in his face.

  Flores nodded at her, a small act of recognition, or maybe what he thought passed as an apology for attempted assault. Beth’s hands tightened into angry fists. Now was not the time or the place. She would bide her time. Flores would get what was coming to him.

  Flores apologised to Torres in Spanish, saying he did not realise Beth was his. Torres nodded in return and said something to the effect of “No harm, no foul.”