“Sounds like a political stunt.”
“Roger that. If diplomacy fails, we’ve got a black ops team on standby in Mexico City.”
“Who’s leading the unit?” Aaron asked.
“Diego Santero.”
Damn. He’d never met the guy in person, but by all accounts, he was a surly jackass of the first degree. Too bad he was also the best ICE black ops field agent in the world. When Aaron first set his sights on becoming a field agent, his motivation was to surpass the bar Santero had set.
He took a fortifying breath and hoped luck was on his side once more. Maybe he could turn his kidnapping into another golden ticket, one that led to his dream job with ICE. “If I can get a lead on Rosalia Perez’s whereabouts, I want to be part of Santero’s team for her extraction.”
“Come again?”
“Officer Fisher and I are already in La Paz. We’ve had visual contact with Rosalia Perez and have a better chance than anyone of pinpointing where she’s been taken. When I pass that intel on to ICE, I want to help with her rescue. I’ve trained for it—you know I have. I’m going to prove to you that I’m ICE agent material.” He clamped his molars together, reeling at the note of desperation in his tone.
After a slow inhale, he tried again. “Think about it, sir. If Officer Fisher and I return to the States, we’ll go into Witness Protection. We won’t be doing anybody any good. If we stay in La Paz—where nobody, including the Mexican government, knows we are—we could make some real headway for ICE, not only with data on the cartel, but with a high-profile rescue. The intel I’ve already gathered about the cartel’s smuggling operation alone will bump our unit to the best in the nation, guaranteed. This is our moment, sir. The opportunity our team’s been waiting for.” That I’ve been waiting for.
A long silence followed. “You’re up for the challenge, Montgomery?”
“Absolutely.”
“And Fisher, does she have the chops for this?”
“Fisher is former Special Forces. She was assigned to the Rosalia kidnapping case originally. With all due respect, sir, I don’t think she’d leave Mexico without the girl if the President himself commanded her to.”
Dreyer sighed and Aaron knew he’d won. “What do you need from me?”
“Time.”
“Keep me in the loop, Montgomery. I’m putting my reputation on the line for you. Consider this your big audition. Don’t screw it up.”
“I won’t, sir. Thank you.”
After the call ended, Aaron sat for a long time, staring at his hands. The conversation had gone exactly as he’d hoped. Yet still, he couldn’t shake the feeling that for the first time ever, his golden ticket hadn’t presented him with a great opportunity, but with a hangman’s noose.
* * *
Aaron returned over an hour later, acting as though nothing was amiss. Camille opened her mouth to press him for details about where he’d gone, but all that came out was a yawn.
“Let me show you your bed.” Ana walked to the sofa and removed its cushions. “My first apartment was a loft without enough space for both a sofa and a bed, so my parents bought me this.”
She tugged on a loop of material at the center of the sofa and out popped a collapsible mattress. The three of them made the bed with sheets and a blanket.
Camille stroked the pillow nearest her. “I’m tired just looking at it. I can’t wait to sprawl.”
Aaron raised an eyebrow. “On your side, of course.”
“What? You and I aren’t sharing a bed.”
He looked at her as though she was crazy. “We escaped from a drug cartel and you’re worried about sharing a bed with me?”
“Aaron, you’re welcome to sleep with me,” Ana purred. “My bed would accommodate both of us beautifully.”
Camille huffed. “You’re right, Aaron—I don’t care what the sleeping arrangements are. Sleep with Ana or sleep on the sofa bed. Whatever.”
Ana had that annoying smirk on her face again. “I’m going to retire to my room. If you two need anything, let me know.”
Camille watched the bedroom door close behind Ana, then crawled between the sheets.
Aaron stood on the opposite side with his arms crossed over his chest, watching her. It was damned disconcerting. Ana had loaned her pajamas, but under Aaron’s gaze, she felt positively naked. She snapped the sheet over herself, a warning for him to mind his p’s and q’s.
As though he’d been waiting for Camille’s undivided attention, he squared his body to the bed and tugged his shirt over his head. As if he wanted her to swoon over his rippling muscles and perfect physique.
Oh, please. What a jerk.
“I’m not sharing a bed with you if you’re half-naked.” She tried to modulate her voice, but still, it cracked once.
“We’re going to be living in pretty close quarters for a while, so you’d better get used to the sight of me.” Grinning broadly, he dropped his pants to the floor and stood with his hands on his hip bones in a pair of flimsy red cotton boxer-briefs.
Camille squeaked and scurried out of the bed. “Jesus, Aaron, put your pants back on.”
“Worried I’m going to attack you while you sleep?”
“You already kissed me against my will. How should I know what you’re capable of?”
“I can say with one hundred percent certainty that when we kissed, it was not against your will. Look, I told you it wouldn’t happen again and I’m a man of my word. Any other promises you want me to make before we get in bed together?”
“Do you have to put it that way?”
“I think it has a nice ring to it.”
“Promise you won’t touch me.”
He threw up his hands. “Oh, geez, Cam. I’m not a perv. I don’t go around copping feels on frightened women.”
“I’m not frightened.” Especially not of some idiot who didn’t have the decency to keep covered.
“Then why are you hiding behind that sheet?”
Camille looked to find her hands clutching the top sheet to her chest, nearly pulling it off the bed. She let go and straightened. She’d show him how not-frightened she was. “Say it.”
Aaron yanked the sheets in his direction and fell into bed. The mattress groaned with the additional weight. “I promise not to grope you. Now stop yapping and get in bed.”
With narrowed eyes, she lay back. She folded her hands over her stomach but found it uncomfortable, so she moved them to her sides. First above the covers, which was too chilly, and then below. She refluffed her pillow, flopped down and folded her hands across her chest. Aaron watched her with lazy eyes.
“How about I lie on my side and you can pretend I’m a wall?”
He turned his back to her and clicked off the floor lamp. Too much light streamed in from the streetlamp outside the window. Camille studied the taper of Aaron’s wide shoulders to his trim waist. One thing was for sure—Aaron Montgomery could never be mistaken for a wall.
* * *
He knew Camille was tired. She’d gotten as little sleep as he had over the past few days. On the drive to La Paz, he’d seen the slump of her shoulders and the dark circles under her eyes. Yet Aaron felt those same eyes boring holes into his back long after he turned out the light.
After a while, Camille yawned quietly and shifted. Aaron squelched the urge to command her to close her eyes. Instead, he tried a more diplomatic approach.
“Camille, I can’t get my mind to stop thinking about kidnappings and guns and murder. Do you mind if we talk a little to help me unwind?”
“Talk about what?”
He scrambled for a neutral topic. “What’s your favorite holiday?”
“Are you kidding?”
“No. It would be nice to think about something happy.”
She was quiet for so long that he didn’t think she’d answer. “Christmas,” she blurted. “My favorite holiday is Christmas.”
Aaron smiled, triumphant. “What makes it your favorite?”
“M
y sister and Jacob stay overnight at our parents’ house. I don’t get to see Juliana much now that she’s married, so that’s really nice. On Christmas morning, she does this big production of handing out silly gifts that make us laugh.”
He heard the joy in Camille’s words and wanted desperately to look at her but was afraid if he did, she’d clam up. “My mom makes this huge, elaborate meal and won’t let us help. No matter what time she says dinner’s at, it’s always two hours late. Does your mom cook dinner?”
“We do it together. We make a turkey and a couple sides in the morning and nibble all day long. We never even sit at the dinner table. It’s just...fun, relaxing. Next year’ll be even better with little Alana for us to spoil.”
Her voice drifted off. “Mmm,” she added after a few quiet minutes.
It was a hum of contentment that rendered Aaron powerless to resist a peek. Careful not to shake the bed too much, he rolled over.
The light from the window slashed across the top of her head, illuminating her golden hair. She was asleep on her side facing him, with her hands on the pillow next to her cheek and a smile on her lips, totally peaceful.
Breathtaking.
He stared for a long time. She looked small, angelic. This warrior who was so strong and capable, so ready to battle the world when she was awake, was still a woman when she slept. A beautiful, complicated woman.
He raised the sheet to cover her shoulder. Her nose wrinkled and he was tempted to kiss it until he remembered his promise. Well, Camille hadn’t said anything about invading her personal space. Satisfied to have found a loophole, he moved his pillow to abut hers and nestled in. He covered her hand with his, curling his fingers until they reached her palm. With the steady rhythm of her breath on his cheek, Aaron closed his eyes and fell asleep.
* * *
Camille woke after dawn in Ana’s sofa bed. Ready to fight the bad guys. One problem—she couldn’t move.
Aaron had her pinned. He was asleep on his side, with his face so close that she had to pull back to keep from brushing his nose, and his arm and leg slung over her body.
“Aaron?” She pushed against his chest. “Aaron.”
His eyes opened. “Good morning, Blondie.”
She considered calling him on the use of that god-awful nickname, but first things first. “Get off me.”
“I’m too comfortable to move.”
“You promised not to touch me.”
“I promised not to grope you. This is different. This is snuggling.” He closed his eyes again.
“My foot’s asleep and I have to use the bathroom. Get off or I’ll make you.”
“Fine,” he said melodramatically.
Once free, Camille was flustered to discover that she, too, had been quite comfortable tangled up in bed with Aaron. She’d have to make sure it never happened again.
Sarah arrived less than an hour later to pick Ana up for work. Aaron locked the door after ushering the teachers out, then pulled two disposable cell phones from a paper bag. “I bought these last night and programmed each with three numbers—each other, Ana and Thomas Dreyer, my boss. I touched base with him last night and he’s offering us ICE’s full support.”
“That’s fantastic.” She held out her hand for the phone, but he stared at her as if something was bothering him. “What?”
“I’ve got a really bad feeling about splitting up today. Maybe we should scrap the plan and stick together. You could come with me to find a place for us to stay and some wheels, and I could shop for supplies with you tonight.”
Camille snatched the phone from his hand and pocketed it along with Ana’s car keys. “Nothing’s going to happen. The supermarket and clothing shops are only a mile or so away. Don’t worry so much. I’m a cop, remember? You have to stop treating me like a civilian. Besides, the faster we get everything we need, the sooner we can get on with finding Rosalia.”
Aaron took hold of Camille’s elbows and looked so seriously into her eyes, the skin on the back of her neck tingled.
“We meet here tonight at five o’clock,” he said. “If something happens to me, if I don’t come back, you call Dreyer. He’ll get you out of Mexico by boat. The roads are too dangerous. There are armed checkpoints all along the highway to California. You don’t want to get caught with a gun and you can’t take the chance of coming across any crooked military types on the cartel’s payroll. And don’t try to be a hero by searching for Rosalia on your own. It’s too risky. Promise me.”
Rattled by his intensity, Camille whispered, “I promise.”
“If something happens to you...if you’re not back here tonight, I’ll find you.” He closed his eyes and screwed up his mouth. “Just be here. That’s an order.”
“I will. You, too, okay?” She pulled away from his grip. “At least you know I’m not leaving this neighborhood. I don’t know where you’re going to end up today.”
“I don’t know either. How about I call you at noon to check in?”
“All right. I’ll be waiting.” She gave him her best reassuring smile.
After donning a blue crocheted hat, she slipped a 9 mm into her waistband, then shoveled a few stacks of money into one pocket of her borrowed jacket and a backup handgun into another. She slipped on a pair of dark glasses and followed Aaron out the door.
Chapter 8
By eleven-thirty, Camille was half done with her errands. While the clothes she’d chosen for herself and Aaron weren’t the most expensive or fashionable, they were good enough. She threw in some hats, socks and—despite her mortification at the idea—underwear for them both. Around the corner from the shoe store, she’d chucked the nasty cartel sneakers in a Dumpster with so much exuberance that a few heads turned to stare at her. She was feeling so good about her new footwear that, on a whim, she popped into a pharmacy for a new box of hair dye.
Brunette, just to tick Aaron off.
Back at the apartment, she scribbled a grocery list before heading out once more. Gigante Market, the local grocery chain, was as sprawling as an American supermarket, and she practically worked up a limp walking from the car to the main entrance.
Starting at the produce section, she methodically walked each aisle, adding to her cart. Inspired by the aroma of baking bread wafting from behind the bakery counter, she waited her turn for a loaf of fresh sweet bread. With an appreciative sigh, she popped a chunk of the still-warm loaf in her mouth, then got back to business. Rounding the corner to the rice aisle, she saw three men loitering at the opposite end, closest to the exit.
The pock-cheeked man who’d tied Aaron’s and Camille’s legs to those rusty patio chairs stood next to the man with helmet-hard hair who’d skydived with her and a third man Camille didn’t recognize. He looked to be in his late thirties, with the muscular build of a bulldog. If any of the three could claim to be a full-time hit man for the cartel, it would be this guy.
Not sure if she was spotted, Camille flipped a U-turn and walked around the corner. She abandoned the shopping cart on the next aisle, slipped her firearm from her waist and flipped off the safety. She peeked between the shelves, through the bottles of juice on her side and the bags of rice on the other, at where the three men had been but were no longer.
They appeared quietly, with smirking, destructive smiles, at the head of the juice aisle.
Adrenaline and panic flamed to life within her, making her breath shallow, her vision narrow. Her gun hand shook violently.
The men advanced.
She swept an arm across a shelf of bottles, and they crashed to the ground, embedding little bits of glass into her ankles. She sprinted three aisles over, praying the glass and liquid impeded her pursuers long enough for her to make it out the front entrance.
Three against one in an aisle-by-aisle chase were terrible odds, though. Halfway through the snack aisle, Helmet Hair appeared before her. She squeezed a round off that went wide and then she turned back the way she came, but Hit Man and Pocked Face blocked her in. Their
movement changing from running to stalking, they crowded in on her, drawing their guns.
She aimed her gun as best she could as it quaked in her hand and concentrated hard on her trigger finger, but it wouldn’t move. Damn it.
On the edge of panic, she threw herself into a shelf, punching through the chips to the other side, and raced to the back of the store, scanning for a rear exit. What she came to first was the Mexican equivalent of an American deli section. She crashed into a refrigerated display case, then darted behind the counter and shoved past a shocked employee.
Dizzy with adrenaline and shock, she ducked behind a meat slicer and took in great gulps of air as blood surged with fiery purpose through her veins. Two sets of prowling feet appeared nearby. She tightened her grip on her gun as awareness dawned within her. She was going to have to kill them all if she wanted to make it out of the supermarket alive.
She rose into a squat beneath the table, waiting for the opportunity to strike.
Her cell phone rang.
She cursed and leaped from her hiding place. Helmet Hair, with his back to her, was the closest. Cringing with the effort of squeezing the trigger, she got a round off, hitting him in the shoulder. She kicked out at his midsection, knocking him face-first into the revolving vertical meat broiler. He shrieked in pain.
She twisted left and shot Pocked Face in the gut. He staggered and leveled his pistol at her.
Dodging right, she fired again, the bullet slicing a chunk from his neck. Blood gushed uncontrollably from both wounds. With a guttural cry, he shot at her at the same time Hit Man caught her left cheek with an upper jab.
The impact of the punch knocked her down. She rolled under the nearest stainless-steel table. Pocked Face fired in her direction and the table rocked on its legs as the bullet ricocheted and hit a display case, shattering glass in all directions. She braced for a second shot but none came. The only sound besides Helmet Hair’s low moans of agony from the meat broiler was the soft clunk of Pocked Face’s head hitting the floor.
Seduction Under Fire Page 8
