Doubleback: A Novel (32 page)

“To do what?”

“To interrupt the supply of drugs.”

“Because what’s being done isn’t enough?”

He nodded and gestured to the window. “Drugs flow just like water in those gullies, if you know what to look for.”

“So you weren’t there to kidnap and kill illegals.”

He shook his head.

“Then why did Carmelita say you were the one who made them get into Grant’s truck?”

His face turned grave, even a bit sad. “It was not me. Perhaps someone who looks like me. Who has the uniform, the equipment.”

“Wroblewski or Brewer?”

He ran his tongue around his lips, looking uncomfortable. Was he hanging on to some remnant of loyalty toward his fellow mercenaries? Was he unwilling to call them out, especially since they were dead? She’d seen that time and again in Chicago with the mob. And the cops. Whenever teams worked together against a common enemy.

“You expect me to believe Lionel Grant, a right-wing racist who’s made a career of hating illegals, underwrites a contract with Delton to stop the drug trade, but not illegals?” she went on. “And then someone else—some rogue group—impersonates you and exterminates them?”

“It’s the truth.”

She wasn’t buying it. “Why did three million dollars make its way to you and your men?”

Apparently he’d had enough of being challenged. “No more. Not now.”

Georgia tried a different tactic. “Is Lionel Grant as crazy as they say?”

“No.”

“No, he’s not or no, you’re not going to—”

“Stop!” He bellowed. “This conversation is over.”

Georgia exploded. “No, goddammit, it’s not! I’ve come over a thousand miles to figure this out. Risked my life. More than once.” She held up her cast. “Someone tampered with my brakes in Chicago. That’s how this happened. Now someone’s shooting through my hotel room. And you’ve got me pinned like a bug under a microscope. Until I know what’s going on, this fucking conversation is definitely not over!”

“No more!” He raised his hands in the air and advanced toward her. Startled, she stepped back, but he kept coming. She braced herself. Less than a foot away, he suddenly stopped, as if he’d just become aware of his behavior and was surprised by the depth of his rage. He took a breath and aimed a finger at her. “Go dry off.”

He turned away, opened the cabinet under the sink, and pulled out a bottle of bourbon. He looked around for a glass, found one, and poured a few fingers full.

Georgia stood her ground. “I need to know why Delton sent you a million dollars.”

Peña tossed back the bourbon. He looked like he was going to start talking when a cell phone trilled. He fished it out of his pocket.

“Yeah?” He paused. “You got the package? Good. Keep it safe.” Silence. “I’m still working on it. It’ll be wrapped up soon. Okay.” He disconnected and glared at Georgia, as if daring her to ask him about it.

She did. “What package?”

He didn’t reply.

“Look...” She started over, trying to suppress her own anger. Trying to be reasonable. “I’m grateful you decided not to kill me. For the moment. But this cat and mouse shit—this drama— has to stop. I won’t be played. Talk to me straight.”

He tossed back more booze. Then, “Did you ever think I might be trying to protect your ass, which happens to be quite fine-looking, by the way?”

But Georgia was in no mood for come-ons. “Fuck you, Peña. I can handle my ass myself.” She snapped. “Either you talk to me now, or—”

“Or what?”

“I’ll leave. Head back into town.”

His eyes flashed. “You won’t get far.”

“You want to stop me, you’ll have to shoot me in the back.” She threw the towel down.

He shrugged, a wry smile on his face.

Georgia grabbed her shoes and put them on, caked mud and all. Then she pulled open the door, half-expecting a slew of bullets to mow her down. Nothing happened. She exited the cabin. The wind shoved her across the clearing. Jagged forks of lightning sizzled the sky. The rain was now sheeting sideways. The storm had grown fiercer. There was no way she could hike ten yards, much less the ten miles she guessed they’d driven. She flattened herself against the side of the cabin, but there were no eaves or overhangs to protect her. She crept back to the window, now steamy with condensation, and peeked in. Peña was at the table refilling his glass.

She let out a breath, opened the door, and skulked back inside. She was sopping wet, humiliated, and angry. She refused to look at him. She watched puddles form at her feet instead. He didn’t say anything. Finally, she glanced up.

His eyes held the same wry look as before. Amusement or arrogance? He rose and went into the other room. She heard drawers slide open. He came back out carrying dry clothes and dropped them on the floor next to her.

Georgia picked them up and walked into the room from which he’d come. Barely furnished, it had a double bed, a three-drawer chest, side table, and lamp. A small window was cut high into the wall.

She tossed the clothes on the mattress, kicked off her shoes, and started to take off her jeans. She tried to unfasten the button at her waist, but she was working with only one hand, and her jeans, soaked through, were rigid. After struggling unsuccessfully with the button, she gave up. She managed to shrug off her blazer and tried to lift her t-shirt over her head, but it, too, was water-logged and stuck to her skin. When she tried to use the casted arm to take off the t-shirt, she yelped in pain. It had been less than a week since her wrist was broken.

She struggled a few more seconds, then collapsed on the bed. It was all getting to her. The accident. The past four days in Stevens. The lack of progress. The shots through the window. She couldn’t remember ever feeling this alone, this isolated. She covered her eyes with her hand but refused to cry. She wouldn’t give him the satisfaction.

She’d lost track of time when she felt his presence behind her. How had he snuck into the room so silently? Was this the moment he’d decide to kill her? She waited for him to wrap his hands around her neck and snap it. He’d know how. She should move out of range. Put up a semblance of a fight. But she was too tired.

He rolled his fingertips over her neck. A chill shot through her. Was this it? Then his palms settled on her shoulders and he started to knead them. Tender at first, then firm. She bowed her head and gave him more of her neck. If this was the prelude to death, maybe it wasn’t so bad.

Suddenly he stopped. She arched her back, fearing the worst. A moment later, a gentle massage moved down her good arm. He was drying her with the towel. His movements were languid and soft. She felt hot and cold at the same time. When his hands reached the cast on the other arm, he slid the towel carefully over the plaster.

The stroking stopped. “You should put on dry clothes.” His voice was husky.

She tried to speak but her voice cracked.

“Stand up,” he whispered.

Wordlessly she obeyed. Part of her was surprised by how submissive she was acting. Another part of her was way past that.

“Turn around.”

She did. He stood in front of her, breathing fast. His eyes glittered. She smelled liquor on his breath. Without a word, he put the towel down and caught the tail of her t-shirt with both hands. Carefully he lifted it over her head. She wasn’t wearing a bra. He gazed at her breasts. Her pulse started to race. He caressed her cheeks and pulled her toward him. She didn’t resist. When his lips found hers, she responded, first tentative, then eager. Heat welled up from someplace inside her. She wrapped her good arm around his neck.

He cupped her breasts in his hands, bent his head, and ran his tongue around her nipples. She shivered with pleasure and pushed against him. He fumbled with the button on her jeans, unfastened it, and pushed them down to her ankles. She lay down on the bed, letting him pull off one pant leg, then the other. He did the same with her briefs.

He stared as if he couldn’t believe what he was seeing. She smiled. He tore off his clothes and got down on the bed. Again he cupped her face with his hands. She kissed him, tracing her fingertips along his cheekbone. He moved hard against her. Then he was inside. As he thrusted, she rose up to meet him, wanting him deep. She needed him deep. His hands went around her hips and pulled her close. She cried out. The storm closed in around them.

•   •   •

Maybe it was the silence that woke her. Or maybe it was that she was sleeping next to a man she didn’t know. Or maybe it was because she’d been with a man in the first place. It had been too long. His touch, his smell, her blond hairs tangled with his black on the pillow; it was all good and right.

Pale bars of moonlight bathed the room in silver. Raffi was sleeping, snoring lightly. She remembered the call that came in on his cell. The package. She crept out of bed, taking care not to wake him. She wasn’t too worried. Men always slept well after sex.

His jeans were crumpled on the floor. She picked them up, rummaged in his pockets, found the cell. She pressed the menu key for “Calls Received” and memorized the number at the top of the list. Then she went back to bed.

chapter
39

T
he morning sun crept over a ridge high above the town of Stevens. A breeze sighed through the trees, carrying the scent of pine and cedar. Aside from that, it was quiet, and Georgia could almost hear the yucca growing in the thin rocky soil. It was cooler than she’d expected; she pulled her now dry blazer close. She looked over at the gullies. Javier was right: the water that had gushed through them last night was gone. The creek bottom was barely damp.

She went back inside. Her Sig, which Raffi had confiscated last night, lay on the table beside two coffee mugs. She threw him a grateful smile and slipped it into her holster. He poured coffee, which was surprisingly good. He’d dressed in a flak jacket over jeans and a t-shirt, and he was loading extra magazines for the M4, a knife, and pepper spray into the pockets.

She tried to make small talk. “What kind of training do you need to work for Delton?”

“They trained me.”

“Where?”

“Somewhere in the Midwest.”

Georgia remembered how Ellie had discovered Delton’s private training facility downstate. “Central Illinois?”

“Maybe. Yeah. Sure.”

“How long were you there?”

“Ten weeks. They put me in charge of a team.”

She smiled. “You were that good.”

He nodded

“Is that where you met Wroblewski and Brewer?”

Another nod.

“You weren’t far from Chicago, you know. Where I live.”

“If I’d known, I would have visited.”

“Next time.”

Raffi attempted a pained smile, then fell quiet. He looked at his watch, scooped up one of the duffels, and went out. She watched him throw it into the pickup.

“Where are you going?” She asked when he came back in.

“To a meeting.”

“Where?”

He picked up his mug. His eyes were veiled.

“You’re distributing weapons. Or getting more.”

He didn’t answer.

“Let me come.”

“No.”

“Why not?”

He stopped pacing and set his mug down with a thud. “Look, Georgia, I’m not your enemy. But there are others who are. Or will be if you hang around. Go home. This isn’t your fight.”

“Is it yours?”

He clenched his jaw. “I need to finish my job.” He headed back out.

Georgia followed him. “Why are you working alone? Where is Carmelita’s brother?” Again he didn’t answer. “Doesn’t he have the guts to help you?”

He opened the driver’s side door and hopped up into the cab.

Georgia hurried to the passenger side. Time to hit him with her theory. “That cashier’s check—Geoff Delton was paying you hush money, wasn’t he?”

Raffi hesitated just a fraction too long. “What Delton was doing is immaterial.”

“Is it?” She swung herself up into the passenger seat.

“Get out of my truck.”

“Listen, Raffi. Delton was ‘detained’ in Chicago last night. The police are questioning him right now.”

Raffi looked over. “Why?”

“He was sleeping with the woman whose little girl was kidnapped. The same woman who was murdered after she helped Delton set up the account your cashiers’ check was written against.”

Raffi looked like he was thinking. Calculating. Then he shrugged. “So? It has nothing to do with me.”

“The woman was pregnant,” Georgia paused, “with Delton’s child.”

He put the key in the ignition.

“Delton couldn’t risk the fact that she sent out the cashiers’ checks for him,” Georgia said. “He had her taken out. Her boss, too. But it’s all falling apart now. The cops have him. Which means you may not have any reason to—”

The engine fired up, cutting her off.

“Why was he paying you off, Raffi?”

He shook his head.

She persisted. “What was the package you sent your buddy?”

“You never quit, do you?” He looked exasperated. “You want to know? Okay, I’ll tell you. It’s a goddammed videotape, all right? Now get off my fucking back.”

“Grant’s on the tape, isn’t he? He’s got something to do with all of this. He and Delton realized your team wasn’t doing what you started out to do. That you’d been corrupted by the drug traffickers. The cartels. So Delton tried to paper it over with the money so no one would talk. And now you’re—”

“Fuck it, Georgia, stop. The less you know, the longer you’ll live.”

“Given that someone’s tried to kill me twice, your advice is a little late, don’t you think?”

“Everything I touch turns to shit, don’t you see?” His voice was raw. “I don’t want you to be part of the pile.”

But she’d already slammed the door and fastened her seat belt.

•   •   •

He drove fast through the mountains, zigzagging around switchbacks and rutted roads. The road was flanked by dense woods of pines and aspens. Sunlight sneaked through the branches every so often, and she could almost taste the heat-baked air. Although Georgia had no idea where they were, the terrain was starting to look familiar. Even beautiful.

Their conversation had been sparce and insubstantial, like a meal you didn’t eat enough of. It was ironic—she’d never tolerate that in Chicago; why did she here? Probably because, despite their intimacy last night, they were still strangers, checking each other out.