Hidden Agenda (5 page)

“The evidence you've been looking for. It's the second set of books, the master list, where Valez has been keeping track of all his illegal gains.”

Kendall's eyes widened. “This is priceless. How'd you get it?”

Michael shook his head. “You don't want to know.”

“Well, it looks like your months of hard work have finally paid off. You can stop worrying now and come in.”

“Come in? I'm not done yet. I still have to tie all of this to La Sombra if we want this house of cards to come tumbling down.”

“If La Sombra even exists.”

“He exists. I know it.” He just didn't know who he was. Yet.

“I don't think sticking around is a good idea.” Kendall shoved the drive into his front shirt pocket. “There's been a change of plans.”

“What do you mean, ‘a change of plans'?”

Kendall leaned back, silent as the waitress approached their table. She set a burger in front of Kendall, then filled up Michael's empty coffee mug.

“Anything to eat, sir?”

“No, I'm good. Thanks.”

The waitress turned to Kendall. “And you, sir?”

“The coffee will do for now, Darlene. Thanks.”

Kendall watched her walk away, hips swaying wider than necessary.

“How's your wife?” Michael threw out the not-so-subtle reminder.

“Wouldn't know. We're separated.”

“And the kids?”

“Doing as well as they can despite their bouncing back and forth between us.”

“I'm sorry.”

“Me too, though being separated has its advantages. How else would I get away with eating this?”

Michael stared at Kendall's plate.

“This burger”—Kendall took a bite and talked while he chewed—“is man's greatest invention. Three patties, four kinds of cheeses, bacon, and mushrooms.”

“My cholesterol spiked just listening to you.” Michael watched Kendall eat, wondering how he could be so relaxed. “You said things have changed. What's changed?”

“You need to come in.”

“You know I can't come in now.”

“Can't or won't? So far you've given us enough information to put a huge dent in Valez's organization—”

“As much as I'd rather be sitting with my family on Christmas Eve instead of drinking stale coffee and watching you eat that burger, this was never just about Valez.”

He'd given Kendall the cooked numbers. But now he needed to identify La Sombra.

“You might have to forget La Sombra, as much as I hate to say that,” Kendall said. “Too much has happened this past week. It's not safe anymore.”

“It's never been safe,” Michael said. “What happened?”

Kendall leaned forward and lowered his voice. “A week ago, Charlie Bains was shot and killed.”

“Charlie? What happened?” Michael's younger sister had broken off her engagement to Charlie, but his death would still affect her, despite the fact Emily wasn't in love with him anymore. “Who killed him?”

Kendall dropped his gaze.

“Kendall . . . who killed him?”

“Like I said, a lot's happened this past week. There was a shootout, and your sister was involved.”

“Avery?” His stomach clenched. “Is she okay?”

“Not Avery. Emily shot Charlie.” Kendall's fingers tapped against the side of his coffee mug.

“Emily?”

Michael's mind spun at the information.

“I don't understand,” he said.

“I guess I should have brought you a newspaper. It was the headline news in Atlanta. It's a long story, but the bottom line is that Charlie was working for the cartel. He tried to shoot Mason, and Emily ended up stopping him. Your sister's quite a shot, by the way.”

“Maybe, but my sister's not a cop.” Familiar guilt surfaced. He should have been there for her. Should have stepped in and stopped the situation. He knew what it felt like firsthand to shoot and kill someone. It didn't leave you feeling like Rambo, like in those shoot-'em-up finale scenes portrayed in the movies.

Michael pushed his drink away, his stomach soured by the news. “She's strong, but this is going to take a long time for her to get over.”

“And that's not all.”

“What do you mean?”

“There was another cop arrested during the operation.”

“Who?”

“Russell Coates. He was working undercover—arrested in order not to blow his cover—but before he was released, someone took him out.”

The noose around Michael's neck pulled tighter. He'd been the one who'd suggested that Kendall approach Coates. Coates and Michael had run a few undercover operations together, and Michael had always been impressed with his integrity. Then Coates had made unexpected inroads into the cartel with his undercover identity. He hadn't even hesitated when Michael suggested he take it a step further.

And now he was dead?

“Michael, this isn't your fault.”

“Yes, it is.” Michael stared at the brightly painted yellow wall behind Kendall, filled with dozens of eclectic pieces of art. Photos of coffee cups and coffee beans, antique advertisements and signs.

“What happened?”

“They found him dead in his cell this morning, which poses a problem. Everyone thought that the leak—whoever had been selling information, presumably to the cartel—was plugged when Charlie Bains was killed, but now it appears that the cartel has a few more cops on the payroll than we realized.”

“We need Valez,” Michael said. “We need La Sombra.”

“The bottom line is that I've managed to keep your identity here a secret for your own protection, but the longer you stay with Valez, the greater the risk. If he finds out who you really are . . .”

“Then I'll come in and work from inside the department.” Michael's mind was spinning at the thought of being able to see his family again. After eight long months, it didn't even seem possible. “I'll have more resources, which will be better in the long run—”

“You better hold on before you plan your prodigal return.”

“Because Coates is dead?”

“Yes. Partly because we don't know yet who wanted him quiet, but also because there are some who still believe you were—before your unfortunate death—the department leak.”

“That's not exactly new news.”

“Maybe not, but when they find out you've spent the last few months working for Valez . . .”

Michael leaned forward and lowered his voice. “So you're telling me that if I stay undercover, I'll likely be caught and killed by the cartel, and if I come in, I'll be arrested and possibly killed by some rogue cop on the cartel's payroll.”

“That's a simplistic way of putting it, but yes.”

“So without knowing who we can trust, I can't come in.” Michael weighed the situation, not liking any of his options. “I knew the risks when I walked into this, but I didn't think my own people would decide to implicate me for treason.”

“Come in now, and I'll do everything I can to ensure your safety.”

“You just said—”

“I can put you in a safe house.”

“A safe house?” No way. “I'm your best bet to bring Valez's organization down, but I can't do anything to help if I'm off the grid, and you know it.”

And without knowing who'd killed Coates, there were no guarantees that whoever did it wouldn't find him as well.

Kendall leaned forward. “I can guarantee your safety with a few men I trust, and it would just be temporary, until I can sort this out.”

“Who else knows about me? That I'm not lying in that casket?”

“For your own safety, I haven't told anyone.” Kendall patted his shirt pocket. “But hopefully this will go a long way in proving whose side you're on.”

Not for the first time, Michael wondered if their decision to keep his assignment classified had been a mistake.

“I would appreciate that. I didn't spend the past eight months hiding out on the doorstep of an infamous drug lord only to be taken down by the good guys.”

“I'll find a way to get you out of this, Michael. I promise. But I still think you should come with me now before things get worse.”

“So they can what? Arrest me so my family finds my body in some supposed safe house or jail cell? No thanks. I'll take my chances that Valez doesn't know who I am. Give me a few more days—”

“A few more days, and you could be dead. Bains is dead. Coates is dead. There's a good chance that they're homing in on you as well, and what happens when Valez realizes the truth about who you are?”

“I'll deal with that when the time comes.”

“When? When you've just been dumped in the middle of the Atlantic? It's too big a risk, Michael. I want you to come in now.”

“Give me one more week. Valez invited me to the island tomorrow for Christmas. It will give me a chance to find the last piece of the puzzle.”

Kendall sighed. “Fine. Go to the island. Act like everything is normal. I'll make sure things are in place for you once you do come in. But remember, Valez won't hesitate to kill you if he finds out the truth.”

“I know that.”

“And you're willing to take that risk?”

“You just find out who's behind Coates's death, so when I do come in I'm not thrown into the fiery furnace.”

M
ichael opened his eyes again at a nudge against his shoulder. His angel still hovered over him, the wind whipping through her hair as she looked down at him. How much time had passed? How much of what he remembered was real?

“What time is it?” he asked.

“You've been out about twenty minutes. I found some pain medicine for you. I have a feeling you're going to need it.”

He nodded, then downed the pills with a swallow of the bottled water she gave him. His mind fought to find his way out of the fog and the throbbing pain in his side. Maybe passing out wasn't such a bad idea after all. Then the only thing he had to deal with was the haunting dreams.

“Where are we now?” he asked.

“Ten, maybe fifteen minutes from the shore. There was another boat after us, but Ivan managed to lose them shortly after you passed out the first time. Once we get to the dock, my car is parked nearby, but we're going to have to make sure we avoid any welcoming committees.”

He handed her back the water bottle, struggling to remember the names she'd told him. Ivan . . . Olivia.

“What happens after that, Olivia?” he asked.

She leaned back, her hand braced against the side of the boat
for balance. “We'll drop you off at the nearest police station on the mainland. They'll be able to help you—”

“No!”

“No?”

Michael hesitated, knowing he needed to form a rational response to his outburst. Even in the semidarkness of night, as they flew across the water, he didn't miss the doubt in her eyes. Or the hint of anger in their depths. He deserved both. His pursuit of justice had landed him in the middle of a hornet's nest, and now he'd dragged her and her brother into it right alongside him.

But walking into a police station was just as risky as running into Tomas in a dark alley. Russell Coates had been playing the same deadly undercover detective game. Knowing that he was dead and that it had been an inside job meant that Michael wasn't just running from the cartel. The leaks in the department had yet to be plugged. If he showed up alive, he'd jump to the top of some dirty cop's hit list.

He caught her gaze, wishing he hadn't noticed the soft curve of her lips or the dimple in her chin. “We can't go to the authorities.”

“We can't go to the authorities?” Her eyes widened. “Why not?”

“Because I'm not sure who we can trust.”

“Last I heard, Tomas and his goons are the ones to be afraid of, so why would we
not
go to the authorities? They're supposed to be the good guys, remember?”

Not all of them.

Lights of the mainland came into view. Michael scrounged for a source of energy to combat the deepening fatigue he felt. All he really wanted to do was disappear and sleep for the next week or two, praying that when he woke up all of this would be over.

But there was no escaping this situation.

“There are things you don't understand,” he said.

“Listen, I get it,” she said. “You've been through a horrible ordeal. Betrayed, deceived, threatened, whatever—”

“It's more complicated than simply what happened back there on the island.”

She shoved back a strand of hair the wind had plastered against her face. “Who are you?”

Michael eased into a sitting position and stared out across the water as the pontoon skimmed across the surface. She deserved an answer. Even deserved the truth—and somehow, he had to convince her of that truth.

“I'm an undercover cop.”

“A cop?” She let out a shallow laugh. “Ivan was convinced you were a spy. Is Liam Quinn your real name?”

He weighed her question, still unsure if she'd even believe him if he told her the truth. He could tell her more lies, but whether he liked it or not, they were in this together. She'd risked her life to save him, and she deserved the truth.

“My real name . . . is Michael Hunt. I've been undercover for the past few months . . . working for Valez. For the last eight months my family has thought I'm dead.”

He studied her face in the moonlight. The lines of truth and reality in his life had long since blurred out of focus. He was tired of risking his own neck while trying to bring about justice. Sometimes all he could see was the corruption and evil all around him. Because Valez, La Sombra—whoever he was—and their men were only one layer of the issue.

The bottom line right now was that he had no idea who he could trust or who was out to get him, but he needed to trust this woman. Because for whatever reason, she'd risked everything to save his life.

“Well, Michael Hunt, what kind of man are you?”

He struggled to stay upright against the continual movement
of the boat. “I'm not sure I remember anymore, beyond the fact that I'm tired of fighting.”

And that he was a man partially responsible for Kendall's death. A man who'd broken his mother's heart. A man who for months had let his family believe he was dead. All for what? Duty? Justice? None of that seemed enough anymore. Too many had sacrificed and too many had lost.

Ivan signaled Olivia, interrupting their conversation.

“My car is parked close to the dock,” she told Michael. “We'll be there in just a few minutes.”

“And if our
welcoming party
is there?” he asked.

“Then we're in trouble.”

Michael felt himself being tugged back into the darkness again, back to relive the haunting memories that refused to leave him alone. He tried to fight it, but he was there again, this time staring out across the Atlantic's barren shoreline, broken only by a few scattered piles of driftwood. Summer hadn't arrived yet, but it was already hot and humid. The ache in his leg from the explosion still throbbed despite the pain medicine the doctor had given him.

Shifting in the lounge chair on Valez's veranda, he took a sip of his iced tea, wishing it was his mother's favorite lemonade-flavored sweet tea. The thought surprised him. He couldn't remember how long it had been since nostalgia had grabbed hold of him so tightly, but he missed his family. Missed the normal life he used to have. He especially missed the regular spiritual feeding he'd never fully appreciated until it was gone.

It was his mother's birthday, another reminder of how much he craved the normalcy of life. Perspiration beaded on his neck as he struggled to hold on to the memories. As soon as he could get off the island, he was going to drive back to Atlanta for the weekend and spend some long-needed quality time with his family.

Valez walked onto the veranda from the house, the smoke from his cigarette trailing behind him. He'd lost weight over the past few months, presumably due to stress, though he'd yet to lose his edge. Valez might be ruthless, but no one could deny the fact that he was a brilliant businessman.

Valez sat down across from him in one of the wrought-iron chairs, dropped a newspaper onto the table, then flicked the end of his cigarette into the glass ashtray.

“It's good to finally see you out of bed,” Valez said. “How are you feeling?”

“Better, though I still feel a bit like I was run over by a truck.”

“A hundred pounds of explosives will do that to a person.” Valez let out a lazy puff of smoke, then leaned back in his chair. “I spoke with the doctor before he left this morning. He says a couple more weeks of rest, and you'll be back to normal.”

Michael's hand automatically touched the back of his leg where he'd received the worst damage from the explosion. The doctor was caring for the third-degree burns, the wounds from the shrapnel, and his concussion, but his treatment didn't cover the psychological impact of the bomb.

“Two weeks,” Valez repeated. “You're lucky. It was touch-and-go for a long time there.”

“And my memory?” Michael asked. “What does the doctor say about that?”

The holes in his recollection continued to torture him. From forgetting where he'd put his toothbrush to the missing details of the case he'd been working on. If he made a mistake, said the wrong thing, everything he'd worked for over the past few months would be for nothing.

Valez played with the edges of the folded newspaper. “The doctor said some form of amnesia was normal after what happened to you. And that there's a good chance that most of your memory loss—if not all of it—will go away eventually.”

Michael could only pray the diagnosis was correct. What
wouldn't
go away were the dreams. So vivid that sometimes he couldn't tell anymore what was real and what were leftover pieces from those dreams. At least once a night, he'd wake up in a panicked sweat, reeling from flashbacks of the explosion.

“We haven't had time to talk since the accident.” Valez snuffed out his cigarette. “What do you remember about that day?”

Michael swallowed the rest of his tea, not wanting to revisit that moment. “I remember enough to give me nightmares, but not enough to remember the details. It's like a dream that constantly fades in and out.”

There were other things he remembered he could never tell Valez. The fact that his name wasn't Michael Linley. That he was here to take down Valez and the upper ranks of the cartel beneath him, along with any dirty cops who were on the man's payroll. He wasn't sure if those memories were a blessing or a curse. Remembering who he was made him want to forget why he was here.

“You saved my life,” Valez said. “Do you remember that?”

“Pieces.” Michael dug through the memories he was able to access. “I remember the explosion . . . the heat from the fire . . . the pain ripping through my leg. And looking up and seeing you beside me.”

“You were lucky—we were both lucky.” Valez smiled. “But you still don't remember why you were there, do you?”

“We were there to make an exchange. Cocaine? Weapons? It's still all a blur.”

All those hours of staring out at the ocean, breathing in the salt water and resting as he'd been ordered, had only just begun to help him fit the pieces of that day back together.

“It doesn't matter.” Valez slid the folded newspaper across the table toward Michael, then opened it. “But this matters. I've been waiting for the right time to show you this.”

Michael leaned forward. “What is it?”

“Third obituary on the left. Read it.”

“An obituary?”

He started to read the small print.

Michael Linley,
33, died Saturday in an accident. Michael worked as an accountant for a local business, but enjoyed anything to do with the outdoors, especially rock climbing, hiking, and diving. An only child, he is survived by his parents, Clarence and Patsy Linley of Ailey, Georgia.

Michael Linley . . . Accident . . . Dead . . .

“Michael?”

Michael winced as he opened his eyes, the images dissolving into the darkness of a night sky. He tried to remember where he was. They'd left the island on the boat . . . Valez's men had come after them . . . If they found him, they'd kill him along with Olivia and her brother. Kendall had been right to warn him. Returning to the island had simply traded in one vial of deadly poison for another.