KICK ASS: A Boxed Set (12 page)

She tilted her weight onto one hip. “So far, all we’ve established is a quick exchange of cash. What I want to know now is the specifics of this rescue mission, with all the details, start to finish.”

Marisela glanced back at Frankie, but he stared straight forward, his gaze lost in the bright blue sky visible through the generous windows behind Ian Blake. His expression revealed nothing—not what he knew, not what he didn’t know.

Suddenly, the room darkened. Marisela turned to see Blake engage a series of buttons that operated the window shades, blocking all light from outside, while a screen dropped from the ceiling.

Instinctively, she slipped into the nearby chair just as a photograph, a candid shot clearly taken from a distance, materialized on the screen.

“This is Javier Perez. He’s a Puerto Rican national, born in San Juan on March 23, 1961. His father, Roberto Perez, operated a small hotel near Old Town in San Juan. His mother, Maria, ran the laundry and directed the housekeeping staff until her death in 1970. Roberto died ten years later, leaving the business, now a burgeoning hotel and resort catering to the elite, in Javier’s hands.”

The photograph changed. The subject was still Javier, but now he was standing proudly in front of an illuminated hotel sign proclaiming the grand reopening of
Casa de la Mar
.

“
Casa de la Mar
is a five-star resort, complete with a world class golf course and a casino that rakes in millions every night. Perez turned out to be quite the entrepreneur and the resort has allowed him to mingle with an incredibly diverse group of people.”

The next picture, black and white and grainy as if reproduced from a newspaper, showed a young couple frolicking on a sandy beach. The man was undoubtedly a younger Javier, in his twenties, with his shoulder-length curly hair tied back, his arms possessively encircling a strikingly thin young woman with cool, seductive eyes.

“Who is that?” Marisela asked. “Movie star?”

“Socialite,” Ian answered. “Elise Barton-Ryce, though at the time, she was Elise Michele Barton. She spent her summer after finishing school in Puerto Rico at Perez’s resort. Javier was twenty-five. Elise was seventeen. They had a wild affair. The society columnists of the time reported every salacious detail.”

Marisela eyed Ian warily. “You mean like the tabloids?”

“Have you been to Boston, Ms. Morales?”

“You know I haven’t,” she sniped.

The left side of his mouth tilted up in a grin. “Yes, I do. You’ve never left Florida. Your travel experience will change soon enough. As you might have guessed, I was born in London, but spent a good deal of my formative years with my mother’s family in Massachusetts. In Boston, polite society rules and they have their say in the legitimate press. At the time, Elise’s dalliance was not exactly headline news, but gossip abounded. Unfortunately, this affair had long lasting effects.”

Marisela wondered briefly why this mysterious man would offer personal information about himself, then figured he was trying to gain her trust. Couldn’t blame him. But when the picture changed, this time showing a very poised, very posed portrait of an absolutely adorable baby decked out in yards of lace and ribbon, her attention was diverted. Marisela had to bite her lip to keep from cooing at the angelic little face. Not that Marisela saw herself having one of her own anytime soon, but she loved children. She always had. She figured it was cultural. In her neighborhood, even little girls who played cork ball in the streets with the boys or sported switchblades in their back pockets turned into
mamacitas
whenever babies were around.

“This is Jessica Margaret Barton, born April 2, 1988.”

Marisela saw a certain darkness in the skin tone she hadn’t noticed before. “Javier’s kid?”

“Yes, though Elise didn’t realize she was pregnant until she’d returned to Boston. When Russell Barton, her father, discovered her condition, he ordered a thorough background check into his daughter’s lover. At this point, Javier was already dabbling in industries beyond the hotel—including the one that produces his income today. He’s an arms dealer. Very rich and very dangerous.”

A chill sneaked up Marisela’s spine. “And he wants his daughter back?”

Ian chuckled. “Javier Perez is not our client. Elise Barton-Ryce is. She tried to keep her condition a secret, but too many of the Boston elite vacationed in Perez’s resort. He found out about his daughter and tried to establish visitation. He was denied. Two years later, Jessica was kidnapped from her nursery. My father, who started Titan, worked on the original case.

They traced the baby to Javier Perez, but were unable to recover her.”

Marisela watched Ian out of the corner of her eye. She witnessed no sign of disappointment or even the slightest hint of irritation. He told the tale with cool professionalism, as if he cared about nothing except dispensing the facts. So why did her gut tell her differently?

“Perez lives in Puerto Rico, right? That’s a U.S. Territory. Why didn’t the feds just go in and take the baby back, charge Perez with kidnapping, and lock him away where he couldn’t sell any more cheap .38 specials?”

Ian’s eyebrow arched. Undoubtedly, he was surprised by her knowledge of the law—and of basic geography. Well, fuck him. Just because earning her high school diploma had been a monumental pain in the ass didn’t mean she was uneducated.

“Perez vacated his home in Puerto Rico and ran the operation from various locations in South and Central America. For several years, he avoided extradition to the United States. His travel also gave him powerful contacts with terrorists and freedom fighters he might not have ever met otherwise. His arms dealing business multiplied until he became one of the most powerful suppliers of illegal weaponry in this hemisphere. I doubt he deals in .38 specials.”

Marisela shifted in her seat. Talk about a dangerous initiation into the world of international intrigue.

“Where is Perez now?”

“On his way to Miami for a meeting with his U.S. suppliers.

Marisela sat up. “His first trip to the States?”

“Not quite. Elise married not long after the kidnapping. Her new husband discouraged her from searching for her daughter and even pressured the authorities to forget about the warrants for Perez’s arrest.”

“Why?”

Ian shrugged. “That’s unclear. About ten years ago, Javier moved back to Puerto Rico without incident. He owns most of the authorities down there, though he lives on a private island just off of Puerto Rico. Because Elise dropped the kidnapping charges earlier, the government refuses to expend the manpower and resources to intervene in a muddy custody dispute.”

Ian changed the picture. Clearly shot from a distance, the photograph showed a young, dark-haired teenager flanked by bodyguards. The shot wasn’t clear enough for Marisela to see a resemblance between the teen and the baby, but she figured a seventeen-year-old on an island of gunrunners wouldn’t be hard to pick out.

“Elise recently divorced,” Ian continued, “and she has renewed her efforts to retrieve Jessica before she turns eighteen. Elise still has legal custody, but she has no idea what lies Javier has told Jessica about why she has no mother. She wants to plead her case before her daughter has the legal right to—”

“—tell her to go to hell?”

That was from Frankie, who so far, did done nothing but lean against the door.

Ian frowned, animosity reaching the center points of his eyes. Marisela caught sight of Ian’s hand, which had tightened into a ball.

Frankie looked no less angry, his hands pressed into his jacket so tightly, Marisela wondered if his fists were going to rip through the pockets.

Okay. Anger crackled between the two men, yet neither one breathed a word of discord. What was that about?

Ian tore his gaze from Frankie and focused his attention on her, his calm demeanor forced, but absolute.

“We have no idea how Jessica will react to her mother, but all our evidence so far points to a potentially joyous reunion.”

Suddenly, Max was beside Ian, causing Marisela to yelp. She glanced aside, embarrassed, while the mysterious Max handed Ian a manila folder, which he presented to Marisela. Inside was a letter, written in what was obviously a child’s hand. Marisela had to read no more than the first few lines to know that the child wanted her mother.

Dear Mommy,

Where are you? I miss you. Why haven’t you visited me?

She flipped the file shut and held it over her shoulder, but Frankie waved the papers away. He likely didn’t give a damn about the emotions of the case—which is precisely why Marisela didn’t read beyond that first impassioned plea. She couldn’t let her heart make this decision. Not when her life would be at stake in an arms dealer’s nasty, violent world.

“So our job is to retrieve Jessica in Miami?” she asked.

“Not exactly,” Ian replied.

“Then what exactly?” Frankie didn’t even try to keep the irritation out of his voice.

He pushed off from the wall and stormed to Ian’s desk. Slamming his palms flat on the polished teak, Frankie leaned forward just enough so his dark eyes were level with Ian’s cool blue.

“Tell her straight, Blake. She needs to know what she’s putting at risk. She needs to know she has a lot to lose.”

Ian cleared his throat, but Marisela saw his spine harden, as if he’d rather die than back down one inch to Frankie’s rough demand.

“In Miami, you’ll infiltrate Perez’s organization and finesse an invitation to his private enclave in Puerto Rico. Once there, you will contact Jessica, take her, and then utilize one of five exit strategies my team has created for a clean escape back to the mainland. Once you reach Florida with Jessica in your custody, I have assurances from the federal government that they will enforce the custody order Elise compelled the court to issue after the kidnapping.”

Marisela listened, her mind swirling as she sought to put all the pieces together. “You want us to steal her back?”

“Yes.”

“From an international arms dealer who has access to an arsenal equal to the United States Army?”

“Probably better than the U.S. Army, truth be told.”

“And we’ll be undercover?”

“Clearly,” Ian answered. “Several Titan operatives will be on call as backup. Some of my best people are already in Miami setting down the groundwork. But this operation depends on you and Frankie. Perez trusts no one and he trusts non-Hispanics even less. We have created a cover for you that will at least garner you a face-to-face introduction. Once you’re in, the rest of the team will follow your lead. You have two weeks to retrieve the girl. One week to train, one week to complete the mission. That’s our time frame.”

Marisela listened carefully, but her attention had not strayed far from Blake and Frankie’s standoff. Neither man had moved an inch, save for the occasional twitch of the eye or tick in the jaw. It was a real, old-fashioned Wild West showdown, without the guns or the hot, noon sun.

Bored with their testosterone-enhanced animosity, Marisela grabbed Frankie by the back of his jeans and tugged him away from the desk.

“I need a few minutes to think,” she said. “Just me and Frankie.”

Ian stood. “Of course.” He glanced at his watch. “The Oceanus must depart in no less than one hour.”

Marisela nodded. “One hour it is.”

“Please, avail yourself of anything in my office that will make your stay more pleasant.”

“Wait!” she said, suddenly wishing Blake hadn’t ordered her to leave her cell phone so she could call Lia and tell her… what? That some rich dude on a yacht bigger than city hall wanted her to go undercover with Frankie and steal back the daughter of a man who sold rocket launchers and surface-to-air missiles to killers like Osama bin Laden? Not likely. “I left my bag on the side of the warehouse, stuffed under the—”

“—already been retrieved,” Max replied. “I had the steward leave your bag in your stateroom.”

The boss and his manservant left, closing the door behind them. Frankie crossed his arms and stared at her, as if he expected her to make a decision instantaneously.

“I want in,” she said.

“Of course you do.”

She stretched, wincing when she raised her injured arm too far over her head. “Why do you say that as if you know everything about me?”

“Because I do, Marisela, I know you think you’re a different person now, but you aren’t. You saw that baby and you wanted to scoop her in your arms and play dress-up for three hours.”

“So? I like babies.”

“This one ain’t no baby no more, don’t forget that.”

“She’s still a child stolen from her mother.”

He nodded. “That’s true. But don’t sign on to this mission because you think it’s a good cause. Don’t sign on because you think your life is boring and this is just the thrill you need. And don’t sign on for the money.”

She stepped back, her eyes wide. “Then why the hell should I sign?” she asked, annoyed that he’d figured out her motivations so easily.

A grin spread over his face, a bright curve amid dark, swarthy skin. “So you can be with me for the next two weeks.”

She opened her mouth to tell him to go fuck himself, but realized she’d used that parting shot with him once already, with no discernable effect on his big head and cocky attitude. Instead, she matched his smile, then sidled up to him and slid her good hand around his waist. “Ooh, Frankie. What girl could resist a temptation like you?”

Frankie laughed. “You.”

“Damn straight. And don’t you forget it.”

* * *

“So, Max, think she’s in?”

Ian eased onto the leather couch in his stateroom, giving a cursory glance out the porthole as the crew prepared the
Oceanus
for voyage. If Marisela Morales didn’t agree to join this mission, there would be no need for a slow trip to Miami so she and Vega could train. In fact, if she didn’t agree, there’d be no mission at all.

The current scheme to inject Marisela and Frankie into Javier Perez’s dark world of violence and retribution had only a sixty-seven percent chance of success, according to his top operatives. The scheme exceeded their normal risk-ratio, but these weren’t normal circumstances. The generous retainer would solve only part of his problem. The profit margin on this operation would be tight, in light of his current financial situation. He needed the million dollars Elise Barton-Ryce had offered to find and retrieve her missing child—and the additional two million she’d extract from her trust only after young Jessica was safe in her mother’s arms.