KICK ASS: A Boxed Set (25 page)

“You don’t need another coat,” Frankie said, the reply meaningless. But his next words reinvigorated her initial chill. “I could use a new backpack, though.”

The message was clear. Watch your back.

Why was he so worried? Did he know something she didn’t? Something he couldn’t share through coded language?

Unnerved, she walked toward the back of the store. Jessica had disappeared inside a dressing room just a few seconds ago. So why didn’t she hear the rustling of clothes?

“Jessica? How’s it going?”

Jessica opened the door a few inches and snatched a pair of jeans that had been dangling on a hook just beside the three-way mirror. “I’m going to try the casual look next. Could you grab that pink top you showed me earlier? I think you’re right. It will look good with my hair.”

Completely ensconced in her own world of fabrics and color-schemes, Jessica shut the door and after a second, Marisela strolled back into the boutique and pointed to the pink blouse. One of the salesgirls immediately fetched the shimmery confection off the mannequin, and then hurried into the back to deliver it.

“They don’t sell backpacks here,” she finally answered Frankie. She had to pull herself together. She could have been totally misreading Frankie’s meaning, but she wouldn’t be much good at controlling the situation if she wasn’t thinking clearly. “I don’t really think we need another backpack, but I’ll keep an eye out.”

“
Bueno
. Call me if you find something you think I’ll like, okay?”

Marisela agreed, then disconnected the call and shoved the phone in her pocket. Frankie didn’t spook easily, but he had a vibe going that Marisela couldn’t have misinterpreted.

Marisela glanced around, suddenly noticing that none of the salesgirls had circled her in the last few minutes. One stood behind the cash register tallying a sale, the other showed a new customer a collection of blouses in yellow, coral, and bubblegum pink. Marisela glanced back at the dressing area, then at the door to the back, which was ajar. Was salesgirl number three digging into the new inventory again, desperate for another item to add onto her sales commission?

And where was Jessica? How damned long did it take to try on a pair of jeans?

Marisela walked to the back of the store, determined to move to a new shop. This one was suddenly giving her a case of the willies. She knocked on the door and waited for Jessica’s reply.

She heard nothing.

She didn’t have to call the girl’s name to know she wasn’t on the other side. But she shouted Jessica’s name loudly anyway, turning toward the front of the store to look for the bodyguard as she tugged her 9 mm out of her purse.

The guard named Inma burst in from the sidewalk outside, gun drawn. Marisela shouted for her to secure the store while she shot off the lock on the dressing room door then kicked it open.

Empty.

The salesgirls and the other customers dove to the floor, screaming in fear. Inma was already shouting into a communication device she wore on her wrist, pleading with her partner,
Dulce
, who had been watching the back entrance, to report.

Marisela didn’t wait for a reply, knowing again that they’d get none.

Marisela tore through the cluttered back room, her gun an extension of her arms and eyes, scanning the space ahead of her. Inma had entered behind her and quickly located the third salesgirl, who’d been pistol-whipped on the back of the head and shoved in a box of dresses. A scenario shot across Marisela’s brain—someone paying the girl to lure Jessica to the backroom with a promise of some fashion find, then striking her unconscious and running off with Jessica. But what about the second bodyguard? Where was she?

At the back door, Marisela nearly stumbled over Dulce’s body. Felled by a Bullet through the forehead, death stared blankly through her dark eyes, taking no heed of the frippery around them.

Marisela swallowed the vomit burbling from her stomach and turned to Inma, who stared emotionlessly at the corpse on the floor.

“Call Perez,” Marisela ordered in Spanish, her voice a harsh bark that snapped the woman out of the shock of seeing her partner dead on the floor. “We need backup.”

The woman did as she was told. Marisela eased to the delivery door, aware that someone could be lying in wait on the other side, ready to pick off whoever might attempt to retrieve Jessica.

She led with her gun, squatting low to the ground. Seeing no one, she burst through the door and rolled behind a trash bin in the alley behind the store, searching for any sign that might signal danger. Inma followed a moment later, moving around the opposite side of the trash bin to cover both ends of the narrow passageway between buildings.

There was no room back here for a car. Jessica must have been transported on foot, at least until the alley spilled onto the sidewalk twenty yards away. Someone would have seen something.

Marisela shoved her gun into her waistband, but didn’t release the grip. She wasn’t about to go waving her illegally owned handgun around, but she needed her weapon close at hand. She blocked out a sudden flash of what Jessica was likely experiencing right now—sheer and utter terror—and focused on finding the girl.

Inma was close at her heels as they blasted out of the alley into the sunlight of the wide, busy street. Tourists and businessmen alike strolled up and down the sidewalk and cars sped by, but her eyes focused on the strip of concrete just outside the alley. Two vans were double-parked.

Two vans with dark windows.

She shouted to Inma, who rushed to the second vehicle. Marisela flattened herself against the door of the van by the sidewalk, gun drawn, only barely aware of the passersby scattering, some screaming for the police.

The door handle didn’t give. She spun low under the tinted windows, then around toward the front of the vehicle where she aimed straight into the windshield. No one was inside.

Inma had done the same with the other van and now shook her head. Damn. Were the vans decoys?

Marisela lifted her gun sky-high and jogged into the street, glancing in both directions while cars swerved to avoid her. Down the block, a flash of sunlight caught her attention, reflecting off an enclosed cart, the kind caterers used to transport hot food. The kind large enough to move a teenage girl without anyone seeing. With no other lead, she lunged in that direction, yelling back for Inma to go in the opposite direction in case her hunch was dead wrong.

Mindful of the wide-eyed stares and startled cries of the people she passed, Marisela tucked the gun into her jeans and used her arms to pump her run to full speed. The two men pushing the cart, dressed in blue jackets and black pants like waiters, increased their speed when they caught sight of her behind them. She cursed. They wouldn’t run if they weren’t guilty as hell.

Ahead of them, Marisela spotted a large truck with the back door scrolled to the top and a ramp protruding from the bottom. No way could she catch them. No way.

Her lungs screamed with pain as she pushed her body to move faster. Her muscles cramped and she cursed the busy sidewalk and the assailants’ head start. She watched in painful defeat as they pushed the cart up into the truck, kicked away the ramps, and jumped to grab the roll-down door.

Marisela pulled her gun, but too many people were around to fire. She couldn’t risk a stray bullet. A few more yards and she could possibly damage the tires, slow their escape.

She cursed as her feet hit the pavement. A small sports car shrieked to a stop in front of her, blocking what might have been a wild and hopeless shot. She was tempted to pop the driver for getting in her way when he threw open the passenger side door and yelled for her to get in.

Max?

Bile rose in her throat as a horrifying possibility shot into her brain. She dove into the car and swung the door shut even as he peeled into traffic in pursuit of the van. After allowing herself to gulp air until the fire scalding her lungs subsided to an even steam, she turned and leveled her weapon at the man who’d trained her, the man who’d assured her that with Titan, she’d be in good hands.

“Tell me this isn’t a Titan operation, Max, because I swear to God, if Frankie dies because we left him behind, I’ll kill you myself.

Seventeen

Marisela slammed against
the seat when Max threw the car into gear and peeled off in pursuit of the kidnappers. Her gun slipped in her sweaty palm, but she caught the grip and held tight.

She pressed the nozzle to Max’s temple. “Tell me the truth.”

“Don’t aim a gun if you aren’t prepared to use it,” Max said evenly.

“If I have to sacrifice you to save Frankie, that’s what I’ll do.”

He glanced at her briefly, but didn’t move his head. However, when he swerved around a slow-moving taxi, the inertia threw her sideways. He had her gun in his hand before she could counter his move.

She opened her mouth to protest, but he tossed the 9 mm back in her lap with a smirk. “Keep that off me, understand? We’ve got a teenager to rescue.”

She checked her weapon, then braced her hands on the dashboard as he maneuvered around another trio of cars.

“You didn’t take her?” she demanded.

“Blake nixed that plan, Marisela. He’d never betray his own agents.”

“Then what the hell are you doing here and who took Jessica?”

Max hopped a curb to avoid slamming into the back end of a car stopped at an intersection. Marisela braced her hands on the roof of the car to keep from banging her head.

“Your guess is as good as ours,” he answered.

“Then why are you here? That’s no coincidence!”

“We were watching you.”

“Watching me? Why?”

“Standard procedure. Don’t get paranoid.”

“Too late,” she snapped.

“Frank will not be harmed,” Max assured her.

Marisela turned in the seat so she could see his face clearly, even if only in profile. Not that she expected to learn anything from a man with an uncanny ability to fade into the woodwork and hide his reactions.

“If we get Jessica back before Perez starts looking for someone to blame, maybe, just maybe, Frankie will get out of this alive,” she told him. “The bodyguard called Perez. He’ll be here any minute and might be tracking us right now” She leaned under the sun visor to check the bright afternoon sky for any sign of Perez’s helicopter. So far, nothing. “Exactly who am I supposed to tell Perez you are anyway if he shows up? Just a friendly bystander I carjacked?”

“Sounds like a plan.”

The truck turned abruptly, so Max threw the car into a controlled spin that brought them directly behind the escaping kidnappers. Marisela rolled down the window of the car and prepared to lean out to fire, but Max grabbed her arm and tugged her back in.

“Don’t waste bullets. We’re coming up on the marina. They’ll have to stop once we reach the pier. Get ready. I’m guessing they didn’t anticipate pursuit, but we can’t be sure.”

Marisela checked her gun clip. She’d fired only one shot at the locked door, so she was good to go with a full load of ammunition. Lot of help her trusty weapon and all her super-secret, intense training had done her and Jessica so far. Now that the kidnappers had returned to their van, there was no telling the firepower she and Max would face at the end of the narrow road. She glanced into the backseat, speechless when she caught sight of the weaponry Max had brought with him.

“You always come this prepared?”

“Of course,” he said with a smirk.

“Is there backup?”

Max glanced up at the rearview mirror. Marisela followed his gaze and caught sight of the mini-camera attached to the mirror that could easily rotate and survey both the inside and outside of the car.

“
Hola
, Ian,” she said instinctively leaning to the left as Max swerved around a trash can knocked into the air by the speeding truck.

“Hello, Ms. Morales,” Ian answered, his voice tinny and remote, and yet still annoyingly omniscient. “Max, the kidnappers are clearly heading for a boat moored at the end of the western side of the pier. The engine is idling and we see only one man aboard. We’ve moving in to intercept.”

“Any sign of the police?” Marisela asked, not sure if she wanted the cops there or not. While she certainly wouldn’t mind anyone and everyone with a gun working toward retrieving Jessica, there was the little matter of Marisela not being who she claimed to be, not to mention her criminal record whether the authorities thought her to be Dolores Tosca or Marisela Morales. She trusted that Ian would eventually extract her from the custody of the Puerto Rican officials, but not before her cover was blown.

“They’ve been alerted. Two helicopters left
Isla de Piratas
only moments after the bodyguard put in the call. Lie low, Max. We’ll extract you at 5-21-876.”

“Understood.” He turned toward Marisela fast enough to unnerve her with a tiny smirk. “You’ll be on your own soon. I’m an innocent bystander, remember?”

“Yeah, right.”

The truck screeched to a stop, and Max stopped the car some five yards behind. The minute the car jerked to a halt, Marisela took her cue, threw open the side door and dove out of the car. Max had grabbed one of the rifles from the backseat and had taken a similar position on the driver’s side. Until the authorities showed up, she had at least one other gun on her side.

The door of the truck rolled up and to Marisela’s horror, one of the men had thrown a terrified Jessica in front of him as a shield. The girl clawed at his arm, pressed hard against her windpipe, her eyes hard with terror and rage. Fucking coward! Marisela wasted no time in picking off his compatriot, who fell to the ground in a spurt of blood and brain.

The return fire from the man holding Jessica sent Marisela ducking behind her passenger-side door. From the corner of her eye, she saw Max aim and fire, the sound immediately followed by a howl of pain on the other side of the truck. The driver. Two down, one to go.

The kidnapper traded his hold around Jessica’s neck for an equally unyielding grasp around her waist. Holding her flush in front of him, he leaped down from the back of the truck, tucked against her like a parachute strapped to her back. Jessica screamed. On the tottering spiked heels she’d put on in the boutique, she couldn’t support the weight of their combined fall. Her legs buckled, but the man yanked her painfully to her feet.