Mercy Killing (Affairs of State Book 1) (13 page)

“That would be unfortunate.” Still no emotion. The voice might have been recorded. But he knew it wasn’t.

“I’ve put her off for the time being.” He was beginning to hyperventilate now, afraid he’d made a stupid mistake by calling. He felt light headed, nauseous. “She’s just too smart to be fooled for much longer.”

The voice didn’t as much speak as toll like a funeral bell. “You realize the consequences.”

Not all of them, I bet!
Except he was pretty sure he’d never work again for a government agency if he screwed this up. “Yes,” he lied then dared to ask one more thing. “Are they holding her for ransom?”

Long pause. “Probably not. Anything her family might pay for her release would be small change to them.”
Them
, the Russian Mafia?

“You really think she knew what she was doing when she connected with—”

“There’s evidence.”

Peter felt the mother of all headaches coming on. “What do we do now?” He probably shouldn’t be asking. They had told him this stuff was classified. And now he wasn’t even on a secure line. He was reminded of the old joke, “If I tell ya, I gotta kill ya.” It wasn’t funny anymore.

“We’ll locate her, eventually.”

Alive?
He was pretty sure he was going to puke any second now.

“We’ll be in touch,” the voice said. The line went dead.

Peter stared at the silent receiver in his hand. He hoped he hadn’t sounded like a panicky wimp.

He took a long, deep breath, forcing fear out through the backdoor of his mind, trying to conjure up more optimistic thoughts. Maybe Interpol would rescue Talia. Maybe the President would be informed and he’d send in the Marines.
Yeah, right.
Anyway, it was out of his hands now.

Meanwhile, Mercy was waiting for him. This thought generated a soothing wave of warmth through his body. His stomach quickly settled. He should go to her. But there was one more call he’d have to make if he was to stay home tonight with his wife. Peter punched in a local number.

On the second ring she picked up. “Where are you?”

The sexy tremor in Carlotta’s voice drove his libido higher. He smiled, savoring the classic male fantasy—two women at once. Carlotta and Mercy.

“Peter!”

The image shattered at the irritation in her voice.
Too good to be true,
he thought with a sigh. Neither of them would go for it. “I can’t get away tonight,” he said.

Silence.
Not good
.

“You know if there was any way, I’d be there in a heartbeat,” he whispered.

“The other day in your office you agreed we could still be together,” she complained.

“Yes but―”

“You are fucking her tonight, aren’t you?”

It was no use pointing out that Mercy was his wife and Carlotta the mistress, not the other way around. Neither would he risk stating the obvious, that his future rested with Mercy—not with some Mexican hottie who, at best, was a temporary lover.

“Of course I’m not sleeping with her,” he comforted her. “The woman’s an icicle, I told you that. It’s just that she’s upset about her mother going missing. If I leave tonight she might become suspicious.”

“This is the truth?” Thank God, she even sounded a little contrite.

“Absolutely. You know I love you.”

“
Si
.”

“I have to go now.”

“
Espera
,” she said softly. “I must tell you a little story first.”

He groaned. “Please, I need to—”

“It is short, and you will appreciate it. I promise.”

“Oh, all right.” Carlotta could be so damn cute when she felt needy. He imagined her soulful coffee eyes gazing up at him, her breasts heaving with passion. She had big, brown saucers of nipples. He loved her nipples.

“It is about my grandmother.”

Carlotta liked to tell family stories of her grandparents and great-grands in old Mexico, back when the revolutionaries fought it out in the hills. Romantic tales of daring and close escapes when the men rode with Emiliano Zapata, who later joined forces with the more famous Pancho Villa.

He relented. “Go on, but make it fast. She could come in at any moment.”

“
Si, absolutamente
,” she whispered. “It was like this. My grandmother, she had a boyfriend. He had been a
Zapatista
, a fierce fighter and fiercer lover.”

He chuckled. “I hope your grandfather never found out.”

“My grandmother was a lot like me. She was very clever. Very possessive too.”

“Ah.” He felt a warning quiver in his belly.

“She was a good wife in all ways but one. She loved this soldier, though he apparently did not love her quite as much. He came to her one day and told her he could see her no more, that he was marrying the young daughter of an industrialist in Caracas. Because of the great distance, they must part—though, he assured her, it broke his heart.”

“She must have been terribly distraught.”

“Grandmother was shattered,” she admitted, her voice softer still. “And a tiny bit angry. Do you know what she did?”

“No, what?” He was getting impatient. If he wasn’t going to be with Carlotta tonight, he wanted to join Mercy upstairs before she lost interest in their tryst. Already he could feel himself hardening with anticipation. Talking with one woman, thinking of another. And the longer he stayed away from Mercy’s bed, the better it was when they finally made love. Almost like being strangers.

“Grandmother sliced off his balls with a hocking knife.”

Carlotta’s words were uttered so casually it took him a moment to catch up with the horrific image. A man emasculated by a tool used to slaughter cattle. “She—” He gulped. “You’re kidding.”

“No, not kidding.” She gave him half a minute to think about it. “The women of my family, we take love very seriously. I will see you tomorrow night,
mi amor
?”

He swallowed. “Of course.” 

14

Sebastian’s sources of information within the
Distrito Federale
were many and reliable. Through them he knew the movements of key government officials and of the criminals who bought their allegiance. He knew which cabinet ministers’ wives slept around, the gifts their husbands bought for their mistresses, and the names of crooked police officers.

But his contacts weren’t limited to those in the city. He also kept track of bribable border guards hundreds of miles to the north. And “coyotes”—the paid guides hired by those desperate to cross the Rio Grande into the United States. All of this information, meticulously gathered over many months’ time, had finally begun to produce results.

Then the American CIA had stepped in, for reasons he still didn’t understand.

Sebastian stood at his bedroom window, looking out over the ranch’s working yard, stables, barns, fenced pens and sheds below. Two of his men stood guard at the gate. In the moonlight he could see them smoking, talking, their rifles cradled against their chests. He let the curtain fall back and sat on the edge of his bed.

All that he had planned was in jeopardy because of interference from the Americans. Lucius Clay had been poking around for months, threatening the fragile structure Sebastian had worked so hard to erect—his own cartel, independent from but linked to the largest criminal organizations in Central America.

Just yesterday, one of Sebastian’s spies had spotted Clay in Chapultapec, not far from where some of the Hidalgo trucks crossed the border. With the Davis woman working for him in the City, Clay apparently felt free to play elsewhere. The question was, what was Clay ultimately after?

Lately, American intelligence had been interested in the Montego Cartel, because of their increased involvement in weapons smuggling. Procuring everything from handguns to small rocket launchers—guns being the tools of modern gangs in their attempts to wipe out each other, and grow their territory. The weapons were bought through illegal sources in the U.S. and moved into Mexico. Despite elaborate plots on the part the DEA and border patrols, there was a steady flow of arms south and across the border.

Then again, maybe the CIA didn’t care about weapons being shipped out of America. Maybe they were after the Colombian drug lords who had found allies among Mexican gangs. But drug enforcement was more often the territory of the American DEA, so CIA involvement didn’t make sense to Sebastian.

His head pounded. His eyes burned with lack of sleep. He hadn’t been able to put his own shipments together in weeks because of the Americans’ meddling. He’d had to delay his other plans as well. Why couldn't they just stay in their own country? They were going to spoil everything.

Sebastian tugged off his boots, shook red grit out of them and tossed one then the other across the room. Thud. Thud. He peeled off dusty socks. Stripped down. After showering he stretched out naked on the gnarled oak-frame bed he’d inherited from his parents, who had inherited it from their parents. The same bed in which he’d slept alone since his wife’s death. This bed was sacred. He wouldn’t even bring a woman into the house with Maria here, let alone into this room, to lie with him on this bed. When sex became a necessity, he relied on the services of one of the fine hotels in the city.

Sebastian stared up at the ancient beams, riddled with worm holes though still able to support the weight of the thick plaster ceiling above him. Life was sometimes like that. You built a good and strong world for yourself and your family, only to discover the worms had burrowed in without your knowing it. Then all you could do was protect what you had and hope that you stayed strong enough to resist the rot that came from being surrounded by worms.

No, he thought again, that wasn’t all you could do. You could destroy the worms before they weakened the structure of your life too much. Before they destroyed you.

Lying there, he worked out the details of a new plan that had begun to gel in his mind as he’d showered.

Maybe he could use the Davis woman to get information on Clay and keep the
hombre
out of his way. He liked that idea. Use one against the other. But first he’d have to figure out how to win Mercy Davis’s trust. How to seduce her away from Clay.

Seduction
. Funny that the word had come to him so easily when he’d thought of her. He smiled at the pleasurable possibilities.

15

Mercy estimated she’d have fifteen or twenty minutes before Peter joined her in her suite, where they’d make love. She wasn’t sure how she felt about that—about being tender and caring so soon after their fight. Or about making love with a man she no longer knew. Maybe had never really known.

Was it possible to love someone but not trust him? To care for a person who always put himself and his own needs ahead of hers? When Peter cheated on her so soon after their wedding, and she’d caught him, he’d seemed terrified that he’d lost her. “It will never happen again. I swear, Mercy. It won’t even cross my mind.” He’d actually wept in her arms. And she’d believed him. As far as she knew, that was the only time he’d ever lied to her. Until now. Which made her wonder—how many times and in how many ways had he deceived her without her discovering it?

She decided it was better if she didn’t think about that now. She wasn’t in the most rational frame of mind. Talia had been missing for weeks now, and Mercy felt her loss every waking moment. Sometimes she could hardly think at all. So now wasn’t a good time to make important decisions. About her marriage. About anything.

She owed Clay another report. If she didn’t send it off now, she’d still be thinking about it when Peter came to her. If he really wanted to make amends by helping her find Talia, then she should at least try to show him she appreciated his effort. Maybe he was right. They needed to make love and behave like a normal married couple. After all, she did want to make their marriage work. She’d send off her report to Clay then try to relax and enjoy sharing her body with her husband.

Quickly, she booted up her laptop and e-mailed Lucius Clay her latest report:

Tracked down Juarez and Iglesias, two names on your list. Attended their wives’ local garden club. Husbands joined later for cocktails. Neither a likely suspect, IMO.

Third name on list, Martinez, fourth-generation hotelier. Improbable he’d jeopardize family fortune by smuggling anything, let alone people. Need to investigate further.

Sebastian Hidalgo more promising. Sophisticated, intelligent, reputation for ruthlessness. According to local press, involved in opium-growing syndicate. Arrested twice on drug-related charges. Implicated in recent contract killing. Lawyers always get him off, I’m told.

The few solid facts she’d uncovered about Hidalgo included his inheritance of a sprawling cattle ranch. Apparently the considerable wealth this generated wasn’t enough for him. Greedy bastard.

She promised Clay her next report would include more about the Mexican cattle baron. She’d also look into other names on his list. Before signing off she added a final note: