Traitor, The (2 page)
Rafe slouched against the plush bench of his corner booth,
idly running his finger around the wet circle rings on the table. He'd give
Lupe fifteen minutes more. He checked his watch again as if sheer will power
could urge the lethargic minute hand forward. He suppressed a yawn, loosened
the knot of his tie, and finally reached for his wallet.
That's when he noticed the three women.
They surrounded a small round table across the room, flimsy,
high-heeled shoes on their feet, their bare legs swinging above the floor as
they sat on backless stools. A healthy row of Margaritas and Piña Coladas lined
up on sturdy paper coasters in front of them, and the empty glasses showed they'd
been at it a while.
He shook his head. Been too long, old man, when a bevy of
pretty girls doesn't catch your attention right away. Even as he pulled a
twenty from his wallet, he observed from the corner of his eye that one of the
women rose from her chair and wended her way toward him.
Deliberately and very provocatively, her legs stretched,
thighs flashing beneath the deep blood red of her skirt. Her hips swayed gently
and the hem of her dress swished like satin on silk as she moved straight
toward his booth.
As she got closer, he saw that her skin was flawless, pale
and creamy as pearls. Her eyes never wavered from his, deep coals set in a
smooth face, cheekbones that spoke of the ancestry of some long-ago Spanish
conquistador.
Holy Mother of God.
Had it been that long?
Her tangle of dark brown curls fell messily to her
shoulders, bare except for two ridiculous tiny straps that rose from the mounds
of her breasts. And very lovely breasts they were, displayed from the deep vee
of her neckline.
Rafe tilted his head to look around her. Behind her, the remaining
two women stared at the girl's back, their hands shielding mouths that held
back laughter. Their eyes sparkled and twin dimples flashed in their cheeks.
Sisters, he thought instantly. Older than the sultry vixen
making her way toward him, but definitely sisters. Macbeth's three witches,
concocting some seductive brew for their unsuspecting thane.
He flashed his most congenial grin and watched the woman
approach.
Bella hesitated and then ploughed on, undaunted by the grin
on the stranger's face. Damn her sisters.
Come on, Bella, don't be so
serious, Bella. Let down your hair, Bella.
And here she was. Over an hour
and too many drinks later, she rose to the challenge of her meddling sisters.
After all, what did it matter? Except for her family, she
knew no one in Los Angeles. As soon as she delivered the papers on Diego Vargas
to the DEA field office tomorrow morning, she was heading straight back to
Sacramento. She'd never see this man again.
And that was a good thing because she was dressed to the
nines in a borrowed garment that surely made her look like a hooker, neckline
plunging clear down to the Promised Land. Her hair pulled from its usual tidy
knot, curled and then ruffled so it looked like a tempest had swept around her.
Her sisters had pinched her cheeks until she looked like someone who'd just
tumbled out of bed after a very satisfying romp.
And now this very lean, dark stranger with crisp black hair
and an attractive five-o'clock shadow looked like he wanted to do things to her
that she'd only read about in magazines.
Faltering at the last moment, she stumbled in the four-inch
heels Anita had pushed on her, toeless shoes with thin red straps. A startled
look crossed the man's face as he rose to catch her. Perfect, she thought, but
the idea was foiled when another man, a short Hispanic dressed shabbily in
Levis and tee-shirt brushed past her.
That gentle bump was all it took.
As graceless as a top spinning down, she wavered, wobbled,
and crashed to the floor. Her dress front dipped dangerously close to her
nipples and her hands reached backward to cushion her fall. She felt the jolt
from wrists to elbows and wondered briefly if the tiny crack she heard was the
breaking of some small bone. Or her stupid pride.
Worse than anything, the hem of her dress bunched around her
waist and she remembered the devilishly skimpy panties she'd purchased last
Christmas and wore for the first time tonight. She opened her eyes to the
amused look and extended hand of the stranger.
Up close, she recognized the swarthy complexion of a desert
tribe descendant, the black slash of brow across his face, the kink of curl in
the cropped dark hair. He skimmed oddly flecked green eyes down her body,
reminding her again of her underwear.
While she lay there in a stupor, he grabbed her hand, a
knowing smile carving a perfectly sculpted mouth as he pulled her to her feet. "Are
you all right?"
Good God, he was lovely, Bella thought, imagining his eyes
sparkled with more inane questions.
Are you single? Are you available? Are
you really wearing underwear because I wasn't sure what I saw while you
sprawled in front of me?
Bella shook her head mutely, heat creeping into her face and
chest, and glanced over her shoulder. Her sisters sat twirling thin straws in
colorful drinks. They smiled calmly and waved. They knew she'd hurt little more
than her pride.
The stranger's hand, large and warm, enclosed hers in a
strong grip. "Why don't you have a seat?"
So polite, so suave.
She wrenched a modicum of dignity from within and tugged her
hand from his gentle grip. "I believe a trip to the ladies room might
restore a little of my decorum."
Rafe swept his arm to the right where the restrooms lay and
executed a courtly bow. She laughed. Classy woman, he thought. She'd need a
moment to recover her pride, and he needed to deal with his very tardy
informant.
When Rafe turned back to the booth again, Lupe had already
settled into the opposite corner, a toothpick protruding from between his
teeth, a whiskey in front of him.
"You're late," Rafe growled. "Again." He
slid into the booth across from his informant.
Lupe Rodriquez tilted his head to observe the retreating
figure of the woman Rafe had just pulled off the floor. "Hey, man, seems
like you was passin' your time real nice."
Rafe glowered and leaned across the space between them. "Don't
screw around, Lupe. What have you got for me?"
Rodriquez withdrew a crumpled envelope from his jeans
pocket, smoothed out the crinkled edges, and handed it across the table. Rafe
scanned the contents quickly. Dates, docking times, and pier numbers, but no
ship names or ports of entry.
"What the hell, Lupe? I need more information than
this." He slipped the paper into his inside jacket pocket and crumpled up
the envelope.
Lupe glanced around and lowered his voice. "Don't
worry. I'm seeing a guy tonight. He has the rest of the info."
Rafe nodded. "Were you followed?"
"Possibly." Lupe spread his hands and grinned. "But,
hermano,
I am as slick as the oil on my mama's tortilla pan. No one sees
me if I do not want them to."
"Some day that cocky attitude is going to get you
killed," Rafe warned, wondering again why he trusted this exasperating,
over-confident man. He opened his wallet, extracted a large bill, and pushed it
across the table. Lupe swiped it up faster than a street huckster.
"See you around
, amigo,"
the little man
said, sliding across the bench.
At that precise moment, the woman in the red dress glided
past the table on her way back from the restroom.
"Chica,"
Lupe hailed her retreating back,
"mi
amigo está aquí." My friend is here.
When she turned at the sound of his voice, he added.
"Por
favor. Mi amigo piensa que usted es muy bonita."
My friend thinks you are very pretty.
Christ, no one
was more of an ass than Lupe with a few whiskeys in him.
Rafe stood belatedly and indicated the seat opposite him.
The woman hesitated a moment, then inclined her head as regally as a queen and
occupied the place Lupe had just vacated.
"Buenos noches,"
Lupe tossed over his
shoulder as he sauntered across the room and exited through the large wide
doors of Stuckey's entrance.
Now what?
What did this bold, dark-eyed beauty want? If Rafe hadn't
glimpsed the underlying vulnerability in her eyes, he'd have thought she was a
high-priced call girl. If he hadn't observed how the sisters watched like hawks
from their position nearby, ready to swoop down at the first sign of danger, he'd
have thought she wanted something quick and elemental.
At her smile a swirl of desire quickened his groin. A few
hours with a woman like her would do wonders for his mood.
He stretched his hand across the table. "Hello,"
he said, giving her the slow smile his mother always said could melt the
icebergs of Greenland. "I'm Ashraf, long A, call me Rafe."
Lupe almost reached Francisca's apartment.
He had delivered the information to Rafe. Tomorrow he would
meet with the young Norteño gang member who could supply him with the last
pieces of information to pass along to Rafe. Life was good. The night was still
young, and the thrill of his love for his girlfriend overshadowed his natural
caution.
Lupe was only half a block away, deep in the thought of
snuggling up close to his
esposita
, when a warning raised the hackles on
his neck. The limousine appeared out of nowhere, its windows tinted so darkly
Lupe could not see inside. He did not need to.
He had no doubt who drove the black sedan. Who sat in the
backseat. Though he had no reason to believe his cover had been blown, he felt
irrational fear as he fingered the Guadalupe Virgin's medallion.
The driver's door swung open. Gabriel Santos climbed out and
rested his giant's hands covered in expensive leather gloves on top of the car.
"Hola." The single-word greeting sounded ominous to Lupe's guilty
ears.
"El jefe,"
Lupe said,
"¿Porqué está
usted aquí?"
But he was very much afraid that he knew why Santos was
here, so close to the home of the woman he loved.
"Consiga en el coche." Get in the car.
Lupe did not dare disobey Santos' command, so he quickly
slid into the back seat.
At first he thought there were two passengers in the back.
He smelled the distinctive cologne and knew one of the occupants was Diego
Vargas,
El Vaquero.
The other person sat in the middle, but his head
slumped forward and his limp hands dangled between his legs. Lupe feared to look
at either of the men and kept his eyes drilled to the back of Santos' head as
he pulled the car onto the street.
They drove in silence for thirty, forty minutes. Lupe lost
track of the time. His only thoughts were of Francisca. He pictured her waiting
for him, a bowl of salsa and chips on the coffee table, the television tuned to
her favorite show. Waiting. But he was not sure he would return to her this
night.
He desperately wanted to ask the name of the third man.
Abruptly the car stopped and Santos reached up to turn on
the dome light. Lupe glanced involuntarily toward the person beside him like a
man drawn to a fatal car crash. Jesús Novato, the young Norteño.
His face was a bloody pulp, but Lupe recognized the tattoo
on the left side of his neck, a red X4, fourteen. Home-grown, a prison tat. He
glanced at the hands between Novato's knees and saw the missing fingers and the
dark stain that covered the groin of his jeans.
¡Madre del Dios! Lo castraron.
Lupe would never see
Francisca again. Nor his beautiful baby boy. They would castrate him too.
#
Fueled by the unaccustomed liquor, Bella had babbled about
her family's immigration from Zihuatanejo, Mexico, before she was born, of her
three older brothers and sisters and the family's difficult adjustment to life
in North America.
After two hours of conversation and coffee – no dancing – her
loose-tongued chatter revealed that she had three older sisters, one who'd died
at a young age. Died, she'd told Rafe, although in her heart of hearts she
believed Maria was still alive somewhere.
Frivolous chatter between strangers. Neither had revealed a
last name.
All the while, she'd escaped in the swirling emeralds of his
eyes slashed through with tiny black flecks like angry cuts. Sharp and probing,
the eyes were a strange contrast to his coppery skin and short thick lashes. A
wide scar bisected his left eyebrow and gave him the roguish look of a pirate.
A rush of pheromones flooded her as his gaze wandered to her mouth and lingered
there, then dipped to the cleavage that spilled from the juncture of her
breasts.
By contrast to her, she realized, he'd revealed almost
nothing about himself. Which was fine because all she wanted was a few hours of
casual flirtation.
Breaking off from his steady gaze, she glanced around the
bar. Consuelo and Anita gave her the sign it was time to go. For all their urging,
they had no intention of letting their baby sister go home with a stranger. Not
that she would, even though she quite liked Ashraf, call him Rafe, long A.
Isabella, she'd said in turn, call her Bella. No last names.
Which was exactly how she wanted it.
She liked his wry sense of humor and gentlemanly manners.
And there was the assurance of his badge which he'd flashed early on. They were
practically comrades in arms, she thought, but of course, she didn't tell
him
that.
A part of her almost wished he hadn't revealed that he
worked for the government. Although, in truth, she'd hardly glanced at the badge.
Was he FBI, CIA or ... ? Some triple-letter acronym. And
Bella didn't want to know which one.
What she really wanted to know was if he were as sinewy and
muscled as he appeared beneath the fine white shirt and the expensive gray
suit. If his skin were as cool and smooth as it looked. His fingers lay on the
table top, long and dark, strong and capable looking.
She imagined all kinds of clever things those hands, those
fingers, could do. Involuntarily, she ran her tongue over suddenly dry lips. A
delicious chill ran up her spine.
"Are you cold?" Without waiting for an answer, he
scooted around the booth, removed his jacket, and draped it over her shoulders.
He lingered there, his arm draped around her body while her fingers caressed
the expensive wool. She wanted to savor every moment of the evening with this exciting
man.
She stared at the cup of coffee in front of her as the
caffeine hit her brain. Her eyes lowered, she pulled the jacket closer around
the deep red of her dress.
What now? How would they end this delightful seduction? She
wished she'd paid better attention to Romance 101 in law school. But, no,
discovery motions and appellate court cases had always been more interesting to
her than socializing. But now, in spite of knowing next to nothing about
Ashraf, call me Rafe, she wasn't eager to leave.
He placed a warm hand over hers and smiled a flash of
brilliant white. Her eyes flickered toward the bartender, a rotund,
heavily-bearded man who used a gigantic bar mop to wipe down the backsplash.
With swift, efficient movements, he stacked clean glasses beneath the counter
and restocked the liquor section.
Rafe's eyes followed Isabella's. "Looks like we've
closed down the bar." He smiled, noting the dwindling number of customers.
"And your sisters are waiting for you."
He hesitated, naturally cautious. "Unless you want to
get the hell out of here," he added. He ought to put her into a cab and
send her on her way, safe and sound, toward the secure arms of her witchy
sisters. "My apartment's a few miles from here," he offered instead.
She laughed a silver bell sound. "Is this the part
where you offer to show me your etchings?" She sidled closer to him, her
lips hovering inches from his mouth, her thick straight lashes shadowing her
pale skin.
He opened his mouth to speak, but impulsively brushed his
lips across her cheek, inhaling her clean scent. Beneath his mouth he felt the
jump of the vein at her temple and the steady thrumming of her pulse beneath
his hand. Any thought of putting her in a cab flew out of his mind.
"There are many things I'd like to show you," he
whispered in her ear, "but not one of them is an etching."
He slid from the booth and took Isabella's hand, leading her
past the bar where the bartender hardly acknowledged their leaving. That casual
lack of interest should've sent a warning jiggle to the back of Rafe's mind,
but they arrived at the sisters' table and introductions were made while the
gentle scent of Isabella's perfume banished all thoughts of the bartender and
his shifty eyes.
"I'll walk you to your car," Rafe insisted.
The sisters left first while he and Isabella followed at a
discreet distance. Outside, in the balmy air, typical southern California
weather, he removed the jacket from her shoulders and slung it over his arm.
The dark alley stretched to the right side of Stuckey's,
flanked on one side by an over-sized industrial bin and a large flat of crates
on the other. The alley was strangely clean, with only the slight odor of ocean
some miles to the west.
Rafe glimpsed the light winking through the faint mist at
the other end where the sisters had already disappeared. He felt the cool,
smooth grip of Isabella's fingers inside his hand and the gentle knocking of
her hip against his thigh. Just the swish of her dress against his pant leg
aroused him, and the next moment, the mere touch of his hand to her bare back
sent a rush of blood to his groin.
Halfway down the alley, he swung her around, trapping her
against the cool brick of the building. He hesitated, hoping he hadn't misread
the cues he'd gotten all night. The rough texture of the wall grazed his palms
as they pressed the wall on either side of her head.
Without a word of protest, she wrapped her arms around his
shoulders and ran her fingers through the hair at his neck. Her body quivered
against him as he brushed his lips across her warm mouth, tentatively, then
with greater urgency. Another electric jolt of desire ran through him as their
tongues met and danced in an urgent mating rhythm.
His jacket dropped unheeded to the ground as he ran his hand
down the side of her dress, reached the short hemline, and explored upward
along the smooth curve of her thigh. The sound of her groan fueled his desire.
He pinned her to the wall, feeling himself grow harder as he ground his body
into her, trying to relieve the tension in his groin. The improbable thought
crossed his mind that if he threw her to the ground on the hard cement beneath
their feet, she'd open herself to him with the same fever that gripped him.
Brain addled with passion, he suddenly remembered himself.
Who he was, and why he was here. He halted his rigorous assault on Bella's
mouth and cursed himself for being so caught up in the taste and smell of her
that his mind ignored everything around him.
Every other sensory image.