Off the Rails Read online

  Off the Rails is a work of fiction. Names, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  A Loveswept Ebook Original

  Copyright © 2016 by Jill Sorenson

  All rights reserved.

  Published in the United States by Loveswept, an imprint of Random House, a division of Penguin Random House LLC, New York.

  LOVESWEPT is a registered trademark and the LOVESWEPT colophon is a trademark of Penguin Random House LLC.

  Ebook ISBN 9781101965146

  Cover design: Caroline Teagle

  Cover photograph: © Kiulkson/iStock

  randomhousebooks.com

  v4.1

  ep

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Acknowledgments

  By Jill Sorenson

  About the Author

  Chapter 1

  What a clusterfuck.

  Ian Foster shifted his wounded leg and tried not to look impatient. He was waiting for his new boss, Special Agent in Charge Mark LaGuardia, to give him the details of a short-term assignment in Mexico. Ian wanted to go now. Every second that ticked by, the target slipped farther away, while Ian sat in a dull office building overlooking the San Diego Bay.

  Homeland Security’s International Operations Division was about five miles north of the border, removed from the hustle and bustle of customs inspections. Removed from the real action, as far as Ian was concerned. He hadn’t expected to work for Homeland again. He’d hated his short stint as a border patrol agent. The DEA had been a better fit, but that was over now.

  Everything good was over.

  SAC LaGuardia toggled the connection on his laptop until the frayed screen on the wall behind him lit up with a blocky blue ICE-HSI logo. ICE, or Immigrations and Customs Enforcement, had become part of Homeland Security Investigations after 9/11. LaGuardia entered his password and accessed a file on the target, Armando Villarreal.

  Ian knew the cartel member well. They’d formed a relationship while Ian had been working undercover at the Hotel del Oro in downtown San Diego. Last week, Villarreal had been shot by his business partner during a sting operation gone wrong. Somehow he’d managed to stumble away from the scene and evade arrest. He’d also taken a hostage.

  Two photos of Villarreal popped up on the screen. In the first he wore a neatly pressed military uniform. The second showed him in traditional farmworker garb, with a young woman by his side and a curly-haired toddler at their feet.

  Ian wasn’t fooled by the photos. Villarreal was a ruthless criminal, not a heroic family man.

  The next picture was of Caitlyn Weiss, a veterinarian who worked at a clinic near the Hotel del Oro. She’d been missing since the shootout. Customs officers had confirmed that her vehicle had crossed the border. It was assumed that Villarreal had kidnapped the woman and ordered her to drive him to Tijuana. He’d left a trail of blood from the hotel to the clinic.

  “How far can he get with a hostage and a critical wound?” Ian asked.

  “I have no idea. He’s probably dead or dying in some hovel near the border.”

  “And if he’s not?”

  “We want to take him alive and keep it quiet.”

  “At the expense of a U.S. citizen?”

  “Not at all. Ms. Weiss is our top priority.”

  Ian regarded this assertion with skepticism. LaGuardia wanted to capture Villarreal to exploit his cartel connections, not to save the hostage. She was collateral damage. That was why they hadn’t launched a public, transnational manhunt.

  Which was a mistake, in Ian’s opinion.

  It was also a mistake to underestimate Villarreal’s ability to adapt and survive. He was a tough motherfucker, cold as ice. Ian didn’t think Villarreal would kill an innocent woman, but he might not be able to protect her from his dangerous associates.

  LaGuardia changed the images on the screen once again, revealing a photo of someone else Ian knew—intimately.

  Maria Santos.

  Four years ago, as a border patrol agent, he’d found her in the desert, raped and badly beaten. He hadn’t been able to investigate the crime because it had happened on Mexican soil. She’d been sent back to Mexico as soon as she’d recovered. His frustration over the case was a major factor in his decision to leave U.S. Customs and Border Protection. He’d walked away from the line, but he’d never forgotten Maria.

  In the photo, Maria was sitting in a hospital bed. It must have been taken a few days after they’d met, because her face still bore the bruises from the attack. She was achingly beautiful, regardless. Tall and willowy, with long black hair and big brown eyes.

  “If Villarreal is alive, he’ll try to contact his daughter,” LaGuardia said. “Miss Santos is the only one who knows where the girl is.”

  Ian nodded his understanding. He’d reconnected with Maria a few weeks ago at the Hotel del Oro. She’d been working there as a maid, and was in the country illegally. She’d recognized him on the spot, but kept his true identity a secret. Against his better judgment, they’d gotten involved.

  Maria was the reason he’d been shot. She was the reason he’d broken cover, and the reason he’d been forced to resign from his position as a DEA agent. She’d been trying to warn Ian about an ambush. Chuy Peña, Villarreal’s partner, had caught her on the phone with Ian. Peña had terrorized her at gunpoint. Ian had rushed to her aid instead of waiting for backup. In the melee that followed, Peña shot Ian in the leg and Villarreal in the back. A stray bullet had also struck Peña’s girlfriend, the hotel receptionist.

  She’d died in Ian’s arms.

  LaGuardia cleared his throat and continued. “Miss Santos has a letter addressed to Villarreal’s daughter. Apparently he asked her to deliver it in person.”

  Ian’s stomach twisted at the mention of the letter. He’d found out about it yesterday—after he’d spent the night with Maria, and woken up alone in bed. He didn’t know why she’d left him without saying goodbye, or why she’d agreed to do a favor for Villarreal.

  “Santos’s mother lives in Mezcala, Guerrero. We think she’ll go there after she delivers the letter. I want you to speak to Santos, confirm the location of Villarreal’s daughter, and take some photos of the area. My team will do the rest.”

  “No problem,” Ian said, although this wasn’t the assignment he’d anticipated. It was a bullshit sideline job he could do in his sleep. Even so, Ian didn’t see any reason to decline. He couldn’t wait to catch up with Maria, despite the fact that she’d walked out on him.

  He was a fool for her. Always would be.

  “Pretty girl,” LaGuardia remarked, watching Ian for a reaction.

  Ian didn’t answer. Maria’s looks weren’t really a matter for debate. Anyone with clear vision could agree on her appeal.

  “How old is she? Twenty?”

  “Twenty-two,” Ian said in a low voice. He knew where
LaGuardia was going.

  “You met her when she was eighteen.”

  “Briefly.”

  “And you were with her the night before last.”

  Ian didn’t see what difference it made. He’d already tendered his resignation, and he was twenty-eight, not forty-five. If he’d pursued Maria after apprehending her at the border four years ago, that would have been extremely inappropriate. But he hadn’t.

  “She assisted Villarreal with his getaway.”

  “She gave him some towels to stop the bleeding,” Ian countered.

  “And then she fled the scene.”

  “She’s illegal. What do you expect?”

  “You don’t think it’s odd that she promised to deliver a letter for him?”

  “No, I don’t think it’s odd.” He thought it was stupid, and softhearted, and infuriatingly selfless. But that was Maria to a fault. She was going to get herself killed someday by helping people in need.

  “Did you sleep with her?”

  Ian refused to answer. It was none of his fucking business.

  LaGuardia leaned back in his chair. “There’s a name for patrol agents who prey on female aliens.”

  Ian had a few choice names for LaGuardia also, but he kept them to himself. He hadn’t laid a hand on Maria or any other female he’d encountered on the line. He wasn’t the kind of man who’d take advantage of a vulnerable woman. He’d broken cover to protect Maria, so it rankled to be accused of predatory sexual behavior. It rankled hard. “I didn’t prey on her, sir. With all due respect, what happened between us was completely consensual.”

  LaGuardia’s mouth thinned with disapproval. “The power imbalance between a federal agent and an illegal immigrant rules out any kind of permission or consent.”

  Ian couldn’t defend himself against these charges, and he resented LaGuardia for making them. LaGuardia didn’t understand the nature of his relationship with Maria, and Ian wasn’t going to fill him in on the intimate details. There had been no coercion. No penetration, in fact. He’d barely touched her. Did a thirty-second hand job even count as sex?

  “I don’t want your personal feelings to interfere with this assignment,” LaGuardia added.

  “They won’t.”

  The SAC gave him a cynical look. “You requested a transfer from the line right after you met Santos. You crashed and burned in the DEA as soon as you came into contact with her again. But you don’t foresee any problems this time?”

  Ian clenched his jaw tight. “No, I don’t.”

  “You’re full of shit,” LaGuardia said flatly. “If I had a choice, I wouldn’t put you on my team. You’re only here because you know this girl and you’ve got a better chance of getting information from her than anyone else.”

  “Thanks for the vote of confidence,” Ian said, disgruntled. “I’ll feel real safe in Mexico knowing you’ve got my back.”

  LaGuardia narrowed his eyes. “Just keep your dick in your pants, Foster. If you touch her or anyone else while you’re on duty—if you so much as jerk off south of the border—I’ll have your credentials stripped and you’ll be mopping up piss in the holding vans for a living.”

  Ian took a deep breath, trying to control his anger. He’d have liked to mop the floor with LaGuardia’s face. It wasn’t easy for him to sit here and take this abuse. He wasn’t used to failing. Despite his rough childhood, he’d done well for himself. He’d been an ace student, a dedicated athlete, a crack shot. He’d expected to succeed. But instead of making his way up the ranks in law enforcement, he’d fallen from grace. This career setback had really thrown him for a loop.

  “Are we clear?”

  “Crystal.”

  LaGuardia’s harsh expression softened. He was one of those hard-ass military types, overworked and underpaid. He looked worn down.

  Ian was worn down too. His undercover assignment as a drug dealer had taken a toll on him. It had reminded him of his dysfunctional childhood home. He probably needed a break, not another stress test, but he had to see Maria again. He couldn’t rest until he was sure she was safe. Villarreal’s enemies would be organizing their own search. They might target his daughter.

  Maria had always been a trouble-magnet. And a man-magnet, through no fault of her own.

  “They say you speak Spanish,” LaGuardia said.

  “That’s right.”

  “You won’t pass for Mexican.”

  “No,” he agreed. He’d grown up in a poor Mexican neighborhood in San Diego. He’d wanted to belong to a big Mexican family, like his best friend Adam’s. But he spoke Spanish like a pocho, and he didn’t look Mexican. He had ordinary brown hair and hazel eyes. His father had probably been some white-trash tweaker or a homeless bum. Maybe a traveling businessman.

  Who knew? His mother certainly didn’t.

  “We’ve got some camera equipment for you in the back,” LaGuardia said, taking a few documents out of his briefcase. There was a passport, photo ID, and media credentials. “You’re Ian Phillips, freelance photographer for National Geographic.”

  Ian accepted the items with gratitude. Pretending to work for Nat Geo wasn’t a bad gig. Too bad when this short assignment ended he’d be neither a successful photographer nor a DEA agent. He doubted he’d have a job with ICE, either.

  Most SACs weren’t fond of rogue agents. Some of them didn’t even like independent thinkers.

  “Thank you for the opportunity,” Ian said, regardless.

  LaGuardia drummed his fingertips against the surface of the table. “You were at the top of your class in the academy. Your fitness level and IQ scores are impressive. I don’t question your drive or your intelligence, but I’m looking for a team player. Prove that you can follow orders and stay out of trouble, and I’ll consider you for a long-term position.”

  “I appreciate it.”

  LaGuardia grunted in response. “You’re dismissed.”

  Ian picked up the camera equipment and a plane ticket to Mexico City on his way out. Then he bought some clothes and supplies before returning to his hotel. Tossing aside his backpack, he strode into the bathroom. After a quick shower, he left the stall, wrapping a towel around his waist. He wiped the steam from the mirror and took a hard look at himself.

  What had Maria seen in him? He was a mess of shaggy hair and hollow eyes. His body was too lean. He was all muscle and bone and sharp edges. No softness, no give. No extra padding. He’d played the role of a junkie as if he’d been born to it.

  And he had been.

  He closed his eyes and thought about their night together. Her sleek curves and honeyed skin. Her hot mouth underneath his. Her cries of pleasure and tears of relief.

  The empty place she’d left beside him. Inside him.

  He took out a pair of clippers and leaned his head over the trash can for a buzz cut. The uneven layers fell away like dead weight. When he was finished, he used the hotel soap to lather the stubble on his jaw. He shaved with swift precision, wicking the blade over his skin.

  He paused at his upper lip. He didn’t want to look like a drug addict anymore. He also didn’t want to look like Ian Foster: dirt-poor, white trash, desperate to escape his upbringing. So he set down the razor and rinsed his face, leaving his mustache intact.

  It was only a few days’ growth. He didn’t resemble a 1970s porn star or a Wild West gunslinger, but he wasn’t quite himself, either. He was Ian Phillips, hipster photographer.

  National Geographic photographer.

  He nodded at his reflection, pleased with the easy transformation. In less than ten minutes, he’d changed his appearance considerably. He looked sort of academic, artistic. The mustache suited his face better than a scruffy goatee.

  And Mexican women liked mustaches. Didn’t they?

  Chapter 2

  Maria removed the black lace mantilla from around her head as she walked through the cast-iron gate at La Escuela de Nuestra Fe.

  She didn’t think anyone had followed her to the private Catholic school
on the outskirts of Taxco, but she couldn’t be too careful. She’d bought a faded gray dress from a woman at the bus station in Mexico City last night. It hung loose on her slender body. Her sturdy black shoes were matronly. Covering her hair with a veil added to the disguise.

  Sister Rosalina led her down a cobblestone path, toward a small chapel. There were several outbuildings on the school grounds that appeared to house dormitories, classrooms, and a cafeteria. Maria had never been to a boarding school. She’d been lucky to attend two years of public high school—two more than her mother, who’d stopped at the mandatory eighth grade. Maria would have loved to go away to a place like this. Even if the nuns were mean and made the girls scrub floors or pray for hours, it was worth the hardship to get a good education. Vale la pena, as the saying went.

  “Which student did you say you were visiting?” Sister Rosalina asked in Spanish.

  “Sarai Tomás,” Maria replied. It was the name on the envelope Armando had given her.

  “And you are?”

  “Maria…Mariposa.”

  “Maria Mariposa?”

  Maria flushed at her sharp perusal. Her last name was Santos, but Sarai wouldn’t recognize that. The girl wouldn’t recognize her. She might recognize her father’s favorite term of endearment, which meant butterfly. “It’s a family nickname.”

  The nun gave her a skeptical look and continued past the chapel. Maria hoped that lying to a woman of God didn’t earn her a spot in hell. Then again, she’d committed quite a few sins over the past few weeks, so what was one more?

  “Sarai is in catechism class,” the nun said when they reached a quiet courtyard. “You can see her when she gets out.”

  Maria nodded and took a seat on a stone bench in front of a fountain. She supposed that nuns were as corruptible as politicians and policemen, but she felt safer among women. The danger here was to her eternal soul, not her physical safety. She didn’t think Armando’s enemies had followed her here. She was almost free. As soon as she delivered this letter, she could go home.