Off the Rails Read online

  “He didn’t show?”

  She shook her head. “He died on the tracks.”

  Ian didn’t offer his condolences, but his expression changed from the hard mask into something less rigid.

  “Hugo never got to know him.” She gestured to the railcar beneath them. “This is what he knows. That boys and men with courage, and no other options, do this.”

  He stayed silent for a moment. “You should’ve told me.”

  “Would you have brought me here to look for him if I had?”

  A muscle in his jaw flexed. “This assignment was my last chance to prove myself. I left the border patrol because I didn’t feel like I was helping anyone. I got forced out of the DEA for following my gut instead of my orders. Now I’m riding on top of a train for reasons I can’t explain to my supervisor. I’m fucked, Maria. Does that mean anything to you?”

  “Yes.”

  He made a scoffing noise.

  “I’m sorry I wasn’t honest. I’m sorry I left. But we can still find Sarai—”

  His eyes turned sharp again. “You’re kidding, right?”

  “She’ll go to Tijuana to look for her father. There are several stops along the route where the passengers can get on and off safely. We can keep going. We can search the crowds for her.”

  “Absolutely not,” he said, his tone flat. “There’s no indication that she’s even on the train, and this method of travel is too dangerous. My boss would fire me if he knew we were together. He told me to stay away from you.”

  Her spirits plummeted. She couldn’t ride La Bestia alone. If Ian refused to accompany her, there was nothing else she could do.

  “Where is the next stop?” he asked.

  “San Juan del Río. We’ll ride all night.”

  “As soon as we get there, you’re going home.”

  She didn’t bother to tell him that she would go wherever she pleased, whenever she pleased. It would only make him angrier, and she couldn’t bear to part ways with him on bad terms. She wanted to explain the choices she’d made. “I didn’t lie to you about Armando, and I think you’re wrong about him. He’s not a bad man. He loves his daughter. That’s why I chose to help him. I lost my father at a young age. I know how it feels to have your family torn apart.”

  His jaw tightened, obstinately. “Not everyone is kind and good like you.”

  “Not everyone. Just most people.”

  It was clear he didn’t agree. His idea of “good” wasn’t the same as hers, either. He considered himself one of the good guys because of his job, but as far as Maria was concerned, police officers were no better or worse than anyone else. She’d learned to fear all men in uniform for a reason. Ian was the only lawman she’d ever trusted. She wondered why he’d chosen this field of work. He seemed passionate about it, despite his struggle to fit in.

  “Was your father a police?” she asked.

  “More of a criminal, I’d guess.”

  “You don’t know?”

  “My mother never told me who he was.”

  She made a sound of sympathy. “Did he harm her?”

  He frowned as if he hadn’t considered this possibility, even though it was the first one that sprang to her mind. “She never told me that. She just said we were better off without him. When I got older, I began to suspect she didn’t know who he was. She was a drug addict. There were a lot of different men.”

  “She might have lied to protect you.”

  “She might have,” he allowed.

  Maria thought about some of the choices she’d made after the attack in the desert. She’d never shared this secret with anyone. “They gave me a pill in the hospital so no baby would come. It is a sin to take this medicine, but I took it.”

  “It’s not a sin,” he said in a low voice. “If I found the men who raped you, I’d kill them.”

  She believed him. He said it with complete conviction. “That is also a sin.”

  “ ‘An eye for an eye,’ ” he quoted.

  “You know the Bible?”

  “Not really. I don’t believe in God.”

  She wasn’t surprised. “Do you love your mother?”

  “Yes,” he said, frowning at the question.

  “Does she love you?”

  He nodded. “She was a good mother when she was sober. Even when she was high, she was affectionate. But she had trouble keeping a steady job. She was irresponsible. She’d go on a binge and everything would fall apart. She’d stay in her room for days.”

  “Who took care of you?”

  “My best friend’s mother. They lived across the street, so I went over to his house a lot.”

  Maria had met Adam Cortez, Ian’s best friend. He was a border protection officer, dark and handsome. “I’m glad she was there for you.”

  He glanced away, contemplative. “So am I.”

  She studied his profile. He had a strong face, for a gabacho. His skin wasn’t sun-browned or weathered, but he hadn’t enjoyed a life of ease. There was an unsettled energy about him, like an electric charge. She recognized the spark because it lived inside her too. It was part ambition, part survival instinct. When you came from nothing, you had to strive harder.

  She considered what he’d said about getting fired for traveling with her. That seemed extreme. “Does your boss know about us?”

  “Yes.”

  “You told him what we did in the hotel room?”

  “I didn’t get specific, but he’s aware of our relationship.”

  Imagining that conversation made her pulse race with a strange feeling. It was part embarrassment, part anticipation. She wished they could be together like a real couple. She wanted to kiss him and touch him and feel his body against hers. She wanted to give herself to him completely, to take him inside her. But she knew a shared future for them was impossible. He’d continue his career in law enforcement. She’d help her mother. They were on different paths.

  “It was worth it,” he said quietly, meeting her gaze. “Even though I lost my job.”

  “Don’t say that. You can’t mean it.”

  “I do mean it.”

  She blinked to clear the sudden rush of moisture from her eyes. That night had been incredibly special to her too. In a few stolen moments, he’d shown her the only sexual pleasure she’d ever known. She hadn’t realized how good it could feel to be touched by a man. The fact that he’d faced terrible consequences and still didn’t regret their time together spoke volumes. It grabbed hold of her heart and wouldn’t let go.

  She stared across the blurred landscape, her throat tight. Her feelings for him went beyond physical attraction. Since the day they met, their spirits had been entwined. They were hopelessly connected. That’s why she had to keep her distance. Leaving his bed had been one of the hardest things she’d ever done.

  She wasn’t strong enough to do it again.

  Chapter 7

  He woke in slow increments, head throbbing, blood draining from his veins.

  Drip, drip, drip.

  Dying didn’t feel like the release from pain and suffering he’d expected. One the contrary, his entire body ached as if he’d been stretched on one of those torture racks. He must be in hell. The underworld stank of rubbing alcohol, rather than fire and brimstone. He didn’t hear any tortured souls shrieking, just the vague sounds of medical equipment.

  Hijo de puta. He wasn’t in hell. He was in a hospital.

  Even worse.

  Armando Villarreal wrenched his eyes open and looked around. The rhythmic drip was IV fluids flowing into his arm, not blood coming out. An electronic node was attached to his finger, beeping along with his heartbeat. His mouth was drier than the Sonoran Desert and his brain felt sluggish. He vaguely remembered getting shot in the back by Chuy Peña.

  He hated that pinche cabrón.

  A dull ache in his side confirmed the injury, but he was more disturbed by a strange discomfort below the waist. He pulled the blanket off his lap and blinked to clear his vision. There
was a rubber cup on his penis, with a tube leading down to a urine collection bag. It wasn’t a catheter. He didn’t know what it was, but it had to go. He ripped off the cup and tossed it on the ground. Then he inspected his male parts for damage. They looked okay.

  As an afterthought, he checked the bandage on his abdomen. It didn’t feel great, but the wound seemed to be healing well.

  “You’re awake.”

  He replaced the blanket over his lap and squinted in the direction of a female voice. He wasn’t in a hospital after all. The room was too large. His companion was sitting on a cot in the corner, her reddish-brown hair mussed from sleep. She looked familiar, but he struggled to place her. When she stood up, he saw her white lab coat draped over a nearby chair.

  Oh, right. She was that animal doctor. The one he’d kidnapped. He let his head fall back against the pillows, groaning.

  “Let me give you something for the pain,” she said.

  He was lucid enough to find her offer suspicious. She sounded too calm. What was she doing here? She wouldn’t be with him by choice. He glanced around the room to get his bearings. No windows, bare walls. There was a bathroom with no door on his right; on the left, a heavy wooden door with a metal slot near the bottom that could be used to insert a tray of food.

  The details came together like puzzle pieces, drifting into a picture that made sense. He knew this place. He’d seen it before. They were in Carlos Moreno’s secret safe house in TJ. And they’d been here more than one night, judging by the doctor’s unkempt appearance. Her hair was tangled and limp, and there were dark circles under her eyes.

  “Stay back,” he said, ripping the IV from his arm with clumsy fingers. He felt slow in a way that couldn’t be explained by his injury. There were several vials on an aluminum tray near his bed. “Have you been drugging me?”

  She flinched at the accusation. “I’ve been keeping you comfortable.”

  “Why?”

  “Why…what?”

  “Why take care of me at all?”

  She moistened her dry lips. “They said…if you live, I live.”

  “Who said that?”

  “A man with a scar,” she said, touching her chin.

  Jorge Felix. Moreno’s gardener. He wasn’t an active member of the cartel, but that didn’t matter. He was fiercely loyal to the family, and perhaps the only man in their circle who couldn’t be bought. Armando’s chances of escaping this house or bartering a deal were close to nil. Jorge wanted him alive so they could question him. Then kill him.

  Armando rubbed a hand over his jaw and was shocked by the amount of stubble he encountered. “How long have I been out?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  “How many days?”

  “Three, I think.”

  Three days. He’d lost three days. “You haven’t been keeping me comfortable. You’ve been keeping me unconscious.”

  She crossed her arms over her chest. “I’m a veterinarian, remember? I did my best.”

  He selected one of the vials and studied it. Morphine. She must have been pumping him with this at regular intervals. She’d been afraid to let him wake up, and not just because he was a threat to her. As soon as he got better, she’d no longer be useful.

  It was a clever strategy, but something had gone wrong. Maybe she’d misjudged the amount. Or she’d slept too long and missed an injection. He was lucky she hadn’t accidently overdosed him. But perhaps slipping into a drug-induced death was preferable to hours of torture, followed by a beheading. That was the usual way cartel leaders dealt with traitors.

  Like him.

  “I want to go home,” she said in a shaky voice.

  He had no response for her, no words to calm or comfort her. After a long, awkward moment, she returned to her cot in the corner and cried. He watched her slender shoulders quake with a curious detachment. Her distress should have weighed heavily on him. He was responsible for it, after all. He’d brought her here, knowing the risks involved. There was no safe way to kidnap a woman and take her across the border to a drug lord’s secret hideaway. He’d put her life in danger. The man he used to be would have found that choice appalling. The man he’d become felt almost nothing.

  His years on Moreno’s crew had hardened his heart into stone. Sarai was the only person who mattered to him. If he couldn’t save her, why save anyone?

  When his arm stopped bleeding, he removed the electronic pulse monitor and sat up. His wound ached, but it was bearable. He swung his legs over the side of the bed and stood gingerly, testing his strength. He didn’t fall over, so he continued to the bathroom. He managed to take a piss and drink some water from the sink without passing out. There was no mirror to reflect his image, which was probably for the best. He pictured a hobbled, buck-naked viejo with tired eyes. He felt older than his forty-one years, and he knew he looked it. His skin was as dark as his Indian mother’s, who’d died in the fields when he was a child. His hands were like leather from working alongside her. And his face…well, it had never been pretty.

  He found a stack of clothes near the doorway, so he pulled on a pair of loose sweatpants. Then he started pacing the room, back and forth. He had to get his blood circulating, stay alert. After about two minutes, he leaned against the wall, lightheaded.

  “What’s your name?” he asked finally.

  She wiped the tears from her cheeks. “Go to hell.”

  Fair enough. He took a few deep breaths and drank another mouthful of water from the sink. “I’m Armando.”

  She didn’t say anything.

  “Have they fed you?”

  She nodded. “They put it through the door.”

  “The man with the scar?”

  “No. A boy.”

  “A little boy?”

  “A teenager. He has long hair.”

  Jorge’s son, Domingo. That was unexpected. Like Jorge, Domingo wasn’t involved in the cartel. And although this was technically a safe house, it wasn’t really safe. It was a stronghold for criminals. Something very strange was going on.

  Before he could question her further, the slot opened and a plate of food was pushed through. Eggs, chorizo, papas fritas. His mouth flooded with hunger.

  “Oye,” he said, knocking on the door. “¿Quién es?”

  No one answered.

  “I need to talk to Jorge!”

  Nothing.

  He picked up the plate and ate with his fingers. It was crude, but he was starving, and there were no utensils. He had to force himself to stop and offer her half. She gave him a disgusted look and shook her head. Shrugging, he cleaned the plate. Then he started pacing again, slower this time. He didn’t want his meal to come back up. His companion stared at the wall, dead-eyed. An hour later a walkie-talkie came through the slot in the door. He grabbed it.

  “I hear you’re feeling better,” a voice said in Spanish.

  It was Jorge Felix. Even though he worked as Moreno’s gardener, rumor had it that Jorge used to be a cartel assassin. Armando didn’t know if that was true, but the grounds worker always seemed to be doing double duty, guarding the perimeter.

  Armando had to tread lightly. He’d been shot in the back by his own partner, Chuy Peña. If Peña had managed to evade arrest, he’d probably been trying to cover his ass by placing blame on Armando. He might have circulated the rumor that Armando was a rat from the Los Rojos cartel.

  It was half true. And Armando was in deep shit.

  He’d come here in hopes of pleading his case to Moreno, but he hadn’t known what kind of greeting he’d receive. He’d calculated a fifty-fifty chance of being executed on the spot. It was a risk he’d had to take, because he needed Moreno’s help, and he had nowhere else to go. He would be too vulnerable at a hospital. The police would lock him up and throw away the key. If Los Rojos caught him, his odds of survival plummeted to zero.

  “What the fuck is going on?”

  “I have orders to hold you,” Jorge replied.

  “Until when?”


  “Until I hear otherwise.”

  “Where’s El Jefe?”

  Jorge was silent for a moment. “There was an incident in Salsipuedes. Moreno is injured. Peña and his crew are dead.”

  Chingado. The man who’d shot him in the back was dead. That was good news for Armando, bad news for the cartel.

  “What about the shipment?”

  “Police seized it. They almost got El Jefe too. They’ve been crawling all over his residences in San Diego and Tijuana.”

  Armando’s gut clenched with unease. The cartel leader couldn’t run his business under these conditions. Their operations in the United States were fractured. It was the perfect time for Los Rojos to strike. They’d been itching to take over Tijuana and replace Moreno. No one connected to Moreno was safe. That was why Jorge and Domingo were here.

  “Hermano,” he said, appealing to his sense of brotherhood. “We are sensible men, not young hotheads. I’m loyal to El Jefe, and I’ll fight alongside him, but I can’t stay here any longer. Let me go now, and I’ll go in peace.”

  “Are you threatening me?”

  Armando lowered his voice. “I have a daughter. She’s in danger.”

  “Ay cabrón,” Jorge replied. “You’re not the only one with a family.”

  “Please,” he said, growing desperate. But his plea fell on deaf ears. Jorge had turned off his radio. Armando stared at the device in his hand, furious. He fought the urge to throw it across the room. This landscape maintenance motherfucker wanted to mess with him? Armando would cut him to pieces with gardening shears.

  “Sounds like it didn’t go your way,” the doctor said.

  It was Armando’s turn to give her a dirty look. “If it doesn’t go my way, it doesn’t go your way.”

  “How do you figure?”

  “We leave together, or not at all.”

  She blinked in surprise. “Is that what he said?”

  “Yes,” he lied. She was a typical gringa who didn’t understand Spanish. He doubted she could help him escape this place, but she was here. He might as well make her an ally. It was better than watching his back. She would try to drug or attack him at the first opportunity.