Caught in the Act Read online

  He’d sent some angry young men here to make trouble for her. Next time they might burn the place down.

  Straightening her spine, she walked back to the storage room and grabbed her cleaning supplies. Reporting the vandalism to the police would get her nowhere. There was nothing to do but take care of this mess herself.

  Last night Adam had followed Karina to the mall, watching from a distance while she had dinner with her sister.

  After they’d engaged in an emotional discussion on the outdoor terrace, Sasha had walked away from the argument, leaving Karina in tears.

  He hadn’t known what to make of the exchange. He couldn’t get close enough to hear what they were saying, and he’d noticed another tail. Chuy Pena had also been strolling around the mall, lurking in the shadows.

  Adam had returned home, wondering if he was any better than Pena. Getting caught up in Moreno’s world felt dangerous, illicit, and exciting. It was an adrenaline high, as addictive as the drugs they pushed.

  And he always came down hard afterward.

  This morning he’d spent an hour at the gym, trying to cleanse his soul with sweat. After he’d whipped his conscience into submission, he drove down E Street, slowing to a stop in front of Zócalo. Karina was outside, scrubbing the windows. It looked like vandals had broken the sign and tagged the hell out of the brick siding.

  Chuy Pena must have reported Sasha’s activities to his boss, who had disapproved, for whatever reason. Moreno had extensive gang connections. He didn’t run the crews, but he was in charge of the drug supply, so he owned the streets. At the snap of his fingers, a hundred violent criminals would jump to do his bidding.

  But what had Kari done to deserve this?

  He got out of his car and walked toward her, frowning at the yellow gunk on the windows. Egg yolk. Although she noticed him approach, she kept scrubbing, her mouth grim. She looked upset and a little tired.

  “What did the police say?” he asked, glancing at the graffiti. Otay Mesa South symbols covered the wall, claiming the territory. The upstart crew’s membership had been increasing at an alarming rate. There were thousands of possible suspects.

  “I didn’t call them.”

  He thrust a hand through his hair, surprised. “You know who did it?”

  She shrugged. “Kids.”

  “City maintenance would send someone out to repaint the wall.”

  “I have paint.”

  “Karina—”

  “It’s Kari.”

  She pronounced it “Kah-ri,” not “Carrie.” Adam realized he’d never introduced himself. “Adam,” he said, offering his hand.

  Tossing her scrubber into a bucket of soapy water, she pushed a lock of hair off her forehead and accepted his handshake. “Pleased to meet you.”

  Adam tried to ignore the jolt of excitement he felt at her touch. He released her hand, studying the eggshell on the window. “You have another brush?”

  Her brows rose. “What are you going to do with it?”

  “Help you, if you’ll let me.”

  “This is going to take hours.”

  “That’s fine. I don’t have to work until later this afternoon.”

  She gave him a large brush and resumed scrubbing with the smaller one. “You think I’ll change my mind about dating you?”

  “No.”

  “What’s your deal, then?”

  “I’m just being neighborly,” he said, feigning innocence. “And maybe it won’t work out between you and that other … person.”

  She returned her attention to the window, her cheeks pink. She was still nervous around him, which was fine. If she suspected he wanted to fuck her—well, he did. He wasn’t the kind of guy who wouldn’t take no for an answer, or thought he could convert lesbians, but he was always up for a new challenge.

  They cleaned the glass in silence. Adam was there to do reconnaissance, but he felt bad about it. A few instances of odd behavior didn’t make her a criminal. Considering the wrecked state of her storefront, Kari Strauss needed protection rather than prosecution.

  “Tell me about your job,” she said, dipping her brush in the soapy water again. “Why the border?”

  “Why not?”

  She glanced at him. “I don’t know many boys who say they want to be border patrol agents when they grow up.”

  “I’m not a border patrol agent. I’m a Customs and Border Protection officer.”

  “Oh, sorry,” she said, seeming amused by his correction. “I didn’t realize there was a difference.”

  “There is. We don’t do patrol work.”

  “Ah. So … why did you choose that?”

  He scrubbed at the higher part of the window, realizing she couldn’t reach it. “I wanted to be a cop, actually. I entered a criminal justice program when I was nineteen.”

  “Then what happened?”

  “September eleventh.”

  “You wanted to enlist?”

  “Very much. But my brother was already in the military, and my mom asked me to finish college first. I was on an athletic scholarship.”

  “For what sport?”

  “Soccer.”

  A corner of her mouth turned up. “Go on.”

  “By the time I graduated, we’d invaded Iraq. I wasn’t as intent on going there as Afghanistan. That same year, Al-Qaeda operatives were caught in Mexico. It seemed natural to work for Homeland Security, right here in San Diego.”

  “Are you sorry you didn’t serve?”

  “I do serve. Just not overseas.” Penelope had also begged him to stay, and he didn’t regret a moment he’d spent with her.

  “What about your brother?”

  “He went to Afghanistan and Iraq.”

  “Came back safe?”

  “Yes,” he said. “Safe, but not unscathed. It made an impact on him. He’s like a stranger. Or a shell.”

  She paused to study him, brush in hand. Maybe she hadn’t expected him to be honest about that. They hardly knew each other.

  But—he felt like he knew her. And when their eyes met, an understanding passed between them. It reminded him of the time she’d put on the rebozo. He saw something in her that he recognized, an unfulfilled need.

  Instead of continuing the conversation, they finished the windows. She rinsed the glass with clean water and let it drip dry. “I have to scrub the brick wall, too,” she said, taking her bucket around the corner.

  Adam followed, content to assist her. He could imagine how devastated she’d been when she’d seen the vandalism, and cleaning up the mess made him feel better about his ulterior motives. Watching her work was no hardship, either. The soft gray dress she was wearing clung to her curves. As she bent to refill a bucket of water, the fabric stretched across her bottom, drawing his attention.

  Again he could see the outline of her panties, though he doubted she meant for them to show. Her style was feminine and understated, not an invitation to leer. But leer he did, tantalized by the hint of lacy material and rounded flesh.

  When she handed him a clean bucket, he thought about pouring it over his head. The sun was beating down on him, and he didn’t trust himself not to stare at her ass. Normally he wouldn’t have considered that a problem. He liked relating to women on a physical level rather than an emotional one. For some reason, he couldn’t separate the two with Kari. To his alarm, he wanted more than sex from her.

  Adam frowned, disturbed by the realization. They needed to stop having candid conversations and meaningful eye contact. If he couldn’t imagine her naked beneath him without extending the fantasy to cuddling afterward, he had a problem.

  “Are you up for this?” she asked.

  His mind faltered, swimming in sexual connotations. “Up for what?”

  “Scrubbing, painting. It’s going to take all day.”

  “I’m up for it. I’m enjoying it, actually.”

  “Are you always like this?”

  “Like what?”

  “A random do-gooder?”


  “No,” he said honestly. “Sometimes I do bad things.”

  She arched a brow. “Such as?”

  He let his eyes travel down her body. The front of her dress was damp from soapsuds. “Skipping church,” he said, lifting his gaze to her face.

  She laughed and shook her head, knowing damned well he hadn’t been considering religious pursuits when he looked at her. But she also kept an arm’s length of distance between them, as if aware that he wasn’t quite what he seemed.

  Maria’s third day at the Hotel del Oro unfolded much like the previous two.

  She had too many rooms to clean, too many piles of laundry to wash, and too many trash cans to empty. But the rhythm of housekeeping wasn’t difficult to sink into, and she could stay on top of her duties as long as she kept moving.

  Irma had told her to mind her own business, but she wasn’t blind. Maria had noticed the constant traffic of disreputable young men coming in and out of Chuy’s suite. She’d learned that Sonia visited his office every afternoon for a little private time. There was only one real secret at the Oro: Armando Villarreal.

  Although Chuy Pena exuded power and violence, his partner didn’t have the same presence. Armando was more of an unknown entity. He stayed behind the scenes. Irma never mentioned his name. The two other maids, smart girls who worked hard, scurried past him. Sonia pretended he wasn’t there.

  Once, in passing, Maria had met his gaze boldly, wondering why everyone avoided him. There was nothing sinister about his appearance. He wasn’t handsome, or tall, or interesting to look at. With his coarse haircut and weathered face, he resembled a common vaquero. His eyes were like black stones. He could have been anyone.

  Maria wasn’t afraid of Armando, though she found him strange. At Kari’s house, he hadn’t hurt her. He wasn’t abusive, like Chuy.

  Around noon Maria slipped down to the first floor, taking a circuitous route to the laundry room. A secluded area in the back of the courtyard offered a good view of Chuy’s apartments. She lingered there, watching a lanky man approach.

  Him again. La migra.

  He obviously wasn’t on the same side of the law anymore. His hair was too long, as if he hadn’t bothered to cut it in months. An uneven beard shadowed his face. The shirt he was wearing looked worn and stained, and his jeans were ripped at the knee.

  She almost couldn’t believe it was him.

  The man she’d known had been quiet and kind. He’d spoken her language with a bad California accent, but it had sounded like music to her ears. His presence—his touch—had brought her back from the dead. She could still feel his hand in hers, strong and warm, and hear his rough-soft voice, reassuring her in broken Spanish.

  Maria watched him cross the courtyard, entering Chuy’s office through the open door. She inched closer, trying to listen in on their conversation. She heard something about blanca nieves and Tuesday.

  That was the day Kari would make her trip to Mexico.

  Pulse pounding, she moved forward another step, her ears straining for more. Chuy’s customer requested an amount of the nieve, using drug slang Maria didn’t understand. His voice was harder than she remembered. Less patient.

  After another exchange she couldn’t quite make out, she heard Chuy’s office chair rolling backward as he stood up.

  Maria turned to flee … and saw Armando. He was standing in the spot she’d just vacated, lounging in the shade. Cool as ice.

  Chingado!

  Although she’d just been caught eavesdropping, she held her head up and kept walking, deciding to brazen it out. As she continued toward him, she looked into his empty black eyes, pleading silently for him to let her pass by. He showed no indication that he felt any sympathy. If he had a soul, he hid it well.

  And yet she had the strange feeling that he wasn’t going to stop her. Then Chuy came out of the office with his customer, and she made the mistake of glancing over her shoulder warily. Chuy summed up the situation in an instant. Maria was sneaking away from his office, having never passed by it.

  “Agarrala,” he said. Get her.

  Armando stepped into her path, blocking her exit.

  Maria’s first instinct was to run, but she couldn’t barrel through Armando, and Chuy was at her back. Instead of panicking, she forced herself to stay calm. She would pretend to cooperate. Wait for a better opening to escape.

  She whirled to face Chuy, her heart clanging against her ribs. The former border agent stood beside him, his expression guarded. He couldn’t help her this time.

  Armando put his hand on the small of her back, guiding her toward the office, and the next few seconds went by in a blur. She walked forward like a robot, staring at her long-lost savior. When Chuy grabbed her by the arm, dragging her into a back room, her haze broke. She screamed, kicking wildly as he threw her down on the bed.

  “What the fuck were you doing?” Chuy asked.

  “Nada.”

  “You heard something.”

  Tears leaked out the corners of her eyes. “No hablo ingles.”

  He slapped the cap off her head and fisted his hand in her hair, pulling hard. “You know what I’m talking about.”

  “I was just trying to help my friend,” she said in Spanish. “She’s scared.”

  Chuy accepted that answer; it was the truth. “Your friend better watch out. The next time she talks to the boss’s lady, we’re going to come after her. Break up her store, and her house, and all of her pretty little fingers.” He punctuated each threat with a tighter grip. “Entiendes?”

  “Yes,” she gasped. “I understand.”

  He released her hair, watching it spill down her shoulders. Her chest expanded with each frantic breath, drawing his attention. Although her breasts were too small to notice, he looked at them. Her fear seemed to excite him. His gaze returned to her face and his hand to her hair, fingering the fine threads.

  “Maybe you need to be taught a lesson,” he said.

  She turned her head to the side, shuddering with revulsion. At the same time, she slipped her right hand under her smock, reaching for the pepper spray.

  7

  As an undercover agent, Ian had a protocol to follow.

  If innocent people were in danger, protecting them took precedence over his investigation, with one caveat: he wasn’t supposed to jeopardize his own life. Instead of jumping into the line of fire, he was encouraged to stand by. It was always better to wait for an appropriate time to act. Dead men couldn’t save anyone.

  Ian knew he would be killed on the spot if he broke cover at the Hotel del Oro. He wasn’t armed or wearing a wire because Armando patted him down on a regular basis. His only recourse was to walk away and call for backup. He doubted that his colleagues would get here in time to prevent Chuy from harming Maria Santos, but it was worth a shot.

  Even as his mind formed that decision, his heart rejected it. He couldn’t leave the scene while she was screaming. Ian hadn’t been able to prevent her previous assault but he wasn’t going to let the same damned thing happen all over again.

  He’d wondered about her for four years.

  While he weighed his options, Armando stared at him in an openly antagonistic manner, begging him to make a move.

  Don’t fuck with the maids.

  It occurred to Ian that Armando’s anger was directed at Chuy, not him. He liked Maria enough to warn Ian away from her. Armando probably didn’t want to stand here and listen to Chuy rape her, either.

  Armando was a cagey bastard, impossible to read. When their eyes connected, Ian could only hope they were on the same page. Throwing caution to the wind, Ian lowered his shoulder and charged.

  For a lean, average-sized guy, Armando was deceptively solid. Ian felt like he was ramming a brick wall. He slammed his opponent’s back into the office window with enough force to shatter the glass. The entire building seemed to quiver as the crash reverberated through the courtyard.

  Ian grunted in satisfaction; he wanted Chuy to hear the commotion and co
me out to investigate.

  Armando was a tough son of a bitch, barely fazed by the impact. He jammed his knuckles into Ian’s midsection, striking a ferocious blow, and it was game on. Ian didn’t worry about being stoic or fighting with finesse. Wincing in pain, he retaliated with a hard left. Although Ian had a slight weight advantage and a longer reach, Armando came up swinging, giving as good as he got. He advanced, socking Ian in the stomach.

  Ian fell into a potted plant, breaking it in half as Armando tackled him to the ground. Fists flying, they rolled across potting soil and shards of glass. Ian’s elbow scraped the cement, leaving a bloody trail. Armando grabbed him by the front of the shirt and started whaling on him. He wasn’t pulling any punches, but he wasn’t going for the kill, either. It was more of a no-holds-barred sparring session than a battle to the death.

  If Chuy hadn’t intervened, Armando might have beaten him unconscious, just for fun. “Quit fucking around!” Chuy roared, pulling them apart.

  Armando rose to his feet, brushing dirt and glass from his clothes. Still stunned from the final blows, Ian stayed down on the ground, trying to catch his breath. To his intense relief, Maria slipped out of the office and hurried away, her long hair spilling down her back. Chuy watched her go, saying nothing.

  Chuy turned to Armando, his eyes blazing with anger. “Que pasó?”

  “He jumped me,” Armando said.

  “You were stepping up?” Chuy asked Ian, incredulous.

  Ian glanced at Maria’s retreating form, feigning confusion. Chuy wanted to know if Ian was challenging his authority, questioning his treatment of women. “No,” he said, straightening to a sitting position. “Oh, hell no. I don’t care what you do with the maids. If I were you, I’d be getting my dick sucked all day long—”

  Chuy slapped him across the face. “Shut the fuck up. What the fuck is wrong with you? How dare you attack one of my men on my turf?”

  Ian stared at the mess they’d made of the courtyard, wondering if this was the end. Chuy might take him into the back room and shoot him in the head.

  “No me importa,” Armando said, spitting blood into the bushes. It doesn’t matter.

  “Fuck you,” Ian said, pointing at his rival like a schoolboy who’d been caught brawling. “This motherfucker is always taunting me, carving little animals and shit. Everyone knows he’s a shady bastard.”