Читать книгу Secret Agent Surrender - Elizabeth Heiter - Страница 11

Chapter Three

Brenna Hartwell was lying to him.

Marcos didn’t know exactly what she was lying about, but he’d been in law enforcement long enough to see when someone was doing it. And not just to him, but to Carlton, too. He prayed the drug boss didn’t realize it.

“What do you do for the foster care system?” he asked, wondering if even that much was true.

She fidgeted, drawing his attention to the red dress that fit her like a bandage, highlighting every curve. She was in great shape. Probably a runner. Or maybe a boxer, given the surprising muscle tone he’d felt when he’d grabbed her to keep her from stumbling in her shoes.

“Right now, placement,” she said, but something about the way she said it felt rehearsed. “But I’m trying to get them to start a program to help kids transition out of the system.”

It was a notoriously tricky time. Kids who spent their lives in foster care hit eighteen and that was it. They were on their own, and they had to learn to sink or swim without any help pretty fast.

Some—like Marcos’s oldest brother Cole—did whatever it took. Cole had taken on two jobs, built up his bank account until he could afford an apartment big enough for three. Then when Marcos and his other older brother Andre had been kicked out of the system, they’d actually had a home waiting for them.

But Marcos was lucky. And he knew it. Most foster kids didn’t have that. Most kids found themselves suddenly searching for shelter and a job. Tons ended up instantly homeless, and plenty took whatever work they could get, including something criminal.

Had that been what had really happened to Brenna? When she’d shown up on their foster home doorstep that day eighteen years ago, her chin up, blinking back tears, his heart had broken for her. A few months later, she’d been gone. He’d always wondered where she’d ended up, but he’d been too afraid to search for her.

Some kids got lucky, ended up in foster homes with fantastic parents who ultimately adopted them. Others, like him, bounced around from one foster home to the next, from birth until eighteen. He supposed he’d never searched for her because he’d always wanted to believe she’d been one of the lucky ones.

“What about you?” Brenna asked, and he was surprised to hear the wary disappointment in her tone.

She was in Carlton’s house because she could offer him something. If it wasn’t sex, like Carlton had been implying over dinner, then it was some kind of criminal connection. So, who was she to judge his motives?

Still, he felt a little embarrassed as he gave his cover story, the way a real dealer would. “Carlton and I share similar business interests. We’re talking about a transaction, but I need to pass his test first.” He gave her a lopsided grin. “How do you think I’m doing so far?”

She shrugged. “I wouldn’t know. I think you and I are in similar positions.”

Interesting. So her association with Carlton was relatively new. He wondered if he could get her out of here when he left, convince her to move her life onto a different track. Maybe all she needed was a little help.

It was a thought Marcos knew could get him killed. Doing anything to disrupt Carlton’s life before he committed to the deal and Marcos could slap cuffs on him threatened the whole operation. But the idea hung on, refusing to let go.

For years, he’d had an image of Brenna Hartwell in his mind: a perfect, grown-up version of the little girl who’d made his heart beat faster. And even though she probably couldn’t have lived up to that fantasy even if she weren’t a criminal, he was still drawn to her in a way he couldn’t really explain.

“I should go to bed,” Brenna said, interrupting his thoughts. She stared a minute longer, like she wanted to say something, but finally turned and headed off to her room.

All the while, he longed to call after her, longed to ask her why she’d set that fire eighteen years ago. Instead, he watched her go until the door near the end of the hallway clicked quietly shut behind her.

Then Marcos headed to his own room, down a different hallway. He’d just turned the corner when Carlton pushed away from the wall, out of the shadows, nearly making Marcos jump.

The drug kingpin’s eyes were narrowed, his lips tightened into a thin line. “Maybe I didn’t make myself clear at dinner,” Carlton said, his voice low and menacing, almost a snarl. “So, let me be plain. Stay away from Brenna. Or our business here is finished before we get started.”

* * *

“SHE’S A ROOKIE!”

“Sir, she’s determined. She dug all this up on Carlton Wayne White herself. She’s found an angle we never even considered and I think it’s going to work. She—”

“She’s got no undercover experience.”

“No, but we can give her a crash course. She’s smart. We’ve never gotten this close to him before.”

“I don’t like it. And the DEA wants this guy for themselves. They won’t be happy if we jump into their territory.”

“So don’t tell them. It doesn’t have anything to do with drugs anyway. Not really.”

“Hartwell could get herself killed.”

Brenna had overheard the conversation last month, between the chief at her small police station and her immediate boss, the guy who’d convinced her to join the police force in the first place. Victor Raine was the closest thing she had to a friend on the force. She’d met him years ago, when she’d first gotten out of foster care and gone to a presentation on job opportunities. He’d been there, talking about police work, and she’d gone up and asked him a bunch of questions.

Ultimately, when she’d gotten a surprise college scholarship offer that covered not just her tuition, but also part of her lodging, she’d chosen that instead. But years later, after she’d graduated and bounced from job to job without feeling fulfilled, she’d looked Victor up. She’d visited him at the station, and somehow found herself applying to the police academy.

Before she knew it, she had graduated and was a real, sworn-in police officer. It was scarier—and better—than she’d ever expected. But typical rookie patrol assignments had lost their luster quickly, and she’d started digging for more.

Her plan to infiltrate Carlton’s network had come to her by accident. She’d been on foot patrol with her partner, a newbie right out of the academy, barely out of his teens. Next to him, her six months of experience had seemed like a lifetime. They’d gotten a call about a disturbance, and when they’d arrived, they’d found a kid stabbed and left for dead on the street.

She’d cradled his head in her lap while she’d called for help, and tried to put pressure on his wounds. He’d stared up into her eyes, his baby blues filled with tears, silently begging her to help him. But he’d been too far gone. He’d died before the ambulance had gotten there, and she’d been left, bathed in his blood, to answer the detectives’ questions.

She’d had nothing to tell them. He hadn’t said a word, just looked at her, his gaze forever burned into her memory. So, as they’d dug into his murder, she’d followed the case’s progress.

She’d learned the kid’s name: Simon Mellor. And she’d discovered he was just eighteen years old, a few months out of the foster care system, probably killed running drugs for someone because he couldn’t find any better options for himself.

The fury that had filled her then still heated her up whenever she thought about him. The investigation had stalled out and it looked destined to become a cold case, so Brenna had made it her mission to figure out who’d killed the kid. What she’d discovered had led her back to Victor, to the biggest favor she’d ever asked her mentor.

And he’d agreed, gone to their chief and begged for her chance to go undercover in Carlton’s operation. Brenna had stood outside the door, just out of sight, but she’d heard her chief’s “no way” coming long before he’d said it.

So when he’d announced, “Hartwell could get herself killed,” Brenna had pushed open that door, slapped her hands on her hips and told him, “That’s a chance I’m willing to take.”

This morning, as she slipped into another slinky dress Carlton had bought her, she realized that was a strong possibility. She was way out of her league here. The quick training she’d received on undercover work—how to remember a cover story, how to befriend a criminal and keep the disgust she really felt hidden—could only take her so far. And now, with Marcos here, she felt unfocused when she needed every advantage she could get.

Carlton Wayne White was behind Simon Mellor’s death. He hadn’t held the knife—he was too far up the chain for something like that. But he’d ordered it. And Brenna was determined to make him pay.

But if that was all there was to it, her chief never would have approved this assignment. What Brenna had uncovered went way deeper than one boy’s murder. Because he wasn’t the only kid who’d wound up dead shortly after getting out of foster care, with rumors of a drug connection surrounding his murder. She didn’t know how he was doing it yet, but Carlton was using the foster care system to find pawns for his crimes.

If she was right, he’d been doing it for years, building his empire on the backs of foster care kids.

Most of what she remembered from that horrible night eighteen years ago was the fire. The smell of the smoke, the feel of it in her lungs. The heat of the blaze, reaching for her, swallowing up everything in its path. But one of the things in its path had been papers, and years later, when she’d seen similar papers at the foster system headquarters, she’d known.

Carlton Wayne White was using someone in the system to get names of kids who were turning eighteen. Kids who’d have nothing: no family, no money, no help. He’d swoop in and offer them a chance to put a roof over their head and food in their bellies. And then they’d die for him.

It all ends soon, she promised herself, yanking open her door and striding into the hallway—and smack into Marcos.

What was he doing outside her room?

She didn’t actually have to speak the words, because as he steadied her—yet again—he answered. “Carlton told me to come and get you for breakfast.”

She couldn’t help herself. Her gaze wandered over him, still hungry for another look after so many years. Today, he was dressed in dark-wash jeans and a crewneck sweater that just seemed to emphasize the breadth of his chest.

“Brenna,” he said, humor and hunger in his tone.

She looked up, realizing she’d been blatantly ogling him. “Sorry.” She flushed.

The hunger didn’t fade from his eyes, but his expression grew serious. “Brenna, I want—”

She wanted, too. Maybe it was just the chance to finally do something about her very first crush, or the fact that she’d never expected—but always hoped—to see Marcos again.

It was foolish and wrong for so many reasons, but she couldn’t seem to help herself. She leaned up on her tiptoes in another pair of ridiculous shoes and practically fell toward him, looping her arms around his neck.

His hands locked on her waist, and then her lips were on his, just the briefest touch before he set her back on her feet.

“Brenna,” he groaned. “We can’t do that. Carlton—”

“He’s not here right now,” she cut him off, not wanting to think about Carlton and the dangerous mission she’d begged to get assigned to. Because all she could think about was Marcos. The boy she’d never been able to forget, morphed into a man she couldn’t stop thinking about. She leaned back into him, and she could tell she’d caught him off guard.

Before he could protest again, she fused her lips to his. Just one real taste, she promised herself, and then she’d back away, leave him alone and go back to her mission.

He kissed the way she’d imagined he would in all those childhood fantasies she’d had, where she grew up and got out of those foster homes she’d been sent to after the fire. Like a fairy-tale ending come to life.

Except this wasn’t a fairy tale. And Marcos was a drug dealer.

She pulled away, feeling dazed and unsteady. He didn’t look much better; he actually seemed shocked he’d kissed her back at all. But as she stared up at him, breathing hard and trying to pull herself together, she could see it on his face. He was thinking about kissing her again.

And, Lord help her, she wanted him to.

“I warned you to stay away from her!”

Carlton’s voice boomed down the hallway, making her jump. She almost fell, but braced herself on the wall as Carlton strode toward them, fury in his expression and ownership in his voice that made a chill run through her.

Then he snapped his fingers and his thugs pounded down the hallway, too.

Marcos put his hands up, trying to placate him, but it didn’t matter. One of the guards slung his semiautomatic rifle over his shoulder and punched Marcos in the stomach, making him double over.

As Brenna gasped and yelled for Carlton to stop them, the thugs each took Marcos by an arm and dragged him down the corridor.

And she knew what was going to happen next. They were going to kill him.