Читать книгу Blurring The Line - Kierney Scott - Страница 10

Chapter Two

Beth wiped her sweat-slicked hands on her jeans. Should she have worn a suit? She was here in a professional capacity representing the DEA; maybe she should have dressed more formally. Too late now, she was here.

Her phone rang. Beth fished it out of her bag and rejected the call when she saw it was her partner, presumably calling to check up on her or to gloat. Patterson thought she was wasting her time; there was no way Torres would come on board. She knew it was a long shot; she didn’t need to be reminded of that fact. And she didn’t need Patterson getting in her head. He didn’t think she could land Torres.

Absently her hand patted the file she had put together about Torres. No one could accuse her of not being prepared. She took a deep breath before she rang the doorbell. She had practised her speech with Dr. Frazer, the Administration psychologist. He had given her pointers on how to sound more genuine and, more importantly, he had taught her how to be more convincing. There was a science to manipulation, and lucky for her she was a quick study.

Beth rang the doorbell again and followed it up with a knock but still no answer. She was about to give up when she heard the screech of a power saw coming from behind the ranch-style house. She followed the noise to the back yard where she found a man, presumably Torres, bent over a table saw, pushing through a piece of wood with his bare hands.

He wore faded blue jeans, slung low over narrow hips and a T-shirt. His skin was a rich brown, the colour heightened by the contrast with his stark white shirt. She was surprised to see him working, he had only been released from the hospital 48 hours previously.

She cleared her throat to get his attention but he did not hear her over the noise of the saw. She didn’t want to startle him by calling out so she watched him silently. The muscles in his arms and back contracted as he guided the wood beneath the rotating blade.

“Mr. Torres,” Beth called when the saw went quiet.

Torres looked up. He eyed her dubiously. For a painful moment he didn’t speak and once again self-doubt pounded at her. She could hear Patterson’s voice telling her it was a lost cause. Her partner preferred getting information the old-fashioned way, from snitches and prison informants, but their information was unreliable at best. Beth knew better than most to never trust a convict.

The DEA needed someone on the inside. Someone they had trained. Someone loyal. Someone hard. Someone who could withstand the cesspool of a drug cartel and yet not be pulled under.

They needed Torres. He was perfect…at least on paper. His military career was exemplary. He would probably still be serving today if it weren’t for the IED that decimated his platoon. The military’s loss was her gain. Once she trained him, he would be a perfect asset. He already had a vested interest in bringing Los Treintas to their knees and most importantly, no one would blink at him falling into drug culture. His best friend had been killed by gang violence, just like his two brothers. Torres could easily pass as one more marginalised soul sucked under.

“I’d ask if you were lost but seeing as you know my name, I’d say you’re right where you want to be.”

Beth cleared her throat again, this time just to give herself a chance to think. “Mr. Torres?” She needed to be certain she was dealing with the right person. He looked different to the photo in his file: harder, angrier. If she saw him walking down a dimly lit road, she would cross the street to avoid him. Actually she would probably turn in the opposite direction and run.

His glance caught hers and with the small look the air deserted her lungs. She fought the urge to turn and walk away. She had not anticipated her own visceral reaction to him. In his military photo he was less frightening.

Torres put down the piece of oak he was working with. “We established who I am. Who are you?”

Beth forced her feet to stay firmly in place. She reached out her hand. “Sorry. I am Beth Thomson.”

Torres took her hand. His palms were rough. His hard calluses scraped against her smooth skin. “Well Beth Thomson, what can I do for you?”

Beth pulled her hand away and reached into her bag for her blue and gold shield.

Immediately his body language changed, his back straightened, his eyes narrowed. He gave her a hard stare that left her cold before he turned his gaze away, staring off into the open horizon.

“I saw nothing. I know nothing.” His voice was impossibly low, like a growl.

Beth shifted her weight from side to side. “Really? You didn’t see the man who shot you?”

Torres said nothing. He didn’t even bother to look at her.

“I’ve already given my statement to the police. I have nothing to add to it.”

She was losing him. She had to get him onside. She needed an emotional response from him, anything she could work with, any button she could push. “I can find him. With your help we can bring him to justice.”

Torres made a sound halfway between a laugh and a grunt.

“Justice, huh? Is that what you are offering?” His tone was mocking.

Beth stood straighter, bringing herself to her full height. It was a futile effort because Torres still towered over her but the small gesture made her feel less small, less vulnerable. “Yes. Together we can find the man that tried to kill you. We can bring him to justice.”

Half of Torres’ mouth curved into a smile. “No thanks.”

Beth’s eyes narrowed. She expected him to at least hear her out before he rejected her. He was supposed to be upset when she mentioned the shooting, get choked up and then she would use that emotion against him to get him onside. But Torres’ response was far from emotional. He rejected her with the same indifference given to a salesman peddling encyclopaedias door to door. “No thanks?” she asked. “Don’t you want to hear me out?”

Torres gave his dark head a single shake.

Beth took a deep breath. She was losing him. With her foot she traced a line in the dusty ground. She didn’t lose. Nothing came easy to her, but she never lost, what she lacked in finesse she made up for in tenacity. “Giving up. I expected more from a soldier.” She held her breath and waited for his response. She expected anger.

But Torres did not respond. Half of her was relieved; physically she was outmatched. He could snap her like a twig, but he did not appear angry. He didn’t even appear interested.

Beth traced the groove her toe had created in the dirt, tracing it over and over. Time to change tactics. “As you know, the man who shot you is a member of Los Treintas. My job is to find their leader – El Escorpion.”

“Good luck with that.”

At least he looked at her, if only for a second. It was a start. “The drug trade is the tip of the iceberg for Los Treintas. They are heavily into arms dealing. They pose a grave danger to national security. As a Marine—”

Torres’ head snapped round. His gaze bore down on her. “As a Marine what?” There was no mistaking the edge to his voice. She had a hit a nerve. She took another breath to try to steady her already frayed nerves. She felt uncomfortable with him, off balance and back-footed. It didn’t make sense; Beth stared down criminals for a living. But this was different, he wasn’t a criminal…yet…but what she was proposing would take him there. Beth licked her dry lips, suddenly forgetting where she was going with this argument.

“Is this the part where you appeal to my patriotism? Maybe bring up the fact that as a son of immigrants I know better than most the importance of preserving the American dream. Trust me darling, I’ve done my bit, got the scars to prove it.”

He also had a Purple Heart, but he didn’t mention that. Beth’s shoulders dropped. She wasn’t getting through to him. Maybe Patterson was right; this was a lost cause. Maybe her time would be better off sweet-talking jailbirds. She sighed. The only thing she had left was honesty. “Yeah it was, but clearly it’s not going to work. So tell me, Torres, what would work? What do I need to say to you to get you onside?”

“You’re wasting your breath, Ms. Thomson. I’m not buying what you’re selling.”

Beth shook her head. “Your best friend was murdered in front of you. I thought you would be more vested in getting justice for him.”

His jaw tightened, tan skin stretched over taut muscles.

The movement was subtle but she saw it. It was something; there was the emotion she was looking for. She remembered what Frazer had told her – use his emotion against him. Beth latched onto it. Moses Archila was the key. “I saw you with his sister this morning at the funeral. I get that you don’t care about getting justice for yourself, but Archila was your best friend. He saved you, don’t you owe it to him to bring his murderer to justice?”

Torres stared at her. The anger in his eyes was palpable. There was no doubt that had she been a man she would no longer be standing.

“What do you know of justice, Gringa?”

“I know that if someone murdered my best friend I would not rest until I saw them behind bars.”

Torres lifted his shoulders. “Moses would still be dead.”

Beth let of a stream of air. She had played her last card. “Yes he would,” she admitted. She followed his gaze out to the great expanse of open land. With Torres, she had not found the man she expected; she had found something scarier and far more complex. She had naively hoped he would be easier to manipulate.

Suddenly she had a thought, a niggling feeling. She turned and studied his hard features. Torres wasn’t unfazed because he was apathetic, he was unfazed because he had a plan of his own. She opened her mouth but stopped before she threw her Hail Mary pass. “We’re both looking for him. We will find him faster together.”

He shrugged but he didn’t refute her statement.

“We both want justice,” she pressed.

Torres shook his head. “We don’t want the same thing. You want information. What I want is a whole lot uglier but we won’t talk about that because you’re a lady and ’cause that shiny badge of yours means our ideas of justice will never be the same.” His dark features were encased with raw unmitigated hatred; there was the emotion she was looking for, but she didn’t know how to act on it. Her body seized up, her thoughts froze. But she was right: he did have a plan.

“Do you know who shot you?” she asked. She took his silence as an answer. “I can find him.”

He turned and looked at her. Half of his mouth curled into a smile. “If that were true, you wouldn’t be here, would you?”

She sighed. “You’re right. I need you. But you need me too, Torres.”

Torres made a sound that could have passed for a laugh. “I don’t need you. Go back to your office, Gringa. Or better yet, go find yourself another Mexican to sweet-talk. That is why you’re here isn’t it? Because I’m Mexican? I already look like a thug, right? I’m already halfway there. Just give me a couple of tats and I will look like you plucked me fresh from the prison yard.”

Beth shifted from one leg to the other. She considered how to answer him, wondered what Frazer would say. She was sure the Department psychologist would be able to phrase things in a way that wouldn’t offend anyone. But Beth wasn’t a psychologist and she wasn’t good at bullshitting. “Yep,” she said simply. When she saw the flash of a smile on Torres’ full lips, she continued. “I would be a pretty crappy agent if a tried to recruit a Gringo to infiltrate a Mexican gang wouldn’t I? But you looking like a thug is an added bonus. It is also a bonus that both your brothers and your best friend were Zetas. It wouldn’t take much work to get you in. So to answer your question, yes I want a Mexican, but not any Mexican. I want a Mexican who has proved himself loyal, who has a vested interest in bringing down Los Treintas, and has a tie to Los Zetas. Unfortunately for me, you are the only Mexican in the free world that meets those criteria. If you know anyone else, by all means, please point me in the right direction.” She held up her hands. She had played all her cards.

Torres picked up another piece of wood and positioned it beneath the teeth of the circular saw. “That is unfortunate.”

Her shoulders dropped. She was losing him, she could feel her tenuous connection to El Escorpion falling through her fingers. She could not let it happen. She needed to find him. “What do you want? What can I say to make you understand?”

“I understand perfectly. I’m just not interested.”

Beth took a deep breath. There were lines she didn’t cross, values she did not abandon. That was how she could deal with the less savoury aspects of her job. She would be no better than the men she chased if she compromised her morals.

But she needed this, she needed Torres onside.

“I will find him, even without you. I have all the resources of the Department of Justice behind me. Do you know what will happen when I find him? I will cut a deal. I will get all the information I can and then I will cut him loose. He is nothing to me, just a link in the chain that leads to El Escorpion.”

Torres’ hand tightened on the wood, his knuckles turning white under the strain. There was no emotion on his dark face but she knew she had hit a nerve. “But it could go another way. Once I have the information I need,” she took a deep breath to fortify her nerve, she wasn’t just blurring the line: she was annihilating it. There was no morality in what she was about to do. In that moment she knew there was precious little she wouldn’t say or do to complete her mission. “Once I cut him loose, it is over. He doesn’t exist. If something happened to him, it wouldn’t even be a blip on the radar.” She left the rest unsaid. The words were bitter in her mouth. Her mind screamed at her to take them back but she couldn’t.

All she could do was pretend that she had not just given consent for a man to be murdered in cold blood.

***

Beth opened one eye and peered at the hard pillow she had just been sleeping on. She sat bolt upright when she saw that the uncomfortable pillow was actually the solid chest of Torres. He was staring at her, his dark face expressionless as usual.

Beth’s hand flew to her head. Had she hit it on something in her sleep, because her temples throbbed like she had been clobbered over the head with a crowbar. And her mouth… It tasted like someone had stuffed a dirty dishcloth in there. This is why she didn’t like to drink things that didn’t come with pink umbrellas. The pain was never worth the temporary distraction.

She glanced over at the clock on the bedside table: 7:27. Shit. She had fallen asleep and spent the night with Torres. Apparently the cat lady was also unprofessional. She noticed a small wet patch on Torres’ white shirt. Her hand flew to mouth. Drool! She had drooled on him in her sleep. She was really killing it on the charm offensive.

Beth stood up and straightened her T-shirt. At some point in the night it had ridden up above her navel. She instantly regretted the sudden movement as the room spun around her.

“Morning, Gatita.”

Beth scowled at the name but immediately wished she hadn’t. How could such a small movement hurt so much? “Aspirin. I need some aspirin…and I need to call my sister.”

Beth covered her eyes with her hands. Why was it so bright? She did not need this assault on her retinas. She could feel him staring at her again but she was too sore to care. He could study and judge all he liked. Thank God it was Saturday and she did not need to make an appearance at the office. She was going to be spending the next twelve hours on her couch, watching made-for-TV movies and promising herself she would never drink again. “I need to call a taxi.” Beth’s hands went to the back pockets of her jeans. “Damn it, I left my phone at home.” It seemed the sensible thing to do last night but this morning she wished she had it.

She leaned over and reached for the hotel phone.

Torres stopped her. “I’ll take you home.”

Beth held up her hand. “It’s OK. I’ll just get a taxi.”

Torres took the phone from her hands and returned it to its cradle. “We slept together. It’s the least I can do.”

Beth’s head shot up. Surely they hadn’t! She wasn’t that drunk. Her heart picked up speed, but then she noticed the small curl to Torres’ full lips. He was teasing her again. He really needed to stop doing that.“Very funny.”

“I try.” Torres stood up and peeled his shirt off. He folded it before laying it on the back of a chair. “I need a quick shower. Give me ten minutes.”

Beth nodded because she couldn’t speak. She tried not to stare but she could not look away. In addition to the tight ropes of muscles that encased his body, his torso was also covered in the scars of an old burn. Her breath caught in her throat when she saw it. She shouldn’t have been surprised, she knew about the injury, but she wasn’t fully prepared for the degree his skin had been ravaged. And she wasn’t prepared for the large Santa Muerte tattoo that covered the entire left side of his chest. It reached from his shoulder down below his ribs. The artist had incorporated the worst of his scar into the design. Santa Muerte: Saint Death. Many gang members, especially Los Zetas, gave homage to the saint. She was thought to protect them and keep them safe while they inflicted misery on others. If there were a patron of drugs and murder it would be Santa Muerte.

Beth flinched. Why did Torres have this tattoo? He didn’t have it when she recruited him. She knew for certain because there was a detailed description of every scar and mark on his body in his file. The DEA had collected the information in case he was killed in the line of duty. Los Treintas had a nasty habit of decapitating their victims and sending the heads to their families as a warning. Two years was a long time. Long enough for him to become fully immersed, long enough for him to become sympathetic to the Zeta cause? If he had, Torres was a threat, to her, to finding El Escoprion, even to himself.

Beth opened her mouth to speak but shut it again. She needed to pull him in. She bit her lip until she tasted blood. Her conscience screamed that this was her fault. She was his handler. She was supposed to support him and debrief him, make sure he was handling everything. And shit if she had not messed that one up. She accepted his grunts and nods as communication and assumed he was doing fine because nothing ever bothered him. Shit, why hadn’t she noticed this before? She had let herself get so focused on El Escorpion and now they were paying the price. Not all details should be overlooked.

She tried to take a deep breath to fill her lungs but a stronger force was squeezing out all the air, making her breath come in small pathetic pants. Beth closed her eyes and counted slowly to ten. “How long has it been since you talked to Frazer?” She tried to sound relaxed but her voice sounded strangled.

Torres’ dark eyes were impossible to read past the cold anger that roiled behind them. He had changed again, going from the smiling teasing man she had seen glimpses of last night, to the terrifyingly emotionless man she knew. The change was so sudden and fluid, like a switch being tripped. Everything about his appearance changed, even the soft lines that fanned his eyes when he smiled, turned cold.

“Why do you think I need to see the psychologist, Beth? Do you think I have gone native? Think I get off on watching the boys make el guiso? Am I thinking about it right now? Stuffing a body into a nice 55-gallon drum, adding just enough diesel so it burns slow. I know you love details. Ask me, Beth. Ask me how long it would take to burn you down to nothing.”

Beth tried to look away but Torres grabbed her chin and held her firmly in place, his dark eyes burning into her with venom only matched by the ugliness of his words. He scared her. There was no shame in admitting that. She would be a fool not to be scared of him. By choice, she only knew the beginning of what he was capable of, and that was enough.

“Ask me, Beth!” he demanded.

“No,” she whispered. She forced herself to look at him.

“What do you weigh? 140 lbs? Five hours. I would add a little iron, keep it burning nice and hot, and that’s it, in five hours it would be like you never existed. Your life, your identity gone.”

Beth’s joints went slack. She fought the urge to scream and tell Torres to shut up. She didn’t because she knew he was talking about Archila. He had never spoken about it with her before. She only knew the details through the police report. Torres knew all the details though, because he had seen it happen. He had seen Archila shot in front of him before Martinez turned the gun on Torres, shooting him in his left shoulder. Beth’s gaze went to the tattoo again. Under the ugly marking was proof of an uglier crime.

Beth’s back straightened. Fear told her to keep quiet but something else compelled her to tell him, “It’s not your fault. You couldn’t have stopped them. Archila knew that. That’s why he told you to go after you were shot. You couldn’t have stopped them. He was already dead, the moment they found him.”

Torres dropped his hand from her. “Don’t,” he warned between clenched teeth.

But Beth didn’t listen. The pain she thought she saw in his eyes made her continue, her compassion trumping her fear. “It’s not your fault Archila didn’t adjust when he got home from Iraq, and it’s not your fault he got involved with Los Zetas. He made his choices.”

“And I made mine?” Torres shook his head.

“That’s not what I meant.” Beth shrugged her shoulders. She wasn’t good at this part. She didn’t know what to say to make it OK. “Look, it’s normal to feel some guilt about what happened in Iraq and in Mexico. You survived, that’s what’s important. Why don’t you talk it through with Frazer? I know he can see you this week. Come in.” She realised she sounded like she was begging, but it was because she was. Torres needed to come in from the field. The DEA had gotten enough from him. She had used him enough. They had found Martinez, the man who killed Archila, and it was a dead end.

Once Torres was properly debriefed, he could stay with the Administration or he could go back to carpentry, or do whatever he wanted. He just needed to be away from Los Zetas. She needed him to see that.

“This,” Beth gestured to the tattoo, “this isn’t you. And this won’t bring Archila back. This will only get you killed.”

Torres shook his head. “I haven’t gone native, Beth. You’re alive right now because of this.” Torres slapped the design. “The reason you weren’t killed last night is because of this. You don’t want details, Gatita, but this one you need to know, I hate this.” His voice was low, shadowed by emotion she had not heard from him before. “But I hate what is under it even more and that is why I am going to find El Escorpion. So take a good hard look at it, because this is what is going to save us both. And, no Beth. To answer your question, no I don’t want to see Frazer.”

Beth nodded. She took a step back until her knees hit the side of the bed and she collapsed down onto the mattress.

A few seconds later she heard the sound of water splashing against tiles. Beth held her head in her hands. Not for the first time that week, she questioned her career choice. It wasn’t too late to change, who needed a pension anyway? No, she just needed an aspirin. Once her head was sorted out she could worry about her guilt. Had she signed Torres’ death warrant when she recruited him? It had all seemed so perfect, he was an in to Los Zetas that she could not pass up. She hadn’t seen Torres as anything more than an asset, a human pawn she would happily sacrifice to get to El Escorpion.

Christ, when had she become that person? When did people’s lives become inconvenient details? She closed her eyes and let shame settle over her.

A few minutes later Torres returned, faded jeans slung low over his narrow hips.

“Ready?” he asked.

“Yeah.”

Torres opened the door to the bedroom. Stretched on the couch were the three men she did not recognise, all passed out cold, the television playing soccer highlights in the background. In the corner of the room Flores sat, still awake, his tattooed hand wrapped around the neck of a beer. It was early to be drinking but he probably had not stopped from the night before. The fear she had felt towards him had given way to anger. It took all her energy not to spit in his face.

Flores nodded at her, a small act of recognition, or maybe what he thought passed as an apology for attempted assault. Beth’s hands tightened into angry fists. Now was not the time or the place. She would bide her time. Flores would get what was coming to him.

Flores apologised to Torres in Spanish, saying he did not realise Beth was his. Torres nodded in return and said something to the effect of “No harm, no foul.”

Beth bit the inside of her cheek to keep from saying that plenty of harm had been done but she didn’t because it would jeopardise Torres’ position to have his “woman” question his authority. The drug culture was savage and steeped in misogyny. She wanted to tell Flores exactly what she thought of him but instead she kept her eyes focused on the floor, studying a small stain on the blue carpet, reminding herself that justice would prevail. As her mom always told her, “Everything will be all right in the end. If it’s not all right, it’s not the end.” Beth closed her eyes and for a brief second let herself beg the universe for the words to be true, not just with Flores, but with her mom.

Flores apologised again and then surprised her by offering to take them to breakfast. From the corner of her eye, she saw Torres nod and then accept the outstretched hand that was offered to him.

Beth’s head snapped up. She opened her mouth to say something but realised it would mean letting Torres know she spoke Spanish and giving away her one advantage.

“There’s a waffle place down the street. Meet us there is fifteen minutes,” Torres said quickly, still speaking Spanish.

Flores nodded and then reached out his hand again, this time to her. Beth took a deep breath. She didn’t want to be in his presence, let alone touch him. Torres put his arm around her waist and gave her a squeeze, his powerful fingers biting into the sensitive flesh. She winced and fought the urge not to cry out. She got the message and shook his hand.

Torres led her from the hotel room. Once they were in the elevator she turned to him. Her hands shook. “Don’t ever do that again. I don’t want him touching me. You do realise what he was going to do to me?”

“I know. I’m sorry.” Torres held out his hands, palms open. Remorse was written clearly on his dark features. Beth shook her head. She had seen it before. He could play any emotion, be anything or anyone the situation required. There was no way to tell what was going on in his head. She wondered if he even understood what was going on in his mind. Hell, she wondered if there was a “real” Torres. He was so good at adapting, his character changing on demand. God only knew what was left of him.

“He was going to rape me. Do you get that?”

Torres clenched his fists and then relaxed them, several times, his stare never leaving her. “I wouldn’t have let him touch you,” Torres said.

Beth didn’t let the issue rest. “But he would have if you weren’t there. Has he done that before? Do you know of any other women he has attacked, because it didn’t seem like his first time.”

Torres’ eyes narrowed into angry slits. “Are you asking me if I have sat back and allowed Flores to rape women? You’ve changed your tune. I thought that you didn’t want details.”

Beth shook her head. “Tell me.” She needed to know this. This wasn’t about Flores. This was about how engrained the violence had become in Torres, how skewed his thinking had become.

Torres’ lips curled into a bitter smile. “Do you want to know if I rape women? Is that what you’re really asking? You’re asking if I am willing to hold a woman down and force my cock into her? Is that what you want to know?”

Beth nodded.

“Fuck you,” was his response. The ice in voice sent a chill through her.

“But you wouldn’t stop Flores,” she pressed.

Torres turned on her. In an instant her back was pressed against the elevator wall, a large arm on either side of her, his weight pinning her in place. In a blink of an eye she was completely overpowered. It was hard for her to breath. Her knees buckled. If he had not been supporting her, she would have fallen over. Torres leaned down and hissed against her ear. “Yes I would stop him. But don’t ever ask me that question again.” When he spoke, his lips brushed her ear. She shivered as his hot breath cooled quickly on the sensitive flesh of her neck.

Just as quickly, Torres released her. He righted himself just in time for the doors opening. “We’re going to breakfast,” he said, still not knowing she spoke Spanish.

Beth took a deep breath and commanded her pulse to slow but it refused. Whatever was left of the real Torres was there. The anger, that was him. “I need to get home,” she tried to say but it came out a whisper.

“Make time, Gatita. Flores needs to know there are no hard feelings.” Torres walked across the parking lot, not turning to see if she was following. Beth shook her head. What a sick world Torres inhabited, where trying to assault someone was glanced over with a nod of the head and an invitation to breakfast.

But she had put him in that world. Guilt threatened to overtake her. If Torres was the monster he looked like, she had helped to create him.

He opened the door to his black SUV and shut it behind her. His actions were more to do with making sure she got in the car than actual manners.

The interior of the car was spotless but she wasn’t surprised. Torres was meticulous with everything. He had even made the bed before they left the hotel. And he had hung up the towels and wiped down the sink so neatly, it was almost impossible to tell anyone was in the room, except of course for the tiny graveyard of alcohol bottles in the wastebasket. They were only in the trash because Torres had put them there.

Five minutes later they pulled into the parking lot of a breakfast chain. She hated to admit it, but she was glad they had stopped here because she was starving. She hadn’t eaten since lunch yesterday.

A waitress seated them at a booth in front of the window, near the front of the store. The woman, whose name was Wanda according to the faded badge on her yellow pinafore uniform, smiled as she handed Beth a menu. There was a tiredness around her eyes that wasn’t concealed by her blue eye shadow. Beth recognised the look of an overworked woman. Her heart constricted painfully as she thought about her mom. The woman looked nothing like her mother, but she reminded her of her mom just the same: same job, same tired eyes.

“I’ll give ya a minute to decide,” the waitress said.

Beth knew without looking what she wanted. Only one food could cure a hangover. “Can I please get the buttermilk pancakes? And do you have peanut butter?”

The waitress nodded.

“Can I get a side of peanut butter please? Oh and a coffee please, decaf,” Beth asked.

Beth looked up to see Torres staring at her. His habit of watching her a bit too intently did not look like it was likely to end.

Torres ordered a black coffee and an omelette before he asked Beth. “Is the peanut butter for your coffee or your pancakes?”

“Pancakes,” she informed him as Wanda filled up her mug with hot coffee.

“Interesting.”

She waited for him to finish his thought but nothing followed. Beth took a deep breath. Thirty seconds went by, and then a minute. He was doing it again, not talking so she would. But damn if it didn’t work. He had obviously figured out that she was uncomfortable with silence.

“I get it from my mom. She puts peanut butter on everything. I think it started when we were kids. Peanut butter gives you a lot of bang for your buck, calorie-wise. We couldn’t afford very much but our cupboards were always stocked with discounted peanut butter. Do you remember the supermarket with the huge isles of discounted food with their yellow labels with black writing? You were never quite sure of what brand was actually inside because everything had a generic label. My mom said it was a culinary adventure.” Beth smiled at the memory. Only her mom could put a positive spin on poverty. But her mom could put a positive spin on anything. She saw everything as an adventure or an opportunity.

“You can smile. Who knew?” Torres said.

Beth nodded. “What can I say? Discounted food does it for me. Don’t get me started on government cheese.”

Torres raised a dark brow in question but he didn’t say anything.

“You don’t remember government cheese? It was the best. There was a surplus of cheese, so low-income families got massive blocks of cheese. We had to stand in line forever but at the end we got a ton of cheese. We are talking like the size of small house. Well not quite but they were big.” Beth couldn’t help but smile when she thought of the enormous pots of macaroni and cheese that filled their freezer for months. Somehow they never got sick of it. God she was talking a lot. Torres’ silence tactics were annihilating her policy of keeping her private life private. She supposed it didn’t really matter much if she told Torres things; it wasn’t like he had contact with anyone she knew.

“Can’t say I have experienced that culinary delight. No government cheese for me.”

“Maybe it was just a California thing.” Beth realised too late that she had assumed Torres had grown up below the poverty line too. She shouldn’t assume his family had received food stamps just because hers had. She never made that assumption about anyone else, weird that she would start with him.

Torres shrugged his shoulders. “They might have had it here. My parents were illegal, so there wasn’t a chance in hell of them getting in any government line.”

Beth nodded. “You say were. Are they still illegal?”

Torres finished his sip of coffee before he answered. “No. Dad is dead, Mom was naturalised. She was cleaning house for a government worker and he pulled some strings.”

The waitress returned a few minutes later with their order.

Beth spread the peanut butter over her pancakes before dousing it in maple syrup. She did not stop pouring until her waffle floated in the sticky concoction. Before she took a bite she cut off a piece and placed it on Torres’ plate. “You already had your childhood robbed of government cheese, you can’t miss out on peanut butter pancakes too,” she said by way of explanation.

Torres eyed the offering dubiously before he stabbed his fork into it.

“Well?” Beth asked before he had a chance to swallow.

Half of Torres’ mouth curled in his signature half smile. “It’s good. I have to admit the combination of sweet and salty works.” Just to be sure he cut himself another bite from her plate.

Beth smiled in return. Sitting with him here in daylight, he almost seemed…well, less scary. He still looked every part the hardened criminal but there was an ease about him that relaxed her in return. She wondered if there was an alternate reality where she could enjoy his company. Once she got past the terrifying part of him, he was actually easy to talk to, mostly because she could tell him stupid inane things as there was no pretence of them ever being friends. But there was something else, something she did not expect from him: he listened like he actually cared what she was saying.

They continued eating and talking, mostly Beth talking, with Torres interjecting the occasional comment or question. Just as Beth finished her last bit of pancake, Flores arrived, alone.

Torres nodded to him. Just then Wanda walked by and Flores grabbed a menu from her hands before sliding into the booth beside Torres. “Coffee,” he said, snapping his fingers and pointing to an overturned cup. “Now,” Flores added when he caught Beth’s eye. “Move your ass.”

Beth’s shoulders tightened. Her gaze darted to the waitress. She tried to catch her eye, to smile, or apologise, let her know she knew Flores was a jackass, but the woman kept her head down. To most people she would have looked unfazed but Beth saw the tightness in her mouth and the subtle flair to her nostrils.

“Please is the word you are looking for,” Beth said in the nicest voice she could manage.

Flores’ eyes narrowed in defiance. “You going to control your woman?” Flores asked in Spanish even though he had just demonstrated his proficiency in English. His dark stare never left Beth. He was trying to intimidate her. There was no doubt it was the same dead stare he showed his victims.

Beth bit the inside of her mouth to stop herself from speaking or showing any sign that she understood him.

Torres laughed and said in Spanish, “I kept her up too late. She’s not a morning person at the best of times.”

Flores seemed to find the explanation acceptable. He looked her straight in the eye. “She’s feisty.” He stood up and announced in English, “I’m going to the toilet. Give me some bacon and eggs, sunny side up, none of this scrambled bullshit.” His stare never left Beth even though he was speaking to the waitress. He was challenging Beth to say something.

Torres leaned over and whispered into her ear. “Play nice, Mami.” There was an underlying threat in his words.

“I’m trying.” Her head was killing her. Normally she might be able to fake civility but she was in too much pain to deal with Flores right now. Just her luck he pushed her buttons. Rudeness to people in the service industry was a particular pet peeve. She had seen her mom be humiliated by customers, because pathetic people thought it was acceptable to demean and demoralise people to show their own power. Her mom had always smiled and brushed it off, reminding Beth, “What Peter says about Paul has more to do with Peter than Paul.” Beth would pretend to be wise and tell her mom she understood but inside it pissed her off. Flores speaking rudely to the waitress brought back all the anger.

With Flores out of earshot, Torres could speak normally. “You wear every emotion on your face. I can see everything you’re thinking. And so can everyone else. It’s not enough to say nothing. You can’t be openly hostile. You’ll get us both killed.”

Beth nodded. She doubted Flores noticed anything about her face. He was too self-involved. He only ever looked at her to intimidate her. She was a piece of meat like every other woman. It was only Torres who studied her. “I thought I was a good liar. Until I met you.”

“Thank you.”

“It wasn’t a compliment.”

Flores returned a few minutes later. When he sat down he snapped his fingers and pointed to his coffee cup.

Beth let out a stream of air. She needed to stretch her legs, before she stretched her fingers around his throat.

She turned to Torres. “I saw a gas station next door. I’m going to go get some aspirin. I’ll be right back.”

Torres lifted a brow like he was going to say something but he remained silent.

Beth pushed passed a busboy as she headed for the door. “Sorry,” she mumbled, looking back over her shoulder.

She made her way across the street and bought a package of aspirin and a bag of M&M’s before she found her way to the curb and sat down beside a fire hydrant. Beth downed two aspirin without any water and then tore open the bag of candy. She wasn’t hungry but she needed them. She popped a single red sweet into her mouth and closed her eyes as the hard shell softened on her tongue. When the hard candy coating and the chocolate below had completely dissolved, she took another sweet, yellow this time, and repeated the process.

Beth breathed in slowly, letting the combination of the sugar and the fresh air relax her coiled muscles.

“Hey,” came a deep voice from above her.

Beth looked up at Torres, his dark head encased by a halo from the morning sun. Even though she shaded her eyes with her hand, she still had to squint. His broad silhouette looked like the cover of a horror novel: shadowed and ominous, promising to inflict all levels of emotional trauma. He surprised her by sitting down beside her.

“Still hungry?” he said gesturing to the M M’s in her hand.

“No, not really,” she said but did not explain further. She would use his tactics on him and let her silence loosen his tongue. It only seemed fair, as she had divulged more this morning than she ever had. No one at work knew she had grown up poor, hell, no one in Texas knew. The thought of anyone knowing her family received food stamps turned her cold, yet she had told Torres with no prompting.

Beth waited for him to say something, but the pause stretched from pregnant to painful. Beth popped another sweet into her mouth to keep from speaking, but this time the treat did not have its usual calming effect. She waited for the candy to melt before she said, “I know what you’re doing and it’s not going to work.”

True to form, Torres said nothing, just continued to stare at her.

Beth sighed in exasperation. “You can stop now. We both know the game.”

Torres’ brow shot up in question.

Beth shook her head. “Please stop looking at me like I am interesting. I’m really not. You’re putting me off my M&M’s and that takes a lot.”

“I wouldn’t want to put you off your M&M’s. You seem very fond of them. Is that another California welfare thing? Did the state give out surplus M&M’s?”

Beth shook her head, annoyed at herself for telling him about government cheese.

Torres nodded, seeming to accept her answer.

He was doing it again. Beth popped another sweet into her mouth and then another and another, repeating the process of letting it melt slowly. “Do you realise how annoying that is?” Her frustration built as she worked her way through her bag of M&M’s with no elevation in her mood.

“Sorry?”

Beth reached into her bag only to discover that she had finished the bag. She wadded up the wrapper and shoved it into her pocket. “Are you kidding me? I finished the bag? I have never finished the bag. That’s how annoying I find all of this.” Beth stood up and briefly considered going back to the gas station to buy another bag but realised her coping mechanism would only work if she was removed from her stressors.

“You’ve never finished a bag of M&M’s?” Torres asked dubiously.

“Yes. No. Not like that. Oh never mind.” Beth threw up her hands in defeat. She turned to walk away but spun on her heel to face him. “I know what you are doing with the whole silence thing and it is not working. I am talking to you so you know precisely how annoying I find the practice, not because it is effective. You understand the difference. You even managed to ruin my M&M therapy, which takes some doing. I have never made it past ten M&M’s before I felt better about something. And I just finished the bag and I still feel awful. So please stop with the staring and the silence. If you want to know something, just ask me. Stop looking at me like I’m interesting, ’cause I’m really not.”

Torres’ eyes narrowed. “Why do you keep saying you’re not interesting?”

“That was your take away from that conversation?” Beth noticed that he was still staring at her but she didn’t mention it, instead looked at him with the same intensity.

“What did you want me to take away, Gatita?”

Again with the cat nickname. It was like acid on an open wound but she would not show it. She shrugged her shoulders. “I would prefer it if you didn’t stare at me. And stop with the long silences that make me talk.”

Torres smiled knowingly. “I see,” he said before, standing up beside her.

What?! What did he see?! Beth didn’t wait for him to finish his thought, because he wouldn’t. “What do you think you see?”

Torres leaned over and brushed a stray lock off of her face. “Just you, Beth.” His hands were worn and callused. Heat radiated off him, but his proximity, or maybe his words, made her shiver. His gaze was on her, palpable and hot.

“You’re doing it again.”

“Am I? What am I doing exactly?”

Beth shrugged. It would sound stupid if she tried to articulate it.

“You’re uncomfortable because I look at you when I speak to you? Is that it? Where I’m from we call that manners.”

Beth shook her head. “Of course- I know that. It’s just-you look at me like you’re studying me.”

Torres was silent for a moment and then he surprised her by nodding. “Sorry. Maybe I am. It’s been a long time since I’ve been around a normal person. You’re the only nice person I’ve spoken to for the last two years. So yeah, I guess I want to hear what you have to say. I’m sorry if that creeps you out.”

Beth sighed. “That’s kind of sad. Now I feel bad for you. If your only normality is me, then you have bigger problems than my failed M&M therapy.”

“What’s wrong with you? As far as normal goes, you’re pretty good.”

“Nothing’s wrong with me except I have overshot normal and entered boring territory.”

Torres shook his head. “You’re not boring. You’re nice, you’re normal, if that’s boring sign me up. I could use some of that kind of boring in my life right about now.”

“Sounds like you could use an M&M right now. Shame I ate them all.”

“Do you always eat M&M’s when you’re upset?”

Beth nodded. This time she didn’t wait for the long silence that always followed her statements; she just carried on talking. She may as well not fight it; she was going to end up speaking to him anyway. “Sucking on them slowly calms me down. I usually feel better after four. Until today my high was ten.”

“I’ll have to try it.”

Judging by his pronounced lack of body fat, she doubted he indulged in chocolate very often, if ever. “What do you when you’re upset? If you don’t drink and haven’t had sex since you went undercover. What’s left? You’re woefully lacking in vices. That’s just not normal. Everyone needs something that they pretend to try to give up.”

Torres thought for a second. “I work out. Not much of a vice, but it works.”

Beth nodded. “You must be upset a lot.” She realised too late that she had said the words out loud. “I mean…you know…it is obvious you work out a lot…you know…you’re very muscular.” Beth’s cheeks burned hotter with each word, finally she decided to take a leaf out of Torres’ book and just stop talking.

Torres’ mouth curled into a lopsided smile. “Sounds like I wasn’t the only one staring.”

Beth cleared her throat. “I’m very observant,” she said in her defence, though someone would have to be legally blind not to notice how physically fit Torres was. His body was like an anatomy lesson, everything perfect and oversized. Each muscle was well defined and distinct from the others.

“Apparently you are.”

And apparently he had changed his tactics from silence and staring to flirting. Beth’s cheeks were burning now. She shifted from one foot to the other. This was probably a side effect of being undercover too long. He was flirting with her because there were no other women to flirt with. It was the equivalent of being the last woman on earth. Beth glanced down at her watch. She didn’t care what time it was, she just needed something to distract her. She could still feel his gaze on her, her flesh warming under the inspection.

“I should…probably get back to the diner… I want to leave Wanda a tip. She shouldn’t have to deal with jerks like Flores.”

Torres nodded. “I already did. I left her $100 of the ill-begotten money you don’t want me to talk about. And for the record no one should have to deal with Flores, but that’s why we get the big bucks.”

There was a hint of sadness, or maybe regret in his voice. “OK. Well then I guess I just need to get home.” Beth paused to think. They were done, maybe forever. Once she told him she had identified Archila’s killer, she would have no reason to see him again.

Should she tell him?

She knew who Archila’s killer was. That was why she had tried to meet him last night, to tell him, but even now something stopped her. Last night she didn’t tell Torres because she needed his help, but now there was no excuse. Her head pounded as her conscience deliberated the consequences of telling him. She couldn’t be certain what Torres would do with the information, but in her heart, she knew. Telling Torres would be giving him tacit consent. But withholding the information would be a betrayal; he had only joined the DEA to find Archila’s murderer.

Beth took a deep breath. “Um…before you leave. I have some information on Archila’s killer.” She spoke quickly so she wouldn’t be tempted to change her mind. He deserved to know, he had held up his end of the bargain. What he did with the information was on him now. Whatever he did, she would ignore, it would become one of the many details she pretended didn’t exist.

Torres’ jaw tightened.

“His name is Javier Martinez. Does the name mean anything to you? We got his name from an informant but it checks out. He is known to the DEA. My partner picked him up a few years ago on meth charges. He is small time. He won’t get us any closer to El Escorpion.”

For the first time, he did not look at her. His eyes were glazed over, his thoughts somewhere else. He looked different again, like he had in the elevator. The switch had been tripped, all the warmth gone. In an instant he went from teasing to terrifying.

Beth’s skin went cold. Immediately she regretted telling him. She wasn’t sure why, it wasn’t like the world would mourn the loss of Javier Martinez. But this didn’t feel right. If Torres was looking for closure, he wasn’t going to find it by killing Martinez. “We can speak to the office in Mexico City. I’m sure they can bring him in by the end of the week. He would face trial in Texas—”

“No,” Torres cut her off.

“You don’t need to—”

He cut her off again with a raised hand. “I‘ll take you home now.” He wasn’t listening to her. She doubted if he could even see her through his rage. He was consumed by it. Every action now would be guided by his vendetta.

Beth followed him back to his car. Letting Torres take her home wasn’t appropriate, but nothing about her relationship with Torres was appropriate. That ship had sailed when she recruited him. She gave him her address and settled into her seat. She racked her brain for things to say to dissuade him from going after Martinez, but her mind was blank. She had no argument to offer that he would listen to, so instead of speaking she stared out the window at the fields of blue bonnets. Usually she missed California, but when the blue bonnets were in bloom, there was nowhere she would rather be. All of Texas was covered in the bright wildflowers. Even the side of the freeway was softened by the delicate flowers. They made Texas seem smaller, softer, more like home, less like the consolation prize it was.

Torres pulled up in front Beth’s house. He had not spoken for the entire drive and neither had she. This time the silence was not an invitation to speak, it was a carefully constructed wall designed to keep her out. “I should’ve known you’d have a picket fence. Very American dream.” he commented quietly.

Beth nodded, looking past him to her small bungalow. It was modest, but it was her small slice of the American dream. As a kid growing up in a one-bedroom apartment that overlooked the freeway, her dream was to have her own house with a yard. And now she did. It wasn’t much but it was all hers, or it would be after twenty more years of monthly payments.

Beth cleared her throat. She knew this was the last time she was going to see Torres and she had just started to get to know him. Maybe it was the finality of it, or the situation with her mom, but she wasn’t ready to say goodbye yet. Torres looked like a monster but he wasn’t. He was different to Flores. There was something else to him, not just an unbridled passion for violence. “Do you want to come in and have a cup of coffee? Shouldn’t brag, but I make some of the best instant in Texas.”

“No, I better go.”

Beth nodded. There was more she wanted to say but she wasn’t sure what. She hesitated before she said, “If Martinez was brought back to Texas, he would get the death penalty. He killed two border agents. He won’t be getting a slap on the wrist. The Mexico City office is on his tail.”

Torres nodded but did not say anything. They both knew what she was saying. Torres did not need to go after Martinez. But they both knew he would. He was too far in now to go back. If there was any question about that before, it immediately vanished when she saw the tattoo of Santa Muerte on his chest.

Beth stepped out of the car and took a deep breath. This was it. “Take care, Torres.”

“You too, Gatita,” he said before he pulled away.