Читать книгу Blurring The Line - Kierney Scott - Страница 9
ОглавлениеBeth Thomson forced herself to open her eyes. Hot pressure burned behind her lids. She swallowed past the lump in her throat and reminded herself that crying would only excite them. She could pretend to be brave. She wouldn’t show fear. The only thing she could control was her reactions. There would be no screaming, no tears. If this was the way her life was going to end, she was not going to give these men the pleasure of knowing the terror that coursed through her. Men like this thrived on it, required it, it was the currency that funded their regime. She could only pray that the man holding her could not feel her heart’s violent assault on her ribs. Her heart was one thing she could not control. She tried but it refused to listen to her commands to slow: stupid heart.
She took a slow deep breath, conscious of the cold blade held against her throat. Her eyes darted around the hotel room; there was nowhere to go, no escape. Even if there weren’t four of them, she was on the 15th floor. Even in her panicked state, she knew she stood a better chance against four gang members than the concrete 100 feet below.
She needed to think.
She could get out of this. She just needed to be compliant. It went against everything in her to ignore the reflex to fight back. Her training had taught her to fight, but common sense and self-preservation told her this was not a fight she would win. There was no doubt they were armed and she wasn’t. As a precaution she had come to the meeting unarmed and carrying no ID that would link her to the DEA. Her captor leaned in until his nose brushed the side of her face “Hueles bien,” he smirked, exposing a chipped front tooth. Ironic that he was commenting on how good she smelled when the only thing she could smell were the stale cigarettes that clung to his breath. She recognised him from his mug shot: Salvador Flores. Unfortunately for her, she also knew every crime he had ever been convicted or suspected of, and the list was long…and gruesome. Even among the ranks of a notorious drug cartel, Flores stood out as particularly savage.
She did not recognise the others, which meant they were not in the system, probably because they were too young. Los Zetas preferred their recruits young as they were more compliant and fearless and their moral compass could be pointed any way the Zetas needed.
Beth studied all their features, mentally noting heights and weights, every scar, every tattoo. If she survived this she was determined to be able to identify them later.
Flores ran a tattooed hand up her side, settling on her breast.“Pequeno pero agradable,” he hissed against her ear. When he spoke she could see the missing incisors; a testament to his training with the gang. He had joined Los Zetas as a boy, only 13, and like all young Zetas, or Zetilla, his initiation was murdering someone at point-blank range. And then his real training began: by enduring torture so he would know how to torture. In this case, his incisors had been pulled out. It was hard to say what else had been done. Beth had seen cases where Zetillas had had their nails removed one at a time. Others were burned. It was a brutal coming of age for any young man but the results spoke for themselves; the Zetas wanted killing machines and that is what their system produced.
His words were met with laughter from the other three men, each one staring at her like a vulture eying a dying animal, biding their time, ready to swoop in. Beth’s back straightened but she did not push his hand away and she didn’t let on that she knew he was talking about her breasts being small. She bit the side of her mouth to keep herself from giving away any clue that she understood them. Her Spanish was fluent, but it was in her interest that they didn’t know that. She wanted them to think she was just a silly girl in the wrong place at the wrong time. If they found out she was a DEA agent, she would be better off dead.
“Quien es el primero?” Flores asked, but the question was rhetorical as it was clear he intended to be first. He was the leader here. Beth clenched her hands together until her nails bit into the soft flesh of her palms. No matter what happened she would get through this alive. She had a chance if she could get him alone. She needed him to take her through to the bedroom. If she could get him alone she had a chance. More than a chance. She could get through this. She would not let them take her from the hotel. She had seen too many files with women kidnapped by cartels and given as gifts.
That was not going to be her.
Flores grabbed her chin and pulled her face to his and pressed his lips to hers. She couldn’t stop herself clamping her mouth shut. His response was to grab a fist of her hair and violently jerk her head back.
Again the room exploded in coarse laughter. His mouth came at her again, this time she allowed her eyes to close. She needed the small escape. His hands bit into her hips as he pulled her against him. This time she offered no resistance. She could get through this. She had to. A picture of her mom and sister came to the front of her mind but she pushed it away as quickly as it appeared. She could not think of them right now, how much she needed them, how much they needed her. Right now she had to put all of her energy into getting away.
“Es mia.” She’s mine a low voice hissed from the doorway, the harsh tone like acid, burning through the room.
At that moment everything stopped.
Flores’ hands dropped from Beth as his head shot in the direction of the threat.
Torres. He was here.
Beth’s heart stopped in her chest. For a painful suspended moment, her blood stopped in her veins, stagnating in its course. And then a staccato beat began hammering against her ribs. There was an audible gasp. She could not be certain but she thought it was from her. When he had not shown up for their meeting, she assumed she would never see him again. No, that was a lie; she’d assumed it before then. She was always on borrowed time with Torres; once he got what he wanted, he would be gone. Lucky for her, he didn’t have it yet.
Torres crossed the room in long strides, the men parting to make a path. His head was shaved now, only a dark shadow gave the impression of hair. He looked bigger than when she had seen him last and more menacing than the photo in his file. He was six foot tall, but he looked bigger, his presence sucked the oxygen from the room. In a room full of armed gang members, at least one with a rap sheet longer than his arm, Torres still succeeded in looking like the most dangerous one of all, hell, the most dangerous man Beth had ever seen. His features were raw and brutal; even his full lips did not soften his face. Everything about him was hard and cold. Large biceps strained under his white T-shirt. His skin was darker now too, a dark bronze that was more to do with the sun than his Mexican heritage.
In second he was beside her. Powerful arms encircled her. “Hola, Mami.” The quintessentially Mexican greeting conveyed familiarity. She didn’t know of any other Spanish-speaking country where essentially calling a woman a small mother was considered appropriate, but Mexicans did it all the time.
When he spoke only half his mouth moved, making him look like he was smirking or snarling, or both. His eyes narrowed, seeming to convey a message just for her. He had never been this close. There were gold flecks in his dark brown eyes. They were the only thing soft about him, everything else about his appearance was brutal in its severity, crossing the line from masculine to menacing. He looked as much a nightmare as a man. He was too close. His proximity sucked the air from her chest. He still scared her, even after two years. Few things still scared her, and he was one of them.
His mouth lowered onto hers, publically claiming her as his own. Her tight joints did not loosen; her body would not accept that she was safe.
But she was.
Torres was here. There was no way these men would hurt her with him here. There was fear in their eyes when he came in the room, and deference, even from Salvador Flores. Torres was now their leader. For all the reservations she had about recruiting Torres, he had succeeded. He had not only infiltrated the cartel, he was now higher up the food chain than she could ever have hoped for. Cognitively she knew that she was safe in his hands. Despite her misgivings, she knew he would do whatever it took to get her out safe, not because he had any loyalty to her or to the Administration, but because he needed her. She was a means to an end for him as he was for her, a perfect symbiotic relationship, like a plover and a crocodile. Beth was all too aware she was the small fragile bird in this scenario, and Torres the powerful jaws of a prehistoric creature that could snap and destroy her at any minute.
But he wouldn’t. Not yet because he still needed her.
So why would her body refuse to believe she was safe? Her muscles coiled tightly, painfully rigid and aware.
His mouth left hers and trailed a path to her ear. “Pretend you are liking this or you will get us both killed,” he seethed. The anger had not left his voice, if anything it had intensified and taken root.
Her back stiffened. He had nearly been assaulted by a bunch of thugs because he had not made contact but he had the audacity to be angry with her. She was reminded again how much she disliked him, and really hated being dependent on him. That was the part she hated the most. She needed Torres.
Beth placed her hand on his broad chest; her fingers shook as they fanned out over hard muscle. His heart beat under her hand, slow and strong, unfazed by the danger that engulfed them. He was either apathetic or cooler under fire than any human should be, either way it was what made him such a good field agent. Torres did not give a shit about anyone or anything beyond his own interests.
His mouth opened on hers. She must have flinched because his hand was suddenly on hers, squeezing with a pressure that made her eyes water. It took all her focus not to cry out at the biting pain. But the message was clear: she needed to play along.
Eventually Torres pulled his head away, his eyes narrowed, warning her not to speak.
“Change of plans; we’ll leave in the morning,” Torres said. He spoke in Spanish, his heavily accented words coming quickly. In both English and Spanish he spoke like a native, an American accent in English, a Mexican accent in Spanish. His linguistic abilities had been a selling point when she recruited him; it made him a valuable asset, as did his ability as a leader. Admittedly those were both invaluable skills, but only time would tell if they were enough to offset the baggage that Torres brought with him.
From the corner of her eye Beth saw Flores nod his head. Flores was second in charge. She already knew that, but she noted it again, already writing up her report in her head. Nothing happened that wasn’t written down, documented and analysed.
Torres pulled her through the open door to the bedroom. The massive room was dominated by floor-to-ceiling patio doors that let in bright Texas light. In the centre of the room was a kingsize bed, a table on each side, one with a telephone, the other fresh cut flowers. It was picturesque, the kind of room for romantic getaways or recharging. And it was also their designated drop off.
As soon as they were through the door Torres dropped her hand like it was a lead weight. He turned to her, his glare murderous, his eyes narrowed into angry slits, making his face even harsher than she thought possible. Suddenly a boulder settled in the pit of her stomach. Her heart picked up its already frantic pace. If they weren’t on the same side, she would be terrified; as it stood, she was far from comfortable. He was too much in every way: too aggressive, too unstable, too jaded, too damaged, too hell bent on revenge.
“Do you have the—”
Torres cut her off with a raised hand. “They’re listening,” he mouthed, his lips curling around every syllable. She wondered how a single movement could contain so much anger.
He motioned her to the bathroom. Once inside he locked the door before quickly turning on the shower. The sound of the spray of water splashing against the tiles was enough to mute their voices.
“What the hell are you doing here? Are you trying to get yourself murdered or just raped?” he demanded. His low voice was laced with anger and resentment.
Beth shook her head, the fear in her replaced by her own resentment and indignation. God she hated him. He was trying to put this on her. She was many things, too many to list, but a bad agent she wasn’t. She had played by the rules here. “You said you would meet me tonight. You know the routine, if you don’t come, I’m to assume you have left me something here. And how was I to know you were going to bring the Zetas to our meeting spot?” The tautness in her muscles eased as anger spread over her.
“Check your watch, Gatita.”
Beth’s eyes narrowed. Gatita. She burned to ask him why he called her little cat, was it because of her reputation in the Administration for being uptight and in the company of her cat more than men? But she was not going to show her hand yet and let him know she spoke Spanish. She would get more information on Torres if he did not know she understood everything he said. Necessity meant she relied on him, but she did not trust him. Beth looked down at her watch. “It’s midnight.”
Torres grabbed her arm and lifted it to her face. “Look again, Gatita. I still have two minutes. You were going to get yourself killed because you’re too impatient. I said I’d meet you by midnight. And I did, I was there. You weren’t. Maybe you need to rethink your career. Perhaps you can get the stick out of your ass long enough to figure something out.”
Beth’s back straightened. This was not on her. Torres was the one who compromised their position. “Yes, because I knew you would be entertaining gang members at our drop off. That was a logical conclusion.” Beth shook her head in frustration. It was all she could do to keep from screaming at him. “And as for the stick in my ass, you had better pray I keep it there, or I will use it to beat you within an inch of your life.” She was properly angry now, angrier than she had been in a long time. Her hands twitched with the rage. She had never had the desire to hit another person, but now she was consumed with the desire to punch him square in the jaw. It was a combination of the unspent adrenaline racing through her body and indignation about having her abilities questioned.
Torres surprised her by smiling, not a real smile, only half his mouth curled into a smirk, but still it was in the smile family. His face changed with the small action, softening just enough for him to look human. “You didn’t think I would come. Trust issues, Mami? Is it all men or just me? Did daddy leave you or did a man do you wrong?”
Beth shook her head in exasperation. Again he was trying to make this about her, her failure, her shortcomings. This was about him. “We both know you will be gone as soon as you find the man who murdered Moses Archila. It’s only a matter of time before you don’t show up.”
The muscles in Torres’ jaw tightened at the mention of his best friend’s name. He did not bother denying what they both knew: his tenure with the DEA would be over as soon as he hunted down Archila’s killer. She just hoped she was able to get what she needed from him before then.
“Any word on El Escorpion?” Beth asked hopefully, remembering why she was there.
A terse shake of his head was his response.
Beth let out a stream of air. She didn’t expect him to have anything but she always hoped. The entire Administration was hunting for the head of Los Treintas and so far there were more verified sighting of the Loch Ness Monster than their elusive leader. “Eye witness” reports had him ranging in height between five feet and six foot six. Some people said he had straight black hair, others reported curly brown. Some said he was covered in tattoos, other people reported a single scorpion tattooed between the thumb and index finger of his left hand. One report said he was a married father of eight, though she took that one with a pinch of salt because it came from a prison informant desperate to cut a deal. It was like chasing a ghost, and the fact that no one could say for certain what he looked like, let alone knew his real name, only complicated things further. What the DEA knew about the man called El Escorpion fitted comfortably on a single page of paper: he was the leader of one of the most dangerous and heavily armed narco-terrorist groups to come out of Latin America. All details beyond that were speculation.
“Last I heard he was in Sinaloa.”
Beth nodded. She had heard the same thing, but again it had come from a prison informant, and it needed verifying. Not that knowing El Escorpion was or may be in Sinaloa narrowed it down enough to be of any use. Sinaloa was a large state. She could not exactly fly down to Mexico and start knocking on doors.
A sudden thought crossed her mind. Her pulse picked up again. “We need him alive,” Beth blurted out. “We both know he ordered the hit on Archila but you can’t kill him. Do you understand?” She had worked too long and too hard to not get El Escorpion. She could not deny that Torres would get a pass on almost anything he did undercover. There was no doubt in her mind that if Torres found Archila’s killer before she did, the man would be dead. And the case would be forgotten before the body was cold. She would make sure of it. But she needed El Escorpion alive.
Torres’ eyes narrowed, staring through her. There was no emotion on his face save for the simmering cold anger that he always wore.
“Tell me that you know that. Tell me if you find him, you’ll bring him in safe.”
His lip curled again into a facsimile of a smile. “You assume I’ll kill him. But you also assume I’ll tell you the truth about it.” She had forgotten how deep his voice was, like the slow plucked strings of a bass. Had there ever been any warmth in his tone, it would not have been a stretch to call it melodic. His eyes were dark now, the irises consuming any illusion of colour. She had never met anyone else whose physical presence made the hairs on the back of hair stand taut, and that was saying a lot. Beth was often in the company of felons. She could walk into any prison in Texas and not feel as unsettled as she did when she was with Torres.
“That’s not an answer. I know this is all about avenging Archila but you need to see the big picture. This isn’t just a squabble between warring cartels. This is national security. El Escorpion is wanted for arms dealing. You get that, right? He is supplying terrorists. If we don’t get him there will be thousands of other Archilas.” She tried to appeal to him in a language he understood; as an ex-Marine, Torres knew better than most the exact price of the war on terror.
She had been so proud of herself when she recruited Torres, and not just because he was such a valuable asset: she was proud of herself for facing him.
Torres shrugged his shoulders. “Well you’d better catch him.” He left the words “before I do” unsaid, but they were there, hanging between then, palpable.
Beth shook her head. She would find him. She quickly changed the subject. “How are you for money?”
“Good. I—”
Beth cut him off with a raised hand. “Don’t tell me. I just need to know you have enough. I don’t need to be an accessory after the fact.” The Administration had not given Torres money in months. They both knew that any money he had now had not been obtained by legal means and Beth liked to ignore the many less than savoury aspects of her job. Most the time she could if she focused on the big picture and did not let herself think too long about things.
Again Torres shrugged. “Your rules, Gatita.”
Beth flinched again at the cat reference. She really wasn’t the pathetic lovelorn shrew people thought she was, or maybe she was, either way she did not appreciate having it thrown in her face. Not that she cared what Torres thought.
But her pride niggled away at her like a feral cat clawing at her stomach. Was it so unbelievable to imagine Beth Thomson in a relationship? She wasn’t hideously deformed or unhygienic. And when she tried she could almost pass as charming.
Beth tapped her foot against the terracotta tiles of the bathroom floor. “Are we done here, because I really need to get back to my…boyfriend.” The word caught in her throat, barely making it past her dry lips. It wasn’t a lie; she was dating someone…she just would not characterise him as a boyfriend yet. Maybe at some point she would but it was too soon to tell…and she was not going to share that with Torres. God she just wanted to get home to her house. And, yes, her cat.
“Sorry to interrupt your quality time with your…boyfriend. Is that why you came? To tell me about your sex life? Must be pretty fantastic if you’re willing to get us both killed.” His tone changed when he said “boyfriend” but it was hard to tell if he was mocking her because his face remained blank. If there was any emotion behind his dark eyes, he hid it well. She wondered if he learned that in the military or if it had been a gift from Los Zetas. She did not let herself think about the things he must have seen undercover. And the things he must have done…
“No I didn’t come here to talk about my boyfriend – about Neil.” Beth stopped and cleared her throat. She had come to tell him about Archila’s murderer. She glanced to the door, fully aware that Flores and his three associates were still there. Once Beth gave up her information, there was no need for Torres to protect her. Trust did not come easily to her, and he had done nothing yet to earn it. “I came to see if you had any more information on El Escorpion, but you don’t so I will go. We need to change our meeting place. I’ll pick somewhere along I35—”
Beth reached for the door handle but Torres stopped her by placing his large frame between her and the door. His eyes were darker than before. There was emotion there now, but not a welcome one. His demeanour had changed in an instant going from indifferent to alert, like a cheetah ready to pounce.
“You’re leaving after five minutes? Didn’t think that one through did ya, Gatita? I just told four gang members that you are my woman and you expect them to think five minutes would be enough time to get…reacquainted? I’ve been with them two years and they have never seen me with a woman. You’re gonna need to fake it a bit longer than that.”
A hot flush crept up Beth’s neck, settling high on her cheeks, burning as the blood rose to the surface of her skin. The way his lips curled around each syllable made her stomach do a flip, especially when he said “my woman”. Beth had no doubt that a plethora of woman had filled that role over the years. Some women probably got off on the fear. What was it about women and bad boys? She had a name for those women: stupid. Bad boys were just that, bad. People don’t change. If you date a bad boy, you end up with a bad boyfriend, and then a bad husband, and then a bad father for your children, simple as that.
Though she could see how women could forget themselves with him. Her gaze drifted to the white cotton fabric that strained to cover the expanse of his biceps. Beth was fairly certain she could smell testosterone under the clean scent of aftershave. Once she got past the fact that his physical presence was completely terrifying, she could see in an objective way why women found him attractive, there was something primal about him. And the taut muscles that sculpted his body didn’t hurt either.
Beth cleared her throat, remembering where she was. “Right…of course. We should give it some time…” Beth looked down lamely at her watch but her eyes did not register the numbers. She cleared her throat again. It had been a long day. “Um…how long exactly were you thinking?”
If she wasn’t mistaken, Beth saw a flash of a smile crack over his full lips. It was hard to tell because it was gone so quickly, and the curve of his lips made it look as much like a snarl as a grin.
“I don’t know, Gatita. How long does it take with Neil?”
Beth let out a sharp breath. The mention of Neil in the context of sex temporarily put her on the back foot. She had not had sex with Neil yet but she was not about to tell Torres that. It would mean explaining that she hadn’t gotten around to sleeping with Neil because she fully expected it to be another lacklustre sexual experience. She was putting it off so she could pretend a little bit longer this would be the guy who made her see stars. “Um…you know, I don’t know, the normal amount of time. Now let’s go. I need a drink from the minibar.” Beth tried to push past him, but the wall of muscle that was Torres’ body did not budge.
“No, I don’t know. It’s been a while. Remind me how long sex should take.”
Beth dropped her hands to her sides and forced herself to look Torres directly in the eye. His mouth was not smiling but his dark eyes certainly were. The sides crinkled in amusement. He found her amusing. Her sex life amused him. She forced a confidence into her tone she did not feel. “Thirty minutes should be adequate if everyone knows what they are doing.” Yep, thirty minutes was usually enough time for her to realise it wasn’t working for her. Half an hour was how long it took for the guy to stop trying.
Torres nodded his dark head. “OK then. Showtime,” Torres said and then turned off the water. “Let’s see what you’re made of.”
Beth’s eyes narrowed in question, but the only answer she got was a quick flash of a smile. Like before, his lips curled up so it looked more like an act of aggression than a smile, but this time she could see his teeth, two perfectly straight rows of white. Clearly any initiation he endured had not involved having his teeth pulled, which must have been a relief for him because he really did have nice teeth. She wondered if he had had braces and then she wondered why she cared.
“Ready?” Torres asked but he did not wait for an answer. He opened the bathroom door, kicked off his shoes and pulled back the duvet on the bed. “We’d better make this believable.” He gave her a warning glance so menacing that it shot a bolt of fear down her spine. Her hands were suddenly wet and her mouth dry. What was he doing?
“Right side or left?” Torres asked but he was already making his way toward the far side of the room.
Beth glanced at the chair in the corner. She expected to spend the next thirty minutes drinking cocktails made from minuscule bottles of overpriced alcohol. Clearly Torres had other plans.
Beth raised her hand in protest but before she could say anything Torres smiled. He was teasing her. Her brain could not make room for the new information. In the long list of characteristics she attributed to Torres, playful was not one of them. He was cold and calculating and lethal when he needed to be. He wasn’t…whatever this was.
“Just play along. You know what they’re expecting. Make them think that you are in here having the time of your life.” The crinkles around his eyes deepened, it was almost like he was smiling but his mouth had forgotten to play its part.
Beth cleared her throat again. “Can’t we just go out in half an hour…maybe high five Flores and then let me go?”
Torres shook his head. “They have not seen me with a woman. It’s going to take more than half an hour to make up for two years of celibacy.”
Beth bit her cheek to stop from asking if it had really been that long since he had been with a woman. It was none of her business. And she didn’t care. “How much time would it take to make up for two years?” she asked instead when her curiosity would not be abated.
A slight smile tugged at his lips. “Why, is there somewhere you need to be?”
Again she forced herself to look him in the eyes. Lucky for her she was a good liar. “As a matter of fact I do. So the thirty minutes starts now.”
This time he rewarded her with a genuine smile. “Well if we only have thirty minutes, we’d better make it one hell of a half hour.” Torres folded the floral cover and laid it across a stool at the foot of the bed before he stretched out. He looked completely relaxed like a lion lying down for his afternoon nap, or like a crocodile ready to snap the bones of a small bird and devour its tattered carcass.
Beth suddenly thought of Torres having sex, no doubt he could accomplish a lot in a half an hour. She sat down on the bed. “Has it really been two years?” She could not stop herself from asking. The question was rude and entirely unprofessional but she was curious.
Torres nodded but did not elaborate.
Beth’s eyes narrowed as her gaze moved over his solid form. Their contact had been limited since Beth had recruited him just shy of two years ago. They met up every eight weeks or so to touch base, but other than their initial meeting and the time she had trained him, their conversations had been brief and to the point. They did not have much to say to one another beyond work, but thirty minutes would pass more quickly if they weren’t just staring at one another. She tried to think of another question to ask him, anything to pass the time, but her mind was mercilessly blank. Well that wasn’t true exactly, she could think of several follow-up questions about his sex life but she wasn’t about to ask those.
Beth tapped her fingers against the scratchy cotton sheet. “So,” she began lamely. “How have you been?” She whispered so as not to be heard through the thin walls. She could tell by the coarse laughter that Flores and his partners in crime were still in the other room. She remembered she needed to ask Torres the names of his associates, though she doubted they would get her any closer to El Escorpion, and the elusive leader was all she cared about. Everything else was detail, and Beth didn’t do details unless they served her.
Torres opened his eyes but did not look at her. “How have I been?” He shook his dark head. “I thought you wanted credible deniability.”
“Yes – I mean no – I mean how are you other than anything that pertains to criminality?” The question sounded stupid even to her. Apparently she had forgotten how to make small talk.
“Other than being the head of a Sicario and being personally responsible for bringing 100 kilos a month of cocaine and marijuana into Laredo every month, I’m great. How are you, Beth?” Torres turned and looked at her, pinning her in place with his dark eyes.
A bolt of ice ran the length of her spine. There was a caustic sadness in his deep voice, it was tinged with a deep regret. She never really stopped to think how Torres was handling things his end; her focus was always on dismantling Los Treintas. Everything beyond that was filed with the other minutiae of her life, somewhere deep in the recesses of her mind. Beth liked to think of her work in abstract nebulous terms, because the reality of it was quite ugly. Sometimes what they had to do was amoral and illegal but it was also necessary, it served a greater good.
But sometimes she remembered that the names in reports were people. Those were the moments she hated her job, but they were also the moments that reminded her why someone needed to do it.
Torres did not have the luxury of distancing himself; he was part of a Sicario, a hit-man squad. She would never ask for details because she did not need to know and selfishly she did not want to know, those were details that she didn’t let exist.
“You know I…I mean all of us appreciate your sacrifices. We couldn’t do it without you.” It wasn’t a platitude; it was the truth. If she never had contact with Torres again after tonight, which is what she suspected, he still would have been one of the best assets the Administration had ever had. They now knew the exact route drugs were entering the US in Texas and California and they had identified six border patrol agents on the Zetas’ payroll. Once Torres was out of the field they could act on the information and in the long run the country would be safer because of his service. “You have done Archila proud.”
Torres sat up. “Don’t. I’m already whoring myself for the cause. Don’t make it worse. It must be so nice for you, not needing to bother yourself with details.” He ran a hand over his smooth head. She could tell there was more he wanted to say but something stopped him. A stab of guilt pierced her gut. Not for the first time she felt the twinge of a conscience asking if she was taking advantage of him. It would be incredible for anyone to think that of the powerful man in front of her, but she had read his file. She knew every gruesome detail that led him to this point, and she had used it all against him, manipulated him into joining the DEA. She appealed to his honour and his need for revenge. She had been calculating and mercenary, and she would do it again in a minute but it still didn’t make it any less of a dick move.
“I’m sorry,” Beth whispered.
Torres was quiet for a long time. “Me too.” His voice was so low she would have not known what he had said had she not been looking at him.
He glanced down at his watch and sighed. He pinched the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger before he said, “Time to make it convincing. Show me your acting skills, Gatita.”
Beth raised a brow in question.
“We’re having sex not studying in a library. Make some noise, Beth.”
Beth shook her head.
Torres smiled and then rocked the bed back and forth in a slow cadence, the headboard hitting the wall at a steady pace. “Now,” he said in a tone that warned her not to argue with him. She doubted anyone argued with him…about anything…but no, she was not going to make any noises. “No,” she mouthed.
“Now. I have to deal with these people. Just do it,” he said and she knew this was an argument she would not win. She reminded herself she didn’t care what Torres thought of her.
Beth took a deep breath. Her heart pounded against her ribs. She closed her eyes and let out a small moan, it was a pathetic sound, something like a cat meowing.
She opened her eyes to find Torres staring at her with a combination of amusement and disbelief. “What was that?” he mouthed.
A rush of hot blood crept up her neck. “You said to make noise. I made a noise.” She tried to ignore the embarrassment that was stretching its fingers around her neck.
Torres shook his head. His eyes were smiling again. “I didn’t think I needed to specify a sex noise. You have had sex before right, Beth?”
“Yes!” she shouted a bit too forcefully. Of course she had had sex. Many times. Did he think there was no one who would sleep with the pathetic cat lady?
Torres bit back a laugh. “Attagirl. That’s what I’m talking about. Give it more of that and we’re golden.”
He was teasing her again. She really wished he would stop doing that. She could just about come to terms with the terrifying Torres, the teasing version was a step too far. “Why can’t you make the noise? I don’t see why I am the one who has to make an ass of myself.”
“Because if we were really having sex, my mouth would be otherwise occupied.”
Beth’s eyes widened as she realised what he was saying.
Torres smiled again. “Try again. This time more passion, less wounded animal.”
Beth shook her head. He had to be kidding her. This was definitely not in her job description. She needed a new job…or a raise. She took another deep breath and let out a moan. This time it was lower, a guttural sound that surprised her, it wasn’t anything that resembled sensual…unless a mooing cow was your thing. God she was pathetic. She wouldn’t believe anyone would willingly sleep with her after that effort.
She opened her eyes to find Torres staring at her in disbelief. “Seriously? That is the sound you make in bed? Your poor neighbours.”
“No that is not the sound I make in bed. And screw you.” Beth’s cheeks burned. Too bad punching wasn’t a sound usually associated with sex because she would gladly smack Torres in his smirking mouth.
Torres nodded in a patronising way. “What sound do you make?”
“Screw you, Torres.,” Beth said again, barely remembering to whisper. She clutched her hands into tight balls. So much for shaking the pathetic cat lady image.
“Oh…I see,” Torres said almost apologetically.
Beth’s head snapped round. “What?!” she demanded. “What exactly do you see?”
“It’s fine, Beth. You don’t have to be embarrassed. I mean I think your boyfriend should be embarrassed—”
“What the hell are you talking about?”
“You’ve never had an orgasm. Nothing to be ashamed of, you just need to pick better men to share your bed with,” he said with a confidence that left no question about the satisfaction he provided his partners.
“Don’t be an ass. I’ve had orgasms, plenty of them, thank you very much. Just quiet ones. So again, Torres, just…screw you.” Beth threw up her hands in exasperation.
Torres smiled again. “I see, the well-known silent orgasm. Like the kind of orgasms you have by yourself. Those are fun too.” He was staring at her again, in a way she could feel. Heat from his stare pricked her skin.
Beth’s cheeks burned as her embarrassment turned to mortification. She could not believe she was having this conversation. She opened her mouth to explain that it was possible to have thoroughly enjoyable yet relatively quiet sex but then she realised she didn’t have to justify herself to anyone.
A long silence followed. She wished he would stop looking at her so intently. It was like he was studying her, taking in every small action. She felt scrutinised and judged, and the long gaps in conversation made her eager to speak, just to fill them. Therapists did the same thing; they would leave long pauses to force the client to talk more to ease the uncomfortable silence. He was doing it on purpose, to back-foot her. Clever, but it wasn’t going to work on her. She had already told him more than enough about herself. She liked a very clear line between her work and social life. “Just screw you, Torres,” she mumbled.
“To be fair, if you were screwing me, you wouldn’t have this problem.” His voice was thick and low, his face impenetrable as always. He was teasing her again. He was, wasn’t he? He was still looking at her intently, why she could not begin to fathom, she knew first-hand that she really wasn’t that interesting.
Beth shifted on the bed. Her palms were suddenly slick. It was hot in here; hotter than it should be for Texas in April. God she needed a drink, something strong that would make her forget this particular exchange. “We’re done with this conversation. Don’t forget I’m your superior.” Beth reached into the minibar and grabbed a small bottle of single malt scotch and a can of 7 Up. She poured the contents into a glass before swirling it round. She would have preferred a nice mojito or a lemon drop, but this would have to do.
Torres’ mouth curved into a smirk. “Do you feel superior right now, Beth?”
Beth let out a stream of air. Now he even sounded like a therapist. Now that she knew the game, she could beat him at it. “I feel tired and annoyed right now. How do you feel, Torres?” She asked with a saccharin sweetness that did little to conceal her sarcasm.
Torres shrugged his shoulders. “Actually I feel better than I have in a long time. It’s been awhile since I laughed. Thanks for that.”
“So glad I could be of some service,” Beth said before she threw back her head and downed the contents of her glass. She reached in the refrigerator and made herself another drink. “Do you want anything? Uncle Sam is paying tonight.”
Torres shook his head. “No thanks. I don’t drink.”
Beth turned to face him. “Like ever?” Why didn’t she know that about him?
He nodded.
Great. He didn’t drink. In her experience the only men who did not drink were recovering alcoholics. She would add that to the list of things about Torres that made fieldwork especially dangerous, an alcoholic, most likely suffering from post-traumatic stress disorder, hell bent on revenge. How could that possibly go wrong? “Well I’ll have your share then.” Beth took another drink. “Geez, when are they going to go home?” Beth pointed to the door. As if on cue, there was another burst of laughter from the other side of the door.
“They’re nocturnal. It could be a while.”
“Great. Should we pretend to have sex again? That passed the time nicely.” Beth finished her second drink before she moaned. “Oh Torres, that’s right. Just like that.”
Torres stood up. “That’s better, but who shouts someone’s last name? You’re a freaky little thing, Gatita.” His eyes were smiling again.
Beth’s eyes narrowed. Torres’ first name. She could not remember ever using it, or even seeing it written down. Of course she must have, it would be in his file along with his social security number, his life history, and the results of his psychometric tests. She knew for a fact he lied on those tests because his answers were too perfect, too normal. He was smart enough to cover up his crazy but she still saw it. She had his number, this man, this — Torres. Christ, if she could remember his first name. “Is it Miguel? No that isn’t right. Santiago?” She scrunched up her nose as she tried to remember his name.
“Armando,” he said finally.
“Armando? Are you sure?” Beth asked dubiously.
Torres nodded.
“Armando,” she said again trying the name on for size. “Armando.” She tongue-rolled over the R in exaggeration. “Armando Torres. Was your mother hoping you would star in a telenovela?”
“I think she was hoping I would do anything other than run drugs for Los Zetas.”
“Well it could be worse. You could be running drugs for Los Treintas. Those are some mean sons of bitches.” Beth leaned over and poured herself a third drink. There was no whisky left so she switched to vodka and Coke. She wasn’t driving tonight and the more she drank the less she worried about making an ass of herself or about her mom. Shit, her mom, she needed to phone her sister and check on her mom. Beth glanced at her watch. It was too late, even in California, which was two hours behind. Her sister would have gone to bed by now. She would have to call in the morning, which was fine by her. It gave her another night to pretend nothing was wrong. Denial was a powerful thing.
Beth kicked off her shoes and sat back down on the bed beside Torres. God she was tired, and not just from today. She had not slept properly for over a week. Most nights she had been up until two looking up her mom’s symptoms and trying to decide which disease she was going to pray it was. None of them were great options, and they were past the point of being able to ignore it. Beth sighed. So much for alcohol helping her forget about her mom.
She closed her eyes and began to rub her temples. She had been awake too long and her head was paying the price for it now. She had ten minutes left and then she would call a cab and go home to her lovely comfy bed. No looking up symptoms tonight, just sleep.
“Beth?” Torres whispered just to make sure, but there wasn’t any need, it was fairly obvious she was sleeping. The first clue was that she had stopped talking; the second was the soft snoring. She looked slightly less agitated in her sleep, but she still had the deep furrow between her brows, which made her look like she was concentrating even in her sleep. She was always so serious, no laughs or jokes with her, always working, and frowning.
He should wake her up and take her home.
He should…but he didn’t. He could not remember the last time he had been in the company of someone he did not detest. And he didn’t hate Beth. He couldn’t quite stretch to liking her but he did not loathe her. He actually kind of enjoyed spending time with her, but to be fair he would have enjoyed any company at this point. It felt normal. Bizarrely he looked forward to their meetings. He could always depend on her for a dose of normality, a small reminder of how people were supposed to behave.
The last two years had been spent on autopilot, trying to tune out everything but finding Moses’ killer. He was no closer now than he was a year ago but every day he sank to new lows, witnessing acts of depravity he could have only imagined before. The one perk of being in charge was he rarely had to pull the trigger. It was a small consolation, but he would take it. It wasn’t like he minded killing people, but he minded that he didn’t care.
Torres studied her features and wondered how old she was. His guess would be thirty. She wasn’t a beauty by any stretch but she was pretty enough. She had dark blonde hair that fell just past her shoulders. Usually she wore it tied back in a ponytail, but today it was down. Her hair smelled of apples, which suited her: sweet and wholesome but also a little bit tart. She had just enough of an edge to her to make her interesting, but at her core she seemed like a nice person. Whenever she heard the details of a crime, she flinched a little. She always tried to cover it up, but he saw it. Even though she tried not to react, her body would betray her, if only for an instant. There was something nice about that, not that he could ever hope to explain it.
He didn’t know many nice people any more. Selfishly he wanted to be around it for a few minutes longer, it was a nice reminder that not everyone was a pathetic piece of shit out to take as much as they possibly could. He was already looking forward to their next meeting; eight weeks, that was the schedule; they met face to face every eight weeks, he called every two, never to talk, just to say he was alive.
Torres shook his head. How fucking pathetic had his life become, that he enjoyed sitting in silence with someone just because he knew she would not enjoy shooting someone in the gut and watching them bleed to death? Christ, he needed this to be done.
