Fearless (14 page)

“As I recall, neither were you until you started working down here for the police department,” Marquez reminded him. “If you could adjust, he can adjust. It’s just that you spec ops people don’t blend as easily as regular military people do. You’re used to working alone or in small groups.”

Cash sighed. “I guess so. He did break up a network at the local high school. He borrowed one of the DEA’s drug-sniffing dogs and went locker crawling. Ticked off the board of education, and a lot of parents, but he made several arrests.”

“The end justifies the means,” Marquez chuckled.

Glory was about to protest that when she got dizzy and sat down hard in the grass.

“Hey, you okay?” Cash asked, concerned, as he squatted just in front of her.

“It’s nothing,” she said weakly. “Just a little morning sickness.”

Cash bit off a bad word. He and Marquez exchanged a look she didn’t see.

“He isn’t to know,” she told Cash. “Marquez has already promised. You have to promise, too.”

“He’s your husband,” Cash emphasized.

She bit down on the sickness and waited until it passed. “He’s working for Fuentes,” she said curtly. “I’m a prosecuting attorney.” She looked up. “He isn’t to know that, either, no matter what.”

Cash was concerned. He didn’t dare tell her why. “Secrets are dangerous.”

She brushed back a wisp of hair. “So I’ve been told. This is still privileged information.”

“Okay. It’s your call,” Cash said finally.

She pulled herself to her feet. She couldn’t use the cane and fire a pistol, so she’d left her cane in Marquez’s truck. She felt pretty steady, all the same. Her hip wasn’t as painful as it had been. She did very well unless she overexerted.

Marquez pulled a .32 caliber Smith& Wesson out of his belt.

“A wheel gun?” she exclaimed. “Nobody uses a wheel gun anymore!” She indicated Cash. “He’s got a .40 caliber Glock. You’re packing a .45 caliber Colt. And I’m going to learn to shoot a wheel gun? Why don’t you give me a big rock and I can practice hitting people in the head with it!”

Cash chuckled. “Because an automatic can fail under certain conditions.”

“You can shoot a Glock underwater,” she informed him.

“A wheel gun won’t jam,” he came back. “And besides, it’s small. You can fire it with one hand.”

“It’s a sissy gun,” she persisted.

Marquez loaded it and handed it to her. “Don’t argue. It’s undignified.”

She gave him a speaking look.

“Okay,” Cash interrupted. “Let’s get started.”

B
Y THE TIME SHE DROVE
away with Marquez, her hands were swollen and sore. She rubbed them.

“Nobody said I was going to have to fire the pistol with both hands, one at a time,” she muttered.

“That’s how the FBI teaches you to do it,” he commented with a grin. “What if you get shot in your good hand? You have to be able to carry on with the other.”

“I suppose so.” She felt her purse. It was heavy. She had a box of ammunition that Marquez had provided, along with the pistol, sharing space with her cosmetics and wallet. She was thinking about Rodrigo and wondering if she’d have to use the pistol on him. It made her sicker.

“The sooner this case is closed, the better,” he said, thinking aloud.

“When it is, my husband may be sharing cell space with Fuentes.” She glanced at his worried expression. “It’s true, isn’t it?” she asked quietly.

He didn’t dare tell her what he knew, and it hurt him. She already had all the stress she could handle, plus some.

“What do I do,” she asked, “if Rodrigo calls and asks me to meet him someplace?”

“Don’t go,” he said.

“That’s what I thought you’d say.” She looked as miserable as she felt. It was ironic; for the first time in her life, she was crazy about a man, and he turned out to be a scoundrel. It wasn’t fair.

“I know,” Marquez said. Only then did she realize that she’d spoken aloud.

“Well, we do the job, no matter what the cost, so that we can save a few lives,” she said in a low tone.

“That’s the idea.”

She looked out the window of the truck at the passing landscape. “I should have moved to a tropical island someplace and spent my life picking up shells on the beach.”

He laughed. “That’s a popular daydream around my office, too, especially when our new lieutenant goes on a rampage over budgets.”

She frowned. “I thought that was what your last lieutenant was famous for.”

“No, no,” he corrected. “Our last lieutenant was a fanatic about our own spending; a real penny-pincher. No, this one goes on rampages to the city fathers about our lack of adequate funding,” he said smugly. “He wants us to have better equipment and improved training. He wants me to go to the FBI school at Quanico.”

“I’m impressed,” she said.

“So am I. They say the course can drive people nuts, but you learn a lot there.”

“They’d ruin you,” she said wickedly. “You’d come back with all sorts of new ideas to improve your department and we’d find you in a ditch a few days after with a note in your mouth from your lieutenant, offering you up for adoption by any other agency that would have you.”

“Spoilsport.”

“Exactly who is this guy Kilraven?” she asked suddenly.

He pursed his lips. “He’s the new patrol officer here.”

Something in the way he said it made her very suspicious. “Oh, no,” she said. “You’re hiding something. Give it up.”

“I’m not hiding anything,” he lied.

“I’ll ask Cash Grier.”

“You’d have better luck asking a clam.”

“Tell me. I can keep secrets.”

He was amused. His eyes were dancing. “I have it on good authority,” he began, “that he was sent down here from Langley…”

“Langley!” she interrupted excitedly.

“Langley,” he agreed, “to flush out a potential kidnapper with ties to a government hostile to us in South America. Word on the street is that the kidnapper is very good at his job and has the perfect hostage in mind already. He thinks the hostage would bring him a lot of money from a certain federal agency to whom he is extremely valuable.”

“Who?”

“Who, what?”

“Who’s the potential victim?”

“We aren’t sure,” Marquez told her. “But we think he may be a drug agent—the same one who most recently helped shut down Cara Dominguez. He’s cost the cartel over a billion dollars in the past few years.”

“Wouldn’t it suit them better to just kill him?” she wondered.

“I’m certain that’s the idea. But they want money, and they think he can be ransomed. They’ll kill him, of course, the minute they have the money.”

“I thought our government didn’t negotiate with terrorists.”

“We don’t, publicly.”

She frowned thoughtfully. “There was a plot just recently to nab Jared Cameron, wasn’t there?”

“Foiled by his bodyguard…”

“Tony the Dancer,” she provided, grinning. “What a name!”

“It’s Danzetta, actually.”

“I know, but the other sounds romantic, in a thuggy way.”

“It sounds like the mob, which Tony isn’t part of. He’s actually Cherokee.”

“He’s sort of dishy.”

“You met him?”

She nodded. “He fed us some information about those kidnappers who got caught down here. They also had South American ties, but your D.A. didn’t have jurisdiction over a federal crime. He sent them off with a federal marshal to our district U. S. Attorney for trial. They escaped.”

“We heard,” he replied. He shook his head. “Some case, that. Two guards were charged with aiding and abetting, but they vanished before they could be arraigned.”

She glanced at him. “Big players, big money and big trouble for us. They’re rumored to still be in the country.”

“We heard that, too.”

He pulled up at her door. “You keep that gun with you at all times,” he cautioned.

“I’ll have to, especially when Carla’s kids are around. I wouldn’t have them hurt for anything.”

He smiled. “If you need help, call me, or call Cash. We’ll come running.”

“I will.” The old depression came back. “Thanks, Rick.”

He shrugged. “What are friends for?” he asked.

I
T WAS A LONG SATURDAY
night and a frightening evening. Rain was pouring down outside. Lightning made the trees vivid in the darkness. Its jagged, hot pattern made Glory even more nervous than she already was. Carla and Angel had gone home already, with the children. Glory was alone in the big house.

She wandered from room to room. Everything was different from her childhood. The house had been totally remodeled. Even the flooring was new. She rubbed her bare arms, feeling a chill that was probably psychological, because of the storm. Jacobsville had tornadoes. She didn’t want to be caught in one when she was by herself. They’d terrified her as a child. It had been during a storm when her mother had crippled her.

There was probably a storm shelter, but she couldn’t remember where it had been. Running to it outside through the driving rain and lightning was riskier than staying in the house, she thought. Either way, the weather was scary.

She wondered where Rodrigo and his partners in crime were, and what they were doing. If he got caught by the authorities, which seemed possible now, what would she do? They were on opposite sides of the law. No matter what her feelings were, she couldn’t toss her whole career for a man who didn’t love her.

She recalled what the cardiologist had said about her bad choice of professions. She knew the job was becoming too much for her. But what nobody understood was that the only health insurance she carried was a policy made possible through her employer. If she quit the job, how would she be able to afford to insure herself ever again?

Well, she comforted herself, if she found other employment and then had a heart attack, she could sit outside the emergency room entrance in a hospital gown holding a cup and solicit donations to pay the bill. The Pendletons would pay it, but she wanted to be independent. They’d already done so much for her. But her job was a risk. If she didn’t do something, she was going to end up dead. Criminal trials were no walk in the park. Tempers flared. Sometimes it was lawyers who clashed, sometimes it was witnesses and opposing counsel. Other times, it was prosecution and defense attorneys. And once, the judge had come down hard on Glory for pushing a witness in a murder trial too far. It was no job for the timid; it was very stressful.

The thunder was louder now, and the flashes lit up all the dark corners of the house. Where was Rodrigo?

T
HE BIG OIL CANS WERE
tied together to form a makeshift pontoon bridge across the narrow strip of river where there were no border guards, temporarily. Castillo’s friend kept a lookout while Rodrigo drove the panel truck across the bridge, with Castillo on the bank, guiding the truck in its headlights. There were several hundred kilos of pure cocaine in the back. It was a haul worth a king’s ransom. The three men had decided that it was safer to run it across the border like this than to risk using better equipment and more people. There had been a tunnel, but it had been discovered. This crossing area had been secured by a transfer of money, to whom Rodrigo wasn’t privy. He was fairly certain it wasn’t a border patrol agent or anyone in local law enforcement. Here, there was only open country that backed one of the bigger cattle ranches in the area. Rodrigo was willing to bet that someone on the ranch had been bribed to look the other way.

Castillo was grinning in the headlights. Only a few more feet. Rodrigo eased the truck over the last of the barrels and onto firm land.

“Yes!” Castillo called, raising both fists. “We’ve done it!”

Rodrigo stopped the truck and got out. “Easy money,” he chuckled. “Help me get the drums out of the water.”

“Leave them,” Castillo suggested. “With what we’re getting paid for this job, we can buy more. It’s dangerous to stay here too long, no matter how easy it seems.”

“You’re probably right,” Rodrigo agreed. He signaled to the man on the bank to come down.

“I know I’ve asked before, but are you sure about this gringo?” Castillo added with a frown.

“Would I risk my life on someone I wasn’t sure of?” Rodrigo replied.

Castillo looked at the taller man with narrowed eyes. Then he shrugged. “No. Of course not.” He glanced around them again. No cars, no trucks, no airplanes or helicopters. They were having great luck.

He climbed into the cab next to Rodrigo. Then he glanced out the window and scowled. “Where’s your cousin?” he asked. He jumped as he felt cold steel against his ribs.

“Just sit still and don’t do anything stupid,” Rodrigo said softly. His other hand lifted, carrying a portable radio unit. His thumb depressed a switch. “The wolf is at the door,” he said calmly.

While Castillo was working that cryptic remark out, headlights from at least a dozen vehicles centered on the panel truck at the river’s edge.

“Amigo,” Rodrigo told his companion, “welcome to the land of the free and the home of the brave!”

G
LORY WAS CHEWING HER
fingernails off. Nervous tension had already jacked up her heart rate, and her breathing. She was desperate to know where Rodrigo was, how he was.

The storm was beginning to die down. Rain could be heard dripping from the eaves into the rain barrels placed there. No more flashes of light were coming in the window, although distant thunder was audible. Luckily the storm hadn’t seemed to do any damage here.

She walked to the front door and looked out, feeling the .32 revolver like a rock in her jeans pocket. If only she could find out what was happening, even if it was bad news. Rodrigo might go to prison, but even that would be all right, as long as he wasn’t dead. She couldn’t bear the thought of never seeing him again.

The sudden jangle of her cell phone made her jump. She fumbled it out of her pocket and flipped it open. “Yes?”

“We just landed the biggest shipment of cocaine in Jacobs County history,” Marquez chuckled.

“What about Rodrigo?” she asked hastily. “Was he in on it? Is he all right…?”

“We did have a little trouble,” Marquez began. “They’ve taken him to the emergency room in Jacobsville…Glory, wait! Listen—!”

But she’d already cut him off. She grabbed her purse and scurried out the door as fast as her hip would let her. She climbed into her car, locked the doors, started it and sped out of the driveway. The phone rang again, but this time she ignored it. Rodrigo, she moaned silently. “Please, God, don’t let him be dead! I’ll do anything, I’ll give him up, I’ll walk out of his life, I’ll do anything…just please spare him!”

It was so far to town, she thought frantically. This old heap of a car was okay in the city, where she only had to travel a couple of blocks to work, but it was a liability on the open road. She could barely get it to go the speed limit. She really missed her sports car. This wreck of a vehicle was expendable, and it was hardly appropriate for a race.

The darkness was almost complete. It was a moonless night. She wasn’t thinking clearly. If Fuentes had a hit man after her, she was giving him the perfect opportunity to kill her. She hadn’t taken any precautions at all except to lock her doors and put the pistol in her pocket. It was a stupid move. But she was thinking with her heart, and her heart wanted to see Rodrigo, to make sure he was safe. Nothing else mattered. If he was involved in the drug bust, if he’d been arrested, she’d know how to help him. If he was just still alive!

By the time she pulled into the emergency room parking lot at Jacobsville General, her heart was thumping and she could just barely get her breath. She tore out of the car, grimacing as her hip protested the stress she was putting on it. She started toward the steps and then had to retrace her path to the car. She couldn’t carry a sidearm into the hospital. She locked it in the glove compartment and then went up the steps as fast as she could manage, panting and stopping to breathe halfway up.

There was a crowd in the waiting room. It was Saturday night, the busiest night. She moved in front of one of the clerks. “Rodrigo Ramirez,” she said frantically. “He’s my husband…!”

“Dr. Coltrain has him in cubicle three,” the clerk began. “If you’ll have a seat…”

But Glory had already passed her and was making excellent time. She was vaguely aware of several men standing outside the cubicle, but she didn’t really look at them. She moved past the curtain and there was Rodrigo, his shirt off, looking sexy and masculine and so handsome that her heart jumped. Best of all, he was sitting up on the examination table, grinning as Lou’s brother-in-law, Copper Coltrain stitched up his arm.

“Rodrigo!” Glory exclaimed.

His eyebrows arched as she ran to him and pressed close, terrified, shaking. Her free hand smoothed over the thick, soft hair on his chest and she sighed with mingled relief and pleasure as she felt his heartbeat, reassuring at her ear.

“What are you doing here?” Rodrigo exclaimed. “How did you know?”

“Marquez phoned me,” she managed. She drew back just a little, so that she could look up into his dark eyes. “Are you all right?”

He smiled. “I’m fine. It’s just a flesh wound. I’ve had worse.”

She’d been too relieved to notice the other men at first, but now she became aware of several men in uniforms and her heart sank. She knew her husband was involved in the drug world. But she wasn’t the sort to run out on a sinking ship. She drew herself up proudly.

“Everything is going to be all right. We’ll get you the best attorney in Texas,” she assured Rodrigo in a rush. “The very best. Don’t say anything that might incriminate you. In fact, don’t say anything until you have legal counsel….”

She stopped because he was laughing helplessly. As she listened, she became aware that all the other men were laughing as well. She glanced behind her and belatedly recognized Police Chief Cash Grier and Sheriff Hayes Carson, DEA Senior Agent Alexander Cobb and a strange man in an expensive suit.

Cash held up a jacket. “This is your husband’s, Glory,” he said. Cash turned the jacket around and she read the huge letters DEA stamped in white across the back.

Her mind shut down. She frowned, staring at the jacket. Her husband had been wearing it when he was shot. Was he pretending to be a federal agent? Slowly she turned her head back to Rodrigo. He was holding out a badge. A DEA badge.

“I’m not under arrest,” he told her amusedly. “I was in on the bust.”

“He’s the undercover narc,” Cash said. “We didn’t dare tell you.”

She was staring at Rodrigo and feeling like an idiot. “You’re the DEA agent who was undercover.”

He nodded. His eyes were solemn. “I have a cousin who’s managed to remain in the employ of the past two drug lords, plus this one. He got me in.”

“You could have been killed,” she began.

“This isn’t my first walk around the block, Glory,” he said in a faintly condescending tone. “My partner and I worked the Dominguez case in Houston undercover.”

“Your partner…?”

“Sarina Lane,” Alexander Cobb volunteered.

The blonde woman. Glory was starting to put it all together.

Rodrigo grimaced. He didn’t like hearing Sarina’s married name. Before he spoke his own cell phone jangled with the title song of the FIFA Soccer World Cup. He opened it and his face changed. He grinned. “Yes, we got it all,” he said. He chuckled. “Are you surprised that I can work without you?” he added in an affectionate tone. “Yes. I just took a hit in the arm. A flesh wound. Nothing compared to the bullet you caught in Houston when we cornered part of the Dominguez gang in the warehouse. Yes. I’m fine. Tomorrow? That would be great! Come on down. Yes. Kiss Bernadette for me. See you tomorrow.”

He hung up. Nobody had to tell Glory that the person at the end of the line had been Sarina. His partner. His working partner, whom he loved. Whom he would always love.

Glory felt weak and sick and she prayed that she wouldn’t pass out at his feet from the shock.

“You should go home,” Rodrigo told her, noting her high color and unsteadiness. He should be flattered that she cared so much about him, but he was a little embarrassed by the way she looked. She hadn’t even brushed her hair. She looked like a farm worker, plain and uninteresting. He’d always had attractive women around him, women who dressed well and drew men’s eyes. This little frump wouldn’t have attracted a nearsighted pencil-pusher, much less himself. “I still have to be debriefed when the doctor finishes with me,” he told her carelessly. “I’ll be late.”

She wanted to protest, but it would probably irritate him, in front of his colleagues. “Of course. I just wanted to make sure you were all right,” she added, trying very hard to sound composed. His attitude made her self-conscious.

He nodded. “We’ll talk later.”

“Yes.”

Marquez walked in grinning. “What a haul!” he exclaimed. “Great work, guys. Several news teams are pulling into the parking lot. Who wants to be the entrée?”

“Not me,” Rodrigo said at once, “or I’ll be useless in undercover work.”

“I’ll talk to them,” Cobb said easily. “Well, the three of us can do it,” he indicated Cash and Hayes Carson. “I don’t want to be accused of taking credit for something we all helped accomplish.”

“That’s damned kind of you,” Cash chuckled.

“It’s not that,” Cobb mused. “I need your brother’s cooperation in a case that may have ties to San Antonio. I can’t afford to offend you!”

“His brother?” the man in the suit asked.

“Garon. He’s a senior special agent with the FBI in San Antonio.”

“That’s why the name sounded familiar,” the man agreed.

“I’d better get going,” Glory murmured. It wouldn’t do if someone with one of the news crews recognized her, not with Fuentes still on her trail. She’d been interviewed more than once on the cases she prosecuted. She didn’t need to be fingered on local TV.

“I’ll make sure you get home okay,” Marquez volunteered. “You don’t need to be on the road at night alone. Especially not now. We don’t know where Fuentes is, despite the fact that we’ve just confiscated his biggest load to date.”

She glanced toward Rodrigo, but he was talking to Hayes Carson, and he didn’t look her way. She might as well be invisible to him.

She turned, holding her head high, and walked out with Marquez.

M
ARQUEZ ACTUALLY DROVE
behind her in his truck to make sure she got home safely.

She locked her car and walked up onto the porch. “Want coffee?” she asked him.

He hesitated. He was tired, but she looked as if she could use a friend. Her husband had been dismissive, almost as if he were ashamed of her. She deserved better, especially in her condition.

“Sure,” he said, and walked into the house with her.

She served decaffeinated coffee and sliced some pound cake. They sipped coffee and munched cake in a companionable silence.

“You’ve been in the business long enough to know how it is with law enforcement people after busts,” he said quietly. “It’s the biggest high in the world. It takes time to come back down again. Meanwhile, you just want to talk until you get it all out of your system.”

“Funny,” she mused, “I thought that was what husbands and wives were for—to talk to.”

“Rodrigo isn’t your average cop,” he replied. “He’s done a lot of things that most of us just dream about.”

She was remembering what Marquez and Cash had told her about the undercover narc who had a price on his head all over the world because he was so good at shutting down drug lords. “I guess so. That bit about him riding down an escaping child killer on horseback through the jungle in the rain was pretty impressive.”

He chuckled. “That’s just the frosting on the cake,” he replied. “He was with a legendary group of mercs overseas before he settled into work as a federal agent. He has a pilot’s license, he speaks half a dozen languages, he’s a gourmet cook and he’s related to half the royal houses in Europe.”

She put her coffee cup down. “Rodrigo?” she asked, surprised.

He nodded. “Both his parents were minor royals,” he said. “His father was Danish and his mother was high-born Spanish. Quite a mixture.”

It came as a shock. She knew nothing about the man she’d married; nothing at all.

“Why did he go into undercover work?” she wanted to know. “Most federal agents who do that get killed.”

He nodded. “He has more reason than most. Lopez became infatuated with his sister, who was working in a nightclub. He forced himself on her and then killed her.” He grimaced. “Rodrigo went wild. He went on a legendary drunk, crashed a helicopter and then broke into Alexander Cobb’s office to get the information and equipment he needed to go after Manuel Lopez. Most people, even in law enforcement, walk wide around him. He’s the most dangerous man I know.”

She was beginning to realize that. “He’s not domesticated.”

“No. He came close to marrying his partner, but she was still in love with her ex-husband, Colby Lane. He’s been linked with debutantes, movie stars, even minor royalty. But there’s always a new case. He lives on adrenaline rushes. I don’t think he could give up his job, even if he loved a woman…” He hesitated when he saw her face. “I didn’t mean that.”

“We both know he doesn’t love me, Rick,” she said after a minute. “He didn’t want me in the emergency room. I embarrass him. I’m too plain.”

“I’m sure he’d never say that to you.”

She held her cup between her hands and stared down into it. “I want to go home.”

“What about the baby?”

That hurt, thinking about it. “He won’t want it,” she said, and was certain of it. She looked up. “Get me into a safe house in San Antonio and I’ll stay put until you can find Fuentes and get him off my case.”

He pursed his lips. “I think the D.A. might go for that, now that we’ve crippled Fuentes’s reputation.”

“I’ll phone him at home tonight,” she said. “Then I’ll phone you, if he says it’s okay. I’d like to go tomorrow.”

He frowned. “Why so quick?” he asked. Then he remembered what he’d overheard at the hospital—Sarina and her daughter would be coming down to see Rodrigo. Glory didn’t want to be there when she arrived.

“I’ll phone you,” she repeated.

“Okay. I’ll be at Mom’s,” he added. “I’m not on call this weekend.”

She grimaced. He didn’t have a lot of weekends when he wasn’t on call. “Sorry.”

“Hey, all I do is watch television. Mom spends most Sundays at the nursing home after church, reading to some of the older patients.”

“She’s a lovely person, your mother.”

He smiled. “Yes.”

“Thanks, Rick,” she said after a minute. “I was a little nervous being out at night alone, even with the gun.”

“Where is the gun?”

“In my car,” she said. “I didn’t want to risk taking it into the hospital.”

“Get it out of your car before I leave and keep it with you,” he returned solemnly. “You’re not out of the woods yet.”

She sighed. “Don’t I know it!”

S
HE PHONED THE
D.A. at home and he was agreeable to having her back on the job, in a safe house. One of the investigators would follow her to and from work and the police would put extra patrols on. But, like Marquez, he didn’t think Fuentes was going to be a problem any longer. Neither did Glory. Thanks to her husband and his colleagues, Fuentes was about to have big trouble of his own over those confiscated drugs.