On Her Six (Under Covers) (4 page)

“The
what
?”

“Crabs. You sleep with some guy and he gave you something nasty down below?” He swirled his hand around his lap.

“Eww, no!” Her face contorted. “Why would you even go there? You know I’m not like those floozies you hang around with after work.” Martinez was a man-whore, and he flaunted it proudly. “It’s my neighbor—”

His grin widened to the point of almost touching his ears.

“—whom I have
not
slept with.
Ever.
” Just to clarify. “I want to find out more about him. Since he’s new and living near my grandma and all. I just want to make sure he’s legit.” Mentioning her grandmother would surely pull Martinez’s mind far away from STDs.

He shot from his chair and stomped across the room in his black military-grade boots. He stood beside her with his feet spread and shoulders squared. “What do you know about him? Name? Hair and eye color? Type of car? License plate number? Any identifying marks on his body? Tattoos? Piercings?”

“He’s tall. Well over six foot. Six-four, maybe? Dark hair. Blue eyes. Huge body.”

Martinez tilted his head to the side and raised his eyebrows. “Come again?”

“You heard me. Huge body. Real fit. Like, muscles everywhere.”

Martinez seemed to be fighting another grin. “Okay. Keep going.”

“He’s got a tattoo on his neck. I could only see the top of it poking out of his collar. Looks like feathers. Maybe it’s a bird or…or one of those Vegas showgirls. You know, the ones in bikinis with feathers strategically placed on their head and body.” Yeah, Big and Brawny looked like the type to have a scantily clad woman tattooed across his bulging biceps.

When his eyebrows touched his hairline, she clarified. “I’m not saying that’s what it is, I’m just saying that all I saw was feathers. Could be anything. I’ll have to get a closer look next time I see him.”

“Sounds like it’ll be soon,” he said, crossing his arms over his chest.

She turned to meet his gaze. “What do you mean by that?”

He shrugged. “Just sounds like you wouldn’t mind seeing this guy again is all.”

“He’s my neighbor, Dan. Of course I’m going to see him again. With my luck, it’ll be all the damn time.”

She got the sense she and Martinez were having completely different conversations.

“Anyway,” she said, “He didn’t have piercings or any other identifying marks that I could see.”

No need to mention her neighbor’s handgun and her almost mugging. Martinez didn’t need a reason to worry.

“You check Book ’Em yet?”

She nodded. “Checked that first.”

“Hmm.” He rubbed his clean-shaven jaw. “What about NCIC?” he asked, referring to the National Criminal Information Center.

Bending over her shoulder, he peered at the screen. He was so close she smelled the woodsy scent of his soap.

Shaking her head, she said, “Can’t. I don’t have his name, social, or DOB.”

Martinez nodded once. “Oh, right.”

She scooted her chair forward a bit, creating a few inches of space between them.

He leaned in farther, resting his palm on top of her desk. “That cancels out Dashboard, too, then.”

She slid her chair forward again and turned her head, ready to tell him to back up. Before she could get the words out, his eyes widened. “You know what’ll work though?”

She slid to the edge of her seat, her pulse revving in anticipation.

“Let’s try—”

The front doors swung open, slamming against the interior wall with a crash. “What the fuck, Martinez!”

Sam fell against the back of the chair, slouching into the leather. She was so close.

Officer Sinclair entered, holding on to a man in handcuffs. “I thought I told you to meet me outside in ten? Quit flirting with Harper and get your ass over here!”

Martinez straightened and hustled toward the front of the station.

The man in Sinclair’s grasp wasn’t large. He was around Sam’s height and probably only weighed about twenty pounds more than she did. But he had a crazed look in his eye, like he thought he was as big as a sumo wrestler. He swung his head toward Sinclair with teeth bared. If someone pulled out a red cloth, the guy was going to charge it like a bull. He was doing his damnedest to free himself, thrashing and pulling away from Sinclair. Which was a feat since Sinclair was more than six feet and almost as wide as a tractor trailer. When Martinez reached for the guy’s other arm, the man kicked a nearby chair, sending it skidding into Sam’s desk.

“Hey!” she said. “Watch it!”

The man yelled obscenities at her, involving something about a woman and a spoon.

Sinclair gripped the man’s nape and shoved him forward. “Watch your mouth in front of the lady.”

The perp cussed again and then jerked his head to spit in Sinclair’s face.

Sam didn’t blink, but her mouth dropped open.
Oh boy.

Momentarily stunned, Sinclair’s grasp on the guy loosened, freeing one arm. The perp used the opportunity to swing his shoulder toward Martinez, landing a hit square in Martinez’s chest. Dan stumbled two steps and landed on his butt.

“Damn it.” Martinez scrambled to get up.

The perp dashed toward Sam with a broad, crooked grin.

Oh, no you don’t.

She reached for a half-empty bottle of water from her desk and clunked it on the guy’s forehead. It obviously wasn’t enough to injure him, but it stunned him enough to stop his progress.

His heels dug into the tiled floor and he shook his head as if to clear it. He shouted another profanity and came around the side of her desk. His face was red, and he was panting like a wild beast. Sweat poured down his temples and spit trailed out of his mouth.

Probably due to the raucous screaming, two plain-clothes officers from the back of the precinct came rushing in. With alarmed expressions, they swung their attention from Sinclair and Martinez approaching the perp to the perp himself who had caged Sam in behind her desk.

Her back was to the wall, and the psycho stood in front of her wearing the grin of a serial killer. Before she made a move, Sinclair slammed the guy’s face into the computer monitor on her desk, and the other two officers, including Dan, contained the man from all sides.

Once upright, blood dripping from his nose, the guy flailed his legs wildly and wailed like a caged animal causing one of his ankles to tangle with the cords under her desk. When the officers yanked him back, her keyboard went first. It dropped onto the floor and skidded a few feet. Her mouse clanked onto the tile next. Then she watched almost in slow motion as the computer monitor slid across the top of her desk and dropped. Right onto her already throbbing foot.

“
YOW!
” she shouted, as the thing rolled off her foot and onto the floor in a steaming heap of plastic. It
zapped
, then
sizzled
, before the screen went black.

“Holy freakin’ mother of a biscuit on toast with jelly!” She held her foot and jumped around as Martinez, Sinclair, and the other officers pushed the PCP user toward Booking.

“Mother Mary in Heaven and Wilbert, too,” she whimpered.

“Sam?” Major Fowler said from behind. “What the hell is going on in here?”

She turned to see his furrowed bushy eyebrows and wrinkled forehead.

Squeezing her eyes shut and wincing, she pointed to her foot, which was still cradled in her other hand. “
Ow
,” she squeaked.

Chapter Four

As Ash parked his ‘98 Dodge pickup along the curb, his stomach grumbled. After getting settled in last night, and then the incident with the Vamper this morning, he hadn’t eaten. He couldn’t wait to get inside and devour his lo mein.

He lifted the manual lock on his driver’s side door and glanced up and down the street. Always vigilant.

The street was quiet; it was midday so most neighbors were probably at work or staying inside to beat the heat. Based on what he’d seen so far, the community was made up of blue-collar workers. Some wore a shirt and tie, but the majority wore uniforms and drove company vans. The other half he’d seen walking the streets during the day were much older than him, probably retired, their hair gray and posture slumped from years of backbreaking work.

Perfect place to blend in and learn what he could about the local drug scene. First, because this area was near the port, which was where the DEA suspected the Vamp supplier was bringing drugs into the city. Second, he knew from personal experience on the job that the quietest streets and people were the best sources of information.

The DEA knew about Vamp and what it could do to a person once hooked, but they didn’t know how and where patrons were getting addicted in the first place. The incident with the addict this morning was a great start. Club Hell on 27th Street. Ash’s portion of this assignment was to learn information like that and then pass it on to his team leader, who would decide what to do with the intel. Which pissed Ash off because that used to be his job. Before his major fuckup on their last assignment, that is. Out of habit, he rubbed the left side of his chest, his fingers gliding over the notch of round, raised skin just above his heart. A constant reminder.

If he wanted to get his team back, if he wanted to be team leader again, he had to play by Director Landry’s rules. Observe the city, see what he could learn about where addicts were getting hooked, and pass the info on. Do not under any circumstances take matters into his own hands.

That last order was going to be his greatest struggle. Ash was a hands-on kind of guy. It wasn’t in his nature to sit back and watch.

But he wanted to stop the drug pandemic that seemed to be taking over. It was why he joined the DEA in the first place. That shit didn’t belong on the streets. And users most definitely didn’t deserve to die because of it.

Still gazing out the driver’s side window, he glanced at Blondie’s house and thought about their unorthodox introduction this morning.
Boyish and athletic
had been his first thought when he’d spotted her. But it was something in the way she moved that had caught his attention. Fluid and confident. Shoulders back and spine straight gave the illusion she always got her way.

A bitter laugh escaped. And now he knew she was demanding and overbearing, too.

Snatching the take-out bag from the seat, he slid out.

He made it five steps.

“Excuse me!” a female voice called out behind him.

He glanced down at the bag in his hand and sighed. So much for chowing down on his lo mein. Stopping on the first step leading to his house, he turned.

“You there—are you the new neighbor?” A woman hurried after him, making great strides despite her age and size, her full hips swaying with a purpose. Behind her she dragged a scraggly-haired mutt that looked about a hundred years old. Even the dog’s four legs couldn’t keep up with her two. The pair reminded him of Paula Dean and Old Yeller.

The woman stopped in front of him, the top of her poofy white hair coming up to his chest. Her plump head tilted back, revealing narrowed eyes. Ash sensed it wasn’t because of the bright sun.

She wrapped the leash around her wrist, ensuring her dog couldn’t escape. Not that he would. The damn thing dropped to the ground the second she stopped walking. His tongue hung out of his mouth, and his broad chest expanded in exaggerated motion.

“I’m Maybel Ray,” she said, sticking out her free hand. “And you are?” Her eyes narrowed farther in challenge, as if she knew he wouldn’t answer.

Ash thought long and hard about doing just that, but that wouldn’t help his cause to blend in and gather information. So he forced a pleasant smile and lied. “John.”

“John, huh? You have a last name, John?” She popped her hip out and placed her hand on it. The movement tightened the slack on her dog’s leash, causing him to yelp when it restricted around his neck.

“Oh! Oh my. Sorry, Rufus.” She patted the dog’s head, and he fell back onto the pavement, snoring.

Maybel turned to Ash. “How about that last name, John?”

He wanted to give her a narrow-eyed expression of his own but chose to keep the smile in place instead. Intel.
It’s all about collecting intel
, he reminded himself. “Black.”

“John Black,” she echoed. “All right, Mr. Black. Are you from Baltimore? When did you move here? What do you do for a living?”

A car engine revved somewhere from the right. Ash glanced in that direction, spotting a dated Buick moseying toward them, but Paula Dean didn’t take her eyes off him. A lesser man would have crumbled under her direct gaze. Not Ash. He’d faced down drug lords, hard-core criminals, and some of the world’s worst terrorists. One old broad and her decrepit dog weren’t going to break him. Just the thought made him want to laugh.

“Are you in a gang?”

Now that was a first. He laughed out of honest amusement. “Why do you say that?”

She glared at his neckline. “You have a tattoo. Gang members have tattoos.”

So did a lot of other groups. Like Special Forces and SEALs. He glanced down as if he could see the ink on his neck and chest. “From my Army days.”

“Hmm.” Her eyes opened a fraction more, and the creases on her face softened. “So you’re a vet?”

He gave a nod.

A look of approval crossed her features. “What brings you to 19th Street, John?”

He hooked a thumb through his belt loop and crossed one foot over the other. “I grew up around here before I joined the Army. I’d been deployed a bunch of times and was getting tired of life in the desert. So when I was getting out, I wanted to grow roots where I had some ties.”

Maybel tilted her head as if assessing if his story was legit. She must have deemed it was, because she dropped her full chin once.

His turn.

“What about you? You and old Rufus lived here long?”

She glanced down the street with a far-off expression as if she was looking into the past. “Moved here in the eighties with my husband. He worked in DC, and I got a job at the local school. It’s a great area. Always has been.” She inhaled a deep breath, then blinked a few times, coming to. She looked at him directly. “We’re a tight-knit group here on 19th Street. We watch out for each other. We don’t take kindly to new people disrupting the balance.” She slanted her head to the other side. “You’re not going to disrupt the balance, are you, John?”

He would’ve taken offense to her insinuation, but he couldn’t ignore the blatant pride she had in her hometown. They had the same agenda: to
keep
the balance in Baltimore. Specifically for him, it was to stop men like Viktor Heinrich from causing devastation and misery.

He looked her square in the eye. “No, ma’am. I’m just looking for some R and R.”

She loosened her hold on the leash, letting it drop onto the cement. The mutt rolled onto his side and began scratching his stomach with his back leg. The woman mirrored Ash’s casual stance, crossing a foot over the other, but contradicted it with a Mafia stare-down. The DEA could use a broad like her. She almost intimidated him. Almost. “I’m glad to hear it. You stay out of trouble, you hear, John?”

“Yes, ma’am,” he said again. “Is there trouble I need to be looking out for?” Might as well see if the old broad had heard of anything out of the ordinary. Based on the event this morning and the way she was drilling him, 19th Street was a lot more active than she was leading on.

She stepped toward him, her overabundant chest almost brushing his stomach, and jutted her chin out. “Just keep your nose clean, young man. If you cause trouble, you’ll be sorry.”

The woman reminded him of his genteel grandmother. She was soft and round in the midsection and probably baked cookies every day for fun. But his grandmother would never make threats she couldn’t keep. And Ash could guarantee Maybel Ray didn’t, either. From her firm stance and hard gaze, the woman meant business. He was also damn certain that she knew more than she was saying.

“Take care for now, John. I’ll be seeing you around.”

He gave her a final smile for good measure. “Looking forward to it, Ms. Ray.”

She turned and reached down for the leash, which was no longer where she’d left it. Instead, it was about ten feet away, trailing behind the curved body of Old Yeller who was taking a dump on his front lawn.

Before he could pull the plastic bag off his take-out and make her pick up the dog’s crap, his cell phone vibrated in his pocket. Sliding it out, he glanced at the screen.
Tyke.
The new team leader. Ash’s replacement.

His movement caught Maybel’s attention, and she leaned in to catch a glimpse at his cell phone. Ballsy, he’d give her that.

He kept the smile in place and signaled to his phone. “My baby sister. We’re supposed to meet for dinner tonight.”

Her perceptive eyes didn’t waiver. “Best get going then.”

His phone dinged, alerting him that he had a voicemail. “See you around.”

She gave a little wave, then whistled to her dog. Old Yeller kicked his feet backward, uprooting chunks of grass to cover his pile, before trotting away like he’d just won the Eukanuba Nationals.

Ash would worry about that particular pile of shit later. First priority was getting on the horn to Tyke to report what he’d learned about the Vamper and Club Hell.

Dashing up the front cement stairs, he entered his house. Dropping the food on the kitchen counter, he pushed a button on his cell phone to access his voicemail.

“Hey, asshole,” Tyke’s gruff voice said. “Avoidin’ my call? Real fucking mature. Why don’t you do yourself a favor and call me when you get this? I’d like to know you’re doing some kind of work on this assignment. Or did you already find some woman to screw off with?”

“Fuck you, Tyke,” Ash mumbled. It was one time. One. And it was going to haunt him for the rest of his career.

“Just call me back,” the message continued. “I wanna know what else you’ve found out about Heinrich. Anything out of the ordinary going on in the city? Do your goddamn job so I can do mine.”

Ash was marooned by himself in Baltimore because of his involvement with Lorena Serrano on their previous mission. She had been an informant offering information about Jose Serrano, an immensely powerful and wealthy drug creator. Of course, when Ash fell in love with her, neither he nor the Agency had any clue that Lorena was Jose’s daughter. Ash might have figured it out if his head hadn’t been up his ass with stars in his eyes. She was beautiful, with curves in all the right places. He fell for her, and he fell hard. Started ignoring direct orders from the director. Missed meetings with his team. Even thought about leaving the DEA for her. It wasn’t until after they arrived at Jose Serrano’s chateau in Buenos Aires that he discovered the truth. That was also the night Ash sacrificed an innocent boy’s life and was then shot by the supposed love of his life and left for dead.

All of which put him on Director Landry’s shit list. And for good reason.

Fun times.

Somehow Ash got to a hospital and survived. But his career didn’t. Landry yanked Ash out of Argentina and placed him on desk duty for a few months to recoup and cool off. Good move since all Ash had wanted to do was head back to South America and track down Lorena and her father. Once the director felt like Ash was in his right mind and could handle something other than getting coffee and filing reports, he sent him here to Baltimore. Still punishment since he wasn’t allowed to rejoin the team, but better than being a paper pusher. He’d take it.

Staring at his lo mein on the counter, he inhaled.
You did this to yourself.
Suck it up and play along.