Deep Under

by Lisa Renee Jones

  He cuts right and into a bedroom, far away from Myla, which I assume is the point. “Shut the door,” he orders, but I’ve already done it, joining him in the mini living area to the left of the door and past a desk, where he sits on the couch, no doubt to downplay the full twelve inch difference in our heights.

  I give him an even playing field, that would only be even if I was the man I say I am, claiming the chair to his left and he sets a folded sheet of paper on the table. “That’s what we expect from you. Either you can deliver it or you can’t, but before you read it, know this. Her sister’s FBI and disapproves of Myla’s choice to be involved with our operation.”

  Ex-FBI, I silently amend of Kara, wondering if he doesn’t know that, or simply chooses not to tell me.

  “The entire reason the powers that be want you,” he continues, “is that your knowledge and expertise will be useful in protecting her not just from our enemies, but her sister.”

  This isn’t a surprise. In fact, it was part of how we set this up. “You can call the powers that be Alvarez,” I say. “Myla does, and as for the situation, I’m a master of staying off the FBI’s radar. Does her sister know she’s in Dallas?”

  “She thinks she’s in San Francisco.”

  “Then we don’t have a problem.”

  “Make sure it stays that way.” He reaches into his pocket and hands me a folded sheet of paper, his brown eyes glinting with disdain, I haven’t earned, but plan to earn.

  I make no move to accept it, already rising to the challenge. “What is it?”

  “Additional instructions. The ones that really matter.”

  I pick up both documents, scanning the details that amount to Myla barely going to the damn bathroom by herself. This is not someone they trust and I say that much. “If she’s this much of a risk, why is she about to be on her own?”

  “Two motivations. For starters, her business is an excellent place to funnel money, but at the core of this, Alvarez wants to believe she isn’t a risk. He wants her to prove herself and he’s giving her the freedom to do so.”

  “But he has doubts,” I assume, and despite the fact that it probably kept her alive, I’m really not liking what seems a growing certainty that a kingpin has an attachment to Myla.

  “A man like him always has doubts,” Juan replies, “and if they’re valid, it’s your job to find out. That’s what he wants from you. Find out. Use your FBI background and outsider persona to get her to turn on him if you can. And consider this your gateway drug to a lot more work and money.” He stands and so do I. “I’ll leave you with her.” He rounds my chair and heads for the hall, while I turn, following in his footsteps, until he pauses at the door, and looks at me. “Trust is earned. I’ll have several men on your heels at all times.”

  “Anyone I don’t know could get shot. Make sure they announce themselves.”

  “Of course, they’ll introduce themselves. At least, the ones in your line of sight.”

  “Why not have them guard her?”

  “I told you. You’re an outsider who can find out where her loyalty lies. And they’d end up dead, like you will if you fuck her.”

  He exits the bedroom, disappearing into the hallway. I listen to his footsteps thunder and then soften, the door opening and shutting. I follow in his wake, wasting no time, reaching the lock, and flipping it shut to ensure no introduction takes me by surprise. And Juan was wrong, I think. I won’t end up dead if I fuck Myla. I’ll end up with my balls in my throat, ripped there by one of the Walker clan. And the very fact that I’m even thinking about that as a problem is a problem in and of itself. One that could get me and her killed.

  Chapter Three

  Kyle

  I start down the hallway and I’m almost to the living area when Myla appears in the archway separating me from the living area. “You took the job,” she says softly, standing her ground as I stop in front of her.

  “Yes, I took the job, and we’re going to talk about why you wanted that to happen, but just not now. Not until I secure the room.” I step around her, that sweet floral scent of her perfume following me all the way to the desk in the corner of the living area, where I grab the phone receiver and punch in the number to the bell desk.

  “I need to speak to Les,” I state, and the very fact that I’m still smelling flowers, and thinking of dark hair and green eyes, tells me how much Myla affects me.

  “He’s not available,” the female attendant on the line replies.

  “Tell him it’s Kyle,” I reply. “The one in the Mustang.”

  “Oh yes, sir.” I hear a complete change of her tone telling me money talks to Les. “He’s expecting you. Wait just one moment.”

  I start to turn and check on Myla, but already I hear, “This is Les.”

  “I need you to personally bring my bags here to my room,” I instruct. “I assume you can see where I’m calling from.”

  “Yes sir. The private wing. I’ll be right up.”

  I end the call and turn to find Myla standing in front of me, no more than two steps away. “Secure the room?” she asks, folding her arms protectively in front of her. “What does that mean? Is there a threat of some sort?”

  “No active threat,” I assure her, “but considering you’re Michael Alvarez’s woman-”

  “Please don’t call me that.”

  “Are you saying you aren’t his woman?”

  “I’m saying you make me sound like a possession.” She doesn’t give me a chance to declare its accuracy, already moving back to her prior worry. “Why do you need to secure the room?”

  “From this point forward, I’ll be securing every room you enter, as long as you’re under my protection.”

  “Juan’s people checked out the room.”

  “Juan’s people aren’t responsible for your safety or mine.” And then because I can’t have her alerting anyone about what comes next, I step closer to her, our legs nearly touching, my voice a mere murmur. “I’m going to sweep for recording devices and get rid of them. Then we’re going to have that talk we mentioned.”

  I back away, but she grabs my arm. “No,” she hisses, her fingers gripping my jacket sleeve, our eyes colliding, the spark of some unnamed something I’ve sensed between us spiking hard and fast.

  I arch a brow. “No?”

  “Don’t cross them.”

  Her voice is barely audible, but I respond to the panic I sense in her, my hand settling on her shoulder. “You wanted me to take this job,” I remind her.

  “And I want you to consider who you’re working for.”

  “I know what I’m doing,” I promise. “And I need you to trust me to protect you.” I pause, our gazes colliding, the air between us heavy. “Trust me.”

  “Trust you? I don’t know you.”

  “That’s not what you said earlier.”

  “I don’t know you,” she repeats, pulling her hand back as if she’s just been burned.

  But I don’t let her escape, my fingers snagging her waist, my hand remaining firmly at her shoulder. “You will,” I assure her, “and when you do, you won’t feel the fear I see in your eyes when I’m with you. Of that, I can promise you.” I release her, taking a step back, and she turns to walk away but not before I see the wash of unreadable emotion over her face, which has me wishing I could grab her and pull her to me and promise her things I don’t even know if she wants to hear.

  But I can’t and I don’t, because even if we weren’t being recorded, nothing I can say or do at this point changes the fact that she doesn’t know or trust me. The truth is, no matter what fear or panic she’s shown me, no matter how much hate she has for Juan, I can’t count on the Myla that Kara remembers still truly existing. I can’t even count on the spark I feel between her and I, indicating she’s not in love with Alvarez, but loyal to him, be it real or because she has Stockholm syndrome, which in and of itself could make her irrational and dangerous to both of us. And right now, I have to focus on drawing lines in the sand
with the Alvarez clan, and creating a free zone for her and I to communicate.

  Reaching into my pocket, I remove a small electronic box, flipping the device on. It begins to beep and I turn in the direction it guides me, letting it lead me back to the desk. Reaching for the phone, I flip it over and remove the pencil head-shaped microchip I find there that could easily be mistaken for a battery. Resetting the scanner, I turn toward the room again, and find Myla now facing me, a question in her eyes. I hold up the chip between my fingers, showing it to her. Her chest slowly rises, her gaze lifting skyward, her reaction clearly indicating that she is not pleased, though I’m not sure if it’s about the room being bugged, or about me removing the recording devices.

  Whatever the case, I slip the microchip into my shirt pocket, and resume my search, locating two more devices. By this time, Myla is sitting on the couch watching my search, her expression emotionless, as I switch gears to begin a sweep of the air vents, and pretty much every nook or cranny where a camera might be hidden. “This room’s clean,” I announce, now certain that my two up close and personal encounters with Myla, though easily played off as attempts to test her loyalty to Alvarez, have not been recorded. I point to the master suite. Is that yours?”

  “Yes,” she confirms. “That’s mine and…” She seems to reconsider whatever she is going to say, before repeating, “It’s mine.”

  “We’ll inspect it last and end with a bang,” I say. Not giving her time to argue, I walk to the opposite side of the room and enter the dining area, where I find a single chip. Exiting back into the living area, Myla is back to staring out the window, and I can only hope she’s wistfully imagining escape, which I can give her, not my demise. I leave her there, heading down the hallway, where I search an office, a bathroom, and two more bedrooms, collecting only three more devices. I’ve just reached the junior suite by the door where I’d met with Juan, which is a perfect location for me to set up my room, and an electronic monitoring center, when the doorbell rings. I flip the “off” button on my scanner, stick it in my pocket, and step into the hallway, finding Myla hovering several feet away, her expression stark.

  “It’s my luggage,” I assure her. “You heard me call for it.” She nods, but she doesn’t look convinced. In fact, she looks pretty damn certain that we’re both about to have a gun pointed at our heads, which I find doubtful, but not out of the question.

  Giving us both a little peace of mind, I slide my jacket back, exposing the Glock at my ribcage. “If it’s Juan,” I comment, “I say that I shoot him.”

  She doesn’t laugh. “What if it really is him?” she says worriedly.

  “It’s not.”

  “You can’t know that.”

  “Even if it is, I have several big guns and I know how to use them.”

  Her eyes spark. “You think it’s that easy?”

  I sober quickly, and don’t even hesitate to shackle her elbow and walk her to me. “I do not think dealing with Juan is easy,” I assure her. “But I can handle him and I’m not going to let you get hurt. I promise.”

  She pulls away from me, as if my touch is fire, and I’m not sure if that’s good or bad. “You can’t make that promise,” she says, “and you know it.”

  “I can and I am.” Another knock sounds and I turn my attention to the door, calling out, “Who is it?” and receiving an immediate reply of, “Les, from the bell desk, sir.” I refocus on Myla. “See? Everything is okay.”

  “For now,” she concedes. “But he’ll be here soon.”

  I’m not sure if she means Alvarez or Juan, but either way, I can’t leave Les waiting. I flip the lock and then erring on the side of caution, crack it open, confirming Les is indeed alone. Opening the door, I greet him, and step into the hallway to help him deal with my half a dozen equipment-heavy bags. By the time I’ve returned, Myla is walking toward the living area.

  Eager to get back to my work before Juan does indeed show up, I help Les gather the remainder of my bags, deposit them in my room, and then walk him to the exit, where I palm him a hundred dollar bill. “I’ll be here with Myla on an extended stay,” I explain. “I need a man on my side and I’ll be generous in exchange for loyalty. There will be five of those a day for you.”

  He glances at the cash, and then at me, approval etched in his stare. “Consider it all yours. What do you need?”

  “For now, just give me a heads up on any visitors coming my way, and that needs to happen even when you’re off shift. We’ll work through further details later.”

  “Consider it done. How should I contact you?”

  We exchange cellphone numbers before he departs and I flip the lock back into place. With Myla still MIA, I quickly remove my scanner from my pocket again, turning it back on, and then locating one last recording device inside my temporary room. Ready to search her room, I head back into the hallway, but just as I’m about to enter the living room, she once again steps into my path. “I know you really think-” she begins.

  “Not yet,” I warn softly, indicating my shirt pocket, where the live chips are still present. Her eyes go wide with understanding, and I motion behind her. “Your room.”

  She inhales and flattens her back against the wall, staring ahead and not looking at me. “Next time it won’t be Les at the door,” she warns softly, her gaze averted.

  “I have a plan,” I assure her. “More than one big gun and my own set of rules.”

  Her gaze jerks to mine. “You already said that.”

  “You needed to hear it again. And no one hired me, or wanted me here, because they thought I was a “yes” man, and I suspect your motive for wanting me hired was the same. Am I right?”

  “I can’t speak for them.”

  “No. But you can speak for yourself when I’m done in your room and you will.” And with that promise, I move on, crossing the living area again and entering the high-end glitz and glamour of a master suite, decked out in pale blues and fancy artwork.

  Pausing a few steps inside the doorway, I scan for potential camera locations, a full living area framed by a wall of windows, to the right of the bed, a dresser with a flat screen TV above it to my right, directly across from a king-sized bed. And that bed, is what holds my attention, tormenting me. For a few brutal moments, I consider the moment Alvarez shows up here, and walks her toward this room, with the intent of shutting the door behind him. I’ll want to stop him. I’ll want to kill him, but if I do, I jeopardize the rescue of every woman caught up in his sex trafficking ring.

  The air shifts slightly, and I sense, rather than see, Myla enter the room, her presence jolting me back to the present. I step into action, following the beeping sound to the nightstand closest to the wall of windows framing the room, and remove a chip from the lamp by the bed. Myla says nothing, just stands in the entryway, watching me move through the room, removing chips, and surveying the curtains, furnishings, and movable objects for video equipment. My search leads me to the elephant statue sitting on the cabinet holding the flat screen television, and pointed directly at the bed, which doesn’t fit the décor. A quick inspection and I confirm there’s a camera inside which means that sick fuck Alvarez was going to watch her sleep. Or maybe it was Juan, in which case I will shoot the bastard.

  Fantasizing about how many ways I can kill Alvarez and Juan, and justify doing it myself to Blake, I scoop up the elephant, and walk across the room toward what I assume to be a bathroom. Flipping on the light, I enter a room so white it’s blinding, the giant tub on the other side of the bathroom clearly meant to help justify the ten-thousand dollar a night fee I estimate it must cost to stay here.

  Setting the statue down on the counter, I pull the plug in the sink, turn on the water and set the elephant inside before removing the chips from my pocket and tossing them in with it.

  “You lied,” Myla accuses me, appearing in the doorway.

  I turn off the water and face her. “What exactly did I lie about?”

  “Not having a death wish
for you or me.” She glances at the sink and then back at me, her green eyes sharp with certainty. “Any moment, all hell is going to be let loose.”

  “Good thing I know exactly how to tuck the devil back into his box,” I say. “You don’t like Juan, Myla. Let me make him go away.”

  “You can’t,” she insists, no hesitation in her.

  “I assure you, I can.” I narrow my eyes on her, trying to read her psyche. “But tell me. Is it just Juan you’re afraid of or is it Alvarez, too?

  “He paid you to protect me, not hurt me.”

  “That’s not an answer. Are you afraid of Alvarez?”

  “You can’t defy him and get away with it.”

  “Again. Not an answer so I’ll take that as a yes.”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “You didn’t have to.”

  “You are making mistakes you can’t take back.”

  “Being a pushover with these people would be my mistake,” I say. “I told you. They didn’t hire me to be a “yes” man, and I don’t get the impression you’ve survived in this world by being a wilting flower, either. So why would I?”

  “I know my limits,” she says, “and you clearly don’t.”

  “And I’m setting my limits while changing yours for the better.”

  My cellphone starts ringing and she swipes her long, dark brown hair behind her ear. “That’s going to be Juan.”