by Julie Leto
Jessica leaped up from the ground. “Look, I’ll find the stores if you’ll come and show me what to buy. I never have anyone to shop with!”
“What about those two?” Marisela asked, leaning her head toward the increasingly annoying bodyguards, both of whom seemed more interested in Frankie’s body than Jessica’s, judging by how their tongues were practically wagging as Frankie swam in the surf.
The girl sneered. “They’re protection, not company.”
“Your friends from school?”
Jessica frowned, bent down, and retrieved a cold bottled water from her bag. “They’re okay. They’re afraid of me, you know? I only go to school when my father is in the country. The rest of the time, I have a tutor here at home.”
Marisela pressed her lips together, weighing the situation, unable to imagine the isolation of this kid’s life. Even when her family had moved into a new neighborhood, making her the outsider ripe for gang recruitment, Marisela had never been trapped on a tropical island with no one her age to talk to, surrounded by women who’d either taken vows of celibacy to God, or those like her father’s arm candy, who had strict orders to stay out of Jessica’s way.
“That sucks;” Marisela said.
“Sometimes. Alfredo has a granddaughter a little older than me,” she said of the family butler. “She’s older. Before she went to college, we used to hang our sometimes.”
“When did she go away?”
“Three years ago,” Jessica answered sadly. “She’s almost done. She’s studying physics at MIT in Boston. I’ve always wanted to visit her, but my father…”
She didn’t finish the thought and from the look on her face and the knowledge Marisela had about Elise’s location, she wasn’t surprised. MIT was way too close to MOM.
“Okay,” Marisela said, “you run the idea past your father. If he says its okay, we’ll go. I’m really loving this beach mat. I think I’ll pick up a few.”
Jessica’s pale eyes lit up like roman candles. She squealed and hopped in the air, then waved hurriedly at her bodyguards so they could gather her belongings. Neither one seemed pleased with having to leave Frankie, who’d kept their attention rapt while Marisela and Jessica talked.
When one of them reached for the mat, Jessica shooed her away. “No, no. Dolores, you keep it. I have another one. In fact, I probably have a dozen. I’m going to go find my father.”
The man didn’t stand a chance. If she possessed half of the talent Marisela had at manipulating her own father when important desires were the topic, she and Jessica would be off the island in no time.
Jessica disappeared down the beach after reciting a half-dozen thank-yous. Marisela couldn’t help but grin after her. When Frankie approached, cooling her overheated skin by pressing his salty wet body against hers, her ire at his friendliness finally gave way in to a victorious smile.
“What was that all about?” he asked.
“You’d know if you weren’t so busy flirting with those two machorras.”
Frankie chuckled and nuzzled closer, bathing her skin in fragrant seawater. Are you jealous?”
He’d know if she was lying, so she opted to change the subject. “I think I have a way to take the kid.”
She explained quickly, snatching Frankie’s hand and drawing him into the water to finish the tale while she cooled off in the deliciously calm water. The sun and salt tingled on her skin and made her want to splash and frolic, but she contained herself. Dolores might take a lonely young girl shopping as a favor to her new boss, but she certainly wouldn’t whoop loudly in the surf.
“It’s perfect, isn’t it?” she asked, anxious to hear his assessment of her first-ever attempt at putting together a plan. She was sure the scheme had flaws—she’d only had a few minutes to arrange it—but whatever weaknesses he found, they could fix.
But Frankie had remained quiet as she’d laid out the plan, which included contacting Titan and giving them an approximate time and location of where they’d be shopping in San Juan. In a crowded mall or store, they could easily make the girl disappear and spirit her away before any of the bodyguards had a chance to report back to Perez. Yet despite Marisela’s enthusiasm, Frankie said nothing, his gaze masked by sunglasses he’d snatched from the hidden pocket in his loose-fitting swimsuit. He glanced once over his shoulder, then finally rewarded her fervor with a sly grin.
“Only one problem, vidita.”
Just one? The water felt particularly buoyant, so she executed a rather impressive twirl, splashing Frankie in the process. Maybe she would turn out to be good at this secret agent stuff.
“I can handle one problem. Lay it on me.”
“With your plan, one of us will end up dead.”
* * *
“Where are you?”
Marisela turned so the nosy salesgirl couldn’t eavesdrop on her cell phone call quite so easily. For what she was about to drop into the cash register in this trendy San Juan boutique, you’d think she’d earned a little privacy.
“A shop on Avenida Ashford.”
From his location on Perez’s island, Frankie repeated the information to someone nearby—more than likely, the man who was financing this protracted trip into hip fashion. She heard various voices in the background, guessing Frankie was still in Perez’s war room, discussing the upcoming assault against Perez’s newest enemy—one that didn’t really exist, except in Titan’s carefully placed evidence. Under the tense circumstances, Marisela had to give Jessica some credit. She never would have guessed the girl could orchestrate the trip so quickly and without strong protests from her father. With only Marisela and her two bodyguards in tow, they’d hit the shopping avenues of San Juan just after nine o’clock the morning of the day after their first meeting. Now six hours later, Marisela’s legs ached, but likely not so much as Perez’s wallet would hurt when the bills arrived.
“Señor Perez wants to know if he has any money left,” Frankie asked with a chuckle.
Marisela glanced over at Jessica, who giggled as she modeled a pretty floral skirt that fit her trim body snugly around the hips, but loose and fluttering just above her knees. Paired with a luscious halter-top brimming with short ruffles that downplayed the young girl’s ample C-cups, the mixture of femininity and modesty elevated her from simply attractive to undeniably gorgeous. Marisela wasn’t so sure Javier Perez would be pleased with the results.
“Just barely,” Marisela answered. “I hope he doesn’t regret turning over his credit card so willingly. He might have to sell that island and settle for a nice little cabana on the public beach.”
Jessica slipped into a pair of slim-heeled sandals. A third salesgirl emerged triumphant from the back room with a matching purse. Her two cohorts applauded and Jessica beamed with delight.
A rustling sound alerted Marisela that the phone had changed hands.
“Is my daughter having a good time?”
“Sí, señor” Marisela replied. “Spending your money does wonders for her attitude.”
Perez chuckled. “Of course it does! She’s a good girl. She deserves some fun, Dolores. So do you, ¿verdad? But I didn’t invite you to my island to baby-sit. You have no idea how much I appreciate your offer to take her shopping. She doesn’t get enough female interaction.”
The three salesgirls clucked around Jessica, offering a varied and impressive collection of earrings, necklaces, belts, and scarves. Nothing like a credit card with no limit to make Jessica the most popular girl in the shop.
“She’s making up for lost time. You’re a very generous father.” Marisela didn’t know if Perez heard her as he’d handed the phone back to Frankie.
“Everything’s okay, though, ¿sí?” Frankie asked.
A subtle quaver in his voice caused a chill to snake up Marisela’s spine. Was something wrong? Something Frankie couldn’t discuss on the cell phone they now knew for certain was monitored? They’d spent a good portion of the afternoon yesterday touring Javier Perez’s security complex, hous
ed in the building that circled the hacienda within. All communications, from cell and satellite phones to all radio transmissions within a three-mile radius of the island, were routinely monitored by Perez’s sophisticated system. Even though Titan was skillfully blocking the signal at irregular intervals with static that sounded like normal satellite interference, for now, what they said could be heard by others.
Luckily, they’d prepared by setting up a simple code while they’d frolicked on the beach.
“I found a beautiful leather coat,” she said.
Frankie mumbled as if he didn’t believe her, not because she was talking about spending money, but because that was the code they’d established for an all-clear.
The afternoon before, Frankie had pointed out the not immediately obvious flaw in Marisela’s kidnapping plan. Yes, a trip shopping in San Juan would provide the perfect opportunity for them to snatch Jessica and spirit her off to her mother, except for one detail—Frankie, as Rogelio, would have no reason to tag along. He and Javier Perez had already started plotting the first of three executions the Toscas would perform for the arms-dealer and no amount of lies or manipulations would convince Perez that Rogelio preferred browsing for bolsos above planning a good hit. Leaving him on the island while Marisela kidnapped the daughter of their host would be nothing short of a death sentence for Frankie.
Even during their truncated communication with Ian courtesy of a timed system disruption in Perez’s listening devices, their boss had nixed the idea. With the recognizance information they’d relayed during the brief three minutes that Titan had scrambled the signals to Isla de Piratas, Blake expected his experts to soon formulate another scenario that would ensure his agents not only succeeded in their mission, but returned home safely.
“You don’t need another coat,” Frankie said, the reply meaningless. But his next words reinvigorated her initial chill. “I could use a new backpack, though.”
The message was clear. Watch your back.
Why was he so worried? Did he know something she didn’t? Something he couldn’t share through coded language?
Unnerved, she walked toward the back of the store. Jessica had disappeared inside a dressing room just a few seconds ago. So why didn’t she hear the rustling of clothes?
“Jessica? How’s it going?”
Jessica opened the door a few inches and snatched a pair of jeans that had been dangling on a hook just beside the three-way mirror. “I’m going to try the casual look next. Could you grab that pink top you showed me earlier? I think you’re right. It will look good with my hair.”
Completely ensconced in her own world of fabrics and color-schemes, Jessica shut the door and after a second, Marisela strolled back into the boutique and pointed to the pink blouse. One of the salesgirls immediately fetched the shimmery confection off the mannequin, and then hurried into the back to deliver it.
“They don’t sell backpacks here,” she finally answered Frankie. She had to pull herself together. She could have been totally misreading Frankie’s meaning, but she wouldn’t be much good at controlling the situation if she wasn’t thinking clearly. “I don’t really think we need another backpack, but I’ll keep an eye out.”
“Bueno. Call me if you find something you think I’ll like, okay?”
Marisela agreed, then disconnected the call and shoved the phone in her pocket. Frankie didn’t spook easily, but he had a vibe going that Marisela couldn’t have misinterpreted.
Marisela glanced around, suddenly noticing that none of the salesgirls had circled her in the last few minutes. One stood behind the cash register tallying a sale, the other showed a new customer a collection of blouses in yellow, coral, and bubblegum pink. Marisela glanced back at the dressing area, then at the door to the back, which was ajar. Was salesgirl number three digging into the new inventory again, desperate for another item to add onto her sales commission?
And where was Jessica? How damned long did it take to try on a pair of jeans?
Marisela walked to the back of the store, determined to move to a new shop. This one was suddenly giving her a case of the willies. She knocked on the door and waited for Jessica’s reply.
She heard nothing.
She didn’t have to call the girl’s name to know she wasn’t on the other side. But she shouted Jessica’s name loudly anyway, turning toward the front of the store to look for the bodyguard as she tugged her 9 mm out of her purse.
The guard named Inma burst in from the sidewalk outside, gun drawn. Marisela shouted for her to secure the store while she shot off the lock on the dressing room door then kicked it open.
Empty.
The salesgirls and the other customers dove to the floor, screaming in fear. Inma was already shouting into a communication device she wore on her wrist, pleading with her partner, Dulce, who had been watching the back entrance, to report.
Marisela didn’t wait for a reply, knowing again that they’d get none.
Marisela tore through the cluttered back room, her gun an extension of her arms and eyes, scanning the space ahead of her. Inma had entered behind her and quickly located the third salesgirl, who’d been pistol-whipped on the back of the head and shoved in a box of dresses. A scenario shot across Marisela’s brain—someone paying the girl to lure Jessica to the backroom with a promise of some fashion find, then striking her unconscious and running off with Jessica. But what about the second bodyguard? Where was she?
At the back door, Marisela nearly stumbled over Dulce’s body. Felled by a Bullet through the forehead, death stared blankly through her dark eyes, taking no heed of the frippery around them.
Marisela swallowed the vomit burbling from her stomach and turned to Inma, who stared emotionlessly at the corpse on the floor.
“Call Perez,” Marisela ordered in Spanish, her voice a harsh bark that snapped the woman out of the shock of seeing her partner dead on the floor. “We need backup.”
The woman did as she was told. Marisela eased to the delivery door, aware that someone could be lying in wait on the other side, ready to pick off whoever might attempt to retrieve Jessica.
She led with her gun, squatting low to the ground. Seeing no one, she burst through the door and rolled behind a trash bin in the alley behind the store, searching for any sign that might signal danger. Inma followed a moment later, moving around the opposite side of the trash bin to cover both ends of the narrow passageway between buildings.
There was no room back here for a car. Jessica must have been transported on foot, at least until the alley spilled onto the sidewalk twenty yards away. Someone would have seen something.
Marisela shoved her gun into her waistband, but didn’t release the grip. She wasn’t about to go waving her illegally owned handgun around, but she needed her weapon close at hand. She blocked out a sudden flash of what Jessica was likely experiencing right now—sheer and utter terror—and focused on finding the girl.
Inma was close at her heels as they blasted out of the alley into the sunlight of the wide, busy street. Tourists and businessmen alike strolled up and down the sidewalk and cars sped by, but her eyes focused on the strip of concrete just outside the alley. Two vans were double-parked.
Two vans with dark windows.
She shouted to Inma, who rushed to the second vehicle. Marisela flattened herself against the door of the van by the sidewalk, gun drawn, only barely aware of the passersby scattering, some screaming for the police.
The door handle didn’t give. She spun low under the tinted windows, then around toward the front of the vehicle where she aimed straight into the windshield. No one was inside.
Inma had done the same with the other van and now shook her head. Damn. Were the vans decoys?
Marisela lifted her gun sky-high and jogged into the street, glancing in both directions while cars swerved to avoid her. Down the block, a flash of sunlight caught her attention, reflecting off an enclosed cart, the kind caterers used to transport hot food. The kind large enough to move a
teenage girl without anyone seeing. With no other lead, she lunged in that direction, yelling back for Inma to go in the opposite direction in case her hunch was dead wrong.
Mindful of the wide-eyed stares and startled cries of the people she passed, Marisela tucked the gun into her jeans and used her arms to pump her run to full speed. The two men pushing the cart, dressed in blue jackets and black pants like waiters, increased their speed when they caught sight of her behind them. She cursed. They wouldn’t run if they weren’t guilty as hell.
Ahead of them, Marisela spotted a large truck with the back door scrolled to the top and a ramp protruding from the bottom. No way could she catch them. No way.
Her lungs screamed with pain as she pushed her body to move faster. Her muscles cramped and she cursed the busy sidewalk and the assailants’ head start. She watched in painful defeat as they pushed the cart up into the truck, kicked away the ramps, and jumped to grab the roll-down door.
Marisela pulled her gun, but too many people were around to fire. She couldn’t risk a stray bullet. A few more yards and she could possibly damage the tires, slow their escape.
She cursed as her feet hit the pavement. A small sports car shrieked to a stop in front of her, blocking what might have been a wild and hopeless shot. She was tempted to pop the driver for getting in her way when he threw open the passenger side door and yelled for her to get in.
Max?
Bile rose in her throat as a horrifying possibility shot into her brain. She dove into the car and swung the door shut even as he peeled into traffic in pursuit of the van. After allowing herself to gulp air until the fire scalding her lungs subsided to an even steam, she turned and leveled her weapon at the man who’d trained her, the man who’d assured her that with Titan, she’d be in good hands.
“Tell me this isn’t a Titan operation, Max, because I swear to God, if Frankie dies because we left him behind, I’ll kill you myself.
Seventeen
Marisela slammed against the seat when Max threw the car into gear and peeled off in pursuit of the kidnappers. Her gun slipped in her sweaty palm, but she caught the grip and held tight.