Holiday Heat

by Janelle Denison

  “You hate me,” Belinda announced.

  If her sister cared one way or another about this pronouncement, her voice didn’t give her away. To her, it was a fact the same as the sky is blue or Ricky Martin is proof that God has a wicked sense of humor.

  “I can’t hate you,” Marisela replied.

  Her ordinarily stoic sister arched a brow. It wasn’t much by way of a reaction, but with Belinda, it was huge.

  “Why not?”

  “You’re my sister.”

  “Genetics do not affect the formation of emotional responses. I’ve read studies which conclude that the closer the familial connection, the more tenuous or potentially explosive the impact of intense, emotional upheaval.”

  Marisela stared. Belinda had just rattled off a shitload of words—only every other one that Marisela recognized—yet her expression remained casually blank, as if she’d just delivered a Florida weather forecast.

  Hot and humid, with a chance of rain.

  Normal.

  Expected.

  “I don’t hate you,” Marisela repeated, laying her hand on Belinda’s upper arm and pretending she didn’t notice the way her sister flinched. “I can’t hate you, mija. My life would be so much easier if I could, but I’ve been trying to hate your guts since the day I realized that you were going to be a pain in my ass for the rest of my life. But I still haven’t managed to hate you. Just one more thing I’m not good at.”

  “You’re good at a lot of things,” Belinda stated.

  “Yeah, like fucking shit up.”

  “You have a terrible vocabulary.”

  Marisela chuckled, then leaned against her sister so that their shoulders touched. “Just add it to my list of failings. Maybe while you’re here, you can help me improve.”

  “I won’t be here that long,” Belinda replied, then darted away as her luggage came around on the carousel, not the least bit aware that she’d pulled off an expert comeback.

  “You okay?” Lia asked.

  “Not even remotely,” Marisela said, marveling at the strength and balance Belinda showed when she slid her suitcase off the belt, twisted it upright and pulled out the handle. “Come on, let’s blow this taco stand.”

  “Aren’t you going to take her bag?” Lia asked.

  “I’m taking her home,” Marisela said. “She’s lucky she’s getting that far.”

  They rode up to the top floor in silence. When the doors slid open, Marisela and Lia both started toward the east corner where they’d parked, then came up short when her car was no longer where she’d left it.

  “Coño su madre,” Marisela swore.

  Lia laid her hand on her arm. “Where’s the car?”

  “Someone stole your car?” Belinda asked from behind them.

  Marisela jogged to the space where she was certain she’d parked, with Lia running close behind her. The emptiness was like a slug to her heart.

  Damn it, she loved that car. She was going to track down whatever hoodlum had jacked it and cut his heart out with her fingernails.

  Lia squeaked in disbelief and then dropped Belinda’s carry-on in the center of the empty spot.

  Marisela stared up at the open sky and shouted, “Can this night get any worse?”

  Headlights from a black SUV flashed, blinding them as the vehicle tore out of its spot across from the elevators and screeched to a stop in front of Belinda, blocking her from view. When her sister’s scream tore through the air, Marisela had her answer.

  Chapter Four

  Marisela launched herself back toward the elevators. She slid her hand into her jacket for her gun just as the SUV’s driver’s side window, tinted to perfect blackness, scrolled down. At the sight of a dark, round muzzle, she threw herself behind the nearest sedan just as six shots popped off in quick succession.

  Two busted the windshield. One pinged off the asphalt and three flew wild.

  On her knees, Marisela turned and saw Lia, frozen, in their empty parking spot.

  “Lia, get down!” she warned.

  The SUV barreled toward Lia, but with a visible shake, she darted out of the way. Belinda—and her suitcase—were gone.

  Marisela flung herself flat against the ground and aimed at the truck’s tires. She pulled off several shots before the SUV slammed to a stop and the driver and a passenger, through the moonroof, returned fire. She rolled under a van for cover.

  The gunfire stopped. Lia screamed. Marisela slid between two parked cars, aware of the sound of sirens drifting up from below. That was one good thing about increased security at airports—instant reaction to gunshots fired. She fought her instinct to charge and instead chanced a glance around the bumper. She saw nothing but the idling SUV and a hint of movement from behind a full sized, flatbed truck parked next to it.

  It was Lia, playing tug-of-war with a ski-masked assailant and Belinda’s overnight bag.

  Marisela took aim, then shouted, “Lia!”

  Just as the man turned, Lia dropped to the ground, allowing Marisela a clear shot. Blood exploded off the top of the maricón’s shoulder. Marisela ducked behind a Mini Cooper, expecting return fire.

  She wasn’t disappointed.

  Glass exploded all around her, but the shooting stopped as the SUV tore down the exit ramp.

  Marisela sprinted after them, firing successively at the tires. If any hit their mark, none did enough damage to stop the escape. She couldn’t risk aiming any higher. Not with Belinda missing. Not when her likeliest location was in the backseat.

  She reached Lia, who was crawling back to her feet, blood streaking down her chin.

  “What happened?” she asked.

  “Someone just stole my car and took Belinda.”

  Lia shook her head. “But why? And your car…it’s there!”

  Marisela spun in the direction Lia pointed, spotting the Camaro parked crookedly in a spot behind another truck. She grabbed Lia by the arm, ignored her curse of pain, and pulled her along, determined to catch up to the sons of bitches who’d just taken her sister.

  The comemierdas had signed their own death warrants.

  She fished the keys out of her pocket and pressed the fob. But instead of the familiar double beep, an explosion of light and sound smacked them, throwing them back. A hailstorm of broken glass rained down and this time, when Lia started screaming, she did not stop.

  Marisela couldn’t hear. No, that wasn’t right. She could hear, but the sounds were burrowing into her brain through a narrow tunnel, piercing her eardrum and then echoing in and out. She could hear Lia whimpering, or maybe howling in pain, but she couldn’t see past the cloudy haze filtering over her eyes. Smoke? Yes. But also lights. So bright. And heat. Intense heat. Damn. She blinked, afraid to rub her eyes with her hands, which were coated in filth and glass and grit.

  The motherfuckers had kidnapped her sister, assaulted her best friend and blown up her car.

  They were going down. As soon as she figured out how the hell to find them.

  She crawled across the pavement. Glass bit into her palms and through the denim of her jeans. She followed the muffled sound of Lia’s cries, finally touching hot flesh.

  Hot, sticky flesh.

  “Díos mío, Lia. Por favor. Don’t be hurt. Please, don’t be hurt.”

  She patted her friend’s body, found her arms and dragged her away from the heat. Every inch was a victory. Then bright lights, blue and red and gold like the lights on her parents’ oversized Christmas tree, twirled around in her altered vision.

  Then came the noise. Piercing and painful. She drew her hands to her ears, silently screaming until the wails stopped. When thick hands grabbed her shoulders, she instantly curled onto her elbows and knees, then swept out what she hoped was an effective round-house kick before the motion spun her helplessly to the ground, the back of her head cracking against the shattered pavement.

  “Crap. It’s okay. You’re safe,” the voice, male and gruff and unfamiliar, reassured. “You’re not hurt, just daz
ed. But your friend…”

  The voice trailed off and his silence—or else, the lack of words, because silence was no longer possible in the hysteria of sound—told her Lia’s injuries were not superficial. The smell of gunpowder singed the inside of her nostrils, turning them into raw wounds that burned from the chemical stench of the fire extinguishers.

  Her vision cleared enough for her to make sense of the scene. The police had descended, along with paramedics, though there was no ambulance in sight. Her car was smoking, the windshield shattered.

  She moved to stand, but her knees buckled. When she fell, someone caught her. “Whoa, there. You gotta stay put.”

  “My sister—”

  Her sister…what? Was kidnapped? Taken by masked men in a dark SUV from which she’d gotten neither license plates nor make and model?

  “She’ll be fine,” the cop reassured. “She’s hurt, but breathing on her own. The ambulance can’t navigate the parking structure, but the EMTs will take her down in the elevator and take her to St. Joe’s. It’s the closest emergency room. You, too.”

  “No,” Marisela shouted, the reverberations of her own voice sending her into a spiral of dizziness, even though her ass was still firmly planted on the ground. “No hospitals.”

  Especially not St. Joe’s. Never St. Joe’s. She’d been born there, but she’d nearly died there, too. Unless she was unconscious and strapped to a gurney, she’d never step into those sterile hallways ever again.

  “You’re hurt—”

  “Check me out here. That was my car those assholes blew up. I’m not leaving until you catch them.”

  Marisela’s vision cleared enough for her to stumble over to Lia, lying on a wheeled stretcher. Two paramedics worked on her. While one gently laid her head back after swirling clean gauze around her eyes, the other tapped an IV line into her arm.

  Still, she managed to gesticulate wildly as she answered the questions posed by a female detective in a crisp, navy suit.

  Italians. The only way to shut them up was to tie down their hands.

  “And then the car just exploded! Where’s Marisela? I need to see her. Oh, God. Can I see her?”

  Marisela shouldered her way close and grabbed Lia’s hand. “You’re going to see me after they take care of you, ¿entiendes? Calm down.”

  “Where’s—”

  “Shhh,” Marisela said, trying to keep her voice soothing even as she attempted to keep Lia from mentioning Belinda. “I’m okay. I’ve got this. Just let them help you.”

  The female paramedic, a pretty blonde with kind blue eyes, shot what Marisela assumed was a sedative into the IV. Once Lia settled down, Marisela asked, “Is she going to be all right?”

  Before the paramedic could answer, her partner wrapped his hand around Marisela’s upper arm. “We need to examine you next.”

  She tugged free. “You need to answer my question.”

  “Marisela?” Lia said, tugging aside the oxygen mask tied loosely on her face. “Mija, don’t give the fireman a hard time. ¿Es muy guapo, sí? Muy, muy guapo.”

  The paramedic grimaced. “She’s on serious pain killers and her eyes are wrapped.”

  “Maybe,” Marisela said, sensing she’d get more information out of the medic if she ran with Lia’s flirtatious lead. Her gut ached with worry for Belinda, but before she set off to recover her sister—which she would do—she had to make sure Lia was going to be okay. “But you are easy on the eyes. Question is, are you just another pretty face on the annual hunk calendar or do you really know about medicine and…stuff?”

  Her vision was still shaky, but she could have sworn the man blushed. “She’s got something lodged in her eye, but it’s fairly large from what we can see and it’s clear of the pupil. The surgeons should be able to fix her up.”

  Marisela moved back, but lost her fight with gravity and stumbled. The paramedic caught her, waved away the detective who wanted to question her, then sat her on the step near the elevators and ordered her to stay put until one of his colleagues could take care of her.

  She had no intention of sticking around long enough for an examination or police questioning. Whatever damage she’d suffered would be nothing compared to the pain Belinda’s kidnappers would feel once she got her hands on them.

  Unfortunately, without a car, she wasn’t going anywhere.

  From her perch on the sidewalk, she eyed the elevators. Cops stood sentry at all doors, even across the lot at the second bank on the other side, far from the blast site. Blast site. Now that her vision was returning to normal, she avoided looking in the direction of her beloved new car. The fact that the kidnappers had destroyed her ride to make sure she didn’t follow them was the least of their worries. They’d taken her sister—and for that, they were going to pay in large, unmarked chunks of flesh.

  But first, she had to get out of here.

  She heard a uniformed officer call for the detective. He held Marisela’s gun, retrieved from under a sedan. It must have flown from her hand after the explosion. She cursed. Now, she was going to have to answer even more questions—unless she could get the hell out of here.

  Thrilled to find her cell phone was still in her pocket, she pulled it out and unlocked the screen. She was in a shitload of trouble. No one from Titan was available to help. Max was out of touch. Brynn and Ian were on the other side of the world. The closest operatives were hours away. With Lia injured and her parents peacefully in the dark, she had only one person to call—the one person who would always be there for her, no matter how many times she let him down.

  And to prove her point, he answered on the first ring.

  Chapter Five

  “Frankie, I need you.”

  She’d had to rip the words out of her throat as if they were sick, pussed tonsils, but she’d said them and wouldn’t take them back. Not until she found Belinda and made sure the pendejos who took her paid with their balls—or their lives, if they’d hurt her or the baby.

  “Come on, vidita. It’s almost Christmas. Can’t you wait for a booty call until after the new year?”

  His chuckle warmed her heart, then shot the heat lower before her bloodstream reacted with an icy blast of cold. She didn’t have time to fuck around with him, literally or figuratively.

  “Cállate la voca, Frankie. The only kind of booty I’m interested in is the kind I kick. I’m at the airport. I was picking up Belinda to surprise my parents for Christmas and—”

  “—and somehow, you’re involved in the explosion on the top of the parking garage.”

  “How did you know?”

  “Police scanner. Shit, Marisela. What the fuck did you do?”

  “I didn’t do anything except try to save my sister from being snatched by some brutes in an SUV. And I failed. She’s gone. She wasn’t here for five minutes. And Lia’s hurt. I need a ride. The cops are going to start asking questions and…”

  “Go to the hospital.”

  “I’m fine—” she insisted.

  Frankie cut her off. “You want to keep the cops from getting all up in your business, then fake a fucking migraine or pass out or something. I’ll meet you at the emergency room.”

  Frankie disconnected her call, which had the added effect of pissing her off. Her ex had a way of getting on her last nerve, even when he was doing something to help.

  But she took his advice, understanding that while she was under medical care, the police wouldn’t grill her. Just as she slipped her phone back into her pocket, the six-foot Amazon detective in the navy suit, gold blouse and killer knock-off heels started toward her with Marisela’s Smith & Wesson dangling inside an evidence bag. Marisela figured this was as good a time as any to let her eyeballs roll back in her head and pass out.

  “Open your eyes, Ms. Morales.”

  Marisela must have dozed off. After remaining in a prone state for over thirty minutes, she almost obeyed. Luckily, the training Titan had put her through over the last year held and she remained still, her breathing sl
ow but steady, her senses locked so that she would not react to any unexpected poke or prod. The voice was male, which meant it probably didn’t belong to the detective who’d been headed her way at the airport, but she couldn’t be sure. Police might mean to help, but they certainly meant delays.

  And with Marisela’s history, they’d likely do everything they could—including arresting her—to keep her from running off, vigilante-style, to find her sister—something she would do as soon as someone left her alone.

  “Ms. Morales, my name is Doctor McClarren. I’m your doctor, which means you’re protected by doctor and patient privilege. I know you’re awake, but to be on the safe side, I really need you to open your eyes so I can make sure you’ve suffered only a couple of scrapes and bruises. It’s sort of my job.”

  Marisela peeked one eye open. Standing above her in standard blue scrubs that did magical things to his turquoise eyes, was a floppy-haired blond who she wouldn’t mind giving her a very close examination.

  Though preferably not in a hospital.

  “Cops?” she asked, gagging as the antiseptic smells of industrial strength cleaners that seeped into her nostrils.

  He immediately flashed a tiny pen light in her eyes. “Detective Flores came in to check on you, but since you were impressively faking unconsciousness, I sent her away. Threw the nurses out, too. Thought I’d get a better shot at truly assessing your injuries if you didn’t have an audience.”

  Marisela glanced down at her shirt, which had been torn open so that the buttons were no longer attached. “Or maybe you just wanted a sneak peek at my rack?”

  “Do you have any idea how many breasts I see while on the job? No offense, but in this lighting, tits are nothing but obstacles to a heartbeat.”

  “You must be a ton of fun in bed,” she quipped.