“No.”
“So what can I do for you, Rosa?”
Rosa stared at the computer screen. Every move she made just complicated things and she had no real proof that anything was wrong with Joe. “I was actually calling you about Joe Miller, my ex-partner.”
“Joe?”
“Yeah. He sent me a few cryptic texts, then I had a surprise visit from his wife. She says they’re getting a divorce.”
“Joe and Celeste? No, that’s awful.”
“Right. Surprising too.”
“Yes, it is at that. What happened?”
“She says she met someone new.”
“I can’t believe that.”
Rosa swiveled her chair back and forth. “I don’t know too many people left in the DEA. You and Kaz and Vance, but I was wondering if you’ve talked to Joe lately.”
“I can’t say I have, Rosa. In fact, I don’t remember the last time I talked to him.”
“Is he in the office there?”
Ellie was silent for a few moments. “I don’t recall seeing him all week, as a matter of fact,” she finally said. “I know Kaz has been on assignment for quite awhile now.”
Which explained why he hadn’t returned Rosa’s call.
“Do you know where Kaz is on assignment?”
“That’s classified. I’m sorry, Rosa.”
“No, I get that. Can you at least tell me if it’s out of the country?”
Ellie was quiet for a few moments. “I believe it is,” she said. “Look, if you’re concerned about Joe, I could send you to his supervisor and you could let her know.”
“Can you give me her name, Ellie?”
“Brenda Doyle. Do you want me to transfer you to her?”
Did she? Rosa just wasn’t sure what she would say to the woman. Hey, got some weird texts from my ex-partner and wondered if he’d lost his mind? Or maybe that his wife had shown up, followed by a guy that looked like a thug from a B-rated spy movie?
“No, Ellie, don’t transfer me yet. It’s probably nothing. I don’t want to get Joe in trouble or anything.”
“I get you. Well, if you wanna talk to her, just call back and I’ll make sure it goes through.”
“Thanks, I appreciate it and congratulations on your baby. You’ll make an awesome mom.”
“Aw, thank you, Rosa. Well, talk to you soon.”
“Talk to you soon,” repeated Rosa and she hung up, then sat staring at her computer screen. This was certainly becoming alarming. If only Joe would just return her damn text messages, they could get this whole things squared away. Damn it all, she had other things to worry about right now and didn’t need this. She’d rather concentrate on her and Adrian, to be honest.
* * *
Peyton danced on the balls of her feet. Stryker stood in front of her in a half-crouch, his muscles loose. He looked like he was only half-concentrating, but Peyton knew that was bull shit. Stryker was quick and deadly.
“You gonna just keep dancing, Buttons,” he taunted her, “or are you gonna come at me?”
She didn’t respond. He’d taught her never to verbally respond to a taunt. It was a distraction technique and she needed her attention completely focused on her opponent’s hands and feet.
“Well, small fry, what’s it gonna be?”
Peyton narrowed her eyes on him, knowing he was about to pounce. He feinted to her right, her strong side, and she blocked him, but with his cobra quick moves, he snaked out with his left foot and hooked her behind her knee. She’d been expecting that and dropped backwards, rolling on her shoulder and springing to her feet.
He circled around her and she moved with him, keeping him in front of her. “Good, Buttons, you remembered.”
She didn’t stop to take the compliment. She’d done that one too many times in Quantico, she loved the praise, but he’d made her pay for it every single time. She kept loose, her eyes focused on his gaze, not his hands. She knew the second he made a decision to start for her. His eyes flicked to the left just a bit, enough to notice.
He smiled, trying to disarm her. “So, how do you like working for Sarge?”
Peyton didn’t answer, edging around the training room with him.
“She can be a little bossy, can’t she? Demanding?”
Peyton tried to calm her breathing, still focused on him.
“I know how you balk at authority figures, Buttons. You always gotta question everything. But Sarge, she doesn’t allow much questioning, does she? It’s her way or the highway, ain’t it?” He jabbed at her, but Peyton blocked him.
“Is it hard for you, Buttons, having her give you orders? The way she barks them, knowing they’ll be obeyed. But you, you don’t like to obey anyone, do you, small fry? You like dancing to your own beat, doing your own thing.” He moved at her again, but danced back at the last minute, forcing Peyton to readjust. “I don’t know. I think it’s kinda hot. The way she takes charge.”
Peyton blinked, straightening just a fraction.
It was just the moment Stryker had been waiting for and he pounced, clipping her on the side of the head. She spun to escape him, but he caught her around the upper body, his other arm clamped around her waist, hauling her back to his chest and pinning her.
“Now, Buttons, I know this is the very thing you fear most of all,” he whispered in her ear. “Get out of it.”
She felt panic edge up inside of her. He had her arms pinned against her sides. She squirmed, trying to break his hold, but he had her in a grip that didn’t allow her to take a full breath.
“Fight it, Buttons! Fight the panic!”
“Stryker, please…” she heard herself whimper, then she struggled again, but he only tightened his arms, cutting off her breath.
“Listen to me!” he shouted at her, shaking her. “This might mean life or death, Peyton. So you listen to me!”
She went still, closing her eyes, trusting him.
“If you ever find yourself in this situation, don’t fight. Do the opposite. Be unpredictable.”
“I don’t understand,” she said, her breath sawing in and out. “I don’t understand.”
“Because you’re panicking. Think, Buttons. Think. Sometimes the best way to fight is not to fight at all.”
She tried to internalize what he said. The best way to fight is not to fight at all? Radar had tried to teach her something similar, but his advice had been to fight until her last breath, until there was nothing more she could do. Still, he’d also told her to be unpredictable. What did Stryker mean?
“Think, Buttons. Think your way out of this. You’ve got to control your breathing. You’ve got to conserve your energy and when the moment is right, you react.”
She realized she was shivering. Her teeth were chattering and her head was filled with white noise. She focused on her breathing. It was hard to draw a deep breath because he had his arms wrapped so tightly around her, but she could take shallow breaths and slow them down, count between them.
She did so, holding her breath and listening to his heart pounding against her spine. The effort made her feel light headed, but in that moment, she understood what he said. Be unpredictable.
Without warning, she went slack in his arms. The sudden weight of her limp body pulled him off balance and he stumbled, trying to keep his hold on her. As soon as she felt his weight shift, she stamped down on his foot and he let out a grunt of pain, releasing her. She spun out of his hold and crouched, ready to strike if he came at her again.
He rose to his full height, his dark eyes sparkling. “There you are.”
She tried to slow her breathing, still the panic. Black spots danced in her peripheral vision. He came forward and reached out to lay a hand on her shoulder, but she flinched. He held out both hands.
“It’s okay, Buttons. We’re done.”
She closed her eyes, then felt his fingers curl around her elbow.
“Sit down.”
She sank to the mat and placed her head in her hands.
“Deep breaths,” he urged, sitting down across from her.
She opened her eyes and tilted her head to look at him. “I screwed up.”
“No, you did just what I asked you to do.”
“Then afterwards I almost passed out.”
“Hey, that’s fine as long as you’re safe. As soon as you know you’re safe, you have my permission to pass out.”
She laughed and he smiled.
“I keep thinking it’s getting better, but it’s obviously not.”
“It is. When you first went to Quantico, I couldn’t talk you out of a blind panic. That was it. You just kept struggling until I had to let you go, afraid you were going to give yourself a heart attack. Now, you fought through it and listened to me.”
She regarded him steadily. “You’re a good trainer, Stryker. You know that.”
“Well, it’s easy with a good pupil,” he said, chucking her under the chin. “Come on, you can buy me a smoothie downstairs.”
She watched him jump to his feet, then she climbed up after him. Maybe he was right. It used to take her hours to calm down, but now she only felt a little like throwing up.
* * *
Maria grabbed Peyton’s hand, dragging her onto the dance floor. Overhead the disco ball rotated, shooting out blinding rays accompanied to the pulsation of the colored lights spinning in circles. The music was so loud, she couldn’t hear herself think.
Earlier, she’d met up with Maria and Marta at Cho’s house in South City. In a cloud of hairspray, Maria and Marta had teased and sprayed their hair until it was a mile high on their head. Peyton let them fluff hers out a bit, but it didn’t take much to make her look like Diana Ross. With a liberal dose of eyeliner, blue eyeshadow, and red lipstick, Peyton hardly recognized herself, then Maria made her shimmy into a pink pleather mini-dress with spaghetti straps and a black pleather motorcycle jacket with shoulder pads. Black high heeled combat boots over fishnet stockings completed her ensemble.
“This is the only time it’s appropriate to wear combat boots – an 80’s throwback party, Brooks,” Maria said.
She and Marta wore matching mini-skirts and bustiers in pastel colors with enough makeup to disguise a geisha. Peyton didn’t know how Maria walked in those open toed boots, but she made it look easy.
The minute they climbed into the limo Abe had provided, Marta popped the cork on the champagne bottle, making a toast to her sister – “The biggest beotch on the block!” – and they were off. The bottle was empty by the time they pulled up to Pier 33.
Abe greeted them in a leopard print smoking jacket with a black velvet cravat and gold lamé slacks, ushering them out of the limo and hurrying them inside. Before they even reached the room, the sound of Madonna singing about being a virgin wafted out to them.
Abe threw open the doors and the strobe lights spilled out into the hallway. The room was already filled with Maria’s guests and the drinking had begun. Maria linked her arm through Peyton’s and Marta’s dragging them into the crowd with her.
“Rock on, ladies!” shouted Abe and closed the doors behind them.
Peyton tried to be attentive to Maria, dancing with her, throwing back a few shots of tequila, although she managed to take only one to every two that Maria took, and dutifully writing down the gifts Maria received, but after she’d written pink G-string, black G-string, white G-string so many times, it seemed a bit redundant. She even agreed to cut Maria’s penis cake, although just looking at the thing made her queasy, but not as much as the anatomically correct chocolates Abe had made for the occasion.
“Want some balls!” shouted one of Maria’s friends, throwing her arm around Peyton and laughing in her face.
After all of that, she didn’t feel a bit guilty for ducking out when Marta insisted that Maria try out the pink feathered handcuffs she’d gotten and promptly handcuffed her to a chair, while the women pinned dollars on her clothes. Peyton snuck to the door and slipped into the hallway, closing in the lights and the music and the laughter, pressing her back to the barrier and shutting her eyes for a moment.
“Had enough?” came a familiar voice.
She looked down the hall to the stairway leading to the roof. Marco sat on the tread, his cravat draped over the rail, his smoking jacket open, his collar undone. His crutches were braced against the stairs next to him.
Peyton couldn’t believe how happy she was to see him, moving down the hall and picking up the crutches, so she could sit beside him. “You escaped too?” she said, snuggling into his side and wrapping her arms around his where he had it braced on a knee.
“I needed a moment. They’re all sitting around the poker table, drinking scotch with cigars in their mouths.”
“This place is letting them smoke?”
“No,” he said with a laugh. “They’re just chewing on the ends of them.”
Peyton made a face.
Marco’s eyes tracked down her outfit and back up. “How the hell do you make that get-up look sexy, woman?”
She laughed. “I see you lost the cravat first chance you got.”
He nodded and leaned back, sliding his arm around her and pulling her closer to him. “Your shindig is louder than ours.”
“And would you believe, probably has more penises.”
He flinched and she laughed, laying her head on his shoulder. The tequila shots were starting to make her sleepy and he smelled so good. He pressed his lips to her forehead. “I’m glad you escaped.”
“So am I. I couldn’t take much more. I love Maria, but I’ll be glad when this wedding is over.”
He rested his chin on the top of her head. “It’s a little over the top, isn’t it?”
“A little? Marco, I just cut a penis cake, and right now…” She pointed back down the hall. “Maria is handcuffed to a chair while women pin money on her.”
“Well, Jake’s telling everyone the odds for each hand. Did you know the odds of being dealt a royal flush is 1 in 649,740? And Stan keeps calling the Jack a Knight, because the other two are the King and Queen. It just doesn’t make sense, Peyton. If you’re going to go medieval, why not stick with authenticity?”
She laughed. “God, this would so not be how I’d do it.”
His smile dried and he toyed with a curl. “How would you do it?”
She leaned back, looking up at him. “What do you mean?”
“How would you plan it? What would you want for a wedding?”
“D’Angelo…” she said in warning.
“It’s just talk, sweetheart.” He shrugged. “What would you do different?”
She thought about it. It was probably the tequila, but what would it hurt to tell him what she’d like? It wasn’t as if they’d even considered moving to that step again after their breakup. In fact, they’d both been careful to steer clear of any talk about it. But sitting here with him now, what did it hurt?
“You know what I’d really like,” she said, snuggling back against his chest.
“What?” His fingers stroked through her hair, soothing her, lulling her toward sleep.
“I’d like a beach wedding.”
“A beach wedding?”
“Yeah, in Carmel. Just our family and friends.”
“That’s still a lot of people.”
“I know, but I want it simple. Just a white altar covered in flowers, the chairs set up in the sand. Nothing else.”
“What about music?”
“A harp for the ceremony, then a live band for the reception. It wouldn’t even matter what kind of band because it’d be live.”
“And flowers?”
“Lilacs,” they both said together.
She shifted, playing with the buttons on his shirt. “Abe would be my man of honor.”
“What about bridesmaids?”
“I guess it would have to be Maria and Bambi.”
“What color would you pick for their dresses?”
“No, see that’s what I’d want to do different. I’d let th
em pick their dresses. Abe too. Whatever crazy thing he wanted.” She smoothed a hand across Marco’s chest. “Of course, you look gorgeous in silvery grey. Maybe one of those suits René Noir designed for you. And your groomsmen would be your brothers.”
“Mmhmm,” his voice rumbled beneath her ear. “What about the ceremony itself?”
“Jake could do it. He could get ordained on one of those on-line churches.” They both laughed. “He’d be good at that, don’t you think?”
“Definitely. What would you wear?”
She reached for the cell phone she’d hooked to the scarves Maria had wound around her waist and thumbed it on, pulling up her pictures. “I actually found one, before, when we were…when…” She stared at it. It was simple, elegant, with a lace bodice, spaghetti straps and a narrow, long gown without a train.
Marco took the phone and looked at it. “It’s beautiful.”
She nodded. “I want to go barefoot in the sand. No high heels to trip me up.”
He handed the phone back to her. “What about the reception?”
“Right after the wedding. Just buffet style, and no seating chart. If I have to hear about a seating chart one more time, I’ll scream. Let people sit wherever they want to sit.” She stopped and drew a deep breath, sitting up. “This is silly.”
“Why?” He narrowed his eyes on her.
“A beach wedding, not in a church. People aren’t going to like that.”
He cupped her cheek with his hand. “Who cares what anyone else wants? They can do their own thing, but anyone who matters to us won’t care, Peyton. They’ll just want you to be happy.”
She put the phone away, shaking her head. “Too much tequila,” she said, looking away from him. His blue eyes were too intense and his presence overwhelming. He made her want things that she’d given up – him and their life – but she was afraid to hope for them, to want them, to trust him. “I should go back in.”
“What if you didn’t?”
“What?”
He leaned toward her. “What if we went home? We put in our time. We did our duty. What if we just went home? I have the Charger here. I’ll bet they don’t even miss us.” His eyes were alluring, his voice husky.
Mayan Gods in the Yucatan (Peyton Brooks, FBI Book 5) Page 10