"Yeah?" he said anyway, reluctantly accepting the call. He spoke softly so as not to wake Lillian.
Jason didn't waste time with unnecessary small-talk, instead getting right to the point. "You at Lillian's?"
"Yes."
"Does she have a back door?"
"Yeah. Why?" Tristan sat up a little straighter, bringing Lillian with him.
She mumbled incoherently and shifted against him, but didn't wake.
"We have a problem."
Son of a bitch.
"What kind of problem?" Tristan asked, suddenly tired all the way into his bones.
"The big kind. Motherfuckers…. Christ, I'll explain when I get there. Unlock the back door for me."
The line went dead.
Tristan stared at the phone for a long moment, a hard knot of dread in his stomach.
"Where's Lillian?" Jason asked as soon as he crossed the threshold fifteen minutes later, his expression twisted with suppressed rage. Something dark and volatile gleamed in his eyes. He didn't wait for a response before slipping an envelope from his back pocket and tossing it down on the kitchen table.
The envelope slid to a stop between the salt and pepper grinders.
"Asleep," Tristan said, sending up a silent prayer of thanks that Lillian hadn't woken when he carried her to her bed. She'd whispered his name as he laid her down, but quickly settled, too exhausted to open her eyes. His quick shower hadn't woken her either.
"Good. We've got a situation."
"Another victim?" He tensed, a parade of images running through his mind… chalky gray skin, stiff, cold limbs, and row upon row of stainless steel freezer doors, each with a name he recognized. They were images he should have been used to, but they hit him like a Mack truck every time anyway.
"Not yet." Jason prowled around the kitchen, his hands clenched into tight fists. "Look in the envelope."
Tristan gazed at the innocuous envelope before snagging it off the table with a soft curse.
"Sit the fuck down before you open it," Jason tossed over his shoulder, still pacing like a caged lion.
Tristan lowered himself into a chair with a grunt before turning the envelope upside down. A picture, face-down, and a folded sheet of paper with little distorted black smears fell out onto the table.
"A fax?" he asked, arching a brow.
"Look at it," Jason answered.
Tristan left the picture where it fell and unfolded the fax, barely daring to breathe.
A wanted poster from Sinaloa, Mexico took shape as he flattened the paper. Pedro Francisco's black eyes stared up from the black and white photo, hatred blazing in those dark blotches. A laundry list of crimes marched across the bottom half of the fax in two columns of tiny print.
The fingers of dread dancing up Tristan's spine dug their claws in deeper.
Francisco ran the most violent drug cartel in Mexico. His crew had kidnapped, raped, pillaged, maimed, and murdered their way through fifteen different Mexican states… and walked away with one of the most valuable trafficking routes into California and then on into Canada. If Mexican drug cartels were DEA Enemy Numero Uno, Pedro Francisco was at the top of that list.
Tristan eyed the picture on the table, fear tasting like ash in his mouth.
He dropped the fax and flipped over the photo. Paulo Vetrov and Pedro Francisco stood in front of a Mercedes, hands clasped, with a whole hell of a lot of Mexican muscle standing guard around them.
"How long ago?" he asked, fighting hard to stay in the chair. If he didn't, he'd break something, and he really didn't want to explain to Lillian right now that the shit had officially just hit the fucking fan.
"It crossed my desk two and a half hours ago. The team on detail in Tijuana snapped it at 14:38 hours today. They couldn't identify Paulo, so they put it in the system to see if they could shake anything loose." Jason stopped pacing and cursed violently.
Tristan stared at the picture, his mind racing. He picked out tiny details in the photo, focused on them. The Sig-Sauer holstered at Francisco's hip. The AK-47 the beefy motherfucker behind him held like a true soldier of the streets. The cocky, satisfied smile on Paulo's face. A tiny speck of puffy cloud in the upper left corner. Part of a tattooed arm resting on the sleek, silver Mercedes.
"When did Paulo leave Seattle?"
"He flew out of Sea-Tac at 6:20 yesterday morning and arrived at TIJ at 21:50 hours last night. TSA didn't send the flag through until 15:07 hours today, and it didn't make it off of Portman's desk until I went down and got the damned report myself," Jason said, pinching the bridge of his nose.
"Shit."
"The team in Tijuana was doing routine surveillance on Francisco when they took the photograph. We're checking credit card records, but as of now, Vetrov was off the grid from the time he left TIJ last night until he appeared in that photo today. He's booked on a return flight tomorrow at 8:35am."
"How long did he and Francisco meet?"
"They left the hotel together at 15:00 hours today, had an early dinner at Cien Años in the city and were driven back to the hotel at 19:06 by one of Francisco's men. They separated from there. Tijuana put a tail on Vetrov, but they lost him in a traffic jam right outside the airport. I talked to Guzman, the S.A.C. in the area, and he's going to have Vetrov's flight watched tomorrow to make sure he gets on it, but…." Jason trailed off with a grimace.
But the bastard had already met with el motherfucking Cártel de Francisco. But the damage was already done. But they were already screwed. Didn't matter how Jason might have ended that sentence, it meant the same thing: shit had just gotten a whole lot worse.
Tristan took a deep breath and then another, pushing back the haze of red hot rage threatening to erupt. "Is Vetrov buying or selling?"
"If I had to guess, I'd say he's shopping for someone to export this shit."
"Dammit."
Francisco was an opportunistic bastard. He'd jump on board with Anton Vetrov and open his trafficking routes the minute the Vetrov family's manufacturing venture proved successful. And as soon as that happened, their drug would hit international markets in a matter of days.
"Any word from Francisco's street dealers?"
"Not yet." Jason strolled over to the table and collapsed into a chair. "I've already yanked Kincaid out of the Planning Office. He's hitting up his sources as we speak."
"Good."
Michael Kincaid had more gang ties than any other agent in the Pacific Northwest. If there was a murmur to be heard, he'd hear it days before anyone else.
"There's no way Francisco will walk away from the money here," Jason said. "If the Vetrov family cooperates, they might survive. If they don't-"
If they didn't, Tristan wouldn't have to worry about bringing the murdering bastards down. Francisco had his boys working the streets up and down the West Coast. They'd gun down the entire Vetrov clan in a minute, and they wouldn't hesitate to take out any civilian standing in the way, either.
"How long?" he asked.
"A month to finish the product and lay the groundwork for export. Maybe another two weeks for Francisco to set up a distribution point and prep his boys to run it. Chances are they'll try to sail the shit out of Seattle. If we don't clean house by then, it's going to get nasty," Jason answered, his tone grim. "We can hit the port hard with cargo checks, but Francisco's boys will carry it into Canada and then ship it out to Europe and Asia from one of the ports there if we don't wipe out their supply first."
Fucking hell.
Tristan's mind raced through possibilities, scenarios, and plans and came up with fuck all that didn't include dragging Lillian into a war far beyond anything Seattle had ever seen before. Francisco and his ilk had killed thousands in Mexico for less than they stood to make here. Tristan didn't for a minute believe Francisco wouldn't tear Seattle up from the floor up if they gained control of the Vetrov supply.
"Judge Iverson still refuses to give us a warrant?" he asked, not even caring how desperate he sounded.
> "We can't risk it even if he would sign it now. We either haul them all in on murder charges and raze their lab to the ground at the same time, or Francisco gains a foothold we can't let him have," Jason said, his leg bouncing in obvious irritation. His eyes snapped up to Tristan's. "You've got to find that fucking lab."
"Yeah," Tristan murmured, his hand closing around the photograph. He crumbled it, his eyes trained on the doorway leading into the living room and beyond to Lillian's room. "I know."
He should have told her no when he had the chance, because now it was far too late to let her walk away, and way too fucking real to let her stay. Screwing around with Anton Vetrov was bad enough. But the Francisco Cartel?
They were something else altogether.
Memories of violent, black and white crime scene photographs rushed to the surface of his mind. Men, women, and children laid out face down across a porch… all massacred without a care. Shot to death where they lay for no real reason. Mass graves covered Francisco's territory, each one a warning to the authorities and the already terrorized citizens cowering in his district.
No one was safe from Francisco.
American tourists were beheaded and sent back across the border in duffle bags because Francisco didn't like the U.S. meddling in Mexican affairs. Mexican citizens were gunned down and left to rot in some macabre reminder that they lived under Francisco's thumb.
Any one of those could be Lillian.
Tristan leaped up from the table before he'd even realized he'd done it. His heart raced, rage coursing through him until he wanted to roar just to release the pressure building at the thought of the Francisco Cartel getting anywhere near the ballerina.
"Tristan, if I'd known, I never would have asked her-" Jason started, his voice grave and apologetic.
He never would have what? Asked her to do this? Put her life at risk? Signed her fucking death warrant?
An image of her inside a body bag slammed into Tristan, her beautiful eyes staring blindly up, her mouth opened in a final, soundless scream.
Oh, Christ.
He felt caged, the walls closing in on his as he fought to breathe through the effects of that image ripping through him. He ground the palms of his hands into his eyes, trying to force it out, but it hovered there, stuck. He had to get out. Now. Do… something. Anything but sit there and think.
"Tristan-"
"Don't," he warned Jason. He shook his head, gripping strands of his hair in his hands. "Just don't fucking say anything, Jase."
Jesus, why couldn't he breathe?
"Go," Jason said, reading him before he ever said the words.
"Watch her," he demanded. Blood pumped through his veins so hard, his eyes actually felt as if they pulsed beneath the force.
"You have three hours." Jason met his gaze. "Three hours, and then I'm sending S.P.D. after your ass if I have to. We clear?"
Tristan nodded, already headed for the door.
"And if you beat the hell out of your informants, I'll break your jaw," Jason added. "I need you here and so does she. We can't afford to have you suspended right now. You're on this case until it's done."
Wasn't that the problem?
If he got her killed….
That damn hospital waiting room flashed through his mind.
No.
No, that wasn't going to happen. No matter what, she'd make it out of this alive. He took off in a dead sprint toward the Rover, fear pounding through his skull like a wrecking ball.
"You secure?" Kincaid asked as soon as Tristan put the phone to his ear two hours later.
"Yeah, what's up?" He raced through the dark streets of Rainier Valley on his way back to Lillian's. Fresh bruises lined his knuckles, and he'd learned dick from his informants. They knew nothing, or were too scared to talk. Threats, violence, and more money than Jason and Davis would be pleased he'd spread around had gotten him nowhere.
"MS-13 is pissed about some new group in the area," Kincaid said without wasting time. "The Asians have all but cut off the gang's Ecstasy supply, instead giving it to this new player."
"Anton Vetrov?" Tristan asked.
"That's what I'm thinking. Check this though," Kincaid continued, "whoever it is, MS-13 leaders have been instructed not to touch the Asians or this mystery group. My boys were hesitant to say why, but I got the impression they've been directly ordered to suck it up and deal or else. Now, you tell me who issues an order like that to those motherfuckers and lives to tell the tale."
The Mexican cartels supplied MS-13 with most of what they peddled on street corners, but the Asians supplied the gang with Ecstasy. That didn't bother the cartels much since they controlled the routes the Asians used to bring the drug in and taxed the hell out of them for it. The cartels didn't own the Asian crews outright, but close enough. If they were supplying Anton Vetrov's operation, Francisco wouldn't want MS-13 screwing up that relationship by blowing the Asians away over what would amount to chump change in the grand scheme of things.
The light ahead turned yellow.
Tristan pushed the gas a little harder, unwilling to stop. The Rover shot across the line half a second before the light turned red, the needle on the speedometer racing toward eighty. "Which cartel holds MS-13 locally?" he asked.
"Whoever is paying," Kincaid answered. "They've got ties with every cartel worth mentioning, including your boys. If Francisco handed down that order, they'd obey it, or else risk being frozen out by Francisco and the Asians. They can't afford that risk, not in Seattle."
"Fuck." Tristan glared out the windshield, weaving easily through what little traffic crept through the dark. "So chances are the Asians are supplying the X and LSD to Vetrov."
"Looks like," Kincaid said.
Well, wasn't that just motherfucking perfect?
"Any idea if they're going to the Asians directly?"
"Hell no. Unless Francisco himself stepped in, Anton Vetrov doesn't have those kinds of connections," Kincaid laughed. "The Asians deal directly with big cheese only. Only way they can operate safely around here since the Patriot Act. Your boys are dealing with a middle man."
"Think you can find their supplier and cut him off?" Tristan asked Kincaid.
"Hell yeah," Kincaid said. "I'm all over it."
Tristan took a deep breath, praying it would give them a little more time.
Christ, it had to.
Chapter Fifteen
Lillian nestled into her pillows as early morning light filtered through the curtains in her bedroom, sending little rays of warmth across her face. She groaned, rolling over. And then she blinked at the familiar deep purple décor around her, unsure how she'd gotten to her bedroom. The last thing she remembered was… lying on Tristan's lap while his heart beat a steady rhythm beneath her ear.
"Ah… crap," she croaked, her voice thick with sleep. She'd passed out on top of him, hadn't she?
Casting back in her memories for anything after curling up on his lap, she came up with zilch. Yep, she'd fallen asleep on his lap after he did delightfully wicked things to her.
"Oh God," she groaned, rubbing her eyes as memories of his touch assailed her. Fire wasn't a hot enough classification for the way he had unraveled her last night. Every thought had vanished from her head when she'd felt him harden beneath her. She hadn't meant it to go so far, but then he'd touched her, whispered those wicked desires to her, and she hadn't wanted him to stop.
She didn't regret it.
The way he'd ravished the sensitive skin of her throat while she came made her feel like molten lava inside and out. Something about the thought of him leaving his mark on her… well, she liked it. A lot. Probably more than any self-respecting woman should.
She crawled from the bed in search of a mirror, wanting to see for herself what such a mark looked like up close and personal. Would it bother her to see it now that she wasn't wrapped in a cloud of lust? Should it bother her?
She wasn't sure.
Stepping carefully to keep her balance,
she made her way into the en-suite bathroom and flipped the lights on. The woman staring out of the mirror at her was almost unrecognizable. Her dark hair was a wild tangle around her face. Her eyes were wide, and her cheeks flushed.
She leaned closer.
Two small red marks marred her pale skin, so faint they were almost invisible. Lillian reached out to trace them with her finger, a soft smile on her lips. Heat twisted through her at the evidence Tristan had left behind. Knowing he'd put them there was hot for reasons she couldn't even begin to explain to herself.
Lord, what was that man doing to her?
"Get a grip," she muttered, shaking her head at her reflection. Forcing her mind away from the temptation of staring at those marks in the mirror, she tossed her hair up into a messy bun, and brushed her teeth.
She had no idea if Tristan was awake, or how the morning would unfold after what they'd done. They'd crossed some kind of line or bridge or wall last night, and she didn't know where that left them. His world and hers were two different things, and they argued more often than not. How would this thing between them ever work?
"Ugh," she groaned, rubbing her face hard with a towel.
The connection between them was physical, nothing more.
And if she told herself that often enough, she might actually start to believe it.
She flipped the lights off in the bathroom and changed her clothes, determined to exhaust her mind into silence while she stretched her leg. She hadn't done a good job of it lately, and she'd pay for that with more than a muscle spasm sooner or later.
After a quick detour to the kitchen to grab a bottle of water, she hurried toward the studio… only to stop in front of Tristan's door when she noticed light trickling from a crack beneath the heavy wood.
Don't do it, she warned herself, but she didn't listen, of course. Reaching out, she knocked softly. When he didn't answer, she pushed the door open a little further and peeked inside, telling herself she just wanted to see if he was awake or not.
"Oh, sweet mother of God," she whispered, her heart stalling in her chest before racing away at the sight before her.
Ravished (The Teplo Trilogy #1) Page 18