9 Ways to Fall in Love

by Caroline Clemmons

  She maintained eye contact with him regardless of the cost. Her nostrils flared. She had to get away from the madman or die. Right now, death seemed her best option. “This isn’t going to be easy for either of us.”

  “I don’t care.” He snarled and said, “As long as you hurt the most.”

  With that, he fisted her hair and dragged her to a waiting car. She fought him, but he was too strong and she ended up being pulled caveman style. Her heels left twin tracks in the dust. He opened the door of the vehicle and shoved her into the back seat. A man waited with a long-bladed knife.

  Kate sat up and stared out the rear window at Brody’s crumpled body in the doorway of the house. Odds were since he hadn’t been shot, the locals would take his valuables and then either kill him outright or take him to a remote area in the desert and let nature do the job.

  Kate had spent two years near this region. The villagers were common, hardworking people who were ruled by ruthless men like Oscar Chavez. They were powerless to do anything. They had no weapons, no money and little food. If Oscar gave the order to kill the gringo, Brody didn’t stand a chance.

  It had taken her months to infiltrate Oscar’s compound, La Hacienda, but only weeks for him to rape and practically kill her. She’d managed to escape, but it had come at a high price. And she would never forget the sacrifice so many people had made to make her extraction possible.

  Brody.

  She raised her fingers and traced her lips, remembering the kiss they’d shared. A kiss like none other she’d experienced. When he kissed her, she knew he meant it with every fiber of his being. Regretfully, she’d never see him again. Chances were, neither one of them would leave here.

  ***

  Oscar Chavez loved to drive. It was one of the few things that relieved his stress and helped him calm down. Also, he liked the power of a vehicle at his command. He had a man on each side of Kate, or as she had once claimed, Maria Vargas. A single person sat in the passenger side of the Mercedes they’d carefully concealed from the Falcon agent.

  Since the day she left, he’d planned what he would do to Kate Stone, CIA Agent, once he got his hands on her. That bitch would die a very slow death. And to think, he’d thought he loved her. He’d offered her the world and she’d spat in his face. He would see how defiant she was when he’d finished with her. Oh yes, he would see.

  The Falcon agent.

  He hated that fucking company and every man who worked for Frank Hamilton. They had come to his country and killed many of his men, destroyed his ships, and robbed him of millions. Now he had one of them as a prisoner and a plan to destroy them.

  And they sent only one man and the woman he’d been trying to find for years. Such fools. He’d ordered the villagers to kill the agent. They needed to be reminded what happened to anyone who defied him. Later his men would return, cut up the body, and send the pieces to Dallas, Texas, in care of Frank Hamilton.

  “I think we should have brought the gringo with us.” Angel Diaz said softly in Spanish. “If anything happens to the agent we have, we can always use another Falcon agent to take his place.”

  Oscar looked at the man in the passenger side of the car. Angel was the smartest and most cunning of all his lieutenants. And they’d grown up together. His loyalty was complete and unquestioning.

  Oscar believed Angel knew how he thought. He saw the big picture. And he was the only member of his cartel who knew what they planned to do. But even he did not know the complete plan. Oscar had no intention of telling him.

  Eyes back on the road, Oscar nodded, and Angel pulled out his cell phone and made a call. The matter was taken care of immediately. Oscar was very happy with the way things had turned out. Now he would be free to do anything he wanted.

  Falcon Securities and Frank Hamilton would be his first target. They would learn to fear and respect him. It wouldn’t take long for them to realize no one could stop Oscar Chavez. No one!

  He was through fucking around.

  Soon they reached their destination. The place could be seen from a mile away. Lights, bright as Mexico City, lit the surrounding area. No sneaking up on La Hacienda. No, no, he was a careful man. The thought of him finally getting revenge on the CIA agent, Kate Stone, lifted his spirits and brought a smile to his face. Everything was going as planned.

  Kate’s nerves tightened and she tried to steel herself for the worst. Being beaten was pretty much a given. She’d wronged Oscar and he’d take a lot of pleasure knocking her around.

  Also, he had to show his men what happened when someone screwed with him. Kate’s life stood on the very edge of destruction. In the end, she would die. That was a certainty.

  She prayed for a quick death.

  As they drove through the open gates, the words La Hacienda arched across the entrance in steel, Kate’s stomach lurched, and she shivered. At the compound, Kate was hauled out of the car by a heavy-handed man twice her size. Fist around her upper arm, he led her toward the door. They walked behind Oscar. If she’d a knife she would’ve stabbed Oscar between the shoulder blades.

  The place was a fortress. High cinder block walls surrounded the area, and armed men walked like prison guards along a trail of wooden planks behind the stronghold.

  The circular yard was a barren wasteland except for a well in the center and a small rose garden off to the side. In contrast, the house was a beautiful two-story stucco villa. Inside all the comforts awaited.

  Entering the cool building she let out a sigh. She was probably going to be killed, but getting out of the hot, dry heat cooled her skin immediately.

  Left alone to stand in the middle of the room, Kate waited. Oscar wore his usual white linen pants and long-sleeved shirt with the cuffs rolled to mid forearm. He slumped down in the large, overstuffed leather couch and crossed his legs. His long, hard stare burned into her skin.

  “I’m glad to see you again, my dear.” Oscar said. He looked at her and then took a pack of Marlboro cigarettes off the ornate, square coffee table, removed one from the pack, and flicked his lighter. After a long drag, he put his arm on the back of the couch, blew out a trail of white smoke and stared.

  Very little had changed since she last graced this hellhole. The tile had been replaced by sandstone slabs, but still no curtains.

  A few walls had been painted a light earthen tone as opposed to white. Other than that, everything within her vision was the same. Even Oscar seemed not to have aged.

  Expensive Mexican artists’ works hung on the walls. The living room’s L-shaped couch and an overstuffed leather chair faced a coffee table cluttered with flowers, a basket of woven balls, and two tall candles.

  Behind the living room, a dining room with a massive table designed to seat twelve offered opulence. To the east, a windowed wall provided a view of a terrace of lounge chairs, small tables, and palm trees. Beyond that, an Olympic-size swimming pool, complete with tiki huts, and more palm trees invited leisure and refreshment.

  “Who is this Falcon agent that brought you here?”

  She cleared her throat, dying of thirst. “Brody is all I know.”

  “And you’re sure he works for Frank Hamilton?”

  “The pilot mentioned that. Yes.”

  “I can’t believe Hamilton would send only one man after me. I’ve been expecting an army.”

  “Maybe more are on the way.”

  Oscar looked her up and down. “By your appearance, I can see you didn’t come willingly.”

  “He kidnapped me.”

  “Very clever.”

  “And dangerous.”

  “Yes, I’m surprised he got away with it.” Oscar shrugged. “But then he is a Falcon agent.” Laughter filled the room.

  “What happened to the man he came for?”

  Oscar took a drag off his cigarette and turned away. “Not good.”

  “Is he dead?”

  “No, not dead yet.”

  “Does he need a doctor?”

  “I don’t know, and
I don’t care. If he dies it will not be my fault.”

  “I don’t think Falcon is going to look at it that way.”

  Oscar shrugged. “What can Falcon do to me? As you see, we’re safe. No government agency can make Oscar Chavez do anything. If they try, I’ll blow up their homes, kill their families, and destroy their lives.”

  “So, I guess the Mexican authorities have paid you a visit?”

  “Yes, they have, but to no avail. No one bosses me around. Nobody tells me what to do.”

  “Eventually you’ll have to deal with the agent, the guy named Brody, and Falcon.”

  “I gave orders to kill this Brody. He will not live to see the morning sun.”

  Her chest physically ached. “And what about me?”

  Oscar stood, walked over to her and slapped her across the face. She fell to her knees. He kicked her backward in the chest. Pain shot through her body like a forest fire as she collapsed. He stomped her in the stomach before she rolled into a fetal position. The toe of his boot dug in hard against her right kidney. Kate thought she’d pass out from the pain.

  His vice-like grip circled her arm, and he yanked her to her feet. She looked into eyes filled with deadly intent. A stinging shot scorched her cheek when he slapped her again. With a savage growl, he flung her on the couch. She landed hard, bounced off to lie between the couch and the coffee table.

  On her hands and knees, Kate crawled away from Oscar, only to have him shove aside the edge of the couch. He kicked her in the face. Through the haze of pain, Kate tasted blood. He reached down and grabbed her hair.

  “I promise you this, bitch. You’re not leaving here alive.”

  Chapter 7

  Georgetown, Virginia

  Not far from the Potomac River, in the end unit of Wormley Row on Prospect Street NW, two bodies lay entwined. Their grunts and groans echoed off the walls of the expensive townhouse.

  Moments later Monique Sutherland pulled the satin sheets over her breasts and panted, waiting for her heart rate to return to normal. Vice president, Ron Rafferty, didn’t bother to cover his naked body. Instead he reached for a joint from the engraved gold case she’d bought him for Christmas. Casually he flipped his lighter and the flame brightened his face.

  After a strong drag from the rolled marijuana cigarette he offered her a hit. She took a dainty puff without inhaling and handed the damn thing back. She hated the smell of that crap. It stunk up the whole condominium and made her expensive clothes reek.

  But she dared not say a word. The man she shared her bed with held too much power. He had enough moxie at his command to toss her aside. He could find any number of women to warm his bed anytime the mood struck. However in this case, it was her bed.

  She rolled over and kissed him on the mouth. “A glass of wine?”

  “Yes, but not that Pinot from the other night. Something milder.”

  Monique took up her robe, padded downstairs to her state-of-the-art kitchen, and opened the wine cooler. The bumbling fool didn’t know one wine from the other. He was a stupid hick from Iowa. The only reason president Davis chose him as VP was to get the Midwestern vote.

  And hardworking, good-old-country-boy Ron Rafferty pulled in every ballot needed to win. Unfortunately, now everyone in D.C. had to put up with the moron.

  Including her.

  But she’d been able to pierce that corncob brain and show him the power he could wield as president without waiting for the next election. After a year, he’d finally gotten the message and seen how together they could rule America. All they needed was a brilliant plan, the right opportunity, and the perfect person to blame.

  Monique reached for the sleeping pills she kept in the cabinet for nights like this when she had later plans that didn’t include him. But... She drew back and tapped her index finger against her lips.

  Tonight she had other ideas, and the time had come for her to lay some ground rules. Ron wouldn’t be waking up in her bed in the morning.

  For a year she’d been there wherever and whenever he needed her. On his arm, in his bed, or in a bathroom waiting for a quickie.

  Time she ratcheted down her accessibility.

  Monique went upstairs with two glasses of wine. When she entered the bedroom, Ron ended a call. Was it one he made or received? As she handed him the wine, he offered no information and she knew better than to ask.

  “I called your driver,” she said.

  His blond brows lifted as he turned and looked at her, his mouth hovering near the rim of the glass. “Why?”

  “I think you should go home tonight. We don’t want to alert the media or the president’s insiders.”

  His face paled and his Adam’s apple bobbed. “Why so concerned? Have you heard something?”

  “No, of course not.” She smiled, placed her palm on his chest and gazed into his eyes. “It’s just that stupid Alex Crane and his mistress are all over the newspapers again.”

  He swallowed half the wine then strolled to the bathroom. “Crane is married. I’m not. I can do what I want.”

  Monique climbed onto her bed and sat cross legged among the tangled sheets. “But what would Davis say?”

  Ron stopped, finished his wine, and set the glass on the ceramic counter. She heard the toilet flush, and he left the bathroom. After a long, hot ravenous look, he gathered up his clothes.

  They both knew that for now being linked romantically could be detrimental to their ultimate goal.

  With his light blond hair, good looks, solid build, and strong Nordic ethnicity, Ron looked handsome. At fifty he had the appearance of a man in his early forties. He shoved a long leg into his pants.

  A widower without children, he was indeed a free man. But no one under President Davis did as he pleased. Davis ran a tight agenda, and Ron knew it. If they were sleeping together, the commander and chief would expect full disclosure. Something they couldn’t afford.

  Not with so much on the line.

  ***

  Brody regained consciousness in varying degrees. From a throbbing headache to blinding pain in his neck to the humiliating realization he’d been attacked from behind. The smell of dirt and burnt food assaulted his nose as he struggled to stand.

  Hands planted firmly on the ground, he rolled over and looked into the barrel of his own gun. Behind the weapon stood the man he’d given the money to earlier.

  Carefully Brody scooted into as sitting position on the packed-dirt floor. Finally able to lean against the warm sod wall, he touched the back of his head.

  Blood stained his fingers, but that wasn’t his biggest worry. The man with the gun stood so close that if he pulled the trigger, Brody wouldn’t have a face left to identify.

  “You’ve been given orders to kill me?”

  “Sí.” The man shook like a ten-year-old girl with a snake in his hand. Obviously murder wasn’t his trade of choice.

  Brody doubted the man had ever held a gun as sophisticated as his weapon. The Springfield Armory XD 9mm Glock, was loaded with a Streamlight TLR-2 tactical light and a laser sight. That weapon could do some serious damage since the hollow-point bullets were specially made for high-velocity impact.

  Around him several villagers anxiously waited for the execution, which didn’t help Brody’s cause or relieve his anxiety. Some inhabitants whispered but most remained quiet.

  “You don’t look like a killer.”

  Sweat peppered Manuel’s face. The death grip he had on the gun proved he feared dropping the weapon as much as shooting someone. “I will do as Chavez says.” Manuel raised his elbow and wiped his sleeve across his face. “If I do not, everyone in the village might die.”

  Brody pressed tighter against the wall and propped his foot on the ground. After releasing a hard breath, he rested his forearm on his knee. “I don’t want any of these people to die,” he said. “Not even you.”

  The crowd parted, and the chatter ceased. A padre strolled down the path. His dusty black robe covered a body worn thin by a life
of devotion and restraint. The sandals on his feet were so tattered they could barely be described as shoes. His grey hair showed no trace of its original color. He stopped in front of Brody and looked down. “Why did you come here?” he asked in perfect English.

  “I came to get my friend. The one Chavez holds prisoner.”

  The priest looked around. “You came alone?”

  “I brought a woman Chavez has been looking for.”

  “And you planned to trade this woman for your friend?”

  “No, Father, I didn’t. I only meant to use her to draw him out.”

  The priest snatched the Glock away from Manuel. The poor man’s body went limp with relief. When the padre held out the gun, butt first, Brody grasped onto the lifeline and nodded his thanks to the man of the cloth.

  “Take your weapon and leave this village.”

  Brody struggled to his feet. The earth tilted, and it took several blinks before he could see straight. Head pounding, he leaned against the wall and closed his eyes. He opened them when something nudged his arm, and he saw a woman holding a jug.

  Brody put the container to his nose, sniffed once, and then gulped. The water wasn’t cool, and smelled of sulfur, but tasted wonderful. As it trickled down his neck and onto his chest, Brody enjoyed the pure pleasure of relieving his thirst.

  Surrounded by villagers, Brody wiped his mouth and asked, “Which way to Chavez?”

  A man pointed south. Brody picked up his bag, stashed the gun in his waistband, and started walking. He didn’t get far before a young woman spoke up. “Do not go there. You will be killed.”

  “Hush, child,” an older man said. “He will never make it. The desert will claim him first.”

  Brody turned. His head throbbed in rhythm with his heartbeat.

  “You must rest first.” A woman touched his arm. Her dry, heavily callused hand slipped into his palm, and she led him toward a hut. When he hesitated, the padre motioned he should go with the woman.

  With his head rattled, no words were needed to tell him he’d never make his destination. For the moment he was too weak to take on Chavez. Hell, he knew his body better than anyone. That smack on the head could’ve killed a weaker man.