The Naughty Nine: Where Danger and Passion Collide

by Nina Bruhns

  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.

  Dirty Little Secrets: Chapter 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.

  She pressed the nozzle to Max’s temple. “Tell me the truth.”

  “Don’t aim a gun if you aren’t prepared to use it,” Max said evenly.

  “If I have to sacrifice you to save Frankie, that’s what I’ll do.”

  He glanced at her briefly, but didn’t move his head. However, when he swerved around a slow-moving taxi, the inertia threw her sideways. He had her gun in his hand before she could counter his move.

  She opened her mouth to protest, but he tossed the 9 mm back in her lap with a smirk. “Keep that off me, understand? We’ve got a teenager to rescue.”

  She checked her weapon, then braced her hands on the dashboard as he maneuvered around another trio of cars.

  “You didn’t take her?” she demanded.

  “Blake nixed that plan, Marisela. He’d never betray his own agents.”

  “Then what the hell are you doing here and who took Jessica?”

  Max hopped a curb to avoid slamming into the back end of a car stopped at an intersection. Marisela braced her hands on the roof of the car to keep from banging her head.

  “Your guess is as good as ours,” he answered.

  “Then why are you here? That’s no coincidence!”

  “We were watching you.”

  “Watching me? Why?”

  “Standard procedure. Don’t get paranoid.”

  “Too late,” she snapped.

  “Frank will not be harmed,” Max assured her.

  Marisela turned in the seat so she could see his face clearly, even if only in profile. Not that she expected to learn anything from a man with an uncanny ability to fade into the woodwork and hide his reactions.

  “If we get Jessica back before Perez starts looking for someone to blame, maybe, just maybe, Frankie will get out of this alive,” she told him. “T
he bodyguard called Perez. He’ll be here any minute and might be tracking us right now” She leaned under the sun visor to check the bright afternoon sky for any sign of Perez’s helicopter. So far, nothing. “Exactly who am I supposed to tell Perez you are anyway if he shows up? Just a friendly bystander I carjacked?”

  “Sounds like a plan.”

  The truck turned abruptly, so Max threw the car into a controlled spin that brought them directly behind the escaping kidnappers. Marisela rolled down the window of the car and prepared to lean out to fire, but Max grabbed her arm and tugged her back in.

  “Don’t waste bullets. We’re coming up on the marina. They’ll have to stop once we reach the pier. Get ready. I’m guessing they didn’t anticipate pursuit, but we can’t be sure.”

  Marisela checked her gun clip. She’d fired only one shot at the locked door, so she was good to go with a full load of ammunition. Lot of help her trusty weapon and all her super-secret, intense training had done her and Jessica so far. Now that the kidnappers had returned to their van, there was no telling the firepower she and Max would face at the end of the narrow road. She glanced into the backseat, speechless when she caught sight of the weaponry Max had brought with him.

  “You always come this prepared?”

  “Of course,” he said with a smirk.

  “Is there backup?”

  Max glanced up at the rearview mirror. Marisela followed his gaze and caught sight of the mini-camera attached to the mirror that could easily rotate and survey both the inside and outside of the car.

  “Hola, Ian,” she said instinctively leaning to the left as Max swerved around a trash can knocked into the air by the speeding truck.

  “Hello, Ms. Morales,” Ian answered, his voice tinny and remote, and yet still annoyingly omniscient. “Max, the kidnappers are clearly heading for a boat moored at the end of the western side of the pier. The engine is idling and we see only one man aboard. We’ve moving in to intercept.”

  “Any sign of the police?” Marisela asked, not sure if she wanted the cops there or not. While she certainly wouldn’t mind anyone and everyone with a gun working toward retrieving Jessica, there was the little matter of Marisela not being who she claimed to be, not to mention her criminal record whether the authorities thought her to be Dolores Tosca or Marisela Morales. She trusted that Ian would eventually extract her from the custody of the Puerto Rican officials, but not before her cover was blown.

  “They’ve been alerted. Two helicopters left Isla de Piratas only moments after the bodyguard put in the call. Lie low, Max. We’ll extract you at 5-21-876.”

  “Understood.” He turned toward Marisela fast enough to unnerve her with a tiny smirk. “You’ll be on your own soon. I’m an innocent bystander, remember?”

  “Yeah, right.”

  The truck screeched to a stop, and Max stopped the car some five yards behind. The minute the car jerked to a halt, Marisela took her cue, threw open the side door and dove out of the car. Max had grabbed one of the rifles from the backseat and had taken a similar position on the driver’s side. Until the authorities showed up, she had at least one other gun on her side.

  The door of the truck rolled up and to Marisela’s horror, one of the men had thrown a terrified Jessica in front of him as a shield. The girl clawed at his arm, pressed hard against her windpipe, her eyes hard with terror and rage. Fucking coward! Marisela wasted no time in picking off his compatriot, who fell to the ground in a spurt of blood and brain.

  The return fire from the man holding Jessica sent Marisela ducking behind her passenger-side door. From the corner of her eye, she saw Max aim and fire, the sound immediately followed by a howl of pain on the other side of the truck. The driver. Two down, one to go.

  The kidnapper traded his hold around Jessica’s neck for an equally unyielding grasp around her waist. Holding her flush in front of him, he leaped down from the back of the truck, tucked against her like a parachute strapped to her back. Jessica screamed. On the tottering spiked heels she’d put on in the boutique, she couldn’t support the weight of their combined fall. Her legs buckled, but the man yanked her painfully to her feet.

  With her eyes trained over the sight of her gun, Marisela winced, but waited for an opening. A split second. One clear shot. She tuned out Jessica’s ear-splitting pleas for help.

  Beyond her concentration, she heard the deafening beat of helicopter blades. The cavalry had arrived, but could do no more than hover until Jessica was out of the line of fire.

  Or so she thought. Somewhere on the other side of the truck, shots were fired, rapid, loud, and incessant until an explosion rent the air. The sound and vibration threw the last kidnapper off balance. He loosened his death grip on Jessica. She stomped backward with her spiky heel, slicing into the man’s ankle. He howled and she answered by throwing her head back, slamming his chin with the full force of her skull. He staggered. She broke free and dove to the ground.

  The man shook as Marisela’s bullets pumped into him. Jessica crawled out of the way before his bloody body crumbled to the ground.

  The helicopters swirled over them. Marisela looked around. Max was gone.

  Marisela ran to Jessica, keeping her body low to the ground, her gun leveled ahead of her in case there was another kidnapper unaccounted for, one she hadn’t seen in the mad chaos of the gunfight. Her face still flat to the ground, Jessica yelped when Marisela touched her shoulders.

  “Are you okay?”

  Jessica curled against Marisela’s body, dragging her legs up close to her stomach and burying her head against Marisela’s chest. She didn’t answer, but simply wept, shaking as if the eighty-degree temperature had suddenly dropped below zero. Marisela forgot about the hovering helicopters, the second and third explosions of the boat burning on the other side of the truck, the whine of sirens moving closer and tucked her chin over Jessica’s head, which was already beginning to swell. She touched the spot gently and made hushing noises, speaking in soft tones, assuring the young girl that she would be fine.

  “You did great, mija. You fought them. You followed your instincts and that’s why you’re alive. Your father will be so proud of you.”

  Jessica shook her head, whimpered, but didn’t reply. Marisela tried to steel herself against the wash of emotional connection to the girl, but she failed. Jessica, so spoiled, so coddled, had fought for her life—crudely, but she was still breathing. Marisela knew all too well what the fear of death smelled like, tasted like. It rattled the soul. And worst of all, she knew the shaking never really stopped.

  * * *

  Marisela accepted the drink from Alfredo and without a single glance to determine the contents, threw back her head and swallowed. She slammed the shot glass down on the table in front of her, and by the time the kick of the distilled fire had subsided and her eyesight cleared, the drink had been refilled.

  From behind her, Frankie brushed his palm across her back. She turned and scrutinized his expression, a confounding mix of concern and something—if she didn’t know better—she’d identify as fear. Didn’t make sense. Now that Jessica had been retrieved and Marisela had played a key role in her rescue, the Toscas were even safer than before. Unless, of course, Perez decided to blame the newcomers for the abduction. The logic wasn’t solid, but what frantic father didn’t entertain conspiracy theories from time to time? And the bottom line remained—they weren’t who they were claiming to be.

  Javier Perez marched into the living room surrounded by a half-dozen of his top security men and lieutenants, all dressed in impeccable dark suits that clashed with both the climate and the casual elegance of the living room. Her host practically threw his body into the chair across from Marisela and with a violent wave of his hand, sent Alfredo and his whiskey away.

  “How’s Jessica?” Marisela asked.

  Perez glanced away and dropped his hand limply to his side. “She’s upset. The doctor wanted to give her something, but she refuses.”

  Frankie squeezed Ma
risela’s shoulders, a fortified show of support. She ached to lose herself in his touch, and fought to stay focused. On Jessica. On the mission.

  “She’ll be okay then?”

  Javier glanced soulfully toward his daughter’s room. Knowing teenaged girls the way Marisela did, having been one herself once, she figured Perez had been banished from his daughter’s presence. Not because she was angry or blamed him for the terror she’d experienced today—though that could be the case—but most likely because Jessica didn’t want to suffer a meltdown in front of the man who loved her so much, he’d kill for her.

  “Her legs hurt from the fall off the truck,” he continued. “She’s got a bump on the back of her head. Otherwise, she’ll recover quickly.”

  Marisela toyed with her empty glass, grateful to have something in her hands. “She was brave and strong, señor. You should be proud.”

  He speared his fingers through his hair, cursing under his breath. “How can I be proud when I am supposed to protect her? She’s so young. So frightened. I’ve been very careful, señora, to see that my daughter was never dragged into my world. Today, she experienced all the ugliness I’ve sheltered her from for seventeen years.”

  Marisela forced herself to relax back into the couch. Frankie didn’t take his hands off her and for this, she was glad. She couldn’t help wondering if Perez suspected she and Frankie had been somehow involved in the kidnapping, but figured if he did, they’d both be dead by now. If nothing else, she’d earned his trust by saving his daughter. And the situation could have turned out so much worse.

  Now more than ever, Marisela wanted this case completed.

  She wanted Jessica out of here, safe in the United States where men wouldn’t abduct her out of a boutique dressing room and spirit her off to God knew where to do God knew what, all on account of her father and his illegal business dealings.

  “Who did this?” Marisela asked.

  Javier glanced at the men that surrounded him, each one more silent and still than the other. Like beaten dogs, cowering. They clearly had no clue who orchestrated the kidnapping—and for their ignorance, they’d recently incurred their boss’s wrath.