LOVER UNDER COVER

by Justine Davis

  "So you murdered a fourteen-year-old boy?" Caitlin asked incredulously. Quisto put a hand on her arm, and shook his head sharply when she looked at him. She subsided into silence.

  "The boy meant nothing," Alarico said. "He was merely the means to deliver my message. I know how cops think, with all their stupid ideas of honor and duty. I knew once they discovered it was murder, the cop he'd talked to would come sniffing around." He looked Quisto up and down with the first evidence of genuine curiosity. "Although, I admit, I had not expected someone like you. What are you doing, vato, working for those rich bastards, when they look down on you as if you were nothing?"

  Quisto ignored this jab, as well. "I got your message. Hang around here a little longer, and you'll get my answer."

  "I'm afraid I can't do that," Alarico said, with an air of genuine regret. "I liked you, Romero. I'm sorry it turned out to be you." He glanced at Caitlin. "And I'm sorry your woman must die with you."

  Quisto felt Ryan go very still behind him. He waited a split second, but the big man didn't speak.

  "She has nothing to do with this," Quisto said.

  "Ah, but she does. If little Eddie hadn't been so eager to impress her, he might never have gone to you."

  Caitlin made a tiny, distressed sound that stabbed through Quisto like an ice pick driven deep.

  "Let her go," he said. "She can't hurt you."

  "But she does," the man repeated, still with that air of regret that seemed almost real. "She hurts me by her very existence here, under our noses. She is giving the young people dangerous ideas."

  "You mean that they don't have to grow up into scum like you?"

  "Enough," Alarico snapped, stung out of his mocking air of regret. "I have left her alone, because she is only a woman, but she has become too annoying to ignore any longer. She dies with you, scum."

  "No." Ryan's voice was low and harsh, and, Quisto thought, oddly strained. Alarico stared at the big man. In a voice much more like his normal, offhand tone, Ryan continued. "Kill Romero if you have to. People think risking their neck is part of a cop's job. They'll be mad for a while, but it won't last. The cops will still be after us, but we can handle that if we have to. But they won't forget her. She's young, innocent, a do-gooder. The same reasons as before are still true. The press will eat it up. She'll become a martyr, give the citizens of this town a rallying point. From the east side to Trinity West, they'll be after us. People who never would before will call the cops. They'll make it impossible to do business."

  It was a veritable speech from the taciturn man. All of it dispassionate and coldly logical. But it wasn't going to work this time, Quisto thought.

  "I must disagree this time, amigo," Alarico said. "She is going to be a witness to a cop-killing. It is much too dangerous to let her live."

  Alarico wanted to kill them both; Quisto could practically smell it. The man had been fooled, and now he was out not just to send another message, but for revenge.

  As if he'd sensed it, as well, Ryan shrugged. "You're the boss." He looked at Caitlin, letting his mouth curve into a smile that made Quisto want to jump him, no matter that it would get him killed instantly. "It's just a waste of a beautiful woman."

  Alarico laughed. "And one you had your eye on yourself, eh, amigo?"

  "I wouldn't have minded a taste."

  The leader laughed again. "So take her. She can die now or later, it makes no difference."

  Ryan's face took on a considering expression as he looked Caitlin up and down.

  "Take her now," Alarico suggested. "So our friend can enjoy knowing his woman is being—"

  "Stop it!" Caitlin looked up at Ryan in disbelief as he started to move toward her. "You can't do this!"

  "What's wrong, Irish? Too good to be screwed by an Indian?"

  Caitlin's eyes widened at his harsh words, her shocked betrayal obvious enough to make Alarico laugh once more.

  "Bastard," Quisto swore as Ryan brushed past him.

  But then a whisper as faint as a summer breeze stopped his rage dead.

  "I'll get her out. You're on your own."

  Quisto knew he had no time to wonder whether the man meant it. He either had to trust him or not, right now. But when it came to Caitlin's life, he found he didn't want to trust anyone. But he would.

  Then Caitlin took things out of his hands, reacting the moment Ryan reached her. She began to fight, clawing at the big man wildly, heedless of the fact that she couldn't possibly win. Yet Ryan didn't do as he so easily could have done, overpower her with sheer strength and weight or knock her senseless. It was as if he didn't want to hurt her, despite the fact that she was landing several blows Quisto knew must have hurt; Caitlin wasn't a weak woman.

  That made the decision for him. He might not know what Ryan's game was, but he knew Alarico had one intent only. He shifted his focus to the leader, but at that moment it all came apart.

  Somehow, Caitlin broke loose. Alarico's weapon came up. His target was unmistakably Caitlin as she scrambled away from Ryan. In that split second, Quisto's nightmare image of her, lying on the floor of this very room in a pool of her own blood, flashed through his mind again. And in that instant of seeing himself lose her forever, he realized what he knew he should have seen long ago. He loved her.

  Without a second thought, he launched himself at Alarico. The man sensed the attack and began to turn. From the corner of one eye, Quisto saw Ryan move. The man grabbed Caitlin. But Quisto was committed; he couldn't stop now. He hit Alarico low and hard. He heard the leader grunt in the same instant he heard the gun go off. Heard four, maybe five, shots in rapid succession. Heard the ping of bullets hitting the walls as Alarico went down, before the pistol flew from his grip.

  And then he heard Caitlin scream. And heard a thud. The unmistakable sound of a body hitting the floor.

  * * *

  Chapter 17

  « ^ »

  Alarico fought hard. And dirty. But Quisto had learned to fight on the same kind of mean streets. And he was driven by a fierce rage, born out of the growing terror that his nightmare image of Caitlin's death had been born not of fear but of premonition.

  He connected with a vicious jab to Alarico's jaw. Next he tried to get the man in a choke hold, but Alarico dodged out of his grasp. Quisto followed, spinning to cut him off. It cost him a painful blow to the belly, driving the wind out of him. Gasping, he went down to one knee. Alarico was on him in an instant, kicking, pounding. Quisto ducked his head and rolled. He fought back, stabbing out with one leg to sweep the leader's feet out from under him. The man came down hard, but was up again and charging in seconds.

  It was all he could do to hold his own against Alarico's brutal attack. He couldn't spare even a split second to look for Caitlin. He was learning how Alarico had risen to his position. He took advantage of every slip. And if they didn't come, he made them happen. Quisto wasn't at all certain he could win this. And all the while, that image of Caitlin burned in his mind.

  They went down in a heap, Quisto landing as many blows as he took. There was no room for grace or planning or fancy moves. This was street fighting at its brutal ugliest. And Quisto knew now just how far he was from those streets. Alarico landed three successive punches to his head, making Quisto's vision dim and his ears ring. He drove an elbow upward blindly and caught a vulnerable spot. Alarico grunted. Quisto rolled again, this time coming up on top. Alarico wasted no time. His knee came up in a motion. Quisto twisted sideways, barely avoiding a blow to the groin that would have incapacitated him. The motion overbalanced him, and he went down hand on his right shoulder.

  When he regained his balance, Alarico was going for the gun on the floor. In the instant before his outstretched fingers reached it, there was a quick kicking movement just at the edge of Quisto's range of vision. A foot, sending the pistol skidding across the floor. And in the instant when Alarico scrambled after it, Quisto saw his chance. He dived sideways, hard and fast, slamming Alarico up against the block wall. A holl
ow thud echoed eerily as the leader's head hit the cement. Quisto jammed his forearm against the man's throat, then realized it wasn't necessary. Alarico was slumping dazedly.

  Quisto sagged to his knees, feeling as if he'd gone through the Pack's initiation all over again, only worse. His head was reeling, his vision blurry.

  Caitlin. Oh, God.

  Adrenaline shot through him, and his head came up. He heard noises from the direction of the door, but he ignored them. He looked to where she'd been and saw nothing but the pool of blood that had been so vividly present in that nightmare vision.

  "Caitlin," he whispered, staggering to his feet.

  "Hey, partner. You look like hell."

  Chance. Chance was here. He would help. Quisto turned to look at his old friend. But before he could formulate any words, there was a rush of movement to the other side of him. He tensed, half expecting another attack, even as he wondered why Chance wasn't moving. He spun around, staggered again, then stopped, staring as Caitlin flung herself at him.

  "Oh, God, I thought he was going to kill you."

  Her hands were moving over him, probing, as if searching for any irreparable damage.

  "Cait—Caitlin?" he whispered.

  "Are you all right? You look awful, but—"

  He grabbed her then. His hands gripped her shoulders and held her away from him as he searched her in turn for signs of damage. "You … I thought … I heard shots."

  He felt her shiver. "God, it was awful. All that blood."

  "Caitlin," he said, giving her a little shake. "I thought it was you who was shot."

  Her eyes widened. "No. No, it was Ryan. I swear, Rafael, he stepped in front of me, as if he meant to … to…"

  She broke off, shaking her head. Quisto heard the familiar ratcheting sound of handcuffs, heard Alarico's whine of protest, and knew Chance was taking care of business.

  "You're really all right?" he asked her, unable to quite believe it.

  "I'm fine."

  "Thank God," he breathed, his head sagging in relief.

  Then something registered; she was wearing those paint-spattered jeans, and white high-tops. A memory played back in his mind, and his head came up.

  "It was you," he said, staring at her. "You kicked the gun away from him."

  "I had to do something."

  "So naturally you waded into the middle of everything."

  "He was going to kill you!"

  He had no answer for that. So, despite the various pains that were making themselves known, he pulled her into his arms. She clung to him, and he felt tiny shivers of reaction going through her. He felt more than a little that way himself, and wondered that his knees hadn't give out on him already. They stood there for what seemed like an age, saying nothing, just holding on.

  "Ahem." Chance coughed delicately. "Sorry to interrupt, but could somebody explain something to me here?"

  Quisto raised his head, knowing he was grinning like an idiot, but not caring. Caitlin was all right. He'd thought she was dead, but she was here, alive and well, and so warm in his arms that he knew he'd never be cold again as long as she was with him.

  "What part don't you understand, partner?" he asked.

  "That," Chance said, pointing.

  Quisto followed the direction of the gesture, as did Caitlin. The blood. The blood he'd thought was Caitlin's. He drew back slightly and looked at her. She shook her head.

  "I told you. He got between us. That man—" she gestured with distaste at the handcuffed Alarico "—and me. As if he'd meant to. And then the gun went off … and he went down. Hard. But when I looked again, when it was over … he was gone."

  "Who was gone?" Chance asked.

  "It's a long story, partner. And I have a feeling I only know the half of it."

  "I never even heard him move," Caitlin said.

  "That," Quisto said wryly, "doesn't surprise me. Even shot."

  "I found this near the blood," Chance said. "Look familiar?"

  He held out a small object. Quisto took it, inspecting it with interest. It was a tiny wood carving of an owl, barely two inches tall, with a wide-eyed expression that could only have been called whimsical.

  All the images of Ryan and his knife, that dangerous-looking blade, always moving, carving away at pieces of wood small enough to be easily hidden by his big hands, flashed through Quisto's mind. He stared at the little figure in amazement.

  "It's adorable," Caitlin said softly. "Look at that face."

  "So that's what he was doing with that knife all the time."

  Caitlin took the tiny bird from him. "Ryan? Really?"

  Her voice had risen in surprise, and in apparent response to her utterance of Ryan's name, Alarico was stirred to shrill defiance.

  "He'll make you pay! Ryan will be back, and he'll make you both pay!"

  "You want me to take him somewhere?" Chance asked, gesturing with a thumb at Alarico without looking at him.

  "The pier," Quisto said. "And drop him off."

  "Okay."

  Alarico yelped. "You can't do that! You're cops!"

  "Damn, he's right," Chance said glumly.

  "Yeah. I forgot for a minute we have to be the good guys, no matter how bad the bad guys are." Quisto sighed. "I'd better call Trinity West."

  "I'll do it. You're going to be in enough trouble."

  "I'll do it. I'm already in trouble—no sense you joining me. Not with a promotion in your near future. But thanks for the rescue work."

  "Sorry I couldn't get here sooner." He smiled at Caitlin. "But you didn't need me, anyway."

  Caitlin blushed. Quisto hugged her. "No, I had all the help I needed."

  "We seem to be making a habit of getting our butts saved by our women, don't we, partner?" Chance said, grinning.

  "Yeah," Quisto said. "Now get out of here while yours is still savable."

  "Sure thing," Chance said. Then, with a sideways grin, he added, "Rafael." He strolled out, whistling cheerfully.

  Quisto's mouth twisted ruefully; he was going to be hearing about this. A lot. He could just feel it. Along with everything else he was going to be feeling, he thought, flexing muscles he just knew were going to knot up on him later.

  "'Our women'?" Caitlin asked softly.

  He knew what she meant, but he wasn't about to discuss it in front of Alarico. So he answered the question she hadn't asked, instead. "Yes. Shea saved his life on the case where they met. Like you saved mine tonight."

  "I didn't—"

  "You did. If he'd gotten hold of that pistol…"

  He hugged her again, tightly. And then he went to call Trinity West.

  * * *

  "They picked up Lenny this afternoon."

  "Good," she said. "Not only for Eddie, but for Sandra, too."

  As she sat on the comfortable sofa and watched him pace the room, Caitlin sipped at the wine he'd poured for her from a bottle he'd brought home. His apartment was nice, she thought, and there was definitely something soothing about looking out and seeing the lights reflecting on the water. The place was marked with little touches she would never have expected; drawings from his nieces and nephews on the refrigerator, and a collection of family photos on one wall, smaller than his mother's, but still as warm and touching.

  "I talked to Mrs. Salazar today, while you were at Trinity West," she said.

  He turned to look at her. "Good. I didn't have time to do that."

  She smiled at him. "She told me what you did. That you paid for Eddie's funeral."

  He looked startled, then glanced away, as if embarrassed. "It seemed like the least I could do."

  "Besides risking your life to find out who killed him?"

  "That's different."

  "Perhaps," she said. But it all stemmed from the same source, that part of him that he kept so hidden except from his family. And maybe Chance and his family. She smothered a sigh, wondering just how big a fool she was to hope that he might share that part of himself with her.

  But
she was glad he'd brought her here, to his home, to rest while he tackled cleaning up the multitude of details. She'd had to give a statement, but it had been nothing compared to the grilling she guessed he'd been through all day long. He hadn't returned until well after dark, and despite looking exhausted, and turning down her offer to fix him something to eat, he hadn't stopped moving.

  "You're not sitting down," she said after a few more minutes of watching him crisscross the floor. "Did they take that big a bite out of your backside?"

  He stopped pacing and gave her a sheepish grin. "Big enough. And everybody wanted their turn. I got chewed out by everybody with stripes or better at Marina del Mar, then got it all over again at Trinity West, from everybody except the chief himself."

  "You're not really going to get … fired, are you?" She was still feeling a bit guilty; she'd thought the worst of him, when all along he was risking his job, working alone and on his own time.

  "I don't think so. Trinity West was happy enough to have Alarico in custody on felony charges that will stick. The trial could get a little dicey, but I think the Trinity West brass may decide to overlook the little detail of them ordering me to keep my nose out of it." He paused, giving her a solemn look. "I didn't tell them about Ryan."

  She let out a breath of relief. They'd talked about that, but she wasn't sure he believed her, about Ryan intentionally getting between her and Alarico, taking the bullet that would have struck her. But he hadn't denied the possibility.

  "I'm glad," she told him. "I hope … wherever he is, that he's all right."

  "I talked to Gage. He told me something strange, about the firebombing at the Corderos' store."

  "What?"

  "He said the bombs were fairly sophisticated, not your typical Molotov cocktail. Some sort of gunpowder-and-gasoline combination that reacts almost like napalm. But they were underloaded."

  Caitlin's forehead creased. "I don't understand."

  "They were duds, in a manner of speaking. Made a big flameup, but then died out. Even if the Trinity West guys hadn't already been inside with Halon extinguishers and the fire department hadn't been waiting a couple of blocks away, Mr. Cordero wouldn't have lost much."