by Bex Dane
He took three quick strides back to me and grasped my cheeks in his palms. "Yes, alright, mi paloma?"
My dove. He'd given me the endearment on the boat here after I sang a Mexican folk song called "Cucurrucucu Paloma." I thought I'd heard him wrong, but he did it again. He called me his dove. Had Tivo grown to care for me as I had him?
"I want you to fucking moan. You find a man that makes you moan like that or you kick him out of your bed. You understand?"
I held my breath, waiting for him to go on or let go, but he didn't. He wanted me to respond. "Yes," I managed to get out. "My mom never…"
"Your mom had it bad. Manual and my father used her up. The entire neighborhood used her. She was forced to have sex with twenty different men each night or Manuel would beat her. She was forced to sleep with my father or he would kill her. I guarantee you she didn't enjoy one second of that. I wanted to help her. I tried so hard. Manuel got to her first. I'll do my best to get her back for you, but until then you sing for her. Moan and laugh and sing for her. All the gifts she never had. She will live them through you as her spirit is in you." His forehead pressed to mine, and his hands moved to squeeze the back of my neck. "She would want you to sing. Understand me?" He had never talked to me like that before, emotional and caring. But what was he saying?
He wanted me to sing for my mom. For her memory. My heart squeezed. "Yes." I placed my hands on his strong forearms, and we froze like that in our half-way hug. "I'll do what you say, but she's not dead. Manuel won't kill her. He loves her."
He pulled away and the warmth from his hands left my cheeks. "My father loves her too, and Manuel will use her to get his revenge."
True. My mom was in great danger. "You have to find her before he kills her."
"I will. And I promise you Manuel and my father will pay for this. I'll slaughter every one of their soldiers first and them last."
He'd spend his life getting revenge? Revenge led to nothing. I'd seen too much of it growing up in the brothels. "That's no way to live. You need to sing and cry and moan too."
His eyes cooled and shut down. Our talk was over. He stood and walked toward Soledad's kitchen. "I don't sing."
Chapter 4
Boston, Massachusetts
Present day
Falcon (Primitivo)
Decked out dinner tables ran from the kitchen to the living room of Rogan's ranch house. Tessa pranced around with her sweet-as-sin smile and a skin-tight sweater dress. She rocked the high-heeled boots up to her knees. She had her hair up in a bun on top of her head tied with a big red bow. Cute and sexy. She clapped her hands. "Take a seat, everyone. Dinner is ready. "
Tessa invited every Tom, Dick, and Harry to Christmas dinner. Even the cowboy from the trial was here, Zook. His wife, Cecelia, had her hair pulled back tight like a librarian. How the hell did he get a classy chick like her to marry his ex-con ass?
At Tessa's request, for the holidays, Rogan, Dallas, and Brock all set aside their differences with FBI Secret Agent Lachlan Cutlass. Lachlan brought a spitfire redhead. Bet she was wild in the sheets. A new kid named Jeremy followed Tessa around like a puppy, eager to help her set plates and light candles.
Torrez and Soraya showed up too. She still dressed fine and freaky like she did before she married the ass. All the hot chicks here were taken, and none of these dudes shared. Seemed selfish to me. They found a bitch who puts out, they should share with the single brothers. I was pretty sure Soraya would be open to it if Torrez would get the possessive rod out of his ass and let me fuck his wife.
Tori came with Cyan this year. Now Tori didn't have a rock on her left ring finger. I could fuck her. That would liven up this party. Nah, Tori was a nice girl. She'd get all mushy are-you-gonna-call-me after. No way in hell I'd call her for a second round. She was exactly the reason I didn't fuck single chicks. I had this thought every time I saw Tori. She needed to get married so I could fuck her.
All Tessa's sisters, their husbands, and their kids hustled over to the table. The rest of Z Security—Ruger, Oz, Diesel, and Blaze—stayed in their seats. They looked as uncomfortable and unenthusiastic as me.
The collar of this shirt cut off my air supply. Somebody get my gun. I'd rather blow my own head off than sit here watching shiny happy people smile and exchange sparkly crap.
Such a waste of time. We could be working out, chasing bad guys, planning murders, but no, we all had to sit around and pretend to be normal.
Rogan walked toward me in the living room, away from the table he'd been instructed to sit at. "You comin' to sit down for my speech?"
I loathed his emo state of the union address, and Rogan loved to rub it in my face.
"Was about to go have a smoke." I kept my eyes on Soraya.
"You taking up smoking?" The laugh in his voice made me crack a grin.
"Thinkin' about it."
Tessa came up to us, and he stood a little taller when she got in his space. "We're ready. I asked you guys to have a seat."
"Bring the food out first, Tess." Rogan wrapped an arm behind her back and pulled her close.
She looked up at him. "No, Rogan. It'll get cold. You do the speech first, and then I'll bring it out."
Rogan stared at her for a second. "Alright." Man, he was so whipped. She could ask him anything and he'd say alright.
She grinned and turned to me. "Milo wants to sit next to the man with wings." Her pretty green eyes flirted with me.
Damn. I couldn't turn her down either. "Right." I stood and made my way to the empty seat Milo had saved for me.
"You sit right here, Falcon."
Unlike most kids, who usually ran from me, Milo had some weird interest in the obscure. Maybe he was trying to replace his father, Jeb Barebones, who was writing his manifesto from federal prison. But Milo shouldn't look to me for anything. I had nothing to offer him unless he wanted to grow up to be a screwed up in the head hitman too.
Everyone settled in their seats, and Rogan stood at the head of the table. As he blew his mouth off about family and shit, I let my mind wander through the other Christmases we'd spent together. At least five in Afghanistan or Syria, nothing to eat but MREs. The Christmas after Eden died, we blasted mud pits with RPGs. Now that was quality family time.
Tessa and the last three years had changed Rogan. He made his decisions with her in mind. He overdid the effort to minimize potential risks to us in the line of duty. Working for him was boring as hell, but he still hit the shooting range weekly with me, he made physical training a priority, and he kept his tactical skills sharp.
"Now let's eat." He bent down and kissed Tessa and everyone raised their glasses to clink them together.
Milo lifted his milk cup toward me. I stared at it, grabbed my whiskey, and tapped his cup. "Merry Christmas, kid."
He smiled big as Tessa and Jeremy carried out dish after dish to pass around. We all loaded our plates with a shit ton of calories. I passed on most of it, except Tessa's spoonbread. That stuff tasted so good, it was worth the three extra hours at the gym to work it off.
No one but me noticed Rogan dropping his fork to check his phone. His gaze slid to mine.
I'd seen that look many times through the years. Shit was going down. Hopefully some good shit. Tessa stopped talking to her sister to look at Rogan.
"Just a second." He stood and walked to the kitchen. Tessa and I followed him.
He leaned against the counter and pressed his phone to his ear. "How many shooters?" he asked.
Cool. A shooting. I'm up for that.
"How many dead?" Rogan looked at me again. "We'll be there by morning. Tell the airport and Bastien. No one else." Bastien was his stepdad and the prime minister of a small Caribbean island. Rogan ended the call. "Shooting on St. Amalie. Six dead. Two shooters, assassination style."
Tessa gasped. "Oh no."
"They get 'em?" I asked. Shooters often kill themselves or get shot before they escape.
"No. They got away by boat. Security on the i
sland sucks. I've been hounding Bastien about it since we heard Soraya was kidnapped from there. He feels overwhelmed. He wants to bring us in to help with the investigation and advise on a security taskforce."
"Cool. A little island vacation." I rubbed my hands together and smiled.
Rogan glared at me. Tessa's mouth dropped open.
"Of course this is very serious." Rogan and Tessa saw right through my fake solemnity, but they didn't care. They had to face this news and what it meant; they had to separate.
My muscles tensed, bracing for the deluge of sentimental crap. Did someone leave the oven open? Because this kitchen suddenly felt very hot.
I tried to sneak out before the tears started, but Rogan stopped me. "Stand by, Falc. We need to prep."
I lingered by the door and turned my back on them.
"Sorry about dinner," Rogan said to her.
Oh yeah, her dinner was ruined too. Sucked for Tessa, good news for me.
"You're leaving?" She sounded sad but resigned.
"Yeah, babe."
She didn't bother asking if she could come with us. Since Eden died because she followed Rogan, he never allowed Tessa near any action.
"Just be careful."
"I'll be back and running to you as soon as my feet hit the ground."
Someone kill me before I barf. Fuck, she turned Rogan into a giant ball of cheese with almonds mashed into it.
The kitchen door opened and a stream of men filed in. They must've sensed the tension when Rogan, Tessa, and I left the table.
Ruger, Oz, Lachlan, Diesel, Blaze, Dallas, Brock, Torrez, and Zook stared at Rogan.
"There's been a shooting on St. Amalie. Six dead. Falcon and I are heading out to investigate."
"The FBI should be on that," Lachlan said.
Rogan shook his head. "Out of their jurisdiction."
"Who are you taking?" Dallas asked Rogan.
"I'll take Alpha Squadron. Ruger, Oz, Diesel, Blaze, and Falcon."
Nice. Alpha Squadron as a unit again. Wouldn't be as much action as Delta Force, but we'd find some trouble for sure.
There was some grumbling because everyone wanted to go.
"If things heat up, I'll call the rest of you. Now go back and finish your dinner."
"If you need anything, just call," Brock said to Rogan, implying if he needed to order a hit, Brock would take the heat for him.
"No thanks, buddy." Rogan refused. He didn't do anything illegal. Like I said, boring as hell, but consistent, stable, and loyal.
Excelente.
This holiday just got unfucked.
Chapter 5
St. Amalie, the Caribbean
"You can go. We'll contact you if we need anything." I sat back and waited for the couple I just finished questioning to get up and leave.
They'd checked out squeaky clean. No possible ties to the shooting. The wife, who had started the interview staring at me like I was about to rape her, changed her demeanor to assessing eyes, traveling over my arms and inspecting my tattoos. She blushed when I caught her looking.
"C'mon, Iris." Her husband tugged her arm and pulled her away.
Relax, Freddie. Wouldn't fuck her anyway. Too skinny.
Rogan walked over to me from the station where he'd conducted his interviews.
"We done?" I had enough people for today. All this pretending to care drained me to no end.
"One more couple. They want us to come up to the penthouse suite." He quirked his lips.
"They're too good to come down to the ballroom to be interviewed?" Seemed odd for a witness to make demands of the investigators.
"Possible red flag," he said.
"Not possible. Obvious red flag."
We took the elevator to the fifteenth floor of the resort in St. Amalie. Rogan knocked on the door.
A man opened it. About five-foot-ten. Wearing slacks and a business shirt with a jacket. Overdressed for the casual island. He had milky white skin, long fingers and legs, and held himself tall as he looked down his nose at us.
"Come in." He spoke with a Euro accent. Couldn't place it.
He moved aside to let us into a huge pad with panoramic views of the crystal blue ocean. We were above the tops of the palm trees up here. Swank. Posh. Snobby.
Rogan scanned the room, his gaze stopping on a table and chairs near the window. "Can I talk to you over there?"
"But of course."
That accent. French or Italian.
"Are there two of you?" I asked him.
"Yes, my wife is in the bedroom." He lowered his chin and focused his eyes on me. Very dramatic. "Please be gentle with her."
"Sure." No fucking way. She'd made us come up to her suite, now she was hiding in her bedroom, she wasn't getting kid-glove treatment. Gentle was not in my repertoire.
I passed through the open bedroom door without knocking. She sat on a lounge by the window, hot pink high-heeled sandals crossed at the ankle. She wore a flowing silk dress, the huge slit up the side showing her exposed legs. The dress looked like Picasso barfed geometric shapes on it. Big Bird yellow, Miss Piggy pink, and Kermit green. A black rope criss-crossed over her torso and hung down her left thigh, tassels swaying at the end.
Shiny black shades with diamonds along the sides covered half of her face. Brunette bangs concealed the rest of it. All she had showing was her painted red lips, the tip of her nose, and her chin. She had one arm propped up on the back of the chaise lounge, the other hanging loose by her side. A despondent Cleopatra. Give me a fucking break.
When her peripheral vision caught sight of me, she gasped and sat up.
She pulled her legs up to her chest. The dress opened up to show part of her ample ass. Nice.
"I need to ask you some questions."
She stared at me for a long time. Too long. Her head tilted and her forehead wrinkles dipped behind her glasses. What was her fucking problem?
She shook her head, brushing off whatever the hell she was thinking, and stood up. She turned toward the window with her long, velvet hair trailing down her back. The bottom of her dress rubbed the carpet like a wedding veil. "What are you doing here?" Her voice held a harsh rasp. What was with all the drama?
"Your husband just sent me in here to ask you some questions."
"So ask," she said without looking at me.
"Alright. What's your name?"
You'd think that would be a simple question. Not for this one. She pivoted and stared at me through her glasses, crossed her arms over her chest, and leaned toward me. "You don't know who I am?"
She blew out a long breath. Frustrated as hell with me. All I did was ask her name. What a fucking diva.
I didn't keep up on pop culture. I had better shit to do, like stalking and killing people. "Not a clue. Are you some kind of reality TV star, and I'm supposed to know who you are?"
Her lips pouted and she leaned back to stand up straight again. "Are you some kind of buffed-up goon asking me stupid questions?"
She spoke with a Euro accent too. Not very strong. Affected, like she was controlling it. There's no way she was French too. Her skin was too dark. Unless she'd been here a long time and had a great tan, I'd guess she was Italian or Spanish. Or Mexican. Her spitfire attitude sure reminded me of my mom before she passed. "Asking a witness her name is not a stupid question. It's a basic question that is taking too fucking long for you to answer."
She pulled her arms tighter to her chest, pushing up a nice sets of boobs in a black bikini top. "Actually, I'm a housewife."
When she smiled, I noticed fang-like incisors protruding beyond her front teeth. An imperfection in a woman putting out a lot of effort to look perfect.
"That would be good to know if I had asked what you do, but I didn't. I asked you what's your name." My ass she was a housewife. This woman had never cleaned a commode in her life.
"I am Aida Soltari." She said each syllable with emphasis.
Eye-ee-da Sol-tar-ee
She definitely expected me to
recognize the name. Sorry, lady.
"Okay, Mrs. Soltari, tell me what you saw yesterday."
She waltzed back to her lounge and sat down as she spoke. "Well… I saw Mount Pintaro. I saw a toucan."
What the hell was her game? "Did you see six women get shot on the dock of this resort?"
She tilted her head to the side. "No," she said curtly.
"No?"
"I didn't see anything."
"Did you hear there was a shooting yesterday?"
"No, I haven't heard about it."
Okay, this just went from weird to crazy town. Most women quivered in front of me, and this one gave me complete attitude. For a brief second, I imagined smacking her ass on the bed and teaching her a lesson or two about buffed-up goons and lying during a murder investigation. She met all my criteria for a fuck. Married, big tits and ass, high heels. Totally fuckable. Too bad she was a smart-mouthed reality show has-been.
She raised a curled finger to her nose and sniffed.
Cue the tears, Freddie.
"Six young women were killed on the dock of this resort yesterday. Shot execution style. And you didn't hear about it?"
"Nope." Her lips quivered and an honest-to-God tear dripped out under the rim of her glasses. She took them off to wipe her eye with the back of her index finger.
Holy shit.
Had I fucked his woman? I would remember those tits. No. I hadn't fucked her. Then why did her tears make me want to run? Because any tears made me want to run, but hers… sparked something inside me. Not compassion, but remorse. Like I should apologize to her.
"Look out your window, Mrs. Soltari." My voice softened for some reason. "You see crime scene tape down at the dock? You see blood stains on the wood?" I stepped closer and looked down. Yep, still there. She couldn't deny it.
She turned her head away. "No. They're not dead." She whimpered and put her glasses back on.
And there it was again. A tapping at my gut like the spear of a toothpick. I knew this woman. Maybe I'd seen her on TV and didn't remember her. Maybe I had screwed her and broke her heart.
Either way, fuck this noise. I'm outta here. "We'll contact you if we need more info." We definitely needed more info, but Rogan would have to be the one to crack this nutcase.