NEVER SURRENDER
SUSAN VAUGHAN
“Strong characters and plenty of romance drive Susan Vaughan’s Never Surrender.”
–Kat Martin, New York Times Bestselling author
TASK FORCE EAGLE - When federal agents Rick Cruz, Jake Wescott, and Holt Donovan go after a Mexican cartel kingpin, they face unexpected hazards—to their hearts.
ABOUT THIS BOOK:
In hot pursuit – With no way back – The only choice is...surrender.
When charming DEA Agent Ricardo Cruz, has a lead in Maine to the cartel that killed his brother, his vanished suspect’s loyal sister, Juliana Paris, refuses to cooperate. Juliana’s determined not to fall for the sexy agent, but threats force her to accept Rick’s protection. Their hunt for the brother and the cartel’s American connection leads them into deadly danger and each other’s arms.
Published by Gullwood Press
Copyright 2013 Susan Hofstetter Vaughan
Cover design and digital layout by www.formatting4U.com
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems—except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews—without permission in writing from the author at [email protected]. This book is a work of fiction. The characters, events, and places portrayed in this book are products of the author’s imagination and are either fictitious or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.
For more information on the author and her works, please see http://www.susanvaughan.com
DEDICATION
For all the writers who’ve guided and advised me about this book and especially for my friends and critters, who made this book sing: Luanna Nau, Debora Noone, Judi Phillips. You all are the best.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Many thanks to the writers and law enforcement experts of Crime Scene Writers for your help with many issues in this book.
Chapter 1
Ricardo Cruz shook his head. Shit, another dead end. “That’s it. The bird has flown.”
He and the other Task Force Eagle agents had driven three hours from Boston to Portland, Maine, por nada. He unzipped his raid jacket and placed his SIG-Sauer P239 in the holster.
Holt Donovan turned his DEA cap around backward, the lid a switch from his usual cowboy hat. “Our quarry’s beat-up Ford Focus is still parked out in the snow. Abandoning his wheels looks odd.”
“Search warrants won’t be good after today,” ATF Agent Jake Wescott said, his Maine drawl softening his downer message.
“Good point.” Rick directed the others to re-interview the landlord and question the other tenants while he searched the suspect’s apartment.
Upstairs, he shot the deadbolt behind him and frowned at the dingy one-room garret euphemistically termed a studio. He wouldn’t need long. Someone had beaten him to the search. Whatever the dump contained lay in the middle of the floor.
Stuffing from the cheap futon mattress was scattered around like dirty clumps of the snow outside. Unmatched flatware and utensils formed a tangled heap on the grimy linoleum. Yesterday’s Portland Press Herald rested undisturbed on the stained coffee table.
Aside from the clumsy toss, the place resembled a college dorm room more than a drug smuggler’s digs. Rock posters tacked to the walls. Beer bottles and peanut butter jars alternated on the one set of dusty shelves.
Jordan Paris might have gotten caught up in the drug operation without knowing the score until it was too late.
Hands shielded with latex gloves, Rick picked up the newspaper. The front page had his boss announcing the indictment of two Mexicans captured last month.
Two little fish. With one dead exception, the big ones had gotten clean away. Leaving them with a minnow, the Paris kid.
“Mierda.” Rick tossed down the paper.
He looked around a few more minutes. Worthless. He’d learn little until the fingerprint report. Wescott and Donovan must have finished downstairs. He switched off the light, and March’s early darkness drenched the small room. The stairway below creaked.
He sucked in a breath. Adrenaline surged. He flattened himself against the wall behind the door.
Three knocks rattled the apartment’s thin paneled door. He waited. If it was Wescott or Donovan, they’d call his name. He held his breath and gripped his nine millimeter.
The doorknob jiggled. A key clinked in the lock. Then the knob turned, and the door eased open.
In the spill of light into the room, he saw a gloved hand at the door’s edge. A hand holding a small automatic.
Before the intruder could make a move, Rick knocked away the pistol.
A sharp gasp of shock and surprise. Then the intruder slammed his chest with something hard, knocking the breath from his lungs. Before he recovered enough to get a good hold, the smaller man swung a kick.
Letting his thigh take the blow, Rick flipped his attacker and slammed on top of him. Darkness prevented a clear look. He jabbed his gun barrel at the guy’s throat. “Federal agent. Give it up, and you won’t get hurt.”
The intruder cocked his head in a careful nod.
Easing off his captive, Rick reached inside the unzipped coat to pat down for weapons. A wool sweater covered a slight torso with curves and soft, round . . . breasts.
What the hell?
As he lifted his gun from her throat and sat back on his heels, the woman dragged in a deep breath. “You . . . you,” she gasped, “Nazi bully. This is what I pay taxes for? To be crushed and then groped?”
At her outburst, his lips twitched with a smile. The kid’s girlfriend? An accomplice? She sounded irate, but not street tough. He kept his gun on her and flicked the light switch.
In the glare of the bare overhead bulb, the woman blinked. She had a turned-up nose and wide mouth, lips clamped in displeasure. Her eyes shot green fire at him.
He leaned across her to retrieve her gun, but found instead a more innocuous item. Chagrinned, he handed her the small flashlight.
Beside the woman lay a voluminous purse. Her ramming weapon.
He quickly checked the contents. Wallet, zippered day planner, hairbrush, and various other female junk, but no weapons other than the leaden bag. “I expected to see bricks inside.”
“I wish.” Her chin shot up a notch. It was gently pointed, emphasizing the heart shape of her face.
“You can get up now.” Rising, he offered her a hand. “Who are you?”
Refusing his help, she scooted backward before leaping to her feet in an agile motion. Reddish curls threatened to spring free of a carnivorous-toothed clip. Little butterfly earrings dangled from her earlobes. “First I want to see ID. You have a badge, don’t you?”
He tucked away his gun and refrained from pointing out the word POLICE on his raid jacket. “Yes, ma’am, Special Agent Ricardo Cruz of the U. S. Drug Enforcement Administration.” He held up his ID case.
Juliana Paris’s racing heart gradually slowed to a jog. Gathering poise, she took her time studying the official card. DEA? For all his self-absorption and impulsiveness, Jordan was a straight arrow about drugs. It made no sense.
The agent regarded her with professional suspicion. Mocking her efforts at cool control, her cheeks burned under the scrutiny. She made a production of stashing the flashlight, cracked and probably useless, in her bag.
“I suppose you’re who you say you are, but what are you doing in my brother’s apartment—in the dark?” Straightening to her full five-foot-three, she folded her arms.
“Your brother.” The DE
A agent rubbed his knuckles on his jaw. “Can you prove that Jordan Paris is your brother?”
She would not be reduced to jelly by a good-looking man with a sexy voice. “Prove? Not really.” She rummaged in her bag. “But here’s my driver’s license.”
Agent Cruz didn’t take the license from her, but framed the hand holding it with his own. “Portsmouth, New Hampshire? You drove here this afternoon?”
She nodded.
He continued to grip her hand. His tanned fingers contrasted starkly with her pale redhead’s skin. When he released her, she snatched back her hand as if from a flame.
“Why the flashlight?”
“Sometimes Jordan forgets to pay his electricity bills. My brother has issues but he’s no criminal.” For the first time, the condition of the room registered. Everything strewn around. One hand flew to her throat. “What’s going on? What have you done?”
“First explain why you’re here and what you know about Jordan’s recent activities.” He gestured for her to take a seat.
Until he sat, she would stand. She wasn’t about to have him looming over her. “I’m not sure what Jordan’s been up to lately. That’s sort of why I came.”
“You must know where he works.” His gaze concealed whether he knew the answer.
“Until two months ago, he worked for Vinson Seafood on a dragger. When the boat went in for repairs, he was laid off. He’s been out of work since.”
Juliana wished he wouldn’t keep looking at her with such concentrated focus. It was unnerving. She licked her lower lip.
As if too warm, the agent threw off his windbreaker. His black flak vest emblazoned with the yellow letters DEA confirmed his status. His black turtleneck and pants displayed a trim yet powerful build. With a cape, this man would make a better Zorro than that Spanish actor. No, she wouldn’t think of him that way. She blinked away the image.
Cruz sat on the futon across the room. “So what prompted your visit today?”
Perching on the edge of a metal folding chair, she decided to tell the truth. Mostly. “He phoned me this morning and said he’d gotten mixed up in something. He was afraid.”
She’d just returned after her morning jog and didn’t have the breath to argue with him. His words came back to her. “Jules, I’m in over my head. I gotta disappear. Meet me, and I’ll tell you everything.” But now . . . She linked her fingers tightly in her lap.
“What else did he tell you?” Cruz scrawled in a pocket-size notebook.
“He only asked me to come here. I’m sure he’s not involved with drugs. Where is he?”
“I hoped you could tell me. I came to interview your brother, but he’s not here.”
Mouth tight, she gestured at the room’s condition. “And you did this? Did you suspect he was hiding in the sofa cushions? Maybe in a drawer?”
His half-grin indented a dimple. “I found this place exactly as you see it. I had just looked around and doused the lights when you arrived. I do have a search warrant.”
A search warrant. What was Jordan mixed up in?
Cruz opened a package of mints and offered it to her. When she refused, he popped one in his mouth. “I quit smoking a year ago, but now I’m addicted to peppermint.”
“I wouldn’t know.” No way would she think of this agent in a personal way or be suckered by his little-boy grin. “What do you think Jordan has done?”
“For the last month, he’s driven a truck for Sudsy’s Seafood from Cumberland Harbor to Boston and Hartford. Hidden among the lobsters and clams were containers of heroin and cocaine, smuggled in from offshore to Dwight Pettit, a.k.a. Sudsy.”
Jordan had fallen into quicksand. She rubbed at her belly, aching as if some creature were gnawing at her. “What makes you think he knew what was in the truck?”
Cruz’s broad shoulders lifted in a shrug. “We have only circumstantial evidence, but he’s our best hope of catching the drug gang. Sudsy has disappeared.”
“Disappeared. And now so has Jordan?” Talons pierced her. She chewed her bottom lip. Jordan, somehow I’ve failed you. “But his car is still here.”
“He packed up. Landlord saw him leave with a duffel.” He jerked a thumb toward the bottles and the posters. “Other than his art collection, he didn’t leave much behind.”
“He doesn’t have much. Mostly he lives on a fishing boat.”
“Will you help me find him?”
The last thing she’d do. She shot to her feet and gathered her parka around her. “I wish you luck in catching the drug dealers, but I have no idea where my brother went.” Slinging her bag onto one shoulder, she started to the door.
He stepped in front of her. “It’s in his best interest for you to help me find him.”
She forced herself to meet his gaze. Sooty lashes framed his dark eyes. His warm breath smelled of peppermint. But this man wanted only to solve his case. He didn’t care about Jordan or his problems.
“I can’t help you, Agent Cruz. I don’t know where Jordan might be. Please move.”
He handed her a notepad and a pen. “You’re free to go once you write down your address and phone number.”
She printed her information and handed the items back. “You’ll contact me if you find Jordan?”
He stepped aside and opened the door. “You can clean up if you like once we’re finished. I’ll let you know.”
“Fine.” She marched through the open door and down the narrow stair. Though he made scarcely a sound, she sensed Cruz behind her. Feathery wings fluttered in her stomach.
Three flights down, they reached the small, dim foyer. The entry smelled of tobacco and rancid grease and worse. Wherever Jordan hid, she hoped it was cleaner than this dump.
“Jordan may have cause to thank you for helping us find him first,” Cruz said softly.
Whirling, she shot him a glare. “What do you mean?”
“Two thugs who don’t care about Miranda rights or asking first before shooting were looking for your baby brother last night. Maybe he came home and found the place tossed. We think that’s why he high-tailed it. If they want him bad, they could come looking for you too.”
Her breath stuttered.
“I know too much, Jules. I’m in over my head.”
If he was in danger, maybe . . . no, if Jordan was mixed up in this drug trafficking, she had to protect him. From all sides, including the DEA. She wouldn’t let what happened to their dad happen to Jordan. Whatever it took. “I’ll encourage my brother to turn himself in, but I won’t betray him. Now, am I free to go?”
Stiffly, his eyes as hard as obsidian, Cruz bent his head in a courtly bow rather than a nod. This Zorro knew when to yield and sheathe his sword.
After the front door closed behind her, Juliana heard a muffled thud. Had the controlled, charming Agent Cruz slammed his fist into the wall?
Chapter 2
Rick gripped his throbbing knuckles. Ay, idiota, he blew that one big time. His usual techniques that charmed every other female failed with the delectable Juliana Paris. Courage and loyalty, even if the brother didn’t deserve it.
He popped another mint as Jake Wescott entered the hallway. He tucked his aching fist behind his back. “Hope you had better luck than I did.”
Wescott thumbed his ball cap higher on his head. “We have a saying in Maine. Which is better, no luck or bad luck?”
Rick described his visit to the apartment. He slid his police radio from his windbreaker and advised the Portland agents stationed behind the building they could return to headquarters.
“Now what?’
“Got a hot date in Boston. Don’t want to be late.”
“Who’s your babe of the week?” Wescott asked.
He grinned. “And have you poach? Forget it, Jake.” His date was with the case files, but he had a reputation to uphold. No settling into being a drudge. He’d keep his carefree way of life as long as possible. How could he choose just one when the menu offered too many luscious flavors and varieties? L
ike his suspect’s feisty sister. The notion stopped him cold.
Inhaling the frigid air, he swept a glance down the street. Even this pleasant small city had run-down sections. The smudgy dusk lent this one an even seedier appearance. But he saw no suspicious vehicles and no loiterers. He and Wescott hurried toward their sedan where Donovan awaited them.
“If only El Águila and his man Olívas had been sitting in Sudsy Pettit’s kitchen,” Rick said, “we could’ve wound up this whole damn case.” And put an end to the gang that had killed his brother.
“There’d only be another to take his place. Keeps us in business.”
“Are we jinxed or what?”
“Maybe voodoo.”
“No fair picking on my Cuban heritage,” Rick said. “Watch out, or a Santero priest will put a dead chicken in your bed.”
“Who cares, hot shot? I never get to sleep there.” Wescott sighed. “The landlord did give me detailed descriptions of those two heavies who were here last night.”
“See? All is not lost. And we have another lead. Jordan Paris’s sister.” Rick grinned, anticipating the challenge.
“From what you said, she wasn’t impressed with you. Has the famous Cruz charm met an immovable object?”
“I didn’t grow up with four sisters for nothing. She won’t be able to resist me a second time.” She was hiding something, for damn sure. And he needed what she knew.
*****
Juliana tossed her backpack on the sofa. She scrubbed at her gritty eyes. “Jordan, you poor, gullible kid, what have you gotten mixed up in?”
The hour was late and she was tired, but she had to figure out what to do. Dammit, he’d sucked her into his mess, one more dangerous than his usual tangles. Talons clawed her stomach again. She twisted a finger in her hair and chewed her bottom lip.
Never Surrender (Task Force Eagle) Page 1