Her eyes widened with comprehension. “With its long, porous coastline.”
“Exactly. Lots of small harbors and coves and vacation homes with deep-water docks. The distance cuts into his bottom line, but don’t cry over this cutthroat’s expenses. They smuggle heroin and cocaine into the country. On the return trip, they take guns and explosives to continue the violence in Mexico.”
“A vicious cycle.” Her gaze flickered with concern. Probably wondering where her baby brother fit into the gang.
“Don’t underestimate the danger. If Carlos Olívas, his lieutenant here in the Northeast, thinks you know or have evidence of their drug and gun smuggling, or if he thinks you know where your brother is, he’ll . . . pressure you.”
“You seem to know him well.” Her lips curved, but in a teeth-baring challenge. Not what Rick had in mind when he wished for her smile.
“You got me there. Olívas and I have never met, but I do know him.” And what he could do to Jordan.
“What could he think I know?” Her voice was reedy, her eyes wide.
“It looked like they were searching for something in Jordan’s place. Perhaps he has evidence against them.”
“That’s what you’re hoping. And you think this Olívas might suspect Jordan gave it to me.” With her fork, she poked shredded lettuce back into her wrap sandwich. “I don’t suppose the DEA would go so far as to keep pressuring me to make it look that way to Carlos, would they? Would you?”
Rick blinked at her cynical deduction. Hell, she still thought the worst of him. “I would never put a civilian in that kind of danger.”
“Perhaps.” She put down her half-finished sandwich and sipped her sparkling water.
“I’ll help you find your brother. I can’t promise not to arrest him, but I do promise to keep him safe. And you can help me uncover whatever it is he knows or has hidden.”
After wiping her mouth with her napkin, she laid it beside her plate. “Agent Cruz—”
“Rick. My first name is Rick.” He offered her his best smile, the one that charmed females from nine to ninety.
“I don’t have any idea where Jordan is. I know nothing about evidence and I doubt this Olívas believes I do.”
“Be careful. You wouldn’t like his kind of pressure. Olívas enjoys hurting people.”
“I believe you, but I can’t trust strangers with my brother’s life.” She dug a dollar bill from her bag and shoved it under her plate. She slid from the booth.
Rick remained seated as she strode to the cashier. A sudden craving for a smoke had him popping a mint.
He was a man who loved women, and they usually loved him. From childhood, he knew that his looks and smile gave him an edge with females. In return, they charmed him. He liked their company, their scents, their soft skin, their musical voices, the intricacies of their minds. Age didn’t matter. The mutual admiration ranged from his ancient Basque grandmother to the smallest tot. Even at times, his sisters.
But not Juliana Paris. Exactly like the guys had said. Shit.
After she swung through the luncheonette’s glass door, Rick paid his check and followed her at a distance. He’d keep an eye on her as far as her car. It would be tragic if stubbornness placed her in harm’s way. But her refusal seemed like more than stubbornness, more like distrust. Did Juliana distrust the DEA or cops in general? And why?
A steady stream of people strolled Congress Street. Students and older tweedy professorial types. Street people in ragged layers and office workers in business layers. No one strode more purposefully than Juliana.
She turned right at the side street and waited to cross. He wove among the few passing cars and pedestrians lined up at an ATM to duck in Computer Fix’s doorway. Around the display window, he observed her progress. Keeping an eye on her dark red backpack, he treated himself to the sight of her trim hips swaying with her brisk stride.
A green van with smoked glass windows screeched to a stop before Juliana. Two men jumped out. Blind to the street drama, the foot traffic parted around the van and proceeded on their way. Horns blared and irate motorists shouted.
One man grabbed Juliana by the right arm. The other gesticulated and spoke rapidly to her. Traffic noises and distance prevented him from hearing what the man said.
Adrenaline surged. Rick didn’t wait to see what would happen next.
Pistol in hand, he raced down the street.
Chapter 4
Juliana’s heart pounded and her throat tightened. She twisted, trying to wrench from the man’s grasp. If only she could swing her bag. “Let me go!”
He was barely taller than she and hefty, but more lumpish than muscular. With a sharp pinch like oversized pliers, his hand clamped tightly on her elbow. The other man was taller and stoop-shouldered, with sunken eyes and a drooping moustache. Abruptly he glanced behind her. He scowled and beckoned to his companion.
One minute Juliana was struggling to get free, and the next her kidnappers leaped into their van and sped away.
Two strong, hard hands gripped her shoulders and turned her. “Are you all right? Those bastards didn’t hurt you?” Ricardo Cruz stared at her as if he could see inside for the answer to his question.
“I’m fine.” She stepped back. She panted with rasping breaths and her knees shook. “They . . . just wanted to talk to me.”
Adjusting his jacket over his holstered pistol, Cruz shot a skeptical glance heavenward. He pulled out his notepad and jotted something.
The van’s license number maybe, but she wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of asking. His running to her rescue and his strong hands on her shoulders made her feel safe, no longer imperiled. Frowning, she glanced away. She wouldn’t rely on this man or like him.
A few passing students smiled their way, apparently taking them for quarrelling lovers. A car horn beeped once and then blared the driver’s irritation at the delay. Ack, they still stood in the street and the light had changed again. Extricating herself from Cruz, she hurried on. After all, she did have places to go. And she didn’t want him to see how frightened she was. She couldn’t stop trembling, and her stomach still churned like a blender.
“Next you’re going to tell me those guys only wanted directions to Freeport.” His long strides easily kept pace with hers. “That they weren’t interested in your brother.”
Shaking her head, she slanted him a glance. “Did you know them?”
“One. I’ve seen him before with Olívas. I couldn’t see the face of the one who held you. Could you describe him? Or identify his picture?”
Juliana huffed and shook her head as she picked up speed. “He was behind me.”
Though the men’s cinnamon skin, shades darker than Cruz’s burnished hue, could have belonged to any of several ethnic groups, Droopy Mustache’s accent marked him as Hispanic. She suppressed a shudder at the memory of his menacing tones.
Both fell silent while they dodged among a throng of pedestrians. A young man wearing a shirt that proclaimed, “Save Our Finny Friends,” jostled her.
Cruz grasped her arm and scowled at the kid.
She’d pull away but it’d cause another scene. His hand was firm but gentle on her arm, warm and reassuring, dammit. She inhaled his warm, masculine scent, fringed with mint. Beyond that sensual charm, his protectiveness and apparent concern for her—and her foolish brother—tempted her to like him, to trust him.
She wanted to trust him. But she shouldn’t. Couldn’t.
Once beside her car, they stopped, but he maintained his firm grip on her arm. “Are you going to tell me what the Mexicans wanted?”
She raised her chin. “They asked me about Jordan. I told them I don’t know where he is, and he didn’t give me anything. That’s the end of it.” If she repeated it enough, maybe she’d believe her own story.
“You’re more naïve than my baby sister if you believe that. Those guys have been following you.” He held up his other hand to stay her protest. His voice rose with frustration. “I s
aw the lie in your eyes earlier when you denied it. These are dangerous men. You must believe me. They want information and they’ll hurt you to get it.”
“I know nothing and have nothing they could want.” She freed her arm and unlocked her car. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have investigating to do.” She tossed in her backpack and slid inside. Dammit, she fumbled the key in the ignition. Finally the poor, overworked engine caught and she pulled away from the curb.
Those men, at least someone in their van, had followed her before on the way to the bank. This time they approached her in public view.
What would they do next?
The memory of that vice-like grip was her answer. A shudder swept through her.
*****
Finally she had a lead. Finny. The name on the T-shirt had clicked in her memory. Finny was Jordan’s friend on the Vinson dragger. She ignored her nerves jumping like accounting numbers on a page at midnight as she drove to Portland the next day.
The DEA had released Jordan’s apartment, and the manager wanted her brother out. After packing Jordan’s sparse belongings, she aimed her aged Sentra for the docks. She’d never gone to the headquarters before, but had filled in at Vinson’s Portsmouth office. In front of her the Portland Fish Pier buildings sprawled over several piers.
A turn onto Commercial Street put the docks on her right, with ferries and commercial shipping jockeying for space amid restaurants and sailmakers. Beyond the hubbub, a north wind fluttered white petticoats on the verdigris surface of Casco Bay. On her left, locals and tourists ducked in the quaint shops, brew pubs, and galleries of the Old Port.
She spotted her destination on the last wharf past the Casco Bay Lines ferry terminal. Vinson Seafood, Shipping & Marina. Fishing craft with derricks and netting bobbed on the waves beside the marina. On the pavement by the boat storage building, two yachts bigger than three-story houses awaited the season on tripod stands.
She eased into a parking slot near the old brick building. The engine gave a little cough as it chugged to a halt. The car had given her good service, considering Molly had purchased it second hand, but soon she’d have to invest in new transportation.
If only she knew where her mother was so she could share her concerns. Delete that. What a waste of time. Molly would refuse to worry and insist Jordan was fine.
She checked the rearview and side mirrors. Twice during her drive, a red sports car had appeared in her rearview mirror. No sign of it now. But neither the drug gang nor the DEA would use such an obvious vehicle.
Scooping up her purse, she slid out and locked up. The calendar might say it was spring, but warm weather wouldn’t hit the Maine coast anytime soon. She zipped her parka and smoothed her skirt before striding to the building entrance.
Inside, a cavernous office stretched the length of the building. In front was a reception counter and behind it a maze of workspaces manned by people at computers.
A young woman in a Vinson logo polo shirt greeted her at the reception desk. In a few moments she directed Juliana toward the rear of the building and the office of Wesley Vinson.
Carpeted in a deep forest green pile, the office was dominated by a venerable oak desk. A tenor voice came from the leather chair facing a window. “No, they haven’t come in. Maybe sometime around noon.”
Not wanting to eavesdrop but uncertain about how to make her presence known, she hovered around the door.
“Piece of cake,” the disembodied voice said. “I’ll call you.”
“Hello, they sent me back here,” she called when she heard a click.
“Ahoy there.” The chair swiveled to face her, revealing a ruddy-cheeked, husky man. Fitting the receiver on the telephone console, he rose and flashed a smile as wide and white as a seagull’s wing. “Sorry I didn’t hear you come in.”
She went forward and introduced herself.
He took her hand in both of his big, smooth ones. “The gods of my Viking ancestors have sent you to my rescue, Juliana Paris. My solitary confinement authorizing bill payments was approaching mind-numbing status. Rather be out on my boat.”
“I’m happy to save you, but I hope you’ll return the favor.” He seemed personable, this fortyish blond, a casual Maine executive in creased khakis and L.L. Bean boat shoes.
He ushered her to a club chair. Choosing an adjacent one rather than his executive throne, he propped one leg on the other knee. “What can I do for you?”
She drew a calming breath. “My brother works for you sometimes, on the Following Sea.” She explained what had happened with her brother and the DEA.
“DEA agents came here to see me about Jordan. I don’t recall him personally, but my captain vouched for him. So you don’t think he’s mixed up with these drug gangsters?”
“No, I don’t.” She shook her head emphatically. “But more than that, I’m worried about him. I think he’s hiding from them, and I want to find him first.”
“Isn’t that dangerous?” He bent forward. “The gang and all.”
Why did everyone have to remind her of the obvious? “He’s my brother.”
“Then how can I help you?”
Here goes nothing. “Jordan has a friend on board the Following Sea, a guy named Finny. I thought Jordan might be staying with him.”
“Finny, huh?” Vinson smoothed his dark gold hair. “Name doesn’t ring any bells. I’ll check the employee files. With a fishing fleet and the marina, we have dozens of employees. Since my old man turned the reins over, I’ve been trying to build the company.”
The marina had new-looking buildings. “Nice marina. That must do a good business.”
“Diversifying is my plan. Not much profit in North Atlantic fishing these days.”
When he moved to the computer and started punching keys, she all but wept with gratitude. Here was the first person to help her, to grant her the credibility to do this her way. “I really appreciate this, Mr. Vinson.”
“It’s Wes.” His grin banished the rest of her nerves.
“Wes,” she repeated with a smile. “You’ll find me in that list too. Temps-R-Us has sent me to your Portsmouth office a few times.”
He winked. “It’s my loss I never dropped in when you were there. Maybe I’ll have them send you here next time.”
“I wouldn’t mind.” Wes’s light-hearted flirting didn’t annoy her the way Cruz’s magnetic sensuality did.
Vinson trailed a finger down the screen. “No Finny in the list. Nothing that even resembles it.”
“Can you sort them differently? Maybe it’s a first name?”
A few more screen flickers yielded a name and address. “Maybe this one. Finnegan Farnham. In Saco. Guess it wouldn’t hurt to give you the address.” He jotted it down.
Her pulse did a jig. “This is my first real lead.”
“Whoa, it may be a bum lead. Farnham’s not in port.” By his eyes, crinkles fanned out in commiseration. “He shipped out a few days ago on the Sea Worthy. Won’t return until the first or second week in April. I’d try to radio, but Old Sparky’s too low-tech. The boat’s probably too far out for me to rouse her from here.”
“Thank you. You helped. More than you know.”
Vinson walked her outside into the cool spring sunshine and pointed out an approaching green fishing boat, derricks and nets making it look top-heavy. “That’s the seiner I’m waiting for, the Sea Jaunty. Coming in with a good load of herring. It’s a smaller boat than the one your brother usually crews on, only about eighty feet.” He scratched his head. “If you can stick around town awhile, I’ll take you to lunch.”
Lunch in the Old Port with Wes Vinson would be more elegant than hers downtown with Rick Cruz. If she hadn’t already eaten, she’d enjoy a meal with him. He didn’t get under her skin like a certain other man. “I’d love to, but I have to get back to Portsmouth.”
Before she rolled out of the parking lot, Vinson waved her to a halt. “I just had a thought. The Sea Worthy will sail into Rockland and Belfast off
and on to sell their catch. If you still want to talk to Farnham, I could leave a message for him to call you.” His lips curved. “Then maybe I could call you too.”
“I’d appreciate that.” After reciting her cell number and promising to go out with him, she drove away. In the meantime, she could check out Finny’s place.
*****
Wes Vinson watched Juliana’s small car disappear down Commercial before he went inside. Back in his office, he closed the door and pulled out his cell phone.
When the call was answered, he said, “What did you find?”
“Nothing helpful. My men tell me the Paris chica just left your office. She is looking for her idiota of a brother?”
“She doesn’t know where he is but she knows something. We don’t have much time. The Feds are moving in. They searched the kid’s apartment.”
“Perhaps she needs a scare.”
The smile in the other man’s voice chilled Wes Vinson. “What are you planning?”
But he was talking to dead air.
*****
An hour later, Juliana slumped in her car seat. The neighbors in Finny’s apartment building had seen no one in his apartment since Saturday—the sailing date of the Sea Worthy. It’d been worth a try. On a sigh, she headed south on the interstate. She still had the old girlfriend to find. For a distraction, she turned up the radio and sang along with Adele.
Until she spotted the red sports car behind her.
*****
Rick steered back into the slow lane. Damn, why hadn’t he used a government sedan instead of driving his Corvette? Juliana spotted him this time, and she might have earlier. Both charm and stealth failed him. Hell of an Invisible Man.
And he wanted a cigarette. Bad. He popped a mint into his mouth.
As a SEAL, he’d learned self-control and patience in the worst circumstances. Waiting to perform a rescue operation once, he lay on his belly for six hours in a steaming, bug-infested swamp. He remained dead still while lizards and poisonous snakes and the devil knew what else slithered across his back and legs and the enemy marched past within inches. As a DEA agent, he’d sat for hours across the table from a drug dealer until the guy cracked from the mere pressure of the interminable silence.
Never Surrender (Task Force Eagle) Page 3