"Ramon Carranza?"
"It seems Señor Carranza's right-hand man made a discreet phone call to someone at the agency. He knew the connection between you and Ryker. He used your name. The man knew too much about you, Nate."
"Just what was the message, and why didn't Señor Carranza make the call himself?"
"Carranza never gets his own hands dirty. You know the type. But I'd say, for some reason, he wants you to know that he's involved," Romero said, shrugging. "As for the message, well, I'd call it a warning."
Nate grunted as he rubbed the side of his jaw. "A warning from Carranza?"
"Oh, yeah. From the big man himself. You've been advised to go into hiding if you're smart."
"Just who is this Ramon Carranza?" Nate asked.
"He's a retired businessman. A former Miami resident. He moved to St. Augustine a few years ago, about the same time you came back home." Romero picked up his glass, downing the last drops of his Scotch and soda.
"Are you saying there's a connection?" Nate narrowed his eyes, wrinkling his forehead.
"I was hoping you could tell me. Carranza is associated with all the right people and all the wrong people. The man knows everybody, and I mean everybody. He ran a ritzy casino in Havana back in the forties and fifties. When he moved to Miami before Castro took over in Cuba, he already had connections." Romero opened his dark eyes in a wide if-you-know-what-I-mean stare. "He's an old man, late seventies, but he's still powerful."
"Did you get the name of the guy who called the agency for Carranza?"
"Emilio Rivera. They've been together for years."
Nate shook his head. "Never heard of him."
"We've been doing some checking—"
"We?" Nate didn't like the sound of this. Something was damned queer about the whole thing.
"When a man like Ramon Carranza starts giving us information, it's only natural that we'd wonder why."
"What did you find out?"
Romero glanced around the room, motioned for the barmaid, then ran one dark, lean hand across his face. "This isn't the first time Carranza has shown an interest in you. It seems that, through both legal and illegal sources, he's been keeping track of your activities for years."
Nate felt a hard tightening in the pit of his stomach. Some man, some fonner godfather figure, had been keeping tabs on him. "How long?"
"Best we can figure out, ever since Nam."
"Ever since I first met Ryker. Is that what you're saying?" Nate asked.
"Carranza and Ryker have friends and associates in common. Presently the Marquez family. Who's to say that Ryker wasn't working for Carranza back in the seventies? The black market, drugs. Could be Carranza's been keeping tabs on you as a favor for an old buddy."
"Then why would Carranza have his man send me a warning?"
"To add a little extra pressure, maybe?"
"Ryker wants to see me sweat," Nate said.
The barmaid appeared, took the men's order, and left.
"The DEA is very interested in Ryker, and even more interested in his connection with the Marquez family, so we're in on this with you Nate, whether you want us or not."
"I don't have much choice, do I?" Nate finished off his bourbon just as the barmaid set his second drink down in front of him. "And what interest does the DEA have in Carranza?"
"None, other than his possible connection to Ryker."
Nate gripped the glass in his big hand, sloshing the contents around and around as he stared down sightlessly at the liquid. He had enough problems in his life right now without having a puzzle to solve. Was Carranza friend or foe? Was he really trying to warn Nate or was he trying to help Ryker?
"Well, well, take a look at that, would you?" Romero said, emitting a low, sensual growl as he stared across the room. "What is something like that doing in a place like this?"
Slowly, with total disinterest, Nate glanced across the room, looking at the woman who'd gained his friend's attention. He felt as if he'd been hit in the stomach with a sledgehammer. It was her. The woman from the beach. The woman who was staying at the cottage across the road from his house. And she looked sorely out of place walking into the Brazen Hussy, although she had obviously tried to dress for the occasion. Wearing a red silk jumpsuit, a pair of four-inch red heels and teacup-size gold hoops dangling from her ears, she should have looked like any of the other "working girls" casing the bar for an easy mark, but she didn't. Even with the added touch of red lipstick and red nail polish, she still emitted an aura of innocence. Her beautiful face was too fresh, her eyes too warm and bright, her movements too hesitant for her to be a pro.
"Maybe her car broke down," Nate said. "Or maybe she's slumming."
"I don't think so," Romero said, smiling as he watched the woman cross the room. "She looks too classy for a one-night stand. But, if I thought she was interested—"
"You always did have a weakness for blondes." Nate had seen his friend succumb to the charms of more than one blond beauty over the years. But this woman wasn't for Nick Romero.
Laughing, Romero slapped Nate on the back. "And you, my friend, never had a weakness for anything."
Until now, Nate almost said. Hell, what was the matter with him? The woman didn't mean a damn thing to him. He didn't even know her. So what if just looking at her aroused him? Half the guys in the bar were probably readjusting their pants right now.
"Weaknesses can get you killed," Nate said.
"Oh, but what a way to die!" Romero reared back in his chair, bringing the front legs up off the floor. "She's bound to get into trouble, alone in a place like this. Maybe I should offer my assistance."
When Romero lowered his chair back on the floor and started to get up, Nate threw out a restraining hand. "Don't."
Romero sat back down, glaring at Nate. "Hey, old pal, I saw her first. Remember the rules."
"The rules don't apply here." Nate looked past Romero, his gaze riveted to the woman who had approached the table of noisy, swaggering teens. "But if they did, then she'd be mine. I saw her first."
"You what?"
"Last night. On the beach." Nate watched as she placed her hand on a boy's shoulder. What the hell was she doing in a place like the Brazen Hussy? he wondered.
"Tell me more," Romero said. * * *
The group of teenage boys stared up at her when she approached their table, Casey easing back his chair as if he intended to stand. When she put her hand on Bobby's shoulder, he slumped down in the chair and hung his head so low his chin rested on his chest.
Casey smiled at her, a cocky look on his youthful face. "What are you doing here, Ms. Porter, checking out the action?"
"Shut up," Bobby said in a whispered hiss.
"Hey, you two know this sexy freak?" A husky young blonde asked, turning in his chair, sticking out his muscular chest.
"Yeah, we know her," Casey said, standing up to face Cyn.
The blonde stood up and walked behind Bobby's chair to stand beside Cyn. "Introduce us."
"Lazarus my man, meet Cyn Porter." Casey's laughter chilled Cyn. Obviously, the boy was already high.
The husky youth reached out and ran the tips of his fingers across Cyn's cheek, watching her, obviously waiting for a reaction. "Cyn, huh?" He laughed, the sound menacingly unnerving. "I like it. Lazarus Jones, at your service, baby doll."
Cyn's earlier uncertainty when she'd made the decision to come to the Brazen Hussy turned into outright apprehension. Jutting out her chin, she tried to appear undisturbed by the boy's crude come-on.
When she slowly pulled back away from his sweaty touch, he snickered and flashed Cyn a lascivious smile that turned her stomach. "Tell me, is Cyn ready to sin tonight?"
She looked down at his hand, noticing the thick coiled snake tattoo that began at his knuckles and ran up past his wrist. "Are you the man Casey and Bobby came here to meet tonight?" Cyn asked, trying to keep the tone of her voice calm and steady.
"M
s. Porter, please..." Bobby knocked Cyn's hand from his shoulder in an effort to stand, but Casey shoved him back down into his chair. "How did you know where to find us?" Bobby began to tremble.
"You don't really want to be here, do you, Bobby?" Cyn asked. "Why don't you and I leave, go get a hamburger and talk?"
"Hey, baby doll, you can't leave yet," Lazarus Jones said, placing his arm around Cyn's waist. "Besides, you can't have any fun with a kid like him. Hell, he's probably still a virgin."
Bobby jumped up, his big blue eyes glaring at Lazarus. "Leave her alone! Come on, Ms. Porter, I'll go with you."
"Sit down, kid. You came here for a little blow, didn't you? The party hasn't even started yet." Lazarus pulled Cyn up against him. "I got enough for you, too, baby doll. Enough of everything."
When Lazarus rubbed himself against Cyn, fissions of panic exploded in her stomach. Her whistle and Mace were inside her purse, which was inconveniently trapped between her and the muscle-bound delinquent.
"I'm not interested in anything you have, Mr. Jones," Cyn said, staring him directly in the eye, hoping her false bravado would pay off.
Lazarus released her momentarily, long enough to shove another teen out of his chair and onto the floor. "Get up and give the lady your seat."
When Lazarus grabbed Cyn by the arm, she tried to pull away. He held fast. She began raising her leg, slowly, intending to knee her overly zealous admirer in the groin. Bobby knotted his hands into fists, thrusting one out in front of him.
Suddenly, Lazarus Jones released Cyn, then dropped to his knees. A very big man stood behind Lazarus, his hands on the boy's shoulders, the pressure from his hold keeping him subdued. Letting out a stream of colorful obscenities, Lazarus squirmed, trying to free himself, but to no avail.
Cyn looked up at her rescuer. Her head began to spin. Her knees bolted. She grabbed the back of a chair to steady herself. It was him. The man on the beach. He was even bigger, darker and more deadly close up.
He looked different fully clothed and with his long hair pulled back into a short, neat ponytail. Wearing faded jeans, a dark cotton shirt, tan sport coat and snakeskin boots, he looked a little bit like a cowboy, Cyn thought. No, not a cowboy—an Indian dressed in white man's garb.
While Lazarus, still on his knees, continued his tirade, the other boys at the table began to get up, one at a time, and move backward. No one else in the Brazen Hussy paid much attention, except another big, dark man a few tables over who was watching the situation with amusement. Cyn couldn't help but notice him when he nodded at her and smiled.
"What would you like for me to do with him?" Nate asked Cyn, tightening his hold on the boy.
"Hey, man, what's she to you?" Casey asked. "Lazarus didn't mean no harm. He just considers himself a ladies' man."
''Is that right... Lazarus? Are you a ladies' man?" Nate didn't smile, but the tone of his voice was teasing.
"Let me go," Lazarus said, snarling his features into a threatening look. "If you know what's good for you, you'll let me go and get the hell out of here before I kill you."
Nate did smile then. Cyn thought it was the coldest, most dangerous expression she'd ever seen on a man's face. Nate released his hold on the boy.
Lazarus jumped up, pulled a switchblade from his pocket and thrust it toward Nate in a show of manly triumph. Cyn sucked in her breath and stepped backward. Dear God, what was she doing here? Why had she been stupid enough to think that dressing like a hooker and carrying a can of Mace and a whistle in her purse would protect her? Hadn't Evan's senseless murder taught her anything? The very sight of the knife in Lazarus's hand intensified the terror that had been building inside her for the last few minutes. Since Evan's death, the sight of a knife in another person's hands created irrational fear in Cyn.
The other boys at the table backed up further, even the swaggering Casey. Bobby stood beside Cyn, grabbing her hand, trying to pull her away.
"I don't know what kind of hold you had on me, man," Lazarus said, swaying from side to side in a macho strut. "But you came up on me from behind. Things are even now. We're face-to-face, and I'm going to stick you, big man, and watch you fall to your knees."
Nate knew that he could take care of this cocky young hood quickly and efficiently in the way only a trained warrior could. After all, he knew more ways to kill a man than most people even knew existed. But he had no intention of physically harming this streetwise punk. Scaring a little sense into him, however, was a different matter.
"Please, don't do this." Cyn heard a pleading female voice say, then realized she had spoken the words. Dear God, this couldn't be happening. It just couldn't! One of these men was going to get hurt, maybe both of them, and it would be her fault. She had thought she could handle the situation, been so confident in her ability to do what Evan would have done. But Evan died like this, a tiny inner voice reminded her, stabbed to death when he'd tried to help a wayward teenager.
While Cyn and the group of boys watched, while the dark man several tables over simply glanced their way, while a couple of barmaids stopped to view the scene, Lazarus Jones lunged toward the older man. The switchblade in his hand gleamed like shiny sterling silver in the smoky, muted light of the barroom. Cyn cried out. Bobby held her hand so tightly she winced from the pain.
From out of nowhere it seemed to Cyn, her rescuer pulled a knife—longer, wider, larger than his opponent's. Within seconds he had knocked Lazarus's knife to the floor and turned him around to face Cyn, twisting his arm behind his back and holding the deadly blade to the boy's throat.
Cyn could see the fear plainly in Lazarus Jones's eyes. Obviously, he thought he was going to die. Cyn prayed he was wrong.
"I think you owe the lady an apology," Nate said, letting the sharp blade of his knife rest against the boy's flesh.
"I... I'm sorry. I—"
"Please, let him go," Cyn said.
"Should I let you go, Lazarus?" Nate asked, leaning down slightly so he was practically whispering in the boy's ear. "Should I set you free so you can keep on selling drugs to other kids? So you can rob again, maybe even kill?"
"Hey, man, how the hell did you know—" Lazarus trembled with the certain fear of a man facing death.
Cyn felt hot, salty bile rise in her throat when she realized what kind of human beings she was dealing with. The boy was so brutal and uncaring, and her rescuer was twice as deadly as the boy. Dear Lord in heaven, this wasn't the kind of world she wanted to live in. She had spent the last ten years of her life trying to help change things, trying to make a difference. She hated violence, and yet she seemed unable to escape it.
Nate shoved Lazarus toward his companions. "Get out of here, and pray to whatever God you believe in that our paths never cross again."
Lazarus and his entourage left in a big hurry, Casey following quickly. Bobby released Cyn's hand, but continued staring at the big man coming toward them.
"Bobby—" Cyn had no more than said his name when he ran. "No, Bobby. Wait," she cried out, but didn't try to follow him, knowing she would never catch him. Bobby was too adept at running and hiding.
Nate hadn't felt such rage in a long time. It had been years since he'd wanted to kill another man, but the moment that cocky boy had touched her, Nate had wanted to rip him apart. He hated to admit it, but the brutality within him, the way he so often used violence as a means to settle problems, made him, in a strange way, no better than the smart-mouthed young hood he'd just subdued. Violence breeds violence. It was a fact he couldn't deny.
"Are you all right?" he asked, as he folded his lock-blade knife, reached beneath his jacket and slipped it into a leather sheath attached to his belt.
"Yes." She stared up at him, her heart pounding so loud and wild she thought surely he could hear it.
"What the devil are you doing in a place like this? Don't you know you could have gotten yourself raped or killed?" He wanted to grab her and shake the living daylights out of her. Then he wanted to pick h
er up and carry her out of here to some isolated place where he could make love to her.
"Look, no one asked you to interfere," Cyn said, tilting her chin upward in a defiant manner. "What made you think I couldn't handle the situation?"
"What made me...?" Nate glared at her flushed face, noting the anger in her dark brown eyes. Rich, warm brown eyes. "That young stud had plans for the two of you."
"Do you realize that your interference could well have ruined a boy's life?" Even though she knew she should be thanking this man for coming to her rescue, she was lashing out at him, some deep-seated instinct warning her to protect herself from the emotions he had stirred to life within her.
Nate moved closer, but didn't touch her. "What are you talking about? Which boy?"
"Bobby, the boy that was clutching my hand." Cyn took several deep, calming breaths. "Bobby's a runaway who has been staying at Tomorrow House, and we had just about talked him into trying a new foster home."
"Tomorrow House?" Nate's stomach tightened. Hell and damnation, what was she, some sort of social worker? Might know, the first woman he'd truly wanted in years would turn out to be some bright-eyed, sanctimonious do-gooder. "Don't tell me, you're some sort of undercover nun, out to save the world."
Cyn stiffened her spine, gritted her teeth and glared up at Rambo-to-the-Rescue. "I'm Cynthia Porter, and I'm assistant director at Tomorrow House, a church home for runaway children. Two of our boys, Bobby and Casey, came here tonight to buy drugs. I came here to try to persuade them not to. To try to get Bobby to return to a place where he feels safe.''
Nate could see the zealous determination in her eyes. Rich, warm brown eyes. "The kid will probably come back on his own."
"After what happened here tonight, I'm not so certain. You scared him half to death." Cyn noticed that the man who'd been watching from several tables over had just gotten up and was walking toward them. "Your friend?" she asked.
Nate felt Nick Romero's approach, slanted his eyes just enough to pick up the other man's shadow in his peripheral vision, and nodded affirmatively. He wondered if this woman realized that they'd met before. She'd made no reference to having seen him on the beach. "Romero, meet Cynthia Porter, assistant director at some shelter for runaways."
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