Undercover in the Dark

by Ann Jensen

  “If I wanted to hurt you, you’d be hurt,” he growled into her ear. “You need to get yourself settled Wildcat or I’m going to tie you up like a goose on Thanksgiving.”

  “My name is not Wildcat.” She stopped struggling, but Max was still wary.

  “What is it then?”

  “None of your business.”

  Hannibal and Ink chuckled. Max had to respect her spunk. God only knew what she had been through before they got here. It settled something inside him to know they had saved this bright soul from being broken.

  Max eased up his grip a bit. “Okay, Wildcat, if I let you up, are you going to keep fighting or are you going to behave and join the other women so we can figure out how to get you back home?”

  “You’re letting us go?” The shock in her voice hurt, but he couldn’t really blame her.

  “We are.”

  “You swear?”

  “I do.”

  “Then I’ll behave.” The words sounded like they came out of gritted teeth. Max laughed. He slowly got off of her, ready for another attack.

  The battered, naked woman stood with the dignity of a queen, her chin held high. She was his darkest fantasy come to life. Red hair like a wild crown around her head. Naked and alone in a room with three strange men, she showed no fear.

  He had never been more tempted to go back on his word. He wanted to keep her all for himself.

  Chapter 3

  It’s funny how sometimes the people you’d take a bullet for are the ones behind the trigger.

  * * *

  Avery had been wrong when she thought she’d seen the worst of humanity. The shivering, broken wrecks of the women prisoners huddling at the edges of the room were nothing she could have dreamed. Bile was bitter in the back of her throat. Her nightmares would get an upgrade that night.

  How long would it have been before she would have broken? Pride said weeks, but a scared part of her wondered if she could have lasted that long. From the bruises and cuts covering their bodies, Avery didn’t want to think of the systematic torture and rape these women had endured.

  She had only been beaten and captured for a few hours, yet already she knew she would have trouble. The thought of letting someone grab her wrists or getting into the back of a car with someone left her cold. The journey back from wherever these women had gone mentally was going to be a longer and bumpier ride.

  The men walking around in their black BDUs and skull face masks didn’t appear to be any form of law enforcement. Functioning as a unit, they had gotten the victims gathered into the main room. Something about the way they moved and carried their weapons screamed ex-military to Avery. The way they flawlessly worked together meant they weren’t strangers brought together quickly. Could they be mercenaries?

  Why had they attacked this place and freed her? They were stern with the captives but not abusive or abrasive. They obviously were looking for something. Men carried out computers and boxes to white vans, that had no license plates, in a steady stream.

  The intent was obviously to empty the place of all evidence. Even the dead bodies were being taken away. The part of her that was an agent snarled at the obvious cover-up. Would they get rid of the witnesses with the same precision they got rid of everything else?

  No.

  Their rescuers carried their illegal weapons like professionals and treated the women with dignity. They had found clothing or at least sheets for each of the prisoners to cover up with. Who would have thought learning to wrap a toga for her high-school play would be so useful someday? As she helped the women get dressed in the makeshift garments, hope solidified in her chest that these men really meant to release them.

  It didn’t stop her from trying to pick up every clue she could about the mystery men. So far she had noticed several of the men, including the man she wrestled with downstairs, had scruffy beards sticking out beneath their facemasks. They were also ridiculously in-shape, and many had tattoos on what little skin was visible. Their artwork was quality, not prison grade, but so far she hadn’t seen enough to positively identify anyone later.

  One man was giving them all water bottles. Avery checked to make sure it hadn’t been tampered with before chugging down the liquid.

  A chill went up her spine as another man in black entered the room. She would have recognized his confident stride and dangerous grace even if the beard and light blue eyes hadn’t given him away. This was the man who had pinned her so easily in the basement. The memory of his big frame holding her down shouldn’t have excited her. But she couldn’t deny wanting a second chance to wrestle, maybe with him naked as well.

  “What’s the plan?” His voice held anger that Avery understood. He pushed up his sleeves as if ready to fight. On his right arm was probably the most beautiful tattoo she had ever seen. A motorcycle so realistic, the colors so vibrant, it looked like it might drive right off his muscled forearm.

  The other man turned to face him. “Clean’s crews already have the bodies and we aren’t bothering with anything else. We found money, computers, and enough prescription drugs to start our own pharmacy but Tek says there is no sign of Mitchel at either location.”

  Was Clean or Tek one of these men’s call sign? Avery knew enough military men to know they often had ridiculous nicknames. She stored that and the other information for later.

  “And the girls?” the one with the cool tattoo asked.

  “Any of them sane enough to call the cops after we’re long gone?”

  Not wanting to miss an opportunity at more information, she stood up. “I can.”

  The blue eyes of the man she had fought locked with hers. His gaze roamed her body, and she might have blushed if the situation wasn’t so crazy. He had seen her completely naked earlier, but it felt like his gaze was roaming up and down her makeshift outfit like he was trying to see underneath. He reached his gloved hand into his pocket and pulled out a cellphone.

  He was going to give her a way to call for help, just like that? Maybe she had misread these men. Would criminals care if these women had a way to call for help?

  “Screen’s locked but you can hit the emergency call after we’ve left.” His voice was a growl, as if he was trying to put a threat into the last few words.

  Crazy thoughts raced through her mind. She didn’t want this sexy hero to be a bad guy. Maybe they were undercover FBI or some other organization trying to take down this organization but not wanting to be recognized. If they were connected to law enforcement, then they would have been briefed on her cover and maybe told she might be here.

  “I’m Trisha,” she gave her cover name, hoping one of them would slip and give her more information. Maybe if she put on the helpless girl vibe, they would slip and tell her their names. She did her best to put an apology for her earlier attack into her eyes. He raised an eyebrow as if calling bullshit on her sweet act, but she just smiled.

  The first man spoke up, breaking their staring contest. “Wait as long as you can—an hour would be great, but ten minutes is enough if you can’t.”

  Avery nodded. Mr. Blue-eyes spun away, shook his head and left her with his buddy. She needed to know if she was dealing with criminals or law enforcement. She cleared her throat and clutched onto the phone. “Can I ask you something?”

  “You can ask.” The look in the man’s eyes said clearly he wouldn’t be answering anything he didn’t want to.

  “Are you guys FBI?” she asked more to see his reaction.

  The man burst out laughing, and she had her answer. These guys were criminals who had no respect for the law. She glared at him, and he reeled it in. “No. Just concerned citizens.”

  He strolled away from her, still chuckling under his breath. Well, screw them. The sounds of their motorcycles and cars pulling away was like a trigger to the over twenty women huddling in the room. Soon they were crying and rocking like wounded animals. She couldn’t wait an hour. Hell, she couldn’t even wait five minutes. These women needed help now.

>   The sound of sirens filled Avery with relief. Selfish as it was, she needed to hand the responsibility for keeping all these women safe and contained to someone else. When one had tried to run off naked, the temptation to let her go had almost been overwhelming. She was strong, but the events of the day had used up all her energy.

  The set of police sweats she had been given helped her feel more at ease. Without that small comfort, she didn’t think she would have been able to get through all the questions. She had run through the details of what had happened several times already and guessed it would be a hundred or more times before the questions stopped.

  Any time they paused the interrogation, Avery asked again if they had any information on her partner or when anyone from the DEA would show up. She had tried calling Nate on one of the officer’s phones, but much to her dismay no one answered. Dread was settling in her stomach that the bastard Mateo had been telling the truth, and her partner was dead.

  “Avery Perez?” A clipped male voice called from behind her.

  “Yes.” She turned to see a man in an FBI windbreaker.

  He reached out to grab her arm, and she stepped back.

  “What the hell?” She couldn’t deal with anyone touching her right now. The bruises from earlier still throbbed in time with her pulse, and she was barely holding it together after her adrenaline started to drop when the police arrived.

  “You are under arrest for the murder of Nathan Chatham.” The man gripped her wrist and tried to twist it behind her back.

  Something snapped inside her, and she lashed out. This couldn’t be happening. She couldn’t let them cuff her. Had to break free. She wouldn’t be a prisoner again. A haze dropped over her eyes and she kicked, feeling her bare foot impact with the person trying to chain her up.

  Shouts bounced off her ears as she twisted out of the grip of another person trying to pin her down. What were they doing! How dare they attack her?

  A primal scream ripped out of her throat as she charged the nearest of her attackers. Pain like viscous ice tore through her body as her muscles lost control.

  A taser.

  She tried to move, but blows rained down on her, each hurt melting into the next. She had to escape. She had to!

  Chapter 4

  “When I’m good, I’m very good. But when I’m bad I’m better” – Mae West

  * * *

  Present Day

  * * *

  Max sat at the Clubhouse bar, sipping his scotch and trying to relax. It was Friday afternoon. And he was looking forward to the distraction the party that night would provide. His mission to see every one of the women they had rescued from the Recluse’s compound taken care of was almost over. He had spent the last year making sure each woman was safe and hopefully on the path to healing. All except one.

  Trisha, the hellcat from the basement, had vanished without a trace. Records were clear; the police had been called as soon as they had left. He had to assume that was her. Somewhere between the phone call and the police arriving she had vanished. The police had no record of her or anyone matching her description being brought to the hospital. He had spent more fruitless nights trying to search for Trisha than he was comfortable admitting. Finding the last, and most interesting, of the captives had become an obsession.

  He needed to find her. This mission had to be a success. During the years he had worked for the black side of the government, there had been too many compromises that had left his soul stained. Ensuring those women got the help and support they needed wouldn’t clear his debt to the world, but it helped lift the weight of guilt.

  Helping while remaining anonymous wasn’t easy. In some cases, he had found their families after the lazy fucks in the government gave up. Others he set up in rehab using a charity to front his actions. And in one or two cases, he sent them to a deprogramming expert he knew in Texas, in the hopes he could help them find their way back to whoever they had been before the brainwashing and abuse they had endured.

  But his Wildcat, she was a mystery. He didn’t have any sort of idea of who Trisha had been, or where she’d gone. It was driving him insane. It wasn’t like he needed her for himself.

  He didn’t have to talk to her. Or wrestle with her again. Max definitely shouldn’t do any of the things his dirty mind slipped into his dreams several nights a week. But he had to know she was okay. Hell, she probably would want nothing to do with him if he found her, but he couldn’t let it go.

  “Hey, Daddio. Nice wig chop.” The woman’s voice came from behind him. He spun, trying to find the source of the odd words.

  Standing there in one of the most ridiculous outfits he’d ever seen was Cami, his Brother Tek’s Old Lady. Her purple hair was up in a high ponytail. And she wore a collared white sweater. With, he swore to God, a poodle skirt flaring out from under it. He looked down at her feet and, yes, she had on saddle shoes. He was glad his Brother was happy, but his old lady was one step away from the loony bin.

  She was the only person here who had known him before he had faked his own death to escape the nightmare that had been his life. Their chance encounter a few months ago had thrown him for a loop. She brought up memories he preferred to forget. To his shame, he had tried to run her off when they met again.

  But his Brother Tek’s crazy had matched hers perfectly and now the two were sickeningly happy. Both got off on the strange role playing she seemed to pop into and out of at a moment’s notice. More power to them. Who was he to complain about his Brother finding his happy?

  Max raised an eyebrow. “Wig chop? What the hell is that, sweetie?” He tried to remember not to treat her like a child but to him she would always be the spunky teen hacker he had first met.

  She waved her hand around her head. “Haircut? You know? You’re all shaved and your hair’s short. When did you decide to get rid of the wild man look?”

  Max ran his hand through his now short hair. After the wild ride to the hospital a few weeks ago to help his Brother Sharp’s Old Lady Pixie deliver her baby, he had a wake-up call. The image of a small child at the hospital clinging to his mom’s leg after getting a look at him stuck in his thoughts.

  He really didn’t give a shit what anybody thought about his appearance. But when his beard and hair were so scary, small children had to be carried away from you crying in fear it was time to get to the barber.

  “It was time for a change.” He shrugged. No reason to over share.

  She cocked her head as if not believing him, but let it go. “I’m glad I caught you before Tek and I went out for a ride.” Cami pulled a file out from the messenger bag slung across her shoulder and tossed it up onto the bar top. “Sorry, it took me so long. But you know with Pixie going into labor and everything. I forgot for a few days. But there’s the info on your girl.”

  It took Max a few seconds to remember Cami had offered to help with his search for the mystery woman. He grabbed the file and flipped it open. Pictures and pages of printouts filled the folder.

  “You found her?” He shouldn’t be surprised, but he was. Staring out from the photos was the woman he had been searching for. Different hair colors and clothing styles, looks so different that you wouldn’t know they were the same person if you didn’t look closely enough.

  “Yeah. I’m not sure you should keep looking for her.” Cami bit her lip as if debating about saying something.

  Max looked up from the pictures and gave her his full attention. He would spend the night studying the contents, but she had already read it all. Learning whatever she thought was important now would be helpful.

  “Tell me what you know about Trisha.”

  “Well, f-first thing is her n-name’s not Trisha.”

  Cami had a stutter that intensified when she was stressed or in large social situations. It’s appearance now meant he really needed to know what she was hesitating over.

  “Okay. I know that is what she said but it could have been a nickname.” In less than a week she had found more than
Tek, and the several other people he had looking into it had discovered in the last year. “How did you find all this?”

  “You k-know, I’ve got my sources.” She shrugged. “Trisha Garcia is a cover identity. T-there is a giant fake history in Mexico. But everything she did here in the States is all shadowy and had to be pulled out of some of the darker places that I search.”

  “Mexico?” Max held off on asking about her real identity, trying to puzzle out something. Cover identities were usually created for a reason, and that could help him figure her out.

  “Yeah.”

  “She’s got the look. But she isn’t from there.” Max tried to place his finger on what felt off. He remembered their fight. And everything about that time in the basement. The woman hadn’t had an accent. Usually in stressful situations, whatever your birth accent was, comes out in force. She also hadn’t cursed at him in Spanish. In his experience, people under stress cursed in their native language.

  “No, she’s from New J-Jersey.”

  “So you found her real identity?”

  The eye roll she gave him was cute. “Yeah, Avery Perez. Ex-DEA agent. She w-worked in the same office as Agent D-Devin.”

  Max understood now why Cami was so nervous. Agent Devin had been the SOB who had made her life hell for years. The fact that he had died recently in a car wreck hadn’t lessened her dislike of the man.

  “You said ex?”

  Cami reached into the file and pulled out a printout of a web news story and handed it to him. The headline read: Mountain Murderess on the Loose.

  Max scanned the article. Her jailbreak during transport had left two guards injured. A fuzzy unrecognizable mug shot of Avery with orange-blonde hair was included. It described that she was accused of killing her partner as well as two inmates. She had been in the process of being transported to a maximum-security prison when the van had engine trouble and she had managed to escape.