Caught in the Act

by Jill Sorenson

  This wound was nothing. When the numbness wore off, he’d probably be able to walk out of the hospital.

  While he was in the recovery room, wondering if Chuy or Armando had been apprehended, and hoping Adam’s side of things had gone better than his, Special Agent in Charge Michelson appeared at the doorway. Judging by his grave expression, this conversation wouldn’t end well.

  “Sonia Barreras died in surgery,” Michelson said, taking a seat in the only chair.

  Ian let his head fall back against the pillow, closing his eyes. “Fuck,” he whispered, wishing it had been him. If he’d just waited for backup, or proceeded with a little more caution, she probably wouldn’t have been shot. Instead, he’d chosen an aggressive approach. After he watched Chuy drag Maria to his office, a gun to her head, he’d completely lost his mind. He hadn’t been able to focus on anything but saving her.

  “I want to apologize to the Barreras family,” Ian said, wracked by guilt. Before this, he’d only thought of Sonia in an insulting sexual context.

  “I’ll let you know if we locate anyone.”

  “The suspects …?”

  “Not in custody.” He gave Ian a quick rundown of the situation, explaining that Moreno’s crew had been shaken up by the bust. Several of his top guys had been arrested, and many others had scattered. This kind of discord created a very dangerous situation, in which upstart crews and ambitious drug dealers scrambled for positioning.

  “I’ve spoken to Officer Pettigrew of the CBP,” Michelson continued, “but I’d like to hear your side of the story.”

  Ian stared at his superior, feeling pressure behind his eyes. Michelson was usually a hard-ass, tough to the point of unkindness. Ian had anticipated scalding words and a hot temper, not this quiet calm.

  Ian started at the beginning, explaining his past with Maria and detailing every mistake he’d made over the course of the undercover investigation. It was a slow, awkward confession. Maybe he was digging his own grave, but he didn’t care. His reckless bumbling had led to a civilian’s death. The least he could do now was take full responsibility.

  Michelson accepted Ian’s disclosure with few questions and almost no visible reaction. “Do you have any idea where Ms. Santos went?”

  Ian shook his head. “She said she was going to help Armando. Maybe she’s afraid to speak to the police. I hope she didn’t get taken hostage.”

  “She’s a primary witness, so her cooperation would be helpful. Even if Pena didn’t mean to shoot Sonia Barreras, as you suspect, we want him prosecuted to the fullest. A statement from her could make a difference in the case against him.”

  “Assuming he’s caught.”

  “He’ll be caught,” Michelson promised, his eyes narrow.

  “I can find Maria. I’ll talk to her.”

  Michelson’s mouth turned down, as if he was about to say something distasteful. “Tomorrow I’ll need you to write up everything you just told me and sign a sworn statement. And, although it kills me to do this, because you’re a damned good cop, I have to ask for your resignation.”

  The request was nothing less than Ian expected, but it stung. It stung hard.

  “I’m sorry, Foster. You disobeyed a direct order by not waiting for backup. Failing to communicate integral details and lying to your fellow officers about your undercover activities are also grounds for dismissal. Although I believe your intentions were good, I just can’t excuse the behavior.”

  Ian’s throat tightened. He could only nod, resigned to his fate.

  Officer Li walked Kari back to the detainment area and left her there, alone.

  She was offered a meal, which she declined. She didn’t know if she was under arrest or under suspicion. She was in limbo. Over and over again, she pictured Sasha’s face. Her hazy blue eyes and birdlike limbs, distorted in death.

  Kari’s heart twisted with grief. She pushed aside her misery and concentrated on loathing Adam. Hate was an easier emotion to deal with. He’d used her. Every kind word he’d spoken was a lie, every touch a manipulation. If she hadn’t gone to him for help, Sasha might still be alive.

  After what seemed like days, Officer Li returned for her.

  “Am I under arrest?”

  “No,” she said, taking her back to the interrogation room. “I’ve been asked to explain the situation to you and wait for further instructions.”

  “I’m not free to go?”

  “No, ma’am.”

  Although Kari didn’t feel like sitting, she took the chair across from Li.

  Li cut to the chase. “While you were in the lanes, officers mobile-scanned the cargo of your van and found a figure. The equipment isn’t made to detect humans, dead or alive, so only a vague shape was visible. Officer Cortez assumed it was an assailant.”

  She stared at the surface of the table, numb.

  “At the same time, Maria Santos contacted another officer. She had overheard Chuy Pena say you were a decoy.”

  “A decoy,” she repeated flatly.

  “Pena set you up to be a distraction. We had no choice but to detain you.”

  She lifted her chin. “Did he kill Sasha?”

  “I don’t know. She didn’t have any obvious wounds. It looks like an accidental overdose, but we’re waiting on the autopsy.”

  Kari shook her head, refusing to accept that. Moreno must have found out she’d talked to a border cop, and he’d ordered Chuy to get rid of Sasha. “I shouldn’t have asked Adam for help. I wish I’d never met him!”

  Officer Li’s eyes softened with sympathy. “I’m sorry for your loss, but I don’t think that your sister’s death was part of the plan.”

  She buried her face in her hands, reeling from the impact. It was too much to process, too disturbing to fathom. Her natural instinct was to assign blame. She wanted to indict Adam, Chuy, Moreno … herself.

  Kari’s baby sister was dead. Someone was responsible. Someone had to pay.

  “Where’s Adam?” she asked, straightening.

  “He left the port with a group of drug enforcement agents. They scanned another suspicious vehicle and found the real shipment within minutes. The team followed the suspects to the delivery location and made a series of important arrests.”

  “Was Moreno one of them?”

  “No.”

  “That figures,” she said, bitter.

  Li gave her an even stare. “Officer Cortez tried to take down Moreno and was shot by a sniper in the process.”

  Kari’s lungs seized. She couldn’t draw breath. “Is he okay?”

  “I know he’s been hospitalized. I don’t have word on his condition.”

  “Oh my God,” she said, clapping a hand over her mouth.

  “There was another shootout at the Hotel del Oro. An undercover officer and a civilian were wounded in the crossfire.”

  Her vision swam with tears. “A civilian?”

  “The receptionist. She died in surgery this afternoon. Pena and his partner, Armando Villarreal, got away. Maria Santos is still missing.”

  “Oh my God,” she repeated, overwhelmed by the back-to-back blows. Her sister dead, Adam shot, Maria gone.

  “Until the suspects are apprehended, your life may be in danger. My supervisor has recommended secured lodgings.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “We want you to stay in a safe room at the police station. They’re designed for witnesses who need temporary protection.”

  “Temporary?”

  “At least for tonight.”

  The devastating trauma of the past few hours, paired with Officer Li’s irritatingly reasonable attitude, made Kari snap. She leapt to her feet, pacing the small room. This was all her fault. She’d put Maria at risk.

  She’d bargained with her sister’s life—and lost.

  Smothering a sob, she turned to face the wall, wanting to beat her fists against it. Her grief was so heavy she almost couldn’t hold herself up. She wanted to destroy Chuy Pena, to tear Carlos Moreno apart with her
bare hands. She wished for superhuman strength to match the intense rage and relentless sorrow that welled up inside her.

  “Is there someone you’d like to call? A close friend or relative?”

  “No,” she said, staring at the blank space. Sasha had been her entire world. Their parents were dead. All of her living relatives were strangers in the Czech Republic. Everyone else had drifted away. “There’s no one.”

  20

  Maria walked across the pedestrian bridge after midnight.

  She entered Tijuana with extreme caution, hugging an oversized sweatshirt around her trembling body. After a long day of dodging police cars and watching out for Chuy, she was exhausted. She’d bought a change of clothes at a thrift shop and boarded a random bus, riding it through a chaotic blur of strange neighborhoods.

  Sonia’s face haunted her. Armando could die from his wounds. Foster had been shot.

  Maria felt awful. She should have left the hotel and called Agent Foster from a pay phone. She should have been more careful. She should never have come to the United States. Both of her visits, though short, had ended in tragedy.

  Keeping her head down and her feet moving, she headed toward the bus station. She had nowhere to go but home.

  Although the circumstances were far from ideal, she was looking forward to the reunion. She missed her brother and sisters. She hadn’t seen her mother in four years. While she was there, she could see about delivering Armando’s letter. It was addressed to a school in Taxco, about a day’s travel from Maria’s hometown.

  The transit center was only a few miles from the border. She skirted around drug dealers and prostitutes, minding her own business. The city’s seedy underground didn’t bother her; she’d lived here for several years and knew how to avoid trouble. Traveling on foot at night was dangerous but necessary. She couldn’t risk being spotted.

  Chuy wasn’t the type of man who took responsibility for his actions. If he was still on the loose, he’d be looking for revenge. She’d given Foster the tip, caused the rift with Armando, and tagged him with pepper spray.

  He’d shot Sonia because of her.

  Shivering, Maria picked up the pace, hurrying to the dubious sanctuary of the bus station. Maybe Chuy was in jail, or otherwise engaged, rather than searching for her. She hoped she could get a quick ticket to the capital, because she felt like an easy target in Tijuana, Moreno’s stronghold.

  It was late when she arrived, the darkest hour of the night. There would be a dozen buses leaving for central Mexico at dawn. Resigned to wait, she put a few quarters into a pay phone near the women’s restroom, calling Kari.

  Her cell phone went straight to voice mail. Glancing around warily, Maria left a short message. “I’m okay. I hope you are, too. I’m sorry for not calling sooner.” After a moment’s hesitation, she whispered, “Te amo,” then and hung up, her eyes moist. Kari had been a good friend and Maria would miss her.

  For the next few hours she dozed on a plastic bench at the station. Her cheek felt swollen and her stomach ached from the blows Chuy had dealt her, but the pain was distant. So were her emotions. Maybe, once she boarded the bus, or fell into her mother’s arms, she would let down her guard and weep.

  At dawn she bought a ticket to Mexico City. The girl at the counter gave her a curious look but didn’t ask questions. In places like Tijuana, domestic violence victims weren’t uncommon and most people looked the other way.

  She walked down the terminal and into the loading area, eyes averted. A group of uniformed drivers were gathered in the parking lot, puffing on cigarettes. The smell of smoke and motor oil and smog made her dizzy with nausea. She realized that she hadn’t eaten since breakfast—yesterday.

  She thought about turning around to grab a snack, because she had twenty minutes to kill before departure. But she also became aware of approaching footsteps, the distinctive shuffle of a man’s worn boot heels. Pulse accelerating, she made a sharp detour, ducking between two buses. The man in the cowboy boots passed by, paying no attention to her.

  Maria placed a hand over her heart, relieved.

  She was about to come out of her hiding place when another figure appeared, blocking her exit. This one hadn’t made a sound. Gasping, she whirled around, ready to run in the opposite direction.

  Chuy Pena was standing there.

  His cohort rushed forward, grabbing her by the arms. She was trapped between them, bracketed by tall buses on both sides. She didn’t dare cause a scene. If she called out for help, they would kill her and anyone who came to her aid.

  “Where’s Armando?” Chuy asked, stepping close enough to touch the mark on her face.

  Maria turned her head to the side. “I don’t know.”

  While the other man wrenched her arms behind her back, Chuy yanked the purse off her shoulder, breaking the thin leather strap. After a rudimentary search, he tossed it aside. Change spilled out, rolling under the buses.

  Maria stared at the silver coins on the stained asphalt, thinking about how hard she’d worked for every one.

  “I know you helped him get away, puta. Your apron was in the bushes across the street from the hotel.”

  “I tied it around his waist to stop the bleeding,” she said, meeting Chuy’s gaze. He looked mentally imbalanced, as if the past twenty-four hours had taken its toll. Did he feel bad about shooting Sonia, or were all women interchangeable to him?

  “Don’t lie to me,” he growled, clutching her throat. His thumb dug into her larynx, silencing her. With his other hand, he reached into the waistband of her jeans, finding Armando’s letter. “What’s this?”

  Although it was futile, Maria twisted sideways, trying to free her arms.

  Chuy stopped choking her long enough to tear open the envelope. He scanned the contents with interest. Maria had memorized the address but she hadn’t read the message, so she had no idea what it said. “Shady, two-faced bastard,” he muttered, putting the letter in his pocket. He smiled at Maria, sending a chill down her spine. “I’ll deliver this to his daughter. Might even give her a little something extra.”

  “No,” she whispered, tears rushing to her eyes.

  He jerked his chin toward the back of the bus, indicating that their conversation was finished.

  The man holding her dragged her down the narrow space between the buses. Chuy’s SUV was parked nearby. She kicked her legs and screamed for help, too terrified to worry about innocent bystanders. He shoved her into the backseat, unfazed by her struggles. Someone covered her face with a wet rag, smothering her cries. Chemical fumes burned her eyes as the hand clamped down harder over her nose and mouth, suffocating her brutally.

  Her body went limp and darkness took her.

  Kari woke up in a strange bed.

  She sat forward, blinking at her surroundings. The safe house looked like an anonymous hotel room. Groaning, she pushed the tangled hair out of her face. Her eyes were swollen from crying and her head ached.

  Sasha was dead.

  She’d finally surrendered to emotional exhaustion around two in the morning. Now it was seven o’clock.

  Sasha was dead.

  Just like yesterday, the realization kept hitting. Every few seconds the horrible awareness would wash over her. It was like a monster’s footsteps in her psyche, an approaching Godzilla. Soul-rattling, relentless.

  Dead. Dead. Dead.

  The secured lodgings were bland and sanitized, with twin beds and an adjoining bath. She’d showered last night and washed her undergarments. Her panties fluttered by the air-conditioning vents, hanging from the window blinds.

  She reached for the cell phone on her nightstand, noting that there were no missed calls from Adam. Instead of dialing his number, she listened to a message from Maria, becoming frantic with worry. If Maria was okay, why was she calling from an international location at four o’clock in the morning?

  Tossing the phone down, Kari rose from the bed and turned off the air conditioner, grabbing her dry underwear on the way t
o the bathroom. She wrinkled her nose as she put on her outer clothes, which were still soiled. The image of Sasha in a body bag came rushing back to her, along with the faint smell of death and latex.

  Her stomach lurched and she stumbled sideways, light-headed.

  She’d been given a meal last night, courtesy of the San Diego Police Department, but Kari had only choked down a few bites. Now she felt a gnawing ache in her empty belly, a warning that she needed to eat something to get through the day.

  Leaving the bathroom, she proceeded to make do with the only provisions available: two single servings of coffee. She was glad she’d managed to get a few hours of rest, but she couldn’t say she felt better.

  While she was having coffee, a uniformed officer delivered breakfast. Again, it was standard fast-food fare. Kari ate most of her microwaved eggs and half of a soggy pancake, trying to refuel.

  A short time later another officer came to visit, introducing himself as Special Agent Nolan. He wore casual clothes and a badge on his belt. They sat down at the only table, which was round and off balance. Kari didn’t offer him coffee.

  Nolan cleared his throat. “We’ve received intelligence that both Carlos Moreno and Jesus ‘Chuy’ Pena have crossed the border into Mexico. Wanted criminals, especially drug cartel members, tend to do that. There’s always the possibility that they’ll return to the U.S., but it’s not likely while the heat is on.”

  “Does that mean I’m not in danger?” Kari asked.

  “No, but it means the risk is lessened. The recent arrests have broken up Moreno’s crew and he can’t control things as easily from a distance. Some of the cartels, including his, also have strict codes against killing women, but there are exceptions.”

  Kari swallowed hard, trying not to picture Sasha’s dead body again.

  “Ordering a hit against you would be frowned upon in their circles. I personally don’t believe Moreno would jeopardize his tenuous position by making such an unpopular move. Chuy Pena is another story. His behavior is hard to predict.”