by B. J Daniels
Mitchell nodded and frowned. “That’s what I was afraid of. Jake, this child with Isabella Montenegro, she’s about five years old and—”
“No, dammit. If Abby was alive, she’d have contacted me,” he said adamantly. “Especially if she’d given birth to our baby.”
“She might have reason to believe you betrayed her,” Mitchell said, the words seeming to come hard to him.
Jake looked at the man, speechless.
“Abby might believe you set her up to die in that explosion,” his boss said. “She might have been given some sort of evidence—”
“No!” Jake cried. “She’d have never taken the word of a man like Calderone.”
“What if the evidence came from the FBI?”
Jake stared at him. “What are you saying?”
“Part of the deal with Julio was proof not only that Isabella Montenegro was Abby, but that she’d been the target the night of the explosion. Julio said he knew who’d tried to kill her and why. According to Frank, that evidence points to you.”
“You don’t really believe—”
“It doesn’t matter what I believe,” Mitchell said, cutting him off. “The point is, this woman might believe that you’re a killer. A man who set up his partner and lover six years ago to die. That could explain why, if she is Abby, she didn’t contact you.”
“That’s crazy,” Jake said. Abby was the target? It didn’t make any sense. Two other agents had died that night as well and another was injured. “Why? Why would someone want to kill Abby?”
Mitchell squinted through the cigar smoke. “Maybe only Abby knows that.”
He shook his head. “Wait a minute. If Frank really believes that I was the one who set up Abby, then why would he want me on this case?”
“Frank doesn’t believe you had anything to do with Abby Diaz’s death. Or alleged death. You’re the obvious person to send. Like I said, you, of all people, will know if this woman is Abby.”
Mitchell slid a sheet of paper across the desk.
Jake watched him, his mouth suddenly dry.
“This is the faxed photo Julio sent Frank,” Mitchell said. “It’s the Montenegro child and her mother. I think you’d better take a look, Jake.”
The black and white copy of the photograph was blurry, the resolution poor and the paper even worse. But Jake felt his heart lurch, his breath catching in his throat, the pain sharp and bright, blinding.
He stared down at the woman. Frank was right. Isabella Montenegro looked enough like Abby Diaz to make him ache. But that was the point, wasn’t it? To make him hurt. To make him doubt himself. To make him desperately want to believe Abby was alive.
But was it possible? Could this woman really be Abby? Or an imposter, designed to draw him back into something he’d spent six years trying to forget?
He shifted his gaze from the woman to the child in the photograph. His pulse pounded just at the sight of the little girl. He felt his eyes burn, his heart slamming against his ribs. Oh God, could it be possible? He couldn’t take his eyes from the child’s face. There was something about her. So small, so sweet. And so scared. He could see it in her expression.
He crumpled the sheet of paper in his fist and closed his eyes, his throat tight, the pain unbearable. He told himself she wasn’t his daughter, but she was someone’s, and damned if he’d let whoever was behind this use an innocent child to get to him.
But he knew he was lying to himself. As much as he fought it, he wanted it to be true. He wanted Abby to be alive. He wanted their lost child more than he wanted life itself. And knew he wouldn’t rest until he found out the truth. He just feared he was walking into a trap, one that even if it didn’t get him killed, would destroy him.
“I’ll understand if you don’t want this case,” Mitchell said softly.
Jake did laugh then. He opened his eyes and looked across the table at his boss, his friend, the man who’d saved him from his obsession to destroy Calderone, from his need to destroy himself. “You know damned well you couldn’t keep me off this case now.”
“Then you think there is a chance this woman is Abby?”
Jake shook his head, his words belying the battle going on inside him. “Abby is dead. The woman is an imposter. So is the kid. And I’ll prove it.”
Mitchell let out a long sigh. “I thought you might feel that way.” He regarded Jake for a long moment, his gaze sad, worried. Then he continued as if this was just another assignment. “One of Calderone’s henchmen is already on her trail. Ramon Hernandez.”
Jake knew of Ramon. A crazy, ferret-faced man with a thirst for blood. Calderone’s kind of man.
“Frank is hoping you can find her before Ramon does and keep her alive until you can turn her over to the FBI back in the States,” Mitchell said.
Jake only nodded. He wasn’t worried about finding Isabella Montenegro. After all, finding people was his specialty.
What worried him was what he’d do when he found her. He’d thought he’d buried the past, but one look at the woman in the photo brought it all back. He swore a silent oath. If this woman was part of a ploy to make him believe Abby Diaz was still alive, she would rue the day she ever laid eyes on him.
And if she was Abby?
He wouldn’t let himself think about that now. He had to get to her and the kid before Calderone’s men did.
Chapter Three
Isabella Montenegro cracked the curtains to peer out into the dirt street. This time of the morning the plaza was still empty, the sun barely peeking through the adobe buildings. A dog barked in the distance. Coyotes howled, the sound echoing from the hills surrounding the small Mexican town.
She closed the curtain and glanced back at Elena sitting, half-asleep, on the edge of the bed. Her daughter looked as worried as Isabella felt. They both knew that Calderone’s men were out there and they couldn’t keep evading them much longer.
So why keep running? Why not just give up now? They couldn’t possibly get away from Calderone, one of the most powerful, influential men in Mexico. Not a woman and a child with very little money, no defenses— Other than the knife she’d taken from Julio’s chest, she reminded herself.
She shuddered at the thought. What had she been thinking?
And now she had not only Calderone and his men after her but possibly Jake Cantrell and the FBI.
That all-too-familiar feeling of defenselessness threatened to paralyze her. She ached from it and the fear. Not for herself but Elena. She had to protect her daughter. But how?
She had no idea. Yesterday, she’d felt as if she’d been on automatic pilot. Not thinking. Just moving. She hadn’t taken Julio’s car. Too conspicuous. Instead she’d stopped the first bus she’d seen and boarded, having no idea where she was headed. Did it matter?
The bus had been going northwest, along the U.S. border. She realized that she was headed for the States and that was where she wanted to go. She wasn’t sure how she’d get the two of them across the border, but she knew that once they were across, it might be the one place she could escape Tomaso Calderone.
She and Elena wouldn’t last long in Mexico. Not with Calderone’s connections. She tried not to think past getting to the border, because she feared they’d never get that far.
Right now Ramon and the rest were probably outside waiting for her to open the door of the motel room knowing they had her trapped. No reason not to wait and take her peacefully. Quietly. Calderone would prefer that they not cause a commotion if possible. Not that anyone would help a strange woman and her child. Especially if told she had run away from her husband. From her responsibilities. Isn’t that what had happened the last time?
But what could she do?
She looked around the motel room. It was small, with a makeshift kitchenette complete with cockroaches and beat-up cookware. She opened the cupboards, searching for something, she had no idea what. Just something to buy them a little time. Enough time to escape again. To be free just a little longer.
FINDING ISABELLA MONTENEGRO and her daughter had been child’s play for Jake. Penny had traced the call from the kid to a rundown Mexican motel southeast of Del Rio, Texas. He figured she’d head for the States and try to cross the border at Piedras Negras, since that was the direction she was headed and it was closer than Ciudad Acuna across from Del Rio.
But he also knew that Calderone’s men would figure the same thing. That’s why he decided following Ramon Hernandez and his pack of javelinas would be the easiest, fastest way to get to Montenegro and the kid.
That was how he’d found himself in a tiny Mexican town about seventy miles from the border, watching Ramon’s men wait for the sun to come up and Isabella and Elena Montenegro to come out of a dilapidated motel.
The narrow, one-story strip of five motel rooms faced the square and the church. Jake spotted two of Ramon’s men hiding behind the rock wall of the church, another behind the motel. The men didn’t look too concerned. It seemed pretty obvious that Isabella and her daughter would be coming out at some point and the men would be waiting.
A desert-dust-colored van was parked behind the church, the driver dozing. Ramon was down the street at the cantina having breakfast.
Jake had taken a room in the aging hotel. His window looked out over the square. He had a view of the church, the motel and the cantina. At this distance, he’d be able to take out Ramon’s men easily—and Ramon as well, if it came to that. Then, by way of the balcony and fire escape directly outside his hotel-room window, he could grab the woman and kid.
He preferred not to kill Ramon and his men if possible but no matter what he did, he knew Calderone would hear about it and set an army of men after him. He just hoped to get out of Mexico before they caught up to him. But he wasn’t going without the woman and kid.
Like Ramon’s men, he waited without much concern. He’d checked out the small town and had convinced himself he hadn’t walked into a trap. If it’d been a trap, Ramon’s men would be wired with a bad case of the jitters, looking around anxiously, worried about the former FBI agent.
Instead, they seemed half-asleep and bored. They probably were. How hard could it be to catch a woman and a little kid?
He looked over the desert-hued adobe buildings, the sun grazing the tile rooftops, wondering if his instincts were trustworthy when it came to Calderone. He didn’t want to end up like Daniel Austin, the Texas Confidential agent who was missing and presumed dead. Daniel probably hadn’t thought he was walking into a trap, either. Nor had Abby.
Jake was thinking how Abby Diaz would have been too smart though to get caught in a motel like the one below his window. Nor would she have slept in this late with killers after her. The sun crested, bathing the dusty little town in gold.
He was thinking how Isabella Montenegro might have been made to look like Abby, but she couldn’t be made to think like her, when suddenly, the pace picked up.
No more sleepy little Mexican town. No dozing, waiting for something to happen. In a matter of seconds, the motel-room doors began to fly open followed by loud curses as patrons stumbled out into the square.
Jake stared down at the commotion. Smoke rolled out of the doors of the rooms as if the entire motel was on fire.
He let out a curse, staring in disbelief as he came fully awake himself. Four of the five motel-room doors stood open, smoke pouring out. Couples stood in skimpy clothing or nothing at all, coughing and cursing, several of the men trying to hide their faces.
The motel was a brothel!
The noisy excitement brought onlookers from the cantina and the church and the motel office. Ramon Hernandez was one of the people who rushed out into the square. And the man he’d had watching the back of the motel ran around to see what was happening, as well.
Instantly, Jake saw that he had two big problems. Ramon’s men had blended in with the small crowd gathering outside the motel. Shooting into this bunch was out of the question. So was getting to Isabella Montenegro and the kid without having to confront Ramon and his men. The odds had suddenly changed.
The second problem was that Isabella and Elena Montenegro weren’t among the guests who’d tumbled out of the rooms. In fact, only the one motel-room door was still closed and he could see smoke curling from around its edges.
Where there is smoke there’s—
He swore again and dove for the balcony and fire escape. Either Isabella and the kid were still in the motel room, dying of smoke inhalation or—
He rounded the back corner of the motel in time to see a woman and a small child scurrying down the alley, their heads draped with wet bath towels like veils, smoke trailing after them.
As he passed the small open bathroom window that the pair had just come out of, he realized he hadn’t given the woman enough credit. He shook his head as he took off after her. Who was this woman?
ISABELLA HAD FOUND the flammable kitchen cleaner under the sink. Her gaze had leapt to the bathroom window, then to the metal grate in the ceiling. Standing on the night table with a kitchen knife, she’d been able to pry the grate open. Sure enough, it was an air vent and she suspected it ran the length of the motel. At least she hoped so.
She climbed down and, taking the assortment of threadbare towels from the bathroom, she soaked all but the two largest and thickest with the cheap cleaning fluid. From beside the two-burner gas stove, she’d taken the box of matches and a candle she’d found next to the stove.
“I’m going to need your help,” she’d said to her daughter.
Elena had nodded solemnly and looked up at the open metal grate as if she already knew what her mother needed her to do.
JAKE FOUND the discarded wet towels still reeking of smoke a few blocks from the motel.
But just when he was starting to think Isabella might not be as dumb as he’d first thought, she disappointed him. She made a serious mistake. She tried to flag down a bus.
Didn’t she realize Ramon’s men would stop and search the bus as soon as they realized she wasn’t in the motel room? Apparently not. Either that, or the bus was the best plan she could come up with on short notice.
He wondered how she’d gotten this far as he watched her from a distance, debating what to do. He didn’t have to debate long.
The roar of an engine preceded the dust-colored van he’d seen parked behind the church earlier. One of Ramon’s men was driving, another riding shotgun. Jake guessed the others were in the back. He wondered where Ramon was.
He looked back at the bus and the two figures running to catch up with the slowing vehicle. Dust churned up under the wheels, the tiny sun-soaked particles sparkling against the desolate background.
Jake swore as the van careened around the corner, headed straight for him and the bus. Isabella Montenegro and the kid had just run out of luck.
He lifted the rifle from under the serape he wore and, taking careful aim, squeezed off a shot. Boom. The right front tire blew. The van began to rock and reel out of control. One of the men hurled himself out the passenger side of the van just before it hit a low rock wall with a resounding crash. Steam billowed up from the badly crumpled front end and the engine died with a final groan.
Jake turned. The bus had stopped, the door open. But Isabella and the child were no longer next to it. Had she foolishly gotten in, thinking there was safety in numbers? Surely not.
Off to his right, he caught a glimpse of movement and saw a woman running with a child in her arms. He had to give the woman her due. She could move flat-out when she had to.
He ducked into an alley. He’d cut her off and get her to hell out of this town before she got herself and the kid killed. Or worse, got him killed as well.
ISABELLA ROUNDED a corner at a run, the sound of the gunshots and the crash still ringing in her ears, and skidded to a stop at the sight of the man blocking the alley.
He stood in the middle of the narrow alleyway, boots apart, arms at his side, just yards from her. He wore a serape. She could make out enough of the short-barr
eled rifle’s shape under the thick woven cloth to know he was armed. She knew he was dangerous because she recognized him.
He wore a hat pulled down low. It shaded his face, as did the sunless alley. But she didn’t need to see his face clearly to know who he was.
Right now, he looked like one of those gunfighter heroes from an old spaghetti western. But she didn’t fool herself that this man was any kind of hero.
From the instant she saw him, it happened within seconds. She stopped running and shot a look over her shoulder. She could hear curses and running footfalls and knew Calderone’s men were close behind her.
She hugged Elena to her and swung her gaze back to the man blocking the alley. FBI agent Jake Cantrell.
He hadn’t moved, but he looked like he could in an instant. And would. She heard Calderone’s men, close now. Any moment they’d come around the corner of the building but suddenly they seemed less dangerous than the man facing her.
She started to turn and run back toward Calderone’s men, but didn’t get two strides before strong fingers closed over her arm and jerked her and Elena into a recessed doorway.
“Don’t make a sound,” Jake Cantrell warned as he flattened them against the wall with his body.
She could feel the solid steel of the rifle barrel pressed against one breast, the business end tucked up under her chin, cold and deadly. “Silencio,” she whispered to Elena.
She couldn’t see Jake’s face because of the way he had her pinned to the wall with his body and his weapon. But she could feel the coarse fabric of the serape against her cheek and the stark incongruity of the cold rifle barrel and the warmth where his body pressed against hers. She could also smell him. Dust. Sweat. Cedar. Soap. And an undentifiable dangerous male scent that filled her senses like an admonition.
The running footfalls stopped at the mouth of the alley. She could hear just enough of the hurried discussion among Calderone’s men to know that they were desperate to find her and Elena. Ramon was furious, and if they came back without the woman and child—