by Julie Leto
“Help! Police!”
Frankie grabbed Marisela’s hand and yanked her farther into the inky alley. An iron gate stopped their direct escape route, but Frankie launched himself to the top, then pulled Marisela over with him.
“What the hell was that about?” he asked, panting, once they were on the other side.
“I don’t know,” Marisela said, her equilibrium still wavering. “But I think Yizenia may have just saved our lives.”
Eleven
FRANKIE EYED MARISELA with utter disbelief. “Have you lost your mind?”
Marisela stalked away from him, her entire body shaking with adrenaline. Breathlessly, she paced circles in the dim lighting from a busted streetlamp, only half listening to the scream echoing from the courtyard near the alley. The body had been found.
Yet Frankie looked like he’d just strolled off the dance floor—heated, but cool.
Marisela, with blood still smeared on her face, blended into the shadows near the stoop of a walkup brownstone while Frankie phoned Max.
The police roared past them, and yet, for the split second that the blue and red lights flashed over Marisela’s skin, her breath caught in her throat. They needed to get the hell out of here.
The Titan cavalry arrived in a dark sedan. Dressed in grimy T-shirts, jeans, and ball caps, the Titan investigative team looked like any other guys about to work on a buddy’s car. Marisela dashed across the sidewalk and slid into the backseat of the sedan, waited for Frankie to climb in after her, then sucked in a calming breath when they finally tore away from the curb.
“Interesting night?” Max asked from the driver’s seat, reaching over to hand Marisela a box of antiseptic wipes before handing Frankie the plug end of the universal charger he’d already connected to the sedan’s conduit. Frankie immediately pulled out Parker Manning’s phone.
“Seems someone doesn’t like our sniffing around,” Marisela replied as she wiped blood off her face, hands and neck.
Frankie leaned forward to address his question to Max. “You think Yizenia could have hired muscle to get us to back off?”
“Were they Latino?” Max asked.
“No,” Marisela answered.
Frankie stared at her. “My cousin, Segundo, has red hair and green eyes,” he reminded her.
“Your cousin Segundo is a freak,” Marisela replied, though her opinion had nothing to do with Segundo’s lack of typical Hispanic features. At three years old, he’d become famous in the neighborhood for biting the heads off of lizards. As he got older, his taste for blood only got worse.
“Not arguing with you on that, but you had no idea if those guys were Latino or not.”
“Do you think they were?” she challenged.
Frankie smirked. “No.”
“Then I doubt Yizenia was involved,” Max concluded. “I’ve been checking up on her. She doesn’t trust easily, especially not people who aren’t Spanish-speaking. That’s probably why she’s set up shop in Jamaica Plain.”
“Yizenia was there tonight,” Marisela insisted. “I can feel it. She shot that guy. She saved our asses.”
“Marisela, por favor. No hables como una loca,” Frankie insisted. “Why would she help us?”
“I don’t know.”
“Then drop it,” Frankie ordered. “Yizenia wasn’t the shooter. Not this time.”
“Then who was?” she countered. “Some friendly neighbor who just happens to have a precision rifle propped beside their floral curtains? Just because Yizenia helping us is unlikely doesn’t mean it isn’t true.”
Frankie didn’t argue farther. He couldn’t. The mystery shooter had saved Frankie from a bullet. Marisela couldn’t buy that this was some random act of violent kindness. The hit was too precise.
“What’s this about?” Max asked.
Frankie cursed, but didn’t respond, eyeing Marisela with a challenge. If she wanted to pursue her theory, she’d have to do the explaining. She couldn’t deny that her theory was a wild one. But Marisela had seen Yizenia’s work twice now, first with Craig Bennett and then with Evan Cole. She was starting to recognize Yizenia’s style. The angle of shot she preferred. The sound of her weapon.
“So these guys jump us,” Marisela began, leaning forward between the sedan’s bucket seats. “It was a total setup—the kid messing with the car, the friends waiting in the dark alley. They take our guns right off the bat, but don’t try to shoot until they’re getting their asses kicked. Seems to me that they didn’t plan to kill us, that they were just supposed to deliver a message. Scare us off.”
“Or they could have been neighborhood thugs who didn’t like us sniffing around their turf,” Frankie offered.
“Or they could have been hired by someone who doesn’t want us sniffing around the death of Rebecca Manning,” Marisela countered.
“Or maybe Yizenia broke with tradition and paid off some local thugs to try and scare us off her tail,” Frankie shot back.
Marisela shook her head. “By shooting one of her own guys? Look, we came to Jamaica Plain to find Parker Manning. Maybe he didn’t appreciate my disappearing act at the bar. Maybe he figured out that I swiped his phone. He had plenty of time to call in some friends. Maybe he already had them on call and was just waiting for us to harass him again. Yizenia couldn’t have set this all up. She had no way of knowing where we’d be.”
Frankie’s grin was infuriating. “Exactly. And if she didn’t know, she wouldn’t have been there to pop that jerk before he had a chance to shoot me in the back.”
“Unless she caught wind of us looking for her. Maybe she was tailing us the whole time and we didn’t know.”
With an eye roll, Frankie shook his head indulgently, but didn’t bother to respond. Marisela grunted, threw herself back against the seat, and crossed her arms over her chest. Maybe he was right. They’d been watching for tails—they always did—but that didn’t mean they didn’t miss her. There were a lot of people around and Yizenia was reportedly an expert at disguise. She could have been just a few steps behind them the entire time, watching them, learning about them, jumping in when it looked like Frankie and Marisela were about to bite the dust.
But why?
“Have you found Bradley Hightower yet?” she asked Max, who’d remained silent regarding Marisela’s theories.
“Not exactly. We learned that he did claim his inheritance shortly after his parents’ deaths. We found an old friend who claimed Brad wanted to start over with a new life. And that he missed the States?”
“You think he has a new identity?” she asked.
“Very good chance,” Max confirmed. “We’re digging into his brother’s life. Raymond Hightower also took his inheritance and tripled it. He moved to Switzerland. Before he died, he was a high-living entrepreneur and knew a lot of people all over the Continent. Chances are, if he kept in touch with his brother, one of his friends will know. Brynn ordered our Swiss office to make this investigation priority one. If Bradley Hightower is still alive, he’s in great danger.”
“If we can’t find him, how can Yizenia?”
Max just shook his head. They had no idea what network she could tap into. For all they knew, Bradley Hightower was already dead.
“Are we going to try and save him, too?” Frankie asked, sounding annoyed.
“Craig Bennett wants us to,” Max replied.
Marisela sat forward. “He’s talking?”
Max maneuvered the car into one of the many tunnels running around and through Boston. Traffic slowed and the glow of the headlights reflected a glittery gold off the tiles lining the tunnel. “He’s still in serious condition, but the moment he could say a few words, his wife called for Ian. Bennett was able to verify a few interesting facts. For one, he insists Evan Cole was never there that night at the campground.”
Marisela’s stomach clenched. If Cole had been innocent, then why was he marked for death? “What else did he say?”
“He couldn’t say much, except he insisted tha
t while Evan never showed up, Rebecca Manning certainly did. She showed up on her own, uninvited. He claims she was furious when she left, but very much alive. His main concern was about Brad Hightower. He ordered us to find him before Yizenia did. Or, we find Yizenia and stop her.”
Frankie clucked his tongue. “Neither job will be easy.”
Max grinned. “Nothing in this business ever is.”
Except, perhaps, finding Tracy. She still might offer some insight no one else had.
“Did he say anything about Tracy?” she asked.
Max shook his head. “Ian didn’t ask. Bennett barely had enough energy to tell us about Evan and Rebecca. We’ll interview him again tomorrow.”
The minute they emerged from the tunnel, Max took the nearest exit and stopped alongside one of the many parks dotting the Boston landscape. The phone had gotten enough juice so they could make the call, though Marisela didn’t disconnect it from the charger, just in case. Before Marisela dialed, Max hooked into his team at the office with his own wireless connection. When they were set up to trace the signal, she punched in the numbers.
One ring.
“What if—”
“Sh,” Frankie said.
Two rings.
Marisela closed her eyes tightly, willing Tracy to answer. She’d hate to think she’d touched Parker Manning for no good reason.
Three rin-
“Hello?”
Marisela gave Max a thumbs-up. He replied with a twirling finger, instructing her to keep the conversation going.
“Hello?” the female voice asked, this time sounding nervous.
“Hi,” Marisela said.
“Who is this?” the woman replied, her voice unsteady.
“I found this phone on the sidewalk. Outside a park. In Jamaica Plain.”
No response.
“Are you still there?”
A long pause. “Yes,” she answered softly. “I’m here. I expected…it’s my brother’s phone. He must have dropped it or something.”
“Oh! Great then. There was no name or anything, so I just hit the redial feature, thought if I found someone who knew who owned the phone, I could get it back to them. It’s pretty beat-up.”
Tracy’s laugh was tentative but edgy. “No one in my family is that into technology. Keep the phone on and I’ll have him call you. Or, wait. If he doesn’t have his cell, I’m not sure how I’d find him.”
Parker Manning had both a cell phone and a land-line. Did Tracy only call him on the cell?
“Well, it’s almost out of juice,” Marisela explained, responding to Max’s continued circular movements. “Maybe I could just drop it off with you?”
“Oh, no,” Tracy answered. “I live too far away.”
Max held his hand up flat, then after a second, gave a thumbs-up. They had the location.
Marisela could have disconnected the call, but she decided not to raise the woman’s hackles. If she got spooked, she could bolt. “Why don’t I give you my cell phone number? When you contact your brother, call me and well make arrangements.”
Tracy liked that idea, so Marisela rattled off her number and then gave her best friend Lia’s name, simply because, well, she’d done it before. Many times. More times than Lia had forgiven her for, actually. To guys she met in bars. To police officers letting her go with only a warning. To salespeople calling her on the phone before noon.
She disconnected the call and turned to Max. “She said she was far away.”
Max grinned. “Not that far. Natick. About fifteen miles west of the city. I’ve got two agents on their way right now and they’ll keep her in sight until tomorrow.”
Marisela frowned. “We should go tonight.”
Then she yawned. Big and ugly and full of teeth that hadn’t been brushed, and a body that had finally started to ache now that the adrenaline from the fight had begun to wane. Max chuckled, exchanged glances with Frankie, then started the car.
They’d wait until tomorrow.
Marisela eased back into the seat and thought about their next move.
They had Tracy’s location, so she focused on that. By tomorrow, they’d likely know if Rebecca’s surviving sister had hired Yizenia, and if she had, they had a shot at finding the assassin before she killed again. But they still wouldn’t know if—or why—Yizenia had come to her and Frankie’s rescue.
Marisela couldn’t shake the impression that there was more to this story. She couldn’t dismiss the weirdness of Yizenia’s making friends with Brynn and then seducing Ian when she’d come to Boston to handle a matter that had nothing to do with the Blake family or Titan International.
Or did it?
She’d expected Max to drop them off at Titan’s home office for an official debrief, but instead, he pulled up in front of her and Frankie’s hotel.
“Go in, take a shower,” he instructed, stretching around from the front seat, “Report to the office in the morning at seven sharp.”
Frankie moved toward the door, but Marisela scooted forward and laid her hand on Max’s, blocking Frankie’s path.
“Yizenia was there, Max. I can feel it.”
Max neither agreed nor disagreed, but even in the muted light, a flash of interest played in the sparkling colorlessness of his gray eyes. “Why do you think so?”
“Who else can shoot like that?”
“Plenty of people.”
“Including you?”
He didn’t respond. She hadn’t expected him to. “Okay,” Marisela conceded, “but when the ME pulls the bullet, I’m betting my outrageous salary that the slug matches the one the doctors pulled out of Craig Bennett.”
“You mean the slug that was supposed to kill him?” Max asked, his gray eyes intense.
She eyed him skeptically. “Yeah. Except I fired at her. Distracted her.”
“Precisely,” Max pointed out. “You ruined her perfect record. Maybe she was there tonight, Marisela. And maybe she did set you up to be in that dark alley. Maybe she wanted you there so she could kill you herself.”
Marisela pursed her lips and ran that possibility through her mind. “Then why’d she hit the guy she hired?”
Max exchanged glances with Frankie, who didn’t look so bored anymore with the discussion about Yizenia. “Maybe she took him out before he could identify her. Maybe you got away before she could fire again. There are a million possibilities, each more dangerous than the last. Which is why you’d better watch your back. If she’s gunning for you, I don’t think she’ll screw up again.”
* * *
On that happy note, Marisela slid out of the car. She crossed the lobby quickly, catching up to Frankie, who held the elevator open for her. As soon as the doors shut, she pushed herself high on the balls of her feet. Up and down. Up and down.
She’d been exhausted in the car, but once she’d hit the crisp night air, she’d felt instantly re-energized. The blood cells pumping through her veins seemed to have little ticklers on the edges, chafing her from the inside, forcing her to move or face madness.
“Can’t stand it, can you?”
Leaning against the back wall of the elevator, Frankie had his arms crossed over his chest and a gleam in his hazel eyes that made the green flecks glimmer like shards of colored glass.
She braced herself, even as the hair on her arms reacted to a chill that didn’t exist. “Can’t stand what?”
His smile was crooked, the smirk accentuated by the slim lines of his moustache. “The rush.”
She tried shoving her hands in her pockets, but the denim was too tight, so she opted to cram her fingers into her back pockets instead, forcing her breasts to jut forward. The minute his heated gaze struck her flesh, her nipples hardened, tweaking the nerve endings so that jolts of pure fire flashed toward every pulse point in her body. Frankie’s generous lips curved into that tiny smile. Just in time, the elevator doors slid open and she beat a hasty path to her door. She slid the card key. When the tiny light turned green, Frankie slid one hand aro
und her waist and the other up the side of her thigh.
“What do you think you’re doing?” she said, her voice a raspy whisper.
With a flick, he unbuttoned the waist of her jeans. He leaned in to her neck and inhaled. “I’m touching you. I’ve wanted to all day. You’re torturing me, you know that, ¿sí?”
“Your own damned fault,” she replied, her eyes drifting closed as his fingers danced along the lower edge of her belly. “You can’t beat your chest around me, Frankie. Get all jealous and macho. That doesn’t turn me on.”
He stroked a finger across the top of her panties. “Maybe not, but I know other ways to make you wet, vidita. I know you, Marisela. I know your body. I know how you think. No other man will ever give you what you need the way I can.”
He wasn’t talking about a vague, unnamed “other man.” He was talking about Ian Blake.
She arched a brow, holding back a pleasured gasp as his fingertip dove deeper. “You think so?”
“I can prove it.”
Too exhausted and too turned on to argue, she entered her room. Behind her, he shut the door. Clicked the lock. She’d already fought so hard tonight. Did she really have the power to struggle further against what was so instinctual, so natural?
But she was hot, dirty, and sore. She went into the bathroom, and peeled off her bloody, sweaty clothes. She needed a few minutes to herself. To prepare. To rein her raging hormones under control so the loving could be slow and sensual instead of hard and fast like the night before.
Unfortunately, the scalding water did nothing to lessen her overloaded senses. Every shard of water that burst against her skin enflamed her. The smell of the soap and shampoo lured her with the headiness of mint and cucumber, heightening her hunger—a hunger no simple food would sate. Then she heard him.
With steam clouding the shower, Frankie was a shadow on the other side of the glass. She flattened her palm on the door, but didn’t dare wipe a clear view. She didn’t want to see him approach, didn’t want to confront the torture she knew he planned for her. And damn it, she had no desire to resist. And he knew it. She hated the surge of confidence that knowledge gave him, but she hated missing an opportunity to make love to him even more.