“Where is he?”
“London. He can be on a flight in three hours. Has enough airmiles to fly business class for free.”
“That’s a heck of a favor. What did you do, save his life?”
Max’s dark eyes met hers, but he didn’t say anything.
He had saved his life.
“Don’t tell me it’s classified.” Lucy laughed but suddenly it wasn’t funny. She really didn’t want to know anything classified.
“I think officially it didn’t even happen, but Andy is a good friend.” He paused and said slowly, “We’d have died for one another but, thankfully, we didn’t have to.”
Ice swept over Lucy’s shoulders despite the heat. “He’s lucky you had his back.”
“I’m lucky he had mine.”
It must be nice having that sort of support. Brothers-in-arms and all that.
She concentrated on the traffic, deftly weaving in and out of the other cars. Then she noticed Max watching her and realized her mistake. She purposefully cut someone off and received a blast of the horn. She waved an apology out of the window. “Sorry.”
“No problem,” Max said, but something about the way he said it suggested he wasn’t fooled.
Shit.
They reached the city block that housed the Departmento Central Policia Federal, and Lucy drove around the beautiful yellow and white building with its baroque-style architecture. Tall, electronic masts sprouted from the roof and the blue, white, and gold Argentine flag flew proudly above the main facade, held erect by two reclining, half-naked women. It was a beautiful building that seemed at odds with the mundane police work that must take place within.
Max peered up at the place. “Beats JEH hands down in the looks department.”
Lucy smiled. “I’ve always rather liked FBI headquarters.”
“You spent much time in DC?”
Lucy hesitated and knew she’d blown it. “Yeah. I used to work there.”
“Where?” he asked curiously.
She sucked in a deep breath. “I worked for the Agency. Briefly.” She didn’t like admitting it, but it was part of her file. He’d find out if he bothered to look, and she was sure the Bureau was looking at all the embassy staff again. In excruciating detail. Lying about it at this point would look worse than admitting it.
He shifted in his seat to face her. “You worked for the CIA?”
Lucy swallowed. “Wild, huh?”
“It actually makes a lot of sense.” Max’s tone cooled, and his eyes turned more wary.
Lucy shot him a look. “What part of that makes sense?”
“The way you drive. The way you handled that guy in the alley yesterday. The way you avoid being the center of attention.”
“I guess.” She shrugged unhappily. “They taught me a few good things, but I’m not sure it was worth it.”
“Why? What happened?”
“I don’t like to talk about that time in my life.” That was the truth. She wasn’t going to tell him the whole dirty truth. Couldn’t. “I was only there for about a year. I didn’t like how they did business, so I applied to the Foreign Service instead. It’s a much better fit for me.”
Max watched her carefully and Lucy was scared about what he might see. His earlier warmth had faded. That was a good thing. Right?
“I’ve never been a fan of spooks,” he admitted finally.
“Me neither. What’s your excuse?” She shot him an amused glance.
He shrugged, looking relaxed again, although Lucy knew she’d lost a few points in his eyes.
“MI6 keeps hounding me to work for them.”
“They want you to spy against the US?” Lucy’s voice rose. She didn’t have to act like a rube most of the time. It came naturally.
“Of course not, at least not openly.” He grinned. “They couch it as letting them know any information that might be useful to them, but I know where it’s headed so I always say no. I’m not saying I don’t exchange information with my contemporaries when necessary for a case. Everyone leans on contacts and it’s a two-way street. But I detest spooks and make sure MI6 knows it.”
She flinched.
“My contacts tend to be Department of Defense or people outside normal government channels like Andy.” He shrugged. “I’m glad you’re not in that world anymore. It would have chewed you up and spat you out.”
“It already did.”
Max’s lips pinched sympathetically. “I’m sorry about that.”
“Not your fault.” It was her fault. She was the idiot who’d fallen for a Russian operative.
Having driven around the entire police building, she spotted what looked like a visitor entrance where she pulled up.
She grabbed her jacket but hooked it over her arm. It was hot today and she didn’t want to put it on. Lucy doubted anyone here would care about her appearance. Her hair was sweaty and pulled back in a pony, and her face was tired and bare of makeup. Buenos Aires was full of vibrant, beautiful women like the three from the bar last night. Lucy flew under the radar 99.9% of the time. Today would be no different.
She groped around for her smile even though she felt irritated for letting down her guard. Max came around the car. The way he moved was mesmerizing. The fluid grace of his muscles, the constant awareness of his surroundings. He reminded her of the DS agents when they were working close protection, except the sleeker, sexier version.
He paused in front of her, and she found herself staring up into those dark eyes.
“Don’t forget to tell me if you find the files disturbing. I’ll come back another time. I don’t want to give you nightmares.”
She already had nightmares.
Lucy shook her head. “I want to help Kristen any way I can. I want to help get both girls home.”
He nodded and then took out his cell phone, pulled out a business card that was doubtless the one Hector Cabral had given him that morning, and called the guy while inspecting the imposing edifice.
Lucy took advantage of the moment to enjoy the architecture of the man’s face. High cheekbones, soft lips, stubborn jaw. Eyes so deep and dark they pulled you in until you felt like you were drowning.
Perfect.
She was getting in way over her head with this guy. He kept getting better and better, and the fact he was this considerate of a woman who was definitely on the dowdy side made his behavior seem even more gallant.
Dammit.
She hated lying to him. If Max ever discovered the truth, he’d never trust her again. He’d despise her. She gave herself a few seconds of selfish enjoyment because it was all she’d ever have. Once he hung up, she snapped out of it and followed him to the side entrance where she spoke to the guard. Time to earn her keep while trying not to betray her country.
* * *
Lucy was former CIA?
Lucy?
What the actual fuck?
It made sense in a weird, twisted-logic sort of way. Who was the least likely person in the room he’d suspect to be working for the Agency? Definitely Lucy Aston. She didn’t look anything like what he’d expect a spook to look like which made absolute sense. A trench coat and trilby would be a dead giveaway.
She was the gray man that the others didn’t notice—but some of them must know she was former CIA. It must be in her background personnel file if she’d told him about it.
Did she wear baggy clothes and dye her hair brown to eschew her old Agency life, or was that what Langley had taught her to do—disguise herself so no one noticed her? Or was how she dressed a matter of preference? He still couldn’t shake the suspicion that she was hiding in some effort at self-preservation. He’d suspected sexual assault in her past but now he wondered if it was simply a biproduct of being chewed up and spat out by the Agency.
Could be both.
Max glanced at Lucy again as they showed their IDs to the guard. What had she done for the CIA? Some sort of low-level analyst? A language specialist? Likely from what she’d told him earli
er. She wasn’t old enough to be too senior. It was a tough working environment, and he wasn’t surprised Lucy hadn’t stuck with it. Life in the grinder was no fun.
He intended to dig deeper. Call it professional curiosity. His innate mistrust of spooks came from working with intelligence officers in the field and being fed half-truths or downright lies in order for them to get what they wanted out of an operation. Spooks always believed the end justified the means, but that wasn’t necessarily true—especially when he and his friends had been the ones to risk their lives.
Lucy spoke to the police guard to tell him they were here to see Hector Cabral. A quick phone call to confirm they were expected, and they were let through to a security desk where they checked in and had to leave all electronic devices in a small locker. As much as he hated parting with his phones, as much as he wasn’t supposed to go anywhere without his work cell, if he wanted to see these files, he had to play by the host country’s rules.
And damn sure CNU would be checking his phone when he got back to Quantico for any type of listening devices.
Spooks. Every country had them.
The inspector met them on the other side of the bullet- and blast-proof divider.
They shook hands, Cabral squeezing a little tighter than necessary and sweeping his gaze over Lucy’s form in a way that made Max squeeze back just a little bit harder. Hard enough for Cabral’s lips to thin.
Lucy’s plain white blouse had gone limp in the humidity and clung to her curves revealing the outline of a lacy bra beneath. A blast of air conditioning had her nipples pebbling against the cotton.
And Cabral was enjoying getting an eyeful.
Max wanted to wrap her baggy jacket around her shoulders and protect her from leering male gazes that she didn’t appear to notice. Her eyes were lowered the way she always did when around anyone else.
Was it an act? Or was the more laid-back way she behaved with him the act?
Although she’d mastered the art of staying in the background, when she did venture into the spotlight, men noticed. Because most men were dogs.
Max pulled his head out of his ass and got down to work. “Thanks for agreeing to let us examine your files. The FBI very much appreciates the PFA’s cooperation in this matter.”
Cabral’s brown eyes were keenly intelligent. “We want to help in any way we can. Obviously, we expect to be informed of any leads the FBI comes up with in the spirit of cooperation so the PFA can act upon it.”
Cabral was reminding him who was in charge. Max hadn’t forgotten. This wasn’t his jurisdiction. Max nodded. “Of course.”
Cabral led them to a staircase, and they walked up to the third floor. In the center of the police station was the most magnificent courtyard Max had ever seen, surpassing the one at FBI headquarters by an ascetic factor of a gazillion.
Cabral indicated a door on the right. “That’s my office. As always, I’ll be working late tonight. Come find me there before you leave.” He pointed out washrooms and a coffee room. “Help yourself to coffee or maté.”
Maté was the caffeine-rich traditional beverage the locals drank.
Max checked his watch and realized they’d inadvertently skipped lunch.
Farther down the corridor, Cabral punched in a six-digit code to open a door. Max stepped inside to see two bankers’ boxes on a small desk and another two larger boxes on the floor. The floor was polished hardwood, and there was a small, open window that let in the whisper of a breeze. Wooden shutters had been pulled closed to keep out the sun. Two plastic chairs that could have come out of any police station in the world sat side-by-side beneath the desk.
“I took the liberty of requesting the files out of storage after we spoke this morning. I had planned to examine them myself to refresh my memory but so far today, I’ve been too busy.” He gave an eloquent shrug.
“I appreciate you doing this for us. If I see any similarities of note, I will inform you, although I’m sure you know both cases inside out.”
“Never hurts to have a fresh pair of eyes.” Cabral gave them the code to the door and then went back to his office, leaving Max and Lucy once again alone.
Max eyed the cameras in the room, which he was sure were live.
“Ready?” he asked Lucy quietly.
She nodded. “Where do we begin?”
Max looked at the dates on each box and picked up the oldest. “Let’s start at the beginning.”
Chapter Sixteen
Four coffees and many hours later, he and Lucy had reviewed three of the four boxes.
The kidnap gang had been ruthless and had terrorized the hostage’s families by torturing their captives, often while on the telephone as they demanded money from relatives. In one call, the spokesman of the group had described how the female hostage was being gang-raped by his fellow kidnappers and threatened that it would happen every day until the family paid the ransom.
The family paid up as soon as they were able to raise the money.
Max wasn’t sorry the bastards were dead. They probably had sob stories and difficult childhoods, but it didn’t excuse that sort of depravity. When someone treated their fellow human beings like property to barter and sell, they stopped deserving much consideration beyond how long they should spend in prison.
Not that the history books necessarily agreed.
He grabbed the fourth blue box off the floor and reached inside to dig out the final batch of files that dealt with the last known kidnapping and the eventual takedown of the group.
Lucy took a sip of her coffee, her arm brushing his. She’d rolled up her sleeves as the heat climbed throughout the afternoon. Max wondered if the local police had deliberately turned off the AC in this room to make them sweat, or if the old building’s pipes simply didn’t have sufficient power to reach this remote corner. He’d removed his suit jacket and tie, rolled up his sleeves, and was still feeling the heat.
Lucy put her cup down, and he noticed a series of six small moles that formed a perfect triangle on her forearm. Her skin was lightly tanned and covered in fine, golden, sun-bleached hairs. The contrast with his warm, brown skin was marked. She’d removed her glasses and set them on the end of the table.
He shifted, and their legs accidentally brushed. He moved his chair an inch to the right, but there was no avoiding physical contact in these close confines when the desk was so small and they both needed to look at the documents together. He tried to keep it professional, but he’d be lying if he said that over the last couple of hours, he hadn’t started to see Lucy a little differently.
Was it the former CIA thing? As much as he hated spooks, there was no denying the concept was hot, even though she downplayed every asset she had.
Or perhaps that was the appeal, the fact he saw how pretty she was even when she tried so hard not to be. Did most people simply choose not to look that closely? Lucy Aston seemed like a mystery designed especially for him.
There were few things more compelling than an unanswered question, and Lucy was full of them.
Didn’t really change anything.
He didn’t mess around when he was working. And something about Lucy suggested she’d need an extra amount of care and attention when in a relationship. He shook his head at himself. He’d gone from being mildly attracted to Lucy to reminding himself he wanted to avoid long-term, long-distance relationships, all in the space of twenty seconds.
She might not even like men, but he’d be lying if he said he hadn’t noticed those occasional flashes of heat that flared between them. Unexpected and clearly unwanted on both sides.
She picked up the top paper file and opened up the report. She translated the first page about the initial abduction of a woman called Camilla Marquez. Forty-three. The wife of a prominent banker in Buenos Aires. They’d snatched her from the parking lot of a mall the woman had been visiting. They’d used four men for the abduction, who all wore masks and had bundled the victim into a white, side-paneled van—just like Kristen Dickerso
n and Irene Lomakin.
One difference Max immediately noticed was these guys didn’t ask for millions of US dollars. They demanded five million pesos which was about 65,000 US dollars. It wasn’t chump change, but it was doable in a relatively short amount of time for many upper-middle-class families if they mortgaged the house and begged all their friends and family to lend them cash. According to the previous reports they’d read, the voice of the main negotiator was always electronically disguised—again, similar—but the screams and voices in the background apparently were not.
It could be the same gang but with someone more intelligent and less volatile in charge. Someone who didn’t want to die in a blaze of bullets.
Max squeezed the bridge of his nose.
“Are you okay?” Lucy asked quietly. “Can I get you another coffee?”
He shook his head. “If I drink more coffee, I may never sleep again.”
Lucy continued translating. “Camilla was kidnapped on a Tuesday, and the ransom demand came in the next day. Here it says that the police became aware of this kidnapping when the victim’s sister heard about it from the victim’s husband when he asked her for money. She secretly went to Cabral’s house that night and told him everything. She was a friend of Cabral’s ex-wife.”
“Cabral was smart enough and had the right connections to swiftly instigate a covert reaction force,” Max commented. “The sister showed a lot of balls approaching the cops. If news had leaked, Camilla would have been as dead as those earlier victims.”
Lucy’s lips were bloodless and tense. “It says the family paid the ransom as arranged. The police set up land, air, and drone support to follow the money.”
Max took the photos out of the file and laid a couple on the table. They showed one of the kidnappers picking up the bag of cash after it had been thrown into a ditch north of the city.
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