by Cindy Gerard
Life was good, he thought through the haze of carnal pleasure and sweet, spiraling smoke as the Latino rap beat of Big Ceaze pounded in the background and Stevan Jos Batlle’s latest porn flick filled the big-screen TV.
Yes, life in San Salvador was very, very good. Fuck L.A. Fuck the United States. Land of milk and honey? Land of maximum-security prisons. He had knowledge of one in particular in ways that no man should.
He had welcomed his deportation back to El Salvador four years ago. He had earned his many tattoos, his right to wear the blue and white colors, and his leadership position in Mara Salvatrucha several times over. Because of him, no one would forget May 13, 2006. Just like no one would forget that it was Vincente who had murdered Ernesto Miranda that day. To make his mark. To make a point that no man, not even a high-ranking soldier and one of the founders of Mara Salvatrucha, left the gang and lived.
Ernesto had been a friend. Now he was dead, and Vincente, who had proven his value and his ruthlessness to the gang, had the power, the wealth, and all the pussy and head he could handle.
His partner, too, was a powerful man. A wealthy man who lived in luxury. Vincente had his own form of luxury. His own territory. Soyopango was away from the prosperous populations in exclusive Colonia Escalόn or a dozen other sections of the city, where his people worked like slaves to tend the lush gardens of the rich, to paint their security fences. Soyopango was rough, raw, impoverished. Vincente owned it. He protected it. He financed it. He decided who lived and who died.
And he reaped the rewards of his position.
His eyes rolled back when Justina lifted her head, licked her swollen lips, then squeezed his engorged cock between her magnificent breasts. Breasts he’d paid for, just like the meth he paid for to keep her high and happy and, most of all, grateful.
Life is very, very good.
The cries of a child tore him out of his swirling cocoon of pleasure.
“Silencio!” he roared in the general direction of the bedroom where she was bound on the bed.
“Mama … Mama …”
“Silencio!” he bellowed again, and took his frustration out on Justina by grabbing her hair and jerking her head back at a sharp angle. She cried out in pain.
“Go shut her up,” he demanded, and shoved her away. She landed on her naked ass on the floor. “Then get back here and finish what you started.”
Justina scrambled to her feet, rushed to the room, and disappeared behind the bedroom door. When she came back, the child was silent.
“Bueno,” he said, and held out his hand.
She took it with a smile and straddled his lap like the good whore she was, taking him in with a low, humming moan when he gripped her hips and rammed her down hard onto his cock.
Life is good.
Wyatt had made his first call to Nate Black before he’d left the States the night before. He’d briefed his boss on what he knew of the situation and told him he would appreciate any bodies he could spare. He’d spoken to Nate again right after he’d convinced Sophie to send Hope to Argentina.
He’d known Nate would come through but hadn’t understood why his boss had tagged one of BOI’s best operatives, Johnny Duane Reed, to pull protection duty for Hope, along with Nate himself and Juliana in Argentina. At four in the afternoon, after Sophie had joined Hope next door at Carmen’s, Wyatt answered the door, and there stood Reed, balancing on a pair of crutches; his right knee was trussed up in a brace. Now it made sense; the best Reed was up for was escorting Hope to Argentina, where they’d keep her under wraps.
Wyatt glanced from Reed’s injured leg to his face. “And?”
“And even Superman can have a bad day.” Reed grinned as his wife, Crystal, joined him at the door.
Wyatt could see Rafe Mendoza, Joe Green, Luke Colter, and Gabe Jones piling out of a Suburban that had pulled up in the drive behind the Reeds’ rented SUV.
“What happened?” Wyatt asked Crystal, and stood back so the two of them could come inside out of the oppressive heat.
“Why are you asking her?” Reed thumped past him. “I’m the one on crutches.”
“She’ll tell me the truth,” Wyatt said. “You’ll just give me some bullshit story that will end with ‘You should see the other guy.’”
“You wound me, bro.” Reed hobbled to the closest chair, and even though he was putting on a good show to hide the pain, Wyatt noticed how carefully he sank down.
“He tore his ACL day before yesterday trying to do a stunt on a skateboard,” Crystal said with a roll of her eyes that didn’t quite hide the concern she felt for her husband.
“Mendoza dared him,” Luke Colter—a.k.a. Doc Holliday, the team medic—put in, shaking Wyatt’s hand as he entered the house.
Green, Jones, and Mendoza filed in behind Doc, shutting the door behind them.
“No one held a gun to the fool’s head,” Mendoza pointed out defensively.
Wyatt just looked at Reed and shook his head. Reed gave him a stupid grin, but Wyatt could see that he was embarrassed by the circumstances.
For all his Hollywood blond good looks and give-a-damn grin, Reed was one of the fiercest warriors on the Black Ops, Inc. team. And that was saying a lot, given the quality of the rest of the BOIs who had joined them. Reed had survived bloody firefights with little more than a scratch, and now a skateboard had put him on the disabled list. Had to be a helluva humble pill to swallow.
Hell, when Crystal had been abducted by the psycho head of an Indonesian human-trafficking ring, Reed had single-handedly rescued her from under the nose of one of the most ruthless thugs known to man. Of course, Wyatt and several other members of the BOI team had had to mop up after Reed—something they took great pleasure in reminding him of—but that didn’t negate what the pretty boy had accomplished.
“So why isn’t he on bed rest?” Wyatt crossed his arms over his chest and frowned at Reed.
Doc snorted. “He claims that anytime he gets horizontal, Crystal here sees it as in invitation to … you know. Says the woman can’t keep her hands off him, and the knee can’t stand the stress.”
“The pain meds they gave him after the arthroscopic surgery are making him delirious,” Crystal said with a smile generally reserved for the mentally challenged.
Wyatt adored Crystal. She was a tiny little redhead bombshell and the first girl to become a BOI when she’d joined the team several months ago as their commo, intel, and systems operator. She could also hold her own against any and all of the crap the BOIs tossed her way—the woman didn’t take shit from any man.
“Reed was insistent that he be a part of this,” Jones said, “so Nate figured the best place to keep him quiet until he heals up is in Argentina under Nate and Juliana’s thumb.”
“Just wait until Juliana gets a hold of him.” Mendoza grinned. “Wish I could be there to hear him whimper when she starts his rehab exercises.”
“You know, I’m right here,” Reed grumbled as he gingerly lifted his leg and propped his foot on an ottoman. “I can talk for myself. I don’t need you yahoos talking for me.”
“Would you rather we talk about you behind your back?” Jones dropped his go bag by the door.
“I’m a yahoo?” Crystal narrowed her eyes at her husband.
Doc hooted. “Stepped in that one, pretty boy.”
Reed encompassed the room at large with that give-a-damn grin. “Fuck you all very much,” he said, then hastily added, “Not you, Tink, darlin’.”
Crystal—a.k.a. Tinkerbell—pretty much made it clear that she thought her husband was hopeless. Still, Wyatt noticed that she couldn’t stop herself from propping a pillow under his knee and laying the back of her hand on his forehead in concern. If the guys noticed Reed fold her hand in his and bring it to his mouth, they chose to let it go. They must have figured they’d already ragged on him enough.
“So what have we got?” Gabe Jones asked, the line of his mouth hard, setting the tone as the lot of them put on their game faces.
They were here to do a job. And to a man, they knew it.
8
The old adage was true. The company a man keeps says a lot about the man. And Sophie’s first impressions of Gabe “the Archangel” Jones, Raphael “Choirboy” Mendoza, Luke “Doc Holliday” Colter, and “Mean” Joe Green told Sophie a lot about Wyatt “Papa Bear” Savage. Then there was Reed, who was clearly in pain but had insisted on doing what he could to help. That kind of loyalty said even more about Wyatt.
She watched them from the kitchen as they huddled in her living room, their heads together, laying out their plan of action.
“Don’t worry. They’ll make this happen.”
It was a little early for dinner, but Sophie had gotten them to admit that they hadn’t eaten since morning. She glanced at Crystal, who was helping her throw a meal together. She nodded absently, wanting to believe that the diminutive, curvy younger woman with the brilliant red hair was right. As with her husband, Johnny Reed, there was clearly more to Crystal than met the eye, Sophie thought as Crystal got busy spreading mayo on bread.
“Tell me about them,” Sophie urged, unable to hold back her fascination.
It wasn’t that she wasn’t used to being around men like these. Hugh had a huge payroll. Over the years she’d had occasion to meet many of the operatives who worked for him. Men who were just like Hugh. Focused, driven, and so hard around the edges she’d often wondered what had become of their souls or if they’d ever had souls to begin with.
“Sweethearts, every last one,” Crystal smiled across the kitchen island at the lot of them. “Don’t tell them I said that,” she added with a conspiratorial grin.
Sweethearts? Sophie couldn’t think of one man in Hugh’s employ who merited the endearment. Cold-blooded killer. Ruthless. Soulless. Those descriptions fit.
She glanced at Crystal, who smiled and kept on working.
“That’s all I’m getting from you?” The question was rhetorical. Sophie could clearly see where Crystal’s loyalty lay—and that said a lot, too. Crystal knew these men, worked with them. She didn’t know Sophie; therefore, she wasn’t talking—which told Sophie that all the men of Black Ops, Inc. inspired loyalty.
“Do they always give each other this much grief?” she asked.
“Pretty much, yeah. Johnny told me once that it’s all about checks and balances. Can’t have anyone taking himself too seriously. They count on each other to keep things real. It’s also a cross-check on their mental health. If someone’s nose gets too far out of joint or if they don’t react at all, then they figure there’s something eating at him. They make sure they get him to unload, get it out of his system, you know?”
Yeah, Sophie knew. It used to be that way between Hugh and Wyatt. They covered each other’s back, kept each other squared away.
“Like brothers,” Sophie observed as she emptied a package of corn chips into a bowl.
“More than you’ll ever know,” Crystal agreed, opening up a jar of salsa.
And there was the difference between Hugh and Wyatt. Wyatt and these men were still the whole package. Driven. Focused. Capable. But still human. Somewhere along the way, Hugh seemed to have lost some of his humanity. She’d assumed it was a casualty of the profession, and while she understood it, she hadn’t been able to live with it anymore.
She felt a hollow sadness for the loss of the man Hugh had once been, even wondered if he’d ever been that man or if she’d been so blinded by his light that she’d overlooked that something had been missing.
Wyatt glanced up and across the room, caught her eye. He gave her a reassuring nod. We’re on it, his look said. Trust me.
I always have, she thought, realizing in that moment just how true it was. She had always trusted Wyatt Savage. To be who he was. To do the right thing. As she watched him now, she thought about one time in particular when he’d earned that trust a little too well …
Hampton, Virginia
Twelve years ago
“I’m not so sure I want to get on that thing.”
“It’s not like I’m taking you skydiving, sugar,” Wyatt said in that Georgia drawl that was as soft as warm butter and as sexy as silk sheets. “It’s just a little bike ride. Nothin’ dangerous ’bout it.”
Nothing dangerous but him, Sophie thought as he stood, his strong legs straddling the “little bike” that looked like a monster motorcycle to her. And it looked fast, just like he did, which was a surprise. Speed was more Hugh’s style, but it was sure working for Wyatt today.
Lord, look at him. Faded blue jeans and black leather jacket. Aviator shades and pearly whites, both glinting under the warm noon sun. He was as tempting as the beautiful day and the promise of what was hidden inside an old-fashioned wicker picnic basket that he’d strapped onto the back of the bike.
“Thought we’d stop for a picnic somewhere along the way,” he said when he caught her gaze drift to the basket and the blanket anchored beneath it.
The man knew how to entice.
“Now, quit scowling, Teach.” He handed her a sleek silver helmet, then leaned toward her and helped her fasten the chin strap. “It’s Sunday. The weather is fine, and you could use a little fun. And some food,” he added on a grin when her stomach growled.
She’d picked a bad day to skip breakfast. And he, apparently, had picked a perfect time to cruise up on this big black bike and infuse a little excitement into her life.
About one thing, he was right. She could use some fun, and if she’d learned anything having Wyatt in her class during the past month, it was that he knew how to have fun. He and his gorgeous friend.
Speaking of gorgeous, “So where’s Hugh?”
“Tucked him under a rock,” Wyatt said deadpan. “Where he belongs.”
She rolled her eyes, took the hand he offered to help steady her, and swung a leg over the seat behind him. “I thought you two were connected at the hip.”
“He thinks so, too. Guess he was wrong.”
She didn’t have any brothers, but she imagined that if she did, they couldn’t be any closer than Wyatt and Hugh. Trash talk was the standard method of expressing that brotherhood.
He strapped on a sexy black helmet and glanced over his shoulder. “You ready, sugar?”
“Would it matter if I said no?”
He laughed and stomped down on the kick start. The big motor growled to life with a thundering roar. She couldn’t stop a little squeal of alarm as he throttled forward. The quick takeoff had her wrapping her arms tightly around his waist and hanging on for her life.
“You did that on purpose,” she yelled above the motor’s rumble as he swung out into traffic.
“Yes, ma’am,” he admitted without an ounce of repentance. “You just feel free to hang on to any little ol’ thing that makes you feel safe,” he added with a smile in his voice. Then he goosed the throttle and laughed when she squealed again and tightened her hold into a death grip.
“My God, that was amazing!” Sophie cried an hour later as she climbed off the bike and whipped off her helmet.
Soon after they’d hit the city limits, he’d pulled off the freeway and onto a winding blacktop road that led to the country and this spot, a few miles into the gently rolling hills of a wooded county park.
“First time on a bike? Seriously?” Wyatt eased off the bike.
“Seriously,” she admitted as she got her legs beneath her again. “I know. My education is sadly lacking.”
“I kinda like it that you made your virgin run with me.”
Oh-ho. Now, there was a loaded statement if she’d ever heard one. A loaded look in those amused baby blues of his, too, as he searched her face for a long moment before turning back to the bike.
“Come on.” He undid the straps on the picnic basket and tossed her the blanket. “It’s just up over the rise.”
“What’s just over the rise?”
He took her hand and led her toward a narrow path cutting through the woods. “Let’s talk about this littl
e problem you have with trust. Anyone ever tell you you’ve got a highly suspicious nature, Miss Baylor?”
“Cautious does not necessarily translate to suspicious.” She ducked under a low-hanging branch that he gallantly lifted out of her way.
“Okay, cautious, then,” he conceded, helping her over a deadfall log. “And you feel the need to be cautious around me? After all the Spanish verbs we’ve conjugated together?”
Oh, he really was too charming, she thought, unable to stall a smile. She was considering telling him so just to see what his reaction would be, when they reached the top of the rise.
“Oh,” she said, because it was all she could say when she saw the beautiful scene before her.
“Yeah.” His voice was soft, satisfied. “I thought you’d like it.”
She loved it. On the other side of the rise, the forest thinned out on a long, wide slope at the bottom of which was a tranquil, sylvan pond, mirror-still, surrounded by sweet tall grass and golden flowers bobbing on long, springy stems.
She grinned up at him. “You’re just one surprise after another, aren’t you?”
“I do try,” he said with a cocky lift of his brow. “Come on, let’s go pick out a spot before the butterflies hog all the best places.”
And damn, if there weren’t butterflies and songbirds and the sweetest breeze and the most perfect shade tree to spread the blanket beneath.
She laughed and shook her head in disbelief after they’d settled onto the blanket and he pulled a bottle of Pinot Grigio out of the basket. “I figured you were more of a six-pack kind of guy.”
He grinned, taking no offense, knowing she hadn’t intended any. Hey, she liked an ice-cold beer on a hot day herself. After fishing around in the basket, he came up with a corkscrew and a pair of plastic wine glasses.
“To lazy Sundays,” he said after expertly uncorking the wine and pouring them each a glass.
“To lazy Sundays,” she agreed, and they clicked plastic to plastic.
“And to my good fortune of having a beautiful woman to spend one with.”