Obsession

by Buchbinder, Sharon

  Jake chose that exact moment to wail. Zeke groaned.

  “Oh, the poor baby. Let me see what he needs.”

  He bit back a diatribe and choked out, “Sister Ellie—”

  “Ellen.” She flashed him a quick grin. “I know, there are so many of us and only one of you. Diapers?”

  Zeke shrugged.

  “Never mind, here they are.” She leaned over the crib, exchanging Jake’s wet diaper for a clean one. He admired the woman’s fine bottom.

  “Aren’t you the handsomest baby I’ve ever seen. Look at that cute little dimple when you smile.” She lifted the baby, turned and faced Zeke.

  A gray-haired hag with rotting teeth, a milky eye, and drooping tits stood before him, exuding the odor of rotten cheese. He gagged and staggered back. “What have you done with Ellen?”

  The gruesome thing frowned. “Father, I’m right here.”

  He twirled around, looking for people hiding in corners, waiting to leap out, point their fingers, and laugh at him. “Who put you up to this? Bring Ellen back. Now.”

  The drooling old crone shifted the baby to her other hip. “Father, are you ill? Shall I call the doctor?” She stroked the child’s hair with long bony fingers and filthy yellow nails.

  Zeke considered the hideous old woman’s question. Was he having one of his seizures? This was not the Lord speaking to him. On the contrary, this was a witch, much like the one King Saul consulted to call up the ghost of the Prophet Samuel. This had to be a hoax. Was Aaron behind this? If so, he’d pay for his trick.

  Trembling with rage, he shouted, “Where is Ellen?”

  The repulsive creature shook her head, and maggots fell out of her greasy mop of hair. “I’m Ellen.” She took two steps closer to Zeke.

  He raised a fist. “Do not come any closer. I swear I will strike you down.”

  “Father,” she croaked and the stench of methane and sulfur hit his nostrils, “please, you need to lie down, take care of yourself.”

  “Stop calling me father, you abomination—you—you witch!”

  She stepped back and placed the baby in the crib. “I’m getting help.”

  Zeke closed his eyes and leaned against the rock wall. His fingers brushed the rough surface, anchoring him in the here and now. The hag brushed past him and wrapped his senses in a putrid miasma. Gut muscles clenched, bile filled his throat and mouth. He shuddered, blinked, and saw Ellen’s long blonde hair and lovely ass as she ran down the corridor, away from him and the waiting bed.

  Chapter Five

  Alejandro Espinosa Santoyo Torres glanced around Isabel’s air-conditioned home office and admired her sense of style. Attention to modern technology flowed with the villa’s traditional Mexican stucco walls and dark leather furniture. Colorful marketplace oil paintings arrayed on the walls over the cherry wood desk and between matching book shelves, bore the signature of Lola Getz or Lara Spencer. Based on the ATFE background information he’d memorized before taking this assignment, Alejandro knew Lola/Lara was one of the rare non-criminal relatives in the extensive crime family. A well-known artist, she had escaped a kidnapping attempt in Mexico a few years ago and now lived in upstate New York with her cop husband and a young son.

  Beneath one of the more abstract pieces of her art, a laser printer/fax/scanner/copier stood alongside a large fireproof filing cabinet, a hungry maw waiting to be fed its evening meal of corruption. At the end of each nine to five workday, it was Alejandro’s job to back up and safeguard digital and hard copies of every money-laundering transaction conducted by the Mendez family. In the unlikely event that any of the government officials in the Mendez family pocket decided to go legit or find new business associates, the safe held plenty of blackmail material on their powerful partners.

  If the patriarch of this Mexican mob had applied his fist and wits to a legitimate corporation, he might have rivaled Donald Trump’s wealth. Instead, his assets exceeded the Donald’s, as well as the Gross National Product of most African nations and several European countries. Alejandro shook his head. Anyone who believed crime didn’t pay was a fool, an idiot, or both.

  A burst of laughter attracted his attention to the idyllic scene outside. Under the glaring Mexican sunshine, Ramon Mendez’s grand-daughters, twin three-year-old girls, Ruby and Sherry, and his five-year-old grandson and namesake, Ramon, splashed in the Olympic sized turquoise pool. The little boy wore the solemn mien of a funeral director and paddled around the perimeter of the pool in his blow up canoe while wearing a bright orange life jacket. Alejandro turned away from the window and stared straight ahead, oblivious to the numbers on the computer screen before him.

  His nephew, Esteban, would have been eleven years old this year. He should have been running around a pool, laughing and playing in the sunshine—instead of lying in a graveyard next to his mother. Alejandro’s step-brother, Luis, should still have his hands instead of hooks. Jaw clenched, his hand curled into a fist and pounded the top of the desk.

  Hooks, for God’s sake. Hooks!

  A life sentence for a surgeon who had saved lives with his manual dexterity and technical abilities. The desk shook with the force of his pummeling. His relatives had received no mercy from the head of Mendez crime family, Ramon Mendez. Justice was blind, deaf, and corrupt. Alejandro’s implacable fury raged and roared for revenge. The offender had to be struck down.

  Meantime, Mendez, the wily old bastard, was nowhere to be found. Alejandro had volunteered for this risky assignment just to have access to the crime boss. The thug was going to get as good as he gave. While he had no desire to go after children, the score had to be settled. Mendez would be missing the same body parts as Luis—and more when Alejandro was finished.

  Howls of laughter erupted from the girls, jarring him back to reality. Patience, Alejandro, patience. Stay under the radar, remain calm, and keep everyone in the dark, especially the United States Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, Firearms and Explosives. If his ATFE handler knew his true agenda, he would be back in Texas before he could say his real name. It was a good thing the news about Luis hadn’t hit state side. Otherwise the Bureau would have yanked his butt out of Mexico and destroyed all the groundwork he’d built over the past six months. Six months where he had proved his trustworthiness to Isabel as a crooked accountant.

  The mahogany door to his office crashed open. The massive moron, Tio, lumbered over to the couch and threw himself onto it. The sofa squeaked as if in protest. “Que pasa?”

  If you only knew, Alejandro thought. He needed to shift gears, put on his game face. “Nada. Just trying to clean up the books a little, make them pretty.” He waved his hands over the computer like a magician. “Presto, chango!”

  Tio threw his head back and laughed like a braying donkey. “If I’d gone to school, instead of hooking up with a gang, I bet I could have been good with money, too.”

  “You, my friend, are a very talented bodyguard. Don’t let anyone take that away from you. Not even Professora Isabel Ramirez.”

  The man of muscle hee-hawed. “That’s so funny, man, as if anyone would ever cross the boss. She’d cut their balls off and hand them to them. She may look hot, but that bitch is cold.”

  “La doctora?” Alejandro put his hand on his heart and feigned shock. “She’s a saint. She saved me from that lunatic, Raul.”

  Tio brayed again, slapping his thigh. “Man, the look on your face! I wish I had a camera. Oh, wait! I have a phone. Hold that thought.” Tio whipped out his cell and snapped a photo. “That one is for the books.”

  Alejandro probed, digging to see what else the big jackass might divulge. Maybe he knew where to find Isabel’s venomous father, Mendez. “She may be a sharp businesswoman—but I’ve seen her with her kids and Sean. She’s also a loving mother and wife. She’s crazy about her family. I bet she misses her father and mother.”

  Tio shook his massive head and lowered his voice to a hoarse whisper. “Rumor has it she offed her own father and mother.” He drew a finger ac
ross his throat. “Heard she did it with her own hands.”

  Alejandro’s heart skipped a beat, seeming to stop at the news. Hands cold, he clenched and unclenched them into fists. Could that be true? Isabel had told Alejandro her parents had moved out of the country to lay low and avoid the phony crackdown on crime that occurred around each election. The elections had been over for two months, and they weren’t back. So, where were Ramon and Marta Mendez? And why didn’t Isabel ever speak of them, except when someone new had the impertinence to ask.

  “Tio, do you really think she murdered her own parents?”

  The heavy wooden door slammed open, and Isabel Ramirez stood in the entryway, her emerald green eyes narrowed.

  Oh. Shit. Had she heard them talking?

  He took a deep breath and waited.

  “Alejandro. Just the man I’ve been looking for.”

  Deep. Deep. Deep Shit.

  “Tio, you can leave.” She waved him toward the door. “I need to speak with Alejandro. Alone.”

  Tio whispered, “Nice chatting with you, bro’.”

  Alejandro nodded. Sweat rolled down his back. Did she know? Was she on to him?

  He mentally enumerated the ways he could escape. He had to stay in control of his emotions. Show no fear despite the effects of the huge rush of adrenaline that coursed through his body, priming him for flight or fight. After sorting through the least-likely to the most-likely-to-survive scenarios, he decided the best tactic was to take Isabel Ramirez hostage. As soon as he’d been trusted to wander the mansion unaccompanied, he’d concealed handguns in strategic locations. One was under the desk where he sat. He’d probably have to hurt his big buddy, Tio, in the process, but collateral damages were unavoidable.

  Isabel plopped on the sofa. “I want you to work with Angie.”

  Alejandro paced the cool office and tried to block out the sounds of children galloping in the hallway. Memories of his young nephew, Esteban, shouting, “Close your eyes, Uncle Josué and start counting…uno, dos, tres...” blended with the chatter of Isabel’s kids, alive, well, and laughing.

  He needed to focus on what Isabel was saying. To avenge little Esteban’s death and his brother’s maiming, he had to stay sharp, pay attention, and act like he was an obedient underling. When he opened his mouth, however, his emotions spoke before his brain could rein in his tongue.

  “I’m an accountant, not a foot soldier. Why me?”

  He locked gazes with her, a risky, aggressive move. What was so important about this American woman that Isabel would put her day-to-day cartel business on hold and send her sole financial wizard off into the wilds?

  In her short, low-cut black dress, Isabel looked as if she was ready to go out to a nightclub—if there’d been any safe ones in the province. Stepping out of her fortress into a dimly lit bar would only invite rival cartel bosses to line up to take turns trying to rape, kill, and dismember her—and not necessarily in that order. In their machismo minds, it wasn’t bad enough someone had captured Chihuahua out from under their noses in a relatively bloodless coup. No, the cherry on top of the cake for these thugs was they’d been bested by a woman. The Latina adjusted her ample breasts, tossed her black hair over her shoulder, and leaned back.

  Her eyes bore into him, and she spoke in a low husky voice, forcing him to move closer to hear. “You were also a Green Beret in the US Army. If you want to rise in the ranks and become one of my Lieutenants, you have to do what your boss tells you to do.”

  Her legs fell open, and his gaze automatically followed the movement.

  Shit shit shit! She wasn’t wearing any underwear. He knew this move. He’d seen her use it thousands of times on unsuspecting males, from dementia addled old men to testosterone addled adolescents. The Pavlovian effect was so uniform, it was cartoonish. And, sad to say, it wasn’t lost on him either. The region below his belt shifted and rose to the occasion. Shit.

  Isabel smirked. “Something wrong?”

  He squeezed his eyes shut and tried to will the after image off his burning retinas. Think, man, think and not with your little head. Do the numbers. One, she wasn’t really his type. He preferred redheads. Like Angie. Two, she was married to a strapping stud muffin. Three, most important of all, she was his boss, and he never, ever screwed any woman on the job.

  “Alejandro, are you ill?”

  He shook his head to clear the fog of hormones. “No, not at all. Just trying to understand the assignment.” And stay out of your non-existent pants.

  He averted his eyes from her dark triangle and stared out the window. “If it’s not too impertinent, why would you send me, of all people, off on this potential wild goose chase?’

  She shrugged and crossed her legs.

  Thank God that distraction was gone.

  “I have a debt to pay to an old friend. She called it in. And, as a mother, my heart goes out to Angie. Who wouldn’t want to help her save her baby from that lunatic?”

  “I agree. I would love to see the child back with his mother, but again, I don’t get why I need to be involved in this. I’m a bean counter now, not a fighter.” What was she hiding from him? Was she going to take off with the money, books, and incriminating evidence—run to a country without extradition agreements? She never did anything without a reason. There had to be something in this for Isabel.

  She threw her hands up. “I want you to get into that loco preacher’s compound, get the baby and while you’re at it, bring back his gold.”

  Alejandro knew his mouth was hanging open. “You can’t be serious.”

  She frowned. “As a heart attack.”

  “You and I both know the legends of the hidden Jesuit gold aren’t true. People have torn up churches, tunnels, roads, caves, and mines. There’s no treasure in those hills.”

  “I’m not talking about the Spanish expulsion of the Jesuits. That’s ancient history. And, you’re right, that’s never been found.”

  “Then what?”

  “Angie asked that stinking bag of bones where the gold was. That crazy old man must have it hidden in his church, or commune, or whatever he calls it.”

  “How do you know she wasn’t saying that just to sweeten the pot, you know, to get you behind her rescue mission?”

  “Did she look like she was trying to play me?”

  Alejandro recalled Angie holding the pitiful wreck in her long pale arms, her beautiful copper hair tumbling across her luminous face. “She’s a lawyer, trained to interrogate people. Angie knows how to get what she wants.”

  She shook her head. “My gut told me otherwise, and it never lies to me. That’s why I’m still alive.”

  “Who’s going to mind the store, keep the books?”

  She laughed. “My poor husband was so bored after he moved here, he started taking online courses. Just finished some accounting courses toward his MBA. I think he can handle the books while you’re gone. And if he screws them up, you can fix them when you get back.”

  “Okay, okay, but please tell me you don’t expect me to go alone.”

  She stood, stretched, and yawned. “Don’t worry, I’ll send my best guys with you, plus you’ll have my two favorite arm-twisters, Tio and Pepe.”

  “When do we start planning?”

  “Right now.” She opened the door and waved at the big brothers standing guard. “Oh. One more thing.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Angie’s going too.”

  Heat rushed up his neck and face. No. Not good. A terrible idea. He couldn’t travel cross-country with that woman. The risk of getting involved with Angie was greater than being shot by a crazed cult member. He flashed on the scene in Raul’s office, her wild red hair, flushed face, and exposed breasts demanding his undivided attention. Out in the wilds, trekking through rough and cold wilderness, the temptation to abandon his “No sex with women on the job” rule would be strong. No, rephrase that: Ir-re-sistable. How could he keep his distance from a smart, sassy, sexy woman—especially one who mad
e his blood buzz when she laughed? There was more to lose here than his life. He could lose his heart.

  Alejandro shook his head. He had to stop this runaway train. He couldn’t allow this to happen. Bad enough he’d have to abandon his undercover ATFE assignment of monitoring the books, keeping an eye on Izzy, and passing information along to his handler. But taking a civilian along on a potentially suicidal rescue mission? That was an unacceptable risk. He couldn’t have Angie’s death on his conscience, too. Esteban was already living there night and day, haunting his memories and dreams.

  “We don’t even know where we’re going, or what we’ll encounter. Copper Canyon is a vast area, we could be searching for months. She stays put. She can wait here until we come back with the baby.”

  Isabel whirled on him, eyes narrowed, fists on hips. “If it were my kid, I’d make damn sure I was with the rescue team, too.”

  “Be reasonable. We have zero intelligence on a cold, rough area of the country, dangerous for experienced hikers and hunters, much less for a tenderfoot gringo. If this operation goes sour, we could bring down the wrath of the US government and Homeland Security. I doubt you want them all up in your business.”

  Isabel glared at him. “Do you have a death wish? You’re doing this my way—or you know the drill.” She ran her red-tipped index finger across her throat. “And, at this rate, the way you’re going, I may just take care of you myself.”

  The red-haired Amazon in question filled the doorway. “Tenderfoot gringo? Seriously, did you just say that?”

  Now two women—strike that—two mothers—were really pissed and snarling at him. Angie stomped into the office and came toe to toe with him. “I’m betting the only tenderfoot in this room is you, my flabby friend.”

  Flabby? His hand flew to his abdomen. Was he gaining weight?

  The redhead continued, “I’m betting I can out run, out climb, and out kick your ass in the great outdoors.” She put her hand out. “Do we have a bet?”

  Alejandro shrugged and extended a palm.