Wrecked With You

by J. Kenner

  She picked up her glass and finished off the whiskey in one swallow. A waste, he thought, considering how fine a blend it was. But then she poured a fresh one, picked up the bottle with her other hand, and started toward the living room. “All right,” she said as she walked. “Tell me the rest.”

  He followed, then took a seat on one end of the overstuffed sofa. As soon as she put her glass and the bottle on the coffee table, he tossed back the rest of his drink, then poured a fresh shot. He took a sip, savoring it before swallowing. To her credit, she didn’t press. Just sat back, one leg tucked up under her, as she waited for him to continue.

  He rolled his shoulders, got comfortable, and decided to tell her the full story. He wasn’t a touchy-feely kind of guy. He didn’t believe in oversharing, and he’d just as soon get strapped to a rack than suffer an evening of talking about his feelings. But he also knew that people fought better and worked harder if they knew what they were fighting and working for. And they couldn’t make smart decisions without knowing all the facts.

  Emma was smart—he could see that. And she’d fight hard for something she believed in. He could see that, too. He wanted someone competent on his arm. So now it was his time to fight for what he wanted.

  At the moment, he wanted her. And he was more than happy to toss all his ammo into the fight if it meant that at the end of the day he won the battle. “I’m looking for a man,” he said simply.

  “Is that who you’re meeting on the island?”

  He shook his head. “No. As far as I know, I’m meeting a woman.”

  “All right. Back up and give it to me chronologically.”

  He did. It was easier that way, anyway. He didn’t tell his story often, but when he did he started at the beginning. It was familiar. And that meant he could be unemotional. Just a recitation of facts the way he would with any other assignment.

  “My dad was a prick. That’s about the sum total of it. But he was a smart prick. Sailed through business school—Harvard, of course,” he added, trying out his pathetic Boston accent and making her laugh. “He ended up in international trade.”

  “Is that a euphemism for drugs?”

  Tony shook his head. “No. At least not at first. Later, he probably dabbled. There came a point where he thought he was untouchable. That he’d made so much money it gave him carte blanche on the world, morals and ethics and laws be damned.”

  She was nodding, so he knew she’d met the type.

  “He started out small and he cast a wide net. For a while, he lived in Texas and was going back and forth into Mexico on a regular basis. Eventually, he moved to California and did the same thing, and he started narrowing his business to Mexico and Central America. He was importing all sorts of things, from automotive parts to tequila.”

  “That’s not an uncommon story,” she said, “especially for his generation.”

  “Well, trust me. My dad was not a common man. At any rate, at one point he met my mother. She was going to school at UCLA. Her father was a math professor. And her grandfather owned about half of the real estate in Mexico City. Not to mention a cattle ranch outside of town. The family was basically local royalty. And as far as I’ve been able to tell, they were powerful without being corrupt.”

  “What was your mom’s name?”

  “Sanchez. Lucia Sanchez.”

  Her brow furrowed. “The same last name as your dad. That’s a coincidence.”

  For a moment he was confused. “Oh, no. My dad’s father was as WASPish as they came. Trust me,” he continued, holding up a hand to forestall her question. “Once I finish, you’ll know why I decided to use my mom’s name.”

  She nodded, and he continued. “So my grandfather, the professor, died of cancer and my mom moved home to be with her grandfather at the ranch in Mexico. My father followed. They dated, fell in love, got married. At least that’s how the story goes. From my perspective, I think my dad was after the estate all along. And he got it. At least, he got it by marrying my mother.”

  He studied her face, wondering if he’d either lost her or was boring her. But there was no sign she was drifting. On the contrary, she looked rapt.

  “Go on,” she urged.

  “After I was born, we moved to California and dear old dad got richer and meaner. He started running the ranch. He hired someone to start making tequila. Small batches, very high end. There’s more, but the bottom line is he got rich. He got powerful. He started getting pissed off when he couldn’t get what he wanted when he wanted it. Because what was the point of money and power if they didn’t buy him nice things and respect?”

  “My father had no money and no power, and he got pissed off, too. It’s not the bank account, it’s the man.”

  Tony nodded, hearing more in her voice than she was saying. “I know. Believe me, I know too many people who could have bought and sold my father a thousand times over, with more kindness and class than that man ever had. It’s nothing to do with the bank account. Not really. I’m just trying to paint you a picture of who he was.”

  She pulled her knees up and hugged them to her chest, her wide eyes on his face as he continued.

  “I don’t remember being happy as a child except when he was traveling. Then my mother was alive. My uncle would come over then, too, and I adored him. He wasn’t really my uncle. Just a family friend. Possibly even my mother’s lover. God knows I wouldn’t have blamed her. I never knew for certain. All I know is that she was happy when my father was gone. When he was around, she was like a hermit crab scared into its shell.”

  He drew a breath, watching Emma. Her expression was flat. Emotionless. As if she was trying very hard not to react at all. He remembered what she said about her father, and had a feeling that she understood his story only too well.

  “I don’t know if my father beat her,” he said simply. “But I know he beat me. And one day, I heard the word divorce. I was only seven, but I knew what it meant. Most kids would run and cry hearing a word like that. I felt like someone who’d finally experienced sunshine. And then two days later, that sun was snuffed out.”

  “What happened?” Her voice was hoarse, barely audible.

  “He kidnapped me. Moved us to Mexico. And then—”

  “Wait. How? Surely he didn’t go to your grandfather’s. So how could he set up there?”

  “Oh, I forgot to say. My paternal grandfather could track his heritage back to the Mayflower, but my grandmother was Monterrey born and bred. My dad was born in Mexico, because that was the way his mother had wanted it.”

  “So your dad had dual citizenship.”

  Tony nodded. “And so he just went into the country with his son and disappeared. At least until my mother committed suicide and her father died not long after. Then, suddenly, he inherited the ranch from his wife—the divorce hadn’t gone through yet. And if there were any questions, well, he just paid people not to voice them.”

  “So you grew up with him? On your mother’s family estate?” He could practically hear the shudder in her voice.

  “No. My uncle rescued me. It took two years, but he stole me away from my father when I was nine. By then—by then I knew even better what kind of man he was. Brutal. Powerful. Vile. And he surrounded himself with the same.”

  “So you lived with your uncle?”

  He nodded. “Until I was sixteen. That’s when The Serpent came.”

  “The Serpent.” Her voice was flat, and she leaned forward, her brow furrowed in what he assumed was confusion.

  “A mercenary my father kept on retainer. A man who did his dirty work. That summer, he killed my uncle. Retribution for stealing me from my father. The Serpent beat him and left him for dead. He died of internal injuries with me at his side in the hospital. And with his last breath he told me that my mother hadn’t taken her own life. My father had ordered The Serpent to kill her too. Made it look like an accident”

  “I’m so, so sorry.”

  “So am I.” He ran his hands over his face, the th
ree-day growth scratchy in his palms. “I went after him. My father, I mean. Or I planned too. I waited too long pulling together the mission. The intel. I found some mercenaries who took me on. Trained me even though I was still a kid. I wanted to do it right, you see. I wanted to make him suffer.”

  He watched her as he spoke, looking for a sign of revulsion that he could actually want to hurt his own father. He saw none. On the contrary, he thought he heard hope when she asked, “Did you?”

  “No.” The word was flat. “Someone got to him first. Blew him away. Chest. Groin. Face. You probably read about it. It was big news in Mexico and LA. Clyde Morgan blown away by an unknown gunman.”

  Her eyes widened.

  “You did hear about it.”

  “I—no. It’s just so coincidental that someone got to him first. What year was that?”

  He told her, and she nodded slowly, as if the year really mattered. “I was fifteen then,” she said. “That, um, wasn’t a good year for me. I wasn’t paying much attention to the news.”

  He studied her. Nothing visible in her expression had changed. But there was something—something intangible. Something different in the air between them. He wondered what horrors she’d suffered, too.

  “So you’re going to the island to get intel about The Serpent?”

  “Right. The man hunted down and tortured my uncle. He murdered my mother. I’ve been looking for him for more than half my life. It’s a personal mission, but one that led to my vocation. I’ve trained with paramilitary groups all over the world. Been someone else’s hired gun more times than I can count. And I joined Deliverance to make a difference. And all those years, I’ve been hoping to catch another break. Because I never stopped searching for The Serpent.”

  “And now you’ve got a lead.”

  He leaned back, steepling his fingers under his chin. “A possible lead. It’s from a dark web contact who may or may not really be a woman. I’ve been putting out feelers for years. So this might be a lead. It might be nothing. It might be a trap.” He spread his hands, then met her eyes. “And that, Emma, is why I’m not interested in a partner who’s only decoration. I need someone who can hold their own if this all goes south.”

  “And yet,” she said, leaning back with just a hint of a grin, “it’s still a sex island.”

  “That it is.” He flashed his most charming grin. “Guess it’s a good thing you’re attracted to me.”

  She raised a brow, but said nothing. Just swirled the whiskey in her glass. Then she tossed back what was left, downing it in one long swallow. “All right,” she finally said. “Looks like you’ve got yourself a partner.”

  Chapter Five

  Advance Reader Copy

  I know he’d expected sex. Of course he did. If for no other reason than we probably should practice before we arrived at the island. After all, we’re both professionals. And that means always being prepared. Knowing your weaknesses and your assets.

  In this case, I guess that means getting familiar with his ass, among other things. And considering the way he wore those jeans, this shouldn’t be an unpleasant assignment.

  But, sadly, there’ll be no prep work tonight. Not that kind, anyway. I need to make my own arrangements. And since our plane for the island departs at eleven o’clock tomorrow morning, I’ve only got so many hours left to work.

  So I sent him home. And if that leaves him as antsy and unsatisfied as it does me … well, he’s a big boy. I’m sure he can take care of that himself.

  I watch through the window, and as soon as his taillights disappear around the corner, I head back to the kitchen. There’s a false panel on the front of the dishwasher, the combination for which is derived by tapping the control buttons in a particular order. I do that now, and the false front unlocks. I pull it down, revealing a standard combination lock on the hidden interior door. I enter that, turn the handle, and open the door to reveal the shallow enclosed space that houses one of my alternate IDs, complete with passport, credit cards, Nebraska driver’s license, cash, and a burner phone. I’ve never been to Nebraska, but it seemed like a good choice at the time.

  It’s the phone I need, and I take it out, dial the familiar number, then hang up after three rings.

  Then I wait impatiently until he calls me back.

  I answer on the first ring. “I need to see you.”

  “You know we can’t break protocol. If anyone figures out we know each other from before…”

  “I officially joined your firm this morning. Then I quit. But I think I’m back in now. Honestly, I haven’t got a fucking clue.” We don’t use names over the phone, but he knows well enough the firm is the Stark Security Agency.

  There is a long silence, then, “I go away for a short assignment, and everything we agreed to goes to hell.”

  “This has nothing to do with that. And our old boss approved it,” I add, referring to Colonel Seagrave at the SOC. “If you and I supposedly meet for the first time through the firm, then everything gets easier.”

  Winston Noble, aka Winston Starr, was one of the first recruits to Stark Security based on his stellar track record as a West Texas sheriff and other skills that the good folks in Texas don’t know about. As it stands, Winston and I supposedly have only crossed paths since my sister got in tight with the SSA. But once I join, we can build on that past, creating a new friendship to mask the old one.

  Because the truth is, there’s more on his record than what the SSA knows. But I know. For that matter, we both know a lot about each other. And that knowledge ties us to each other. Secrets are their own kind of bond, after all. And they come with their own brand of responsibility.

  “Fine,” he says. “Good plan. I’ll see you at the office.”

  “Tonight,” I press. “Please. You know I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t important, but I need to bounce this off someone, and that someone can’t be our old boss. Are you in town?”

  “Got back home an hour ago. I planned to work out and then go to sleep.”

  “It’s not even ten.”

  “Some of us aren’t vampires. And Leah and I have to meet an informant before dawn tomorrow.”

  Leah’s his current partner at the SSA. “You can get your beauty rest later. Come on, man. I need to talk.”

  “Fine. Forty-five minutes at the drop site. You’re not there on the nose, I’m going home.”

  “I’ll be there,” I say, then hang up. That’s barely enough time to change and get there, but I’ll manage.

  I change into a tight leather skirt with a slit to my hip that’s there as much for walking as for the fuck-me factor. Then I put on a pink sparkly halter that ties behind my neck and back, leaving most of me visible, but providing a surprising amount of support. I pin my ponytail up and slip on a wig. Long and dark, so that the strands brush my shoulders.

  Finally, I put in a pair of hoop earrings, some plastic bangles, and a pair of teetering-tall pumps. I grab my keys, totter to the car, then get my ass to the drop site. I park in one of the overnight spaces a block away, then walk to the battered newspaper machine that’s probably older than I am.

  On the dot, I see Winston’s vintage Ford pickup turn the corner. He pauses, and I lean into the already open window.

  “Wanna fuck?” I ask, smacking some fruity gum I’d popped into my mouth for show.

  “Get in the damn car.”

  I do, and he pulls away.

  “I swear, if anybody I know sees me supposedly picking up a hooker…”

  “Like that’s the worst thing you have to worry about.”

  He turns to glare at me, that friendly, man-of-the-people face going cold.

  I raise my hands in apology. “Sorry. Gallows humor.”

  “You know, Emma. You are actually one of my favorite people. Which just goes to show you how fucked up I am.”

  “Funny man.”

  We drive in silence while he circles a few blocks, then pulls into a dark corner of the Ralph’s grocery store parking lot.
I start to say something about how if he’s concerned about being noticed, maybe driving Old Blue isn’t the best idea, but wisely keep my mouth shut.

  “You called this meeting,” he says as he kills the engine. “Talk.”

  “I need advice.”

  “So you said.”

  “I killed Cane.”

  He leans back, his eyes wide with both surprise and congratulations. “I didn’t know that was even in the works.”

  “It happened fast. I got some intel on his location. You were gone, so I had to finagle different back up.”

  “Not Eliza.”

  “Are you insane? No.” Eliza has no part in my work. I’ve spent my whole life protecting her from that, and the only time she’s come close—when I’d gone on the run and she’d tried to find me—both she and Quince almost got killed.

  “Who?”

  “Quince,” I admit, and he groans.

  “Water under the bridge,” I say, “and not the current problem.”

  “You need to clean this up, right? In case you get caught. And now you want me to go with you to Seagrave and argue your case for a retroactive kill order.”

  I shake my head. “No. It was sanctioned. Cane’s been laundering money for a bunch of folks that the intelligence community has had its eye on. So in exchange for me getting that information to them, Seagrave cleared it. I don’t think local authorities would ever trace the kill back to me—or to Quince. But even if they do, we’re covered.”

  “Then why are we sitting here?”

  “The Serpent,” I say. “I’ve got a bead on him.”

  “Morgan’s right hand man?” Winston leans back, looking as shocked and impressed as I was when Antonio told me his story. Only Winston doesn’t have to hide his reaction like I did.

  I nod. “Turns out a guy named Antonio Sanchez is after him, too. And he’s tagged me to be his partner on the mission.”

  “How the hell did that happen?”

  I give him the rundown, leaving out no details.

  He shakes his head in awe. “Only you would tell Damien Stark to fuck off and wear a bikini.”