CHAPTER THREE
Cartagena, Colombia
“Find out who took her.” Juan Carlos Silva bellowed into his satellite phone and hung up. Standing poolside under the fierce Colombian sun, he dabbed at his brow with a freshly pressed linen kerchief, then smoothed his tailor-cut silk shirt.
It was bad enough his men traveled all the way to the United States and couldn’t complete their mission. The job was to collect a simple package containing a disk. But they ran halfway across that country, only to lose it again? Appalling.
He inspected the pristine pool water for a speck of dirt. He wanted to find something wrong. An excuse to yell at the knobby-kneed boy charged with his gardens and pool. Not that he needed one.
His neck pain flared, as it did when inept employees prattled their excuses. If he thought the job would be so complicated, he would have sent more men. Men experienced in American subterfuge. His judgment call on this one was foolish, and while it was his fault, it would be easier to take his frustrations out on someone’s hide. He cracked his knuckles and called out for the pool boy.
The phone chirped again, and he thought to ignore it. If those idiots couldn’t find a simple woman who escaped with the disk, he would kill them to prove a point. Maybe string them up by their necks and hang them from the front gate of his estate. Perhaps he would make them pick out a machete from his collection and select a limb to lose.
He never should have assigned junior members. But at least two of his men still trailed the woman and that wretched package, and Juan Carlos would grace them with another opportunity to make it right.
Answering the chirping phone, he didn’t listen to his man. “Retrieve what is mine. Take the woman. Both are more valuable than your life.”
America wasn’t Colombia. The practice of kidnapping was frowned upon more so in the States. Though much of his high-end product originated there, usually his men showed more finesse. Kidnapping was a practiced art.
Perhaps, he should give some direction. It was imperative both items were presented to him. He inspected his manicured fingernails. What advice would help? No, advice was wrong. Incentives were most effective. “Pray to the Blessed Virgin Mary for guidance. For if you fail, I will hand your mother your head.”
He disconnected the phone with a decisive click. Irritation made him sweat. The damp beads pooled along his cropped hairline. It was already hot enough outside. He didn’t need this added aggravation to sully his appearance. There was a certain look he expected of himself. Sweating was beneath him. He paid people to sweat for him.
Juan Carlos dabbed his brow again. There was work to do. Fresh inventory arrived earlier. Young women to inspect prior to their auction. Easy, untraceable money.
***
Winters rolled his head left to right, cracking his neck, and directed his attention to the woman behind him. “I’m Colby Winters. Most people call me Winters.”
He sounded flat and bearish when he wanted to be trustworthy. Trying to make her talk while balancing his irritation made this job more complicated by the mile.
The woman didn’t acknowledge him. Again, he glanced at her in the rearview mirror. She wrinkled her nose at him, which was an improvement over the kicking and shouting.
“And you are?” His temples throbbed. Parker could easily pull her identity from any number of security cameras, but he wanted her to open up. Who knew why?
“None of your business. I don’t introduce myself to my kidnappers.” She gave him the snake-eyes, pursing her lips to complete her pissed off quip.
“Should have expected that.” He gave her a once-over, taking in her swollen lip and puffy cheek, and wanted to bend steel. “Those guys roughed you up?”
“What does it matter? I’m not saying anything to you either. So you’ll just do the same.”
“Aren’t you a tough one?” Intrigued, he gave a half-cocked smile. She was stronger than he gave her credit for. Must’ve been that deceptive sweater set she wore. The pastel colors lessened her bite.
As best he could from the driver’s seat, he studied her face and the slope of her neck to her collarbone. His backseat passenger was, by all standards, attractive. A little vanilla. Like a teacher or librarian, if he ignored the mussed makeup and hair.
“I’m not going to hurt you.” He swallowed his gruffness. “Let’s try this again. My name is Colby Winters. You can call me Winters. And you are?”
No response.
“Tell me your name, and I’ll share a little about me.”
She narrowed her eyes. “Fine. Mia.”
Their gazes clashed, and his chest warmed. Winters chewed the inside of his cheek before he turned the AC on high.
“Nice to meet you, Mia. We’ve made some progress here, haven’t we? Let’s jump to it, doll. Why were you at the airport?”
She shifted in her seat. “I had things to do.”
Evasive. Not scripted, but not careless enough to give him any details. “Who do you work for?”
“No one.”
“How did you know where that package was? That was mine.”
“Yours?” Her chin jutted up. “I don’t think so.”
Finally, a reaction. She was resolute. Strong. Strident. Even angry. She glared at him in the mirror.
“Well, it sure as shit isn’t yours.”
She sighed. “That’s not true… It is now. But it wasn’t before.”
Her forceful rebuttal dissolved with a drop of her shoulders. What was her inflection? Unease or… Sadness? Whatever she felt it made him uncomfortable. He was out of practice with souped-up emotional interactions. She didn’t even make sense. Nothing but a carnival ride of crazy. “Lady, I don’t know what you’re talking about. But we can work something out, if you stop being so cryptic.”
He flexed his grip on the steering wheel. What the hell did he care anyway? He had the package. For the time being, that was his only objective, and he’d accomplished it. But his curiosity was another thing. Why did a sweater-set-wearing, librarian-look-alike want anything of Titan’s?
As if reading his thoughts, she piped up in a hoarse whisper. “The person who owned that package told me to get it.”
She wasn’t giving him a lot, and the vagueness did nada to pacify his interest.
“You’re wrong. I was tasked with the pickup.” He didn’t want to scare her and summoned any empathy he might have squirreled away. “The owner hired my company to retrieve that package.”
“Well, Mr. Winters, that’s the difference. Owned versus owns.”
Mia didn’t elaborate, and he tried to decipher her meaning. What was she talking about—owned versus owns?
He ran his hand through his hair. It was too shaggy and unkempt. He needed a haircut and a shave. The scruff on his face was a scant thicker than usual, though he liked to keep a menacing shadow. Men backed off, and danger-junkie women gravitated toward him. Win-win.
He adjusted the sunglasses and focused more at her than at the road while he drove. “Why don’t we start from the beginning?”
“Why don’t you?” Her smirk was still defiant. She didn’t carry herself like a professional operative and didn’t act like someone on a job. But her challenging attitude took some major cojones.
Given the last hour or so, she had reason to act that way, but it was still unfamiliar. Not a lot of people gave him shit. Not a lot of people questioned him. Never a petite woman dressed like an Easter egg. But Mia doled out the brashness by the bucketful.
“Answering my questions with questions isn’t going to get us anywhere. Though you entertain me to no end.”
She scrunched up her face. “What do you want to know?”
“For starters, where are you from?”
“Alexandria, Virginia. Right outside DC,” she said.
“Well, so am I. How about that?”
Her eyes flashed.
His sarcastic quip was too much. He still needed to calm it down. Why couldn’t he handle this simple interrogation? “What sent you to Louisville?”
“A client needed me to help him with something.”
“And your client is…?” He let the question trail, hoping she would answer. But she didn’t. Instead, she focused on smoothing her shoulder-length hair, which stuck out in various directions. Her messed hair was his fault, after he grabbed her like a bag of tactical gear. “Doesn’t seem like a good client, sending you to do his dirty work. It’s actually a jackass move.”
Silence from Miss Cardigan-and-Khakis.
“You walked straight into a bad situation. Two professional teams had the same goal. Secure that package. Or was it three teams, Mia? At least own up if you’re working this op, too.”
Quiet minutes passed. Mia neither acknowledged him nor the situation. She concentrated on a few strands of hair, twirling them around a finger.
“What do you mean by professional team?” she asked.
Was she screwing with him? Red flag after red flag told him this woman was some innocent who just stepped in a huge pile of crap.
“Assuming you’re not acting the part of blameless bystander, I’ll play along.” He threw a handful of Dots into his mouth, needing to release some tension. “A pro team, a professional team—it’s a group of operatives trying to complete a covert task. Every operative knows their role: good guys or bad ones, or a confusing mixture of the two, but they know. And it seems like you’ve spent some time with both today.”
“And you’re the good guy, huh?” Mia acted interested for the first time in anything he had to say.
“I’d like to think so, though I’m sure many would disagree.” He smiled, showing lots of teeth. It was too much. Too fake. He knew it and was sure she knew it, too. “If I were going to hurt you, I’d have done it by now. You’re baggage I don’t need. But we seem to want the same thing, and I’m curious enough about you to slow my return until I get a few questions answered.”
“Why are you curious? You have what you wanted.”
He didn’t know what to say next. Awkward wasn’t his thing, but today, he aced it. “What do you do? For work. What type of business are you in, Mia?”
“I thought we weren’t answering questions with questions.”
Smooth move. He needed to change tactics.
“We should get ice for your face.” He pulled into another motel parking lot and turned around in his seat to stare at her. “Stay put. Please.”
Mia nodded and remained in place, though he wasn’t sure why. Nor was he sure why he tacked on the please. He placed a handful of zip tie cuffs on the dashboard.
“I don’t need these. Take it as a show of trust you’ll sit and stay.”
He wouldn’t tie her up, and she wouldn’t run. He could tell by her body language. In all likelihood, that was because he still had the package, and she wanted it. Whatever her motives, he didn’t care. As long as she listened.
He moved fast, secured a room, grabbed an ice bucket, and returned to the truck. He held his breath, hoping she was still there—and she was. He ignored the smile tugging at his cheeks.
Through the window, she studied him as though she had something to say. Her eyes moved from his head and drifted the length of his body, down to the asphalt, and up again. With each sweep, she analyzed him: his chest, his arms, his legs, even the scar on his face. He was feet away, but her intensity made it feel like mere inches. She held his gaze, mouth poised to speak.
Mia broke their stare and focused on the empty parking lot. So much for getting into her head, learning anything about her. He rounded the hood and hopped in the truck.
If she didn’t look like saccharine personified, he’d assume she was just checking him out. But nah. Not this one. This one didn’t cross men like him, and he didn’t hang out with women as soft and touchable as her. He shook his head clear. Soft and sweet, rather. Touchable wasn’t something he needed to ponder.
He pulled the truck to the rear lot and unlocked the doors and disengaged the child safety locks, then gave her a nod. Her clothes were dirty. The cardigan set was dingy. Very unlike a librarian. Bruises grew darker on her otherwise flawless complexion. He should have killed those fuckers in that motel room instead of tying them to a table. But there wasn’t a point in focusing on the past. Training should have kept regret from his head. But he continued to think of ways those men should’ve paid for hurting her.
She got out, ignoring him. He grabbed his box of Dots and dumped a handful into his palm, downing them with a mind-clearing gulp.
He threw open his door, got out, and locked the truck behind him, then he leaned on the hood. Mia stood there, feet planted amongst the parking lot weeds. He lofted the key over the truck hood. She grabbed it from the air, surprising him, and looked at the room number. Her fingers played over the plastic card, and she gnawed on her swollen lip without moving from him.
“Go there. Room 102. Right at the end.” He held up the bucket. “I’ll get some ice.”
Mia nodded with a half-hearted smile and turned toward the room. The way she walked, the way she swayed... He noticed. Big time. His pulse beat faster, and his eyes tracked her movements. Nothing to do with watching out for her, and everything to do with taking in the sight. He rubbed the scruff on his face and stalked to the ice machine.
With a full bucket of ice crooked in his elbow, he knocked on the door and pushed it open with his steel-toed boot. She sat stock-still on the bed, palms flat against the floral comforter, ankles locked, knees pinched together. Her face was paler than when he left her. Now that her adrenaline had worn off, it looked like shock wanted to take its place.
Shit. Shock. Something else he didn’t want to handle.
He trained one eye on her and fashioned an ice pack from a bathroom towel, then moved close to the bed to examine her cheek and lips. Vacant eyes stared to the blank wall in front of her.
As gentle as he could manage, he turned her face upward for an inspection. Mia’s skin was velvety but bruised and scratched. Broken and damaged. Winters pressed the makeshift ice pack against her cheek with his softest touch. Soft wasn’t his thing, but she didn’t flinch. Maybe he did okay.
“You doing all right?” He tried to replace his normal edge with tone to show he wasn’t the enemy. He needed her to know that for tactical purposes. She was an asset. Something he needed to take care of. If she was pleasant to look at, well, that was a bonus.
Her shoulders pinched up in a stiff shrug, and she snatched the ice pack from him. Her gaze flicked to him, then away. And again, she flashed her eyes to him and stole them away. For a brief moment, they weren’t numb or exhausted. They were… beautiful.
That flash of prettiness tore at his insides. His blood ran cold just as fast as he felt white-hot. Sweat dampened the back of his neck. He worked to keep his palms from sweating and rubbed them up and down his pant legs. It was as unfamiliar a feeling if there ever was one.
Someone so striking shouldn’t be so scared. Was she deteriorating? Falling apart in his care? A valid concern given her borderline-catatonic state, but that wasn’t the basis for the twists within his stomach. He swallowed against the lump in his throat.
“Mia, are you okay?” He drew out his words, enunciating each syllable, trying to attract her attention. Her distance worried him. She repositioned the ice pack and crawled toward the headboard.
“I need to lie down for a second.” She dropped her head onto a pillow.
The detachment in her request made his heart drop. It wasn’t right. The cruel world dumped on Mia today. She never saw it coming, and he hadn’t made it much better. Did he have to throw her over his shoulders? Couldn’t he have subdued the men without blasting tear gas?
She peered from the pillow and gauged him. A slow bulge crawled down her throat, the tension visible from across the room.
The military might have trained him how to survive if captured alive by the enemy, but nothing prepared him for her unblinking hesitation.
“You’re not my type, and this room is safe. Just get some rest.”
She nodded. Her eyes fluttered, long lashes drooping heavy. They locked onto him, then sealed shut. She was out. His anxiety washed away now that she rested, lessening his concerns a degree. He must need sleep as much as she did.
***
The room was much darker with the setting sun and only a desk lamp was on when she stirred. Hours passed since Mia collapsed against the motel room bed, and she didn’t alert him when she awoke. But he knew. Her slight body shifted and tensed under the blanket he’d thrown over her. The even beat of her breathing hitched and reverberated in his ears. Silence thundered. Did she worry—or worse, was she scared—because he was in the room?
“Sleep okay?” Stupid question. His thumbs drummed on the table. He’d been watching her for hours except the minutes he ran out for provisions. But even then, he could see her in the back of his mind. The imprint of her bruised body tortured him.
She cleared her throat. “How long have I been out?”
“A while. I grabbed some food. Got you a few things from the store across the street if you want something clean to wear. Like sweatshirts and stuff.”
Playing the gentleman card sounded like a solid plan earlier, now it felt fake and foolish. Normal information-eliciting tactics weren’t appropriate, and he had no idea how to proceed with her.
This was why Jared never paired him one-on-one with the untrained or the guiltless. Winters didn’t have a careful touch, and he was unsuccessful when he tried. Case in point. Mia acted beyond apprehensive as she picked at her dirt-streaked sweater and pants.
“So…” He turned to the table. “Food? Clothes?”
“I’m starving.” Her tongue ran over her lips. Maybe he should have bought some lip gloss or something like that. Women liked that stuff. Needed it. Didn’t they? He blew out a frustrated puff.
“I didn’t know what you liked, so we have everything from peanut butter and jelly makings to fried chicken, but it’s not hot anymore. And candy. I have a bad candy habit. Though I’m more than willing to share if you promise to stop kicking me for the rest of our trip.”
She tucked her legs beneath her and inched toward the shabby spread on the table. “Thanks, Mister—”
“Just call me Winters.” He needed something to do with his hands. All of the sudden, his arms were gangly and awkward. He stuck his thumbs in his pockets.
She nodded, slid off the bed. After two glances over her shoulder, she made a plate of food using a pile of napkins. She conjured images of movie nights and Sunday pot roast dinners. Safe, responsible activities non-operatives did in their normal lives. A tightness in his throat surfaced as he tried to swallow away confusion.
“You ready to answer some questions for me now, Mia?”
“Not really.”
“We could start simple.”
“I’d rather just eat.” She polished off her sandwich and picked up a drumstick.
“The airport. Why were you there? Hell, how did you know where to go?”
Something changed in her. And just that fast, he regretted pushing her. The fresh color painting her face was gone. Her fingers tore at the chicken. She stared at him with sad eyes. “You said my client is, and I said my client was. You said owns, I said owned.”
“So you aren’t working together anymore?”
“He’s dead.”
Her reaction hurt to watch. Heartbreak. Fallen eyes. Aching tonality. The corner of her eyes pinched, and she swallowed a few times. She needed comforting, an emotional poultice. Both were things he knew zip about. Why was it so hard to conjure up a soothing word? Nothing came to mind. He didn’t know how. He fell back on what he knew. Interrogation.
“How’d he die?” He worried he’d just made her pain worse.
“They say he killed himself. But he wasn’t suicidal. He was scared for his life.”
“How would you know that?”
“Because I was his therapist. And, whether I should have been or not, something like his friend.”
Winters sat there for a moment and watched her eyelashes flutter. Her eyes grew moist and tears welled. Agony overtook her innocence. He reached out to her arm, trying to soothe away the pain in her. Her skin was so warm whenever he brushed it. And each time, it shocked him how fragile she felt. His fingers traced down her bicep.
Mia’s downturned head shot up, panic flashing across her face and a clear warning to back the hell off.
He snatched his hand from her as fast as he could. His finger singed, the tips tingled. Why the hell did he reach to her? Thinking of him as a good guy only recently began to solidify. At least he hoped.
“Sorry about that.” Erratic behavior wasn’t his norm. “I don’t know what that was. Sorry.”
“It’s okay. Anyway…” She rubbed her arm. “My client said something would happen to him. That if he turned up dead, I needed to go to the airport. To those chairs.”
“And when did he die?”
She put the chicken down on the napkin and wiped her fingers. “Two days ago.”
Winters’s jaw flexed. He’d gotten his marching orders two days ago and had headed out from DC. She bit her lip, uncertain maybe if she’d admitted too much.
The woman needed reassurance. Comforting. And he itched to provide it, but instead forced his hand to keep away from her. He needed to keep his paws off of her. Christ.
Think about work. “Do you know what’s in the package?”
“Yes, do you?” Her hesitant eyes said she told the truth. No abnormal pupil dilation, no increase in her respirations.
“No.”
“Well, that’s probably why you haven’t killed me yet and dumped my body.” There wasn’t a hint of sarcasm.
“You’re having a hard time seeing me as one of the good guys, huh?”
“You don’t look like a good guy. You look like a killer. You look like you enjoyed that whole thing back at the motel.”
“I’m going to take that as a compliment, doll.” He drew up a half-smile in an attempt to lighten her mood. “And truth be told, it was fun.”
The window cracked. The wiz and thud of a bullet smacking the back wall took him by surprise, only inches away from Mia’s head. He dove on her, shoving her to the side of the bed.
“Get down!”