Against the Wall (28 page)

Coming soon from Loveswept

Ian Foster waited for his new boss, ICE Special Agent in Charge Mark LaGuardia, to return for another debriefing.

The field office for U.S. Immigration and Customs Enforcement's International Operations Division was in an inauspicious gray building overlooking San Diego Bay. It was about five miles north of the border, removed from the everyday chaos of customs inspections. Ian hadn't expected to work for Homeland Security—or any other federal agency—ever again. He'd hated his short stint as a border patrol agent. The DEA had been a better fit, but that was over now.

Everything good was over.

He shifted his wounded leg, impatient. He was tired of sitting around, despite the pain of his injury. With every hour that passed, Maria slipped farther away. She'd snuck out of his hotel room yesterday morning at 0800. He hadn't been able to drop his responsibilities to follow her, though he'd wanted to. Now he was stuck in an uncomfortable metal chair in an ugly office, his thigh aching from the bullet fragment that had ripped through it during a career-ending shootout last week.

What a clusterfuck.

SAC LaGuardia finally appeared and settled down across from Ian. He placed his laptop on the wood-veneer table and plugged it in. The frayed screen on the wall behind the table lit up with a blocky blue ICE logo. LaGuardia entered his password and accessed a file on the target, Armando Villarreal.

Ian couldn't wait to go after him. And Maria.

He'd met Villarreal at the Hotel del Oro in San Diego, where Ian had done a series of drug buys as an undercover agent. Villarreal's partner was the one who had shot Ian in the leg. He'd also planted a bullet in Villarreal's back.

Apparently there was some bad blood between them.

Several photos of Villarreal popped up on the screen. In the first he wore a neatly pressed military uniform. The second showed him in traditional farmworker garb with a young woman by his side and a curly-haired toddler at their feet. He was a stone-faced vaquero type, weathered and lean, about forty. His black eyes revealed nothing.

The next photo was of Caitlyn Weiss, a veterinarian from La Canada Pet Clinic, about two blocks away from the Hotel del Oro. She'd been missing since the shootout. Customs officers had confirmed that her vehicle crossed the border. It was assumed that Villarreal had kidnapped the woman and forced her to drive him to Tijuana.

“How far can he go with a hostage and a serious injury?” Ian asked.

“I have no idea. He's probably dead or dying in some hovel near the border.”

“And if he's not?”

“We want to take him alive and keep it quiet.”

“At the expense of a U.S. citizen?”

“Not at all. Ms. Weiss is our top priority.”

Ian regarded this assertion with cynicism. LaGuardia wanted to capture Villarreal to exploit his cartel connections, not to save the hostage. She was incidental. That was why they hadn't launched a public, transnational manhunt.

Which was a mistake, in Ian's opinion.

It was also a mistake to underestimate Villarreal's ability to adapt and survive. He was a tough motherfucker, cold as ice. Ian didn't think Villarreal would kill an innocent woman, but he might not be able to protect her from his dangerous associates.

LaGuardia brought up another screen with photos of several active cartel members. “These men will be looking for Villarreal. They might go after his daughter.”

Ian memorized their names and faces. “Can they find her?”

“If we can, they can.”

The only hint of the girl's whereabouts would come from Maria Santos, the hotel maid. A woman from Ian's past. Four years ago, when he was a border patrol officer, he'd discovered her, badly beaten, in the desert. He hadn't been able to investigate the crime because it had happened on Mexican soil. His frustration over the case had been a major factor in his decision to leave Homeland Security. He'd walked away from the line, but had never forgotten Maria.

When he'd spotted her at the Hotel del Oro, he'd recognized her immediately. She'd remembered him as well, despite his scruffy disguise. Against his better judgment, they'd gotten involved.

And then everything went to hell.

Maria had been terrorized at gunpoint by Villarreal's shady partner, and Ian had been forced to break cover to help her. He'd ignored the direct orders of his supervisor, risked his own life, and tossed out months of investigative work to save an undocumented immigrant. The DEA had not been pleased with this decision. They'd fired him on the spot.

Villarreal had managed to stumble away from the hotel, bleeding profusely. He'd passed Maria an envelope and begged her to deliver it to his daughter in person. Maria had agreed, unable to refuse an apparently dying man his final wish.

She'd kept the letter a secret from Ian. He hadn't learned of its existence until after she'd left the country.

After she left
him
.

Maria had told her friend and roommate, Kari, about the letter. According to Kari, Maria planned to drop it off at the girl's school on her way home.

“Maria Santos's mother lives in Mezcala, Guerrero,” LaGuardia said. “I'm sending you there to speak to Miss Santos in person. I want you to confirm the location of Villarreal's daughter and take some photos of the area. I'll send in a team to do the rest.”

Ian understood his assignment. He was supposed to collect an easy-to-get piece of intel and stay on the sidelines, where he couldn't fuck up again. He saw no reason to decline. He wanted to catch up with Maria. He had to see her one more time.

He was a fool for her. Always would be.

“Michelson told me you speak Spanish,” LaGuardia said.

“That's right.”

“You won't pass for Mexican.”

“No,” he agreed. He'd grown up in a poor Mexican neighborhood in San Diego, and he'd practically been raised by his best friend's mother, Señora Cortez. But he wasn't Mexican, no matter how many times he'd wished to be as a kid. He spoke Spanish like a
pocho
. But he was too tall and lanky, too fair skinned. His father had probably been some white-trash tweaker or a homeless bum. Maybe a traveling businessman.

Who knew? His mother certainly didn't.

“We've got some camera equipment for you in the back,” LaGuardia said, taking some documents out of his briefcase. There was a passport, a photo ID, and media credentials. “You're Ian Phillips, freelance photographer for
National Geographic
.”

Ian accepted the items with a wry smile. He'd come a long way from the barrio. Too bad when this short assignment ended he'd be neither a successful photographer nor a DEA agent. He wasn't sure he'd have a job with ICE, either. He sensed LaGuardia's disapproval, a sore festering beneath the surface.

It was clear that LaGuardia didn't want Ian on his team. SACs weren't fond of rogue agents. Some of them didn't even like independent thinkers.

LaGuardia changed the images on the screen once again, revealing a photo of Maria Santos in a hospital bed. It must have been taken about a week after he'd found her in the desert, because her face still bore the bruises from the attack. She was achingly beautiful, regardless. Tall and willowy, with long black hair and lovely brown eyes.

“Pretty girl,” LaGuardia remarked, watching Ian for a reaction.

Ian didn't answer. Maria's looks weren't really a matter for debate. Anyone with clear vision could agree on her appeal.

“How old is she? Twenty?”

“Twenty-two,” Ian said in a low voice. He knew where this was going.

“You met her when she was eighteen.”

“Briefly.”

“And you were with her the night before last.”

“I didn't write that in my report.”
And it's none of your fucking business
. Ian was twenty-eight, not forty-five. If he'd pursued Maria after apprehending her at the border four years ago, that would have been extremely inappropriate. But he hadn't.

“She assisted Villarreal with his getaway.”

“She gave him some towels to stop the bleeding,” Ian countered.

“And then she fled the scene.”

“She's illegal. What do you expect?”

“You don't think it's odd that she promised to deliver a letter for him?”

“No, I don't think it's odd.” He thought it was stupid, and softhearted, and infuriatingly selfless. But that was Maria to a fault. She was going to get herself killed someday doing dangerous favors for people in need.

Like him. She'd helped him keep his cover one night, and cared for him while he was incapacitated.

“Did you sleep with her?”

“What difference does it make? I'd already handed in my resignation.”

LaGuardia leaned back in his chair, twiddling his fingers. “There's a name for patrol agents who prey on female aliens.”

Ian had a few choice names for LaGuardia also, but he kept them to himself. He hadn't laid a hand on Maria or any other female he'd encountered on the line. He'd been celibate during his months-long undercover assignment, too. He wasn't the kind of man who'd take advantage of a helpless woman, especially one who'd been assaulted in the past. It rankled him to be accused of predatory sexual behavior. “I didn't prey on her, sir. With all due respect, what happened between us was completely consensual.”

LaGuardia shook his head. “The power imbalance between a federal agent and an illegal alien overrules any kind of permission or consent.”

Ian couldn't defend himself against these charges, and he resented LaGuardia for making them. LaGuardia didn't understand the nature of his relationship with Maria, and Ian wasn't going to fill him in on the intimate details. There had been no coercion. No penetration, in fact. Did a thirty-second handjob even count as sex?

“I don't want your personal feelings to interfere with this assignment,” LaGuardia added.

“They won't.”

The SAC made a skeptical sound. “You requested a transfer from border patrol a few weeks after you met Santos. You crashed and burned in the DEA as soon as you came into contact with her again. But you don't foresee any problems this time?”

Ian clenched his jaw tight. “No, I don't.”

“You're full of shit,” LaGuardia said flatly. “If I had a choice, I wouldn't put you on my team. You're only here because you know this girl and you've got a better chance of getting information from her than anyone else.”

“Thanks for the vote of confidence,” Ian said, disgruntled. “I'll feel real safe in Mexico knowing you've got my back.”

“Just keep your dick in your pants, Foster. If you touch her or anyone else while you're on duty—if you so much as jerk off south of the border—I'll have your credentials stripped and you'll be mopping up piss in the holding vans for a living.”

Ian took a deep breath, trying to control his anger. He wanted to mop the floor with LaGuardia's face, but restrained himself. It wasn't easy to sit here and take this abuse. He was already at rock bottom, his ego badly bruised.

Despite being a meth addict's kid who'd come from nothing, he'd done well for himself. He'd been an ace student, a dedicated athlete, a crack shot. He'd never expected to falter at twenty-four, and again at twenty-eight. This second career setback had really thrown him for a loop.

“Are we clear?”

“Crystal.”

LaGuardia's harsh expression softened. He was one of those hardass military types, overworked and underpaid. He looked worn down. Ian was worn down, too. His undercover assignment with the DEA had taken a toll on him mentally and physically. It had reminded him of his early childhood. When he'd been hungry and dirty and scared. Hiding in the closet from doped-out strangers.

He probably needed a break, not another stress test, but he couldn't rest while Maria was in danger. He'd go after her under any circumstances. With a bruised ego, a bum leg, and a broken heart. Because that was who he was.

When he stumbled, he always got back up.

“It's not unusual for young agents to struggle at the beginning of their career,” LaGuardia said. “You were at the top of your class at the academy. Your fitness level and IQ scores are impressive. I don't doubt your drive or your intelligence, but I'm looking for a team player. Prove that you can follow orders and stay out of trouble and I'll consider you for a long-term position.”

“Thank you,” Ian said curtly. “I appreciate it.”

LaGuardia grunted in response. “You're dismissed.”

Ian left the office without further ado. He picked up the camera equipment and a plane ticket to Mexico City on his way out. Then he bought some clothes and supplies before returning to the dive hotel he'd checked in at.

It was a far cry from the clean, comfortable room he'd shared with Maria. The soft bed where he'd kissed her, touched her.

Asked to marry her.

Jesus.

He raked a hand through his hair, flushing. He didn't know why he'd done that. Maybe he had a savior complex. Or maybe he'd just had a raging hard-on and the misguided impression that offering her a ring was the only way to fuck her.

Tossing aside his canvas rucksack, he strode into the bathroom. After a long shower and a quick stroke, he left the stall, wrapping a towel around his waist. Then he wiped the steam from the mirror and took a good, hard look at himself.

He needed to gain a few pounds. His eyes were guarded and his cheekbones stood out in harsh relief. So did his ribs. He was all lean muscle and sharp edges. No softness, no give. No extra padding. He'd played the role of a junkie as if he'd been born to it.

And he had been.

He took out a pair of clippers and leaned over the trash can for a quick haircut. The shaggy, unkempt layers fell away like deadweight. He straightened, brushing the excess off his neck. Then he used the hotel's soap to lather the heavy stubble on his jaw. He shaved the way he always did, with reckless swiftness. After his cheeks were smooth, he moved the blade over the precarious landscapes of his chin and Adam's apple. He paused at his upper lip, hand still.