KICK ASS: A Boxed Set (11 page)

He fished a square of cotton and gauze out of the kit, then doused the sterile pad with antiseptic.

“This might sting.”

“It already stings.”

He applied the sopping square to her arm. If not for the fact that he held her down with his other hand, she would have leaped right off the bed.

“Shit, Frankie!”

“I warned you.”

“I ain’t never been shot before.”

“All those years with
las Reinas
and this is your first bullet?”

“It’s an experience I tried to avoid.”

“Smart thinking,” he quipped.

“You think? Then why’d you get me into this?”

Her voice was barely a whisper, but her question punched through his chest and wrapped cold fingers around his heart. Did he really want to drag Marisela back into such a dangerous life? Did he have a choice?

No. Not any longer. From the minute she stepped foot on the deck of Blake’s boat, the choice became entirely hers. “You’re right for the job.”

“Tell me more about this kid I’m supposed to rescue.”

He shrugged. “Not my place. Blake will fill you in on the details.”

“Can you at least tell me why you thought I was so right for this work that I’ve had to face down killers for the second time since Thursday? How do you know Blake anyway?”

“From prison.”

“Blake was in prison?”

He didn’t like the way her voice sounded so disbelieving. “Blake and Titan contract with the DEA, FBI, and CIA. They’re a private investigation firm, but they’re also independent contractors, so to speak.”

“Mercenaries?”

“Nothing so skanky. They contract out their agents to do some of the dirty work the government can’t. I was working a sting for the DEA when Titan sent operatives into the prison. They were my backup. I met Blake when he came in to check on his men.”

Frankie gingerly lifted the saturated gauze and tossed it into a nearby garbage can. He applied a new strip, then directed her free hand to apply pressure while he fished out the rest of the supplies.

“I don’t understand,” Marisela said. “You were working with the DEA? You mean, you only went to prison to work undercover for the feds?”

Laughter burst from his gut. “Not by a long shot. I was one of the few guilty men in prison,
vidita
. Grand theft, assault, attempted murder. I did them all.”

“Because of the gang,” she said, attempting to rationalize, though why, he didn’t have a clue.

Frankie had come to terms a long time ago with the fact that he didn’t play by any rules except his own. He had no idea why he’d so easily gravitated away from the straight and narrow path his hardworking parents had charted for him, but he had no one to blame but himself. And he certainly hadn’t gone to work for the feds out of any sense of good. Or more asinine, out of guilt. He’d worked for the feds because it beat staring at four walls twenty-three hours out of a day and provided a nice income for luxuries like cigarettes and deodorant.

“In the hole,” Frankie explained, “the DEA sought me out, promised me a shorter stint if I helped bring down some asshole Columbian kingpin. I didn’t have anything better to do, so I helped them out. They liked my work, so they started moving me from lockup to lockup, never keeping me in any joint long enough to get shanked or ratted out.”

“You didn’t mind being a snitch?”

“What the hell did I care? They never asked me for shit on my own boys. I was working the system.”

And after you got out?”

Frankie couldn’t miss the expectation in her eyes. He glanced aside, hating the way one look from her reminded him of all the things he should say to her about his past, but couldn’t.

“After I got out, I worked on the docks in Miami and kept my ears open. I did some more work with Titan when some Swedish smuggler set up shop in South Beach. After a while, I got bored, so I came home for a while, hoping to explore my options.”

“By getting back in with
los Toros
and dealing drugs?”

“Don’t fool yourself, Marisela.
Los Toros
were my boys. I called the shots, but I didn’t want to be responsible for nobody else no more. I’d given up enough for the gang.”

“Including me.”

She didn’t allow a wounded sound into her voice, but Frankie saw a glimmer of pain in her eyes that didn’t stem from her injury.

“I had to do what I had to do, Marisela. You got out of the gang because you were tired of the life. Back then, I fed off the power, the violence.”

Marisela glanced aside and inhaled sharply, handling her emotions with more control than he thought her capable. Or maybe, she just didn’t give a shit anymore. “What do you feed off now?”

He grabbed surgical tape and more gauze and finished the last steps of dressing her wound. “The money. One more job and I can tell Ian Blake to stick his fancy organization up his ass. I’ll be my own boss again. I’ll answer to no one but me.”

Voicing his dream out loud, even with spite searing his words, injected him with a euphoria more powerful than any drug he’d ever tried. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been truly in charge of more than what he had for dinner. For whatever naive reason, he’d thought his release from jail a few years ago would change his life, but the freedom had been just an illusion. He’d remained under the thumb of the DEA and NTSB, or whichever agency decided they needed him, addicted to the money they paid outside the joint—and the thrill. At first. But not anymore.

“Once you break with Titan, what are you going to do with all that free time?”

He shrugged. Beyond telling Blake to fuck himself, Frankie had no clue. “Haven’t decided. What about you? You gonna work for Blake?”

“I don’t know.”

Frankie frowned. Once she heard the details of the mission, she’d likely break something in her haste to sign up. Marisela might be a ball-breaker, but she was still a woman.

“You’re here because of me,” he reminded her, wanting to make sure things were on the up and up. Not that she deserved the truth after what she’d pulled the other night, but after hearing the whole story from his mother and knowing everyone who loved him had been convinced he was jumping bail, thanks to Blake, he’d actually found Marisela’s technique damn clever. “I’ll stick around long enough to make sure you can still leave if you want to.”

“Aren’t you already signed on?”

Frankie growled. “Blake doesn’t own me.”

“Did you introduce him to Nestor Rocha?”

Frankie cursed. “Even I’m not that stupid. Everyone with ears knows that Rocha hated your guts. No, when I pulled a disappearing act on Blake, he decided he wanted you anyway. He knew I’d been in
los Toros
, figured whoever knew me knew you, so he found the gang. Nestor jumped at the chance to help him out.”

“So he could kill me.”

“After he raped you,” Frankie reminded her.

Marisela half-grinned. “He should be so lucky. Now, he’s dead. Is Blake why you were going to jump your bail?”

With a bitter laugh, he tossed the medical supplies back into the case and squeezed the clasps shut. “I wasn’t going to abandon my parents, Marisela. You should have known that.”

“I haven’t seen you in ten years, Frankie. The last time we spoke, family loyalty wasn’t exactly on the top of your list. I did what I had to.”

Yes, she had. He had no doubt who’d leaked the news to his parents that Frankie was going to skip town. Ian Blake’s power wasn’t as far-reaching as he liked people to believe, but he could be a highly effective, manipulative pain in the ass when millions of dollars were on the line. The first minute Frankie had shown reluctance in accepting Blake’s offer, the wheels had been set in motion. Blake and his operatives had set out to prove to Frankie that if he didn’t pony up on their deal, he’d land right back in jail, courtesy of drugs planted in his car. Just as easily, Blake had retained the hotshot lawyer who wrangled his release in less than five minutes. For now Frankie was in—no matter what he told Marisela.

“After the
pendejada
with Rocha, you still want to hear what Blake has to say?”

Marisela narrowed her eyes, clearly trying to pick up a clue from his expression, which he was careful to keep guarded. She had to make this decision for herself. His opinion of Marisela’s potential effectiveness as a partner had not changed. With her on his side, they could complete this mission and he could milk Blake for the last cash injection he needed to kiss this life goodbye forever. She was smart and fast, and wouldn’t screw him over unless he screwed her over first.

“Your old homeboys tried to kill me, Frankie, not Blake. And as for Rocha, he would have hunted me down at some point, so I’m just glad Blake’s guys were there to clean up the mess. The only thing your rich friend has done for me so far is make my bank account fatter than it’s ever been—and that’s just a good faith deposit. My family is safe, thanks to you, and I’ve got a shot at something…”

Her voice trailed off. She likely had no clue the level of danger their assignment would entail. And he wasn’t entirely sure he wanted to tell her.

“Something what? This isn’t the movies, Marisela. This isn’t fake bullets or cartoon bad guys. This is the real world. I don’t know if you’re ready.”

He cursed the minute the words spilled from his lips.
Shit
. Determination flashed in her eyes like fireworks.

She stood, tossed the bloodied jacket onto the bed and marched to the door, which she wrenched open with a powerful tug. “I’m up for anything you’re up for.”

Frankie clucked his tongue, certain the condescending sound would keep her from leaving. “Your competitiveness could get you killed, Marisela.”

She spared a glance at her bandaged arm, then leveled her stare at him. “So could your cockiness, Frankie. Why don’t we give this a go and see which one of us comes out alive?”

Eight

Marisela raised her
fist, but stopped mid-knock. She stared at the door—a plain, simply white slab of wood—and recognized the significance. She was about to walk into a whole new world. The shivers racking her body since her conversation with Frankie had subsided to barely noticeable quivers, but the emotional fallout of Frankie’s long-standing involvement with Ian Blake would have to wait.

She focused on the essential information, starting with Blake wanting her enough for this operation to make a generous deposit in her bank account. The cash she’d withdrawn for emergencies prior to heading to the dock scratched at the tender skin of her left breast. But money wouldn’t buy her out of trouble—instead, the lure of real life-and-death excitement was dragging her in.

She expelled a frustrated breath. Memories of her initiation into
las Reinas
flashed in her brain, causing her to lift her uninjured right arm and turn her hand so the tattoo on her wrist blazed like black fire. She’d been so young, so desperate for control over her life, hungry for danger and adventure. Was she headed in the wrong direction again for the same damned reason?

She had to hear Ian out before she made her choice, but deep down, she suspected the details didn’t matter.

She wanted in.

She banged on the door, but didn’t wait for a response before she charged inside. If she was rude, too bad. Nearly getting creamed by five hoods with loaded weapons tended to screw up her manners.

“Ms. Morales,” Blake said, standing. Goddamn, but the man was stunning in a light colored linen suit, shirt, and tie that captured the sunlight pouring in from the windows. The crystal clear glass reflected nothing of the ugly warehouse or crates outside. Just the peacock blue sky.

“I’m pleased to see your injury isn’t serious.”

“No thanks to you or your heavily armed men. What took them so long to ride to the rescue?” She stomped over to his desk, rage propelling her forward. Hand-blown glass winked at her from a decanter filled with what she guessed to be a very expensive single-malt Scotch. “Seems to me your boys could use a little lesson in teamwork.”

He arched one eyebrow, and then whispered to Max, who stood ever-present and oddly invisible at his side. The man sure could blend. Max nodded and moved to leave, but not before giving Marisela a quick once-over.

Was that respect she saw in his colorless eyes? She heard Max close the doors behind them, but she didn’t turn, determined to retain eye contact with Ian Blake. She’d arrived at the showdown. How he responded to her questions—or how he avoided straight answers—would make the difference in her decision.

Yeah, she wanted the money and she craved the excitement and a chance at a job she could sink her teeth into—but she couldn’t very well enjoy her success if she was dead because her boss double-crossed her.

“I can see how you would believe that Titan operatives don’t work well together. But you must understand that since our debacle the other night at your home, I’ve opted to take Mr. Vega’s lead on all matters pertaining to you. Perhaps your ire should be directed at him.”

His glance over her shoulder diverted her attention behind her. Frankie leaned against the closed door, silent as a statue.

“You’re not fooling anyone, Mr. Blake. You’re calling the shots here,” Marisela said as she turned back to face the Brit.

His grin bordered on indulgent, which injected her blood with the hot fire of intense annoyance. This man could push her buttons with just an expression—and she suddenly suspected that had been his intention all along.

He tugged at his slacks and eased into his calf’s leather chair, inviting her to sit with the curve of his hand. She hooked her thumbs in the belt loops of her low-riding jeans and waited for his reply.

“You’re entirely right, Ms. Morales. Mr. Vega is currently in my employ, so the ultimate responsibility for your skirmish today is in my hands. However, I must say, you handled yourself beautifully.”

“If I thought this was another one of your tests, Mr. Blake, you’d be dead right now.”

“If I thought you had real reason to kill me, I would have directed someone in my employ to confiscate your gun before you barged into my office. But as it is, you are still armed and I’m still in charge, so let’s not ruin what we’ve established between us with empty threats.”