Texas Hold 'Em (9 page)

Maybe their son was right. The Stanleys were just fine on their own.

…

For the second time in twenty-four hours, Santos picked up his phone and answered a call from Rose, dropping the greasy rag he’d been using to polish his chrome wheels to the floor of the open garage just behind the safe house. “Everything okay?” he asked without saying hello.

“Everything’s fine.”

Relief came over him. Every day that went by gave Ortega one more day to move against Rose. Attackers and menacing candles were only the beginning.

“But I’ve got an intruder who’s waiting for an ambulance. He ran into a cast iron skillet full of hot grease, and it didn’t end well for him. The skillet survived. I’m not real sure he will.”

He listened with amazement as she told him what the older couple had done. “Who’s the guy?”

“His name is Ricky Cervantes. He’s a minor player. I’ve picked him up on pot charges before, and he did a few years for meth. Had one domestic disturbance, but his girlfriend refused to file on him.”

“What’s his connection to the Stanleys?”

“There isn’t one.” Any surviving trace of amusement over the situation disappeared from her voice. “The Stanleys had no idea who he was. They said he simply showed up this morning and pulled out the knife. Then they all sat down and waited for me. Sometimes if I’m short on time, I sound the horn, they wave out the window, and that’s it. Carl was sent out to make sure I came inside today. He tried to get me to leave instead. I could tell something was wrong, though.”

“You always go on Wednesday?”

“No. Depends on how busy the week is.”

“But someone knew you were going out there today.”

“Apparently so. But anyone could have seen me leaving town.” She paused. “And now that I think about it, I did see a motorcycle cruising in front of the station right before I left. It struck me at the time that the rider was going slowly, but I didn’t give it any more thought. No one speeds passing headquarters.” She described the man on the bike, but Santos didn’t recognize him.

“He was obviously checking things out.”

“Yeah. After I got Cervantes cuffed, he informed me he has a new boss who’s going to hunt me down and ‘kill me like a dog.’”

“Ortega’s into dog fights. Maybe it was a reference to his favorite ‘sport.’”

Rose made a sound of disgust.

Santos took a moment then spoke again. “Who are these people, the Stanleys?”

“They’re friends,” she said. “I’ve known them since I was a child.”

“So they know Silas…which means they also know Gloria?”

“Yes. Mother used to work for them.”

“Do they know where she is now?”

“We’ve never spoken about her.”

“I can hear the ‘but’ in your voice, so you might as well save me the time.”

“But…I was going to ask them about her today,” Rose admitted.

“And did you?”

“After things settled down, I asked. They insisted they don’t know where she is. They were pretty shaken. Talking about Gloria was not on their minds.”

“You care about them,” he said.

“I do. They’re like Silas—the last of their kind. They’re tough, apparently even tougher than
los bandoleros
. There’s west Texas dust in their veins instead of blood.”

“If Ortega sent him, he was going to kill them whether you showed up or not. You know that, don’t you?”

“Yes,” she said finally. “I know that. Now.”

“I’m surprised he didn’t just do it, then wait for you to arrive. He probably wanted you to see it happen. When throats are slashed right in front of you, your cooperation kicks in a little faster.” He rubbed his eyes then looked at the bent mesquite tree leaning toward the ranch house. The tortured limbs looked like something from a horror movie. But the monsters he was fighting weren’t from Hollywood; they were real. “Did you find out anything about the candle?”

“King looked into it, but when he called the store manager in Mexico City, he swore he didn’t know who bought it. He’s probably telling the truth. The store’s a chain. They buy St. Michael’s candles by the thousands.”

“One way or the other, Ortega is stepping up his game,” he said. “He’ll probably go after Silas next. And if they still can’t get you to cooperate then, you’re a dead sheriff walking.” He watched a hawk drift on a wind current high overhead, then suddenly the bird screamed and dived for a tangled scrub brush, soaring again in the blink of an eye, something small struggling in its grip. “We’re not going to wait any longer. Meet me here at midnight. We’re heading for Mexico.”

Chapter Ten

The horse pens were shrouded in black when Rose returned at the appointed time. There was no moon. Santos must have known. He wanted to cross the border during the darkest part of the night for the same reason most people did—he didn’t want anyone to see them.

The dead man at the trailer park had no relatives, except for one sister, Concepción DeLeon. The first stop over the border would be her home. Hopefully, she’d be able to tell them who had hired her brother; then Juan Enrique’s family was next. Enrique had built his mother a nice house in the village where she’d grown up. King had picked up the rumor that Enrique might be there.

Rose pulled her SUV into Santos’s empty barn and parked as he’d instructed, her headlights illuminating a workbench shoved up against one side of the wall. A black motorcycle helmet with a tinted flip visor sat on top of the table with a dark leather jacket resting beside it. As she killed the Jeep’s engine, Santos’s shadow took form. She hadn’t noticed until now that he was standing at the other end of the table working on something she couldn’t see. He acknowledged her arrival with a nod, then returned to whatever he was doing.

In the unguarded moment, Rose studied him. He was wearing a pair of well-worn, heavy boots with black jeans and a long-sleeved, white T-shirt. The leather vest with the patches he’d explained that first night was on his back. The car’s lights illuminated the grinning skeleton, the splayed-out cards in the specter’s bony fingers wavering in the beam. The warning in its red eyes felt personal.
Stop now while you still have a chance
, he seemed to be telling her.

If there was a more dangerous undercover life Santos could have chosen, she didn’t know what it might be. But she did understand the angle he’d chosen to play. The cartels sold a drug-filled life to those who could least afford it, and the biker world sold the image of wild sex and freedom from responsibility. It was a match made in…hell. And the perfect covert setup.

Santos flexed his shoulders and stepped back, and she could see he’d been working on a helmet. A visor sat beside it. He picked up a different shield and started toward the Jeep.

He planted a hand on the side mirror and tilted his head, peering through her open window. “Having second thoughts? You look like you aren’t too sure about this, sitting there in the car.”

“I’m as ready as I’m gonna be. I’m still a little worried about the cooperation we’re going to get on the other side of the border.”

He nodded as if expecting her answer. When they’d discussed the details earlier, he’d assured her that the Rangers, especially when they were undercover, sometimes worked with Mexican authorities, but she still wasn’t one-hundred percent sure it was a good idea.

“It’s going to be fine. My contact knows we’re going over the border. We’re going to keep a low profile regardless.” His eyes softened momentarily. “Don’t worry, Rose. It’ll be fine. The I’s have all been dotted.”

“Would it make a difference if they hadn’t been? You’re the man who gets the job done, regardless.”

He paid no attention to her comment. “Do you have a bag?”

“In the back.” She climbed out and headed for the rear of the SUV, opening the hatch to grab a soft-sided tote. Reaching across her, he took it, their hands brushing. Instead of pulling away, he clamped his fingers over hers and stared down at her. She stilled, except for her heart, which started to thud like a runaway jackhammer. He hadn’t shaved, and she suddenly remembered what it felt like when he kissed her on their Sunday mornings, sometimes staying in bed the whole weekend.

“We can’t ride across the border acting like two cops who’ve teamed up,” he said. “You understand that, don’t you?”

“Of course I do. I know what working undercover means.” She tugged her hand, but he tightened his grip preventing her from moving.

“I wasn’t implying that you don’t. We both know you’re solid in that department. But this isn’t just ‘working uncover.’ These people are suspicious of anything and everyone—they have to be if they want to stay alive. It’s been drilled into them. If they catch a whiff of something they don’t like, they’ll disappear and so will my informant, if she hasn’t already. Worst case, we all vanish, and no one ever finds us.”

“You don’t need to worry about me.”

He yanked her closer. When her breasts were pressed against his chest, he bent his head to hers and spoke softly, his whisper reminding her of other times and places. “I’m not worried about you.” His stubbled jaw tightened. “I’m talking about me. When I get on that bike, I’m someone else, and that someone I have to be isn’t a man you’ll like.”

She felt herself tremble—not at words but at his closeness. To cover her reaction, she retorted, “I’ll try to keep that in mind.”

His eyes glittered in the dim light. “That’s a good idea,” he said harshly, his fingers biting into her wrist. “Otherwise we’ll both be sorry.”

…

Leaning against the workbench with his arms crossed, Santos watched as Rose stepped into the leather chaps he’d brought her. Despite her answer, he remained unconvinced she grasped exactly what he’d tried to tell her. Every good undercover cop morphed into what he needed to be in order to fit in. When Santos got on his Harley, though, he was
becoming
that man, growing more comfortable in the outlaw role than he was in his own skin.

The view before his eyes began to register instead of his thoughts. He’d asked Jessie if he could borrow a pair of her leather coverings, yet seeing these on Rose made him wonder if Jessie had gone out and bought a special pair to give him. He’d certainly never noticed Jessie wearing anything that hugged her curves like these did Rose’s. As he watched, she tugged at the seams, glancing over her shoulder at her reflection shimmering in the SUV’s mirrored windows. His gaze followed hers, starting at the top where two silver belts and buckles held the chaps at her waist, to the corset-like threaded laces tied right under the cusp of her butt, to the legs where more buckles tightened the leather to fit snugly against her legs. The black jacket he’d also brought was Jessie’s old one with the sleeves intact. It had some miles on it just like it should, but it fit Rose just a little bit tighter as well. He pushed abruptly off the bench to grab the closest helmet. If they didn’t get going, he might not be able to even get on the bike. He hadn’t done such a great job controlling himself up to this point.

“This is yours,” he said, thrusting the helmet into her hands. He’d had to buy one to fit her, so he’d taken it out back of the ranch house and roughed it up, taking off some of the polish. He pointed to the buttons on the side. “It’s got Bluetooth. Push this one if you want to talk to me. Push this one to use your phone after I’ve synced it.”

She handed over her cell. He punched the necessary buttons, then handed both the phone and the helmet back. “Keep the jacket zipped,” he instructed, pulling the leather collar closer to her neck. “It’s going to get cold with the wind.”

“Will you stop?” She batted his hands away. “You’re treating me like I’ve never ridden a motorcycle. Give me a break—”

“This bike is different. You can’t be asleep at the wheel, even if you’re just riding.”

“I don’t need all these directions.”

“I don’t give a shit if you think you need them or not, you’re getting them.” He finished explaining everything he thought she should hear, then he turned toward the bike. Throwing his leg over the saddle, he strapped on his own helmet and brought the motorcycle off the stand with a jerk. The Harley rumbled to a start as Rose slipped on behind him, wrapping her arms around his waist. Fifteen minutes later, they pulled out on the highway and headed south.

In the kind of dark that only exists in west Texas, everything familiar dissolved as they rode, the cycle’s headlight a single beam slicing the road before them. Santos was grateful for the straightaway. Rose needed time with the Harley before they hit the twisted road they would take once they crossed over the border, no matter what she thought.

They didn’t talk, and he was grateful for that, too. All he wanted was to take care of business. How good it felt to have Rose pressed against him, her arms wrapped around his waist, the wind rushing over his body, the speed of the bike… None of that mattered, he told himself.

None of that mattered.

Right.

…

They had only been traveling a couple of hours, but for Rose, they were the longest two hours she’d experienced in a quite a while. She tried to concentrate on the music Santos was playing over the headset, but that had only seemed to aggravate the situation. The dark and moody songs were nothing like what they’d listened to when they’d lived together, and the way he’d stared at her in the barn matched their throbbing beat. He was driving differently, too, taking the curves so low another driver would have laid down the bike, pushing the engine harder and harder, faster and faster. More than once, she thought about ordering him to pull over and let her off. Something told her he wouldn’t have stopped no matter what she said. Something else told her she didn’t need to worry; his skills matched the bike.

Regardless, by the time they pulled into the dusty village one town over from their destination, she was ready for a break. An open-all-night
tienda
winked in the darkness, and Santos glided to a stop before it. She was off the Harley before he could silence the engine, unsure of what bothered her more—his driving or the closeness to his body.

Still straddling the motorcycle, he slowly removed his helmet and looked at her as if he knew how she was feeling and enjoyed her displeasure. His expression wasn’t one she’d seen before. Slightly mocking, slightly angry, slightly frightening.

“What’s wrong?” he drawled. “Can’t take the heat?”

Several retorts came to mind. She held them in, turned her back on him, and walked toward the flashing neon lights of the tiny store behind her. Chimes over the door announced her arrival. The shop’s shelves held everything from candy to tires, and a chest-style cooler beckoned from the back. It was rusty and battered, and showed its years of use. She was lifting the lid when a man in his twenties stepped out from a door behind the counter.

He looked at her, then glanced toward the windows that faced the street, a guarded expression coming over his features. Her eyes followed his. Washed in the flickering blue and yellow glow of the shop’s garish sign, Santos stood beside the bike holding his helmet loosely by his side, sweeping the darkened street with his gaze. For a second, she couldn’t help but share the shopkeeper’s concern. Santos didn’t look like anyone she knew, much less a man she’d lived with for several years. He seemed deadly and dangerous, and sexy as hell.

The young man faced her once again. “What can I do for you?” His English was unaccented, his demeanor polite.

“Just some water,” she said, taking two plastic bottles from the cooler. Walking to the counter, she handed over the money, twisting one of bottle tops and taking a deep drink before holding her hand out for the change he’d pulled from the drawer. A textbook sat on the counter beside the register, a series of complicated diagrams and formulas decorating its fluttering pages.

“Are you a student?” she asked.

“I go to the
Tecnológico de
Monterrey. I’m working on an agro-biotechnology degree.”

“That’s a very good school,” Rose answered. “I’m impressed.”

“Where are you headed?” he asked. “Maybe
el pueblo fantasma
?”

“The ghost town? Is there one nearby?”

He raised his gaze toward the mountains in the distance and spoke slowly. “They say it’s there, but I don’t know. It’s a ghost town. You don’t see it.” He brought his stare back to hers, and suddenly she understood. He’d assumed they wanted to buy drugs.

She hardened her expression. “What gives you the impression I’m looking for that?”

“Lots of folks passing through here are.” He shrugged and glanced at the motorcycle again. “I just thought you might be one of them.”

She gave him the story she and Santos had agreed upon. “We’re going to visit a relative we haven’t seen in a long time,” she answered. “My man’s
prima
. Maybe you can tell me where she lives.”

He moved away—but not too far—from the register, suddenly interested in rearranging the gum display on the other side. “I doubt I would know her.”

Rose trailed him. “Well, try real hard. She lives in the next village over. Los Muertos. Her name is Concepción DeLeon. He forgot which street she lives on.”

“Never heard of her.”

“Try a little harder.” Rose and the shopkeeper both turned as Santos spoke from the doorway “It’s a small village.” He continued in a lazy voice with a razor-sharp edge. “Everyone who lives over there probably comes here to buy your crap. She had a brother. His name was Carlos Hernandez.”

The young man avoided Santos’s eyes. “You might try
Calle Cinco
,” he said without looking up. “I’ve heard there’s some DeLeons on that street.”

“Thank you.” Santos’s sardonic acknowledgement didn’t match the words. He curled two fingers at Rose and jerked his head toward the motorcycle. “Let’s go.”

She started for the door, but the student’s voice stopped her, and she turned. He pointedly ignored Santos and spoke to her instead. “There’s some bad business going on over there. You need to be careful.”

Reaching out, Santos put both his hands on her shoulders and turned her to face the door. “She’s not your concern.” Santos said. “You wanna worry about something, worry about me.”

She held her breath, but the boy was smart enough to keep quiet. Once outside, Santos shook his head then pushed her toward the Harley. “Don’t say a word. Just get on the bike.”

…

The road between the two villages was barely paved, and Rose was grateful. It meant Santos had to drive slower, which was still faster than she would have liked. She definitely didn’t like what he was doing or how he was acting. She’d had to struggle to keep her mouth shut in the
tienda
, and it’d been even harder not to speak out once they were in the street. He’d been right to warn her before they’d left. They reached Los Muertos a little after five a.m., and all she could think was that the town definitely matched its name. The streets were empty and dark, lacking any signs of life except for a few lights glowing from behind windows with tightly closed curtains. Some flicked to one side as the big Harley rumbled by.