Behind the Mask (Undercover Associates Book 4) (3 page)

The plane boarded an hour later. Zelda found her seat between two guys with bad cases of macho leg-spread, which she immediately handled by grabbing both their knees and simply relocating them. “Got plans for my space,” she said sweetly. Yeah, she was going on a dangerous mission with a blown mind-set, and she damn well wasn’t going to tolerate leg-spread. People taking advantage. Guys hardly ever leg-spread her when she was cool, powerful Zelda in an awesome business suit, but they would for blonde Liza in a too-tight metallic gold skirt suit. Thinking they could take advantage because of the way she was dressed? She was fighting for Liza in every way now.

That was one of the great things about being in the CIA—bringing down an asshole or two at the end of most missions. That’s really what most criminals were—assholes.

The Association brought down criminals, too, but with more freedom and precision. She sometimes had the idea that if they could take down enough baddies, the balance sheet would finally agree, and she could stop feeling like shit for letting Friar Hovde get Agent Randall’s name out of her. Friar Hovde with his little beard, giant eyes, and his end-of-the-world church with all their weapons. If only she’d held out. If only she’d been stronger.

Stop it.

She flipped open the fashion magazine she’d brought and pulled out her slim copy of
Medicinal Wild Plants of the Prairie: An Ethnobotanical Guide,
which she’d hidden inside. Her seatmates were obviously civilians; she didn’t have to playact in front of them and nobody else would see. She’d read a brainy book if she wanted.

She’d never set out to be in the CIA; she’d consulted on a case as a turfgrass expert and had fallen in love with forensic botany. And then she got deeper. A lot of agents got in sideways like that.

The time flew by. It seemed like she’d barely begun reading when the tray-tables-in-upright-positions announcement came on. She ditched the magazine with a sigh.

A driver waited at a prearranged spot outside the Cancún airport. It was a bumpy three-hour ride to Brujos’s narcotecture palace.

Impossible to get into. Until now.

Zelda’s blood raced as they entered his town—his territory. They passed through a checkpoint layered with barbed wire and manned with armed guards, and then another. Finally, they headed up a drive toward a building with candy-colored turrets. She reminded herself how missions always got easier once she was in the flow. Beforehand was always the worst.

The Jeep stopped. She opened her own door and stepped out with her suitcase. A pair of guards came down the steps. One gave her a pat-down while the other rifled through her suitcase, right there on the drive. She and Dax had expected a thorough search.

The guard took her phone. That, too, she expected, though she didn’t much like it.

The other guard pulled out a vibrator and sneered. She frowned, giving him Liza’s haughty I-don’t-give-a-shit look. He put it back without question.

That, too, they’d expected. The thumb drive was hidden there. The suitcase was repacked, and an elderly maid waiting at the door escorted her into a foyer full of lavishly carved wood and stone. She managed to press a parabolic microphone under a table while she waited, a little something that wouldn’t register on the most sophisticated equipment. A lot of business was transacted in foyers. Coming-and-going business, they called it.

Another maid appeared and guided her up a winding staircase and into a small bedroom. The maid spoke only Spanish. Zelda spoke Spanish fluently, but not Liza. She was Liza now, so their conversation consisted of gestures. The maid pointed to a little pile of red and white fabric on the bed and then at her. She was to put that on.

She lifted the top.
Really?
She wanted to say.
Seriously?
But that wasn’t the attitude she needed, so she pressed her lips together and pretended to inspect it.

The sexy maid.

Stunning how little men’s fantasies changed from one country to the next, from one year to the next.

Brujos wouldn’t hurt her—that had been part of the bargain with Mikos. But he’d want to make it hard in order to get the most out of his win—the outfit would be part of that. He’d fuck her and demoralize her, and after that he’d probably let a few of his guys fuck her. He’d allow her to report to Mikos when she was at her lowest.

She sighed. It would happen over the space of a few days, and then it would be over. Things would get back to normal. She’d go back to her cat, her plants, and running spies with Dax.

She changed quickly as soon as the real maid left. The bra plumped up her breasts to a crazy, almost comic-book height, tapering down into a partly see-through bodice. There were thong panties for bottoms, plus garter stockings and a tiny apron that was more like a lacy loincloth.

How many times had she put something like this on? The outfit was designed to expose her and make her feel exposed, but it was truly the best camouflage because it drew attention away from her face, away from her as a human being with intelligence and agency. She could strike like a fucking cobra in this sort of outfit.

Back in the day, anyway.

She’d been a star back in the day. Nobody had expected it of her, coming in as a forensic botanist, but she’d been cool and dependable under fire, and a master at coldfucking. Yeah, she could have sex with truly awful, truly evil men without breaking a sweat. It actually did something for her when they fucked her devoid of passion or even emotion; it made her feel safe in a perverse way.

She tried not to think too hard about that little talent—it was convenient, mostly. Coldfucking was a big part of a female CIA operative’s toolbox. Male agents did it too, of course—with women and with men, but not as often as female agents, and it wasn’t the same.

She smoothed on the stockings. She clipped the stays into place. She hadn’t coldfucked for six years. Well, she hadn’t fucked at all for six years.

She and Liza both fucked without love, but in opposite ways. Liza was looking for love. Or really, Liza was looking for their dad, the alcoholic army man who lived at the bottom of a whiskey bottle. Zelda was proving she didn’t care. Yeah, she could fuck a guy as easily as she could shake his hand. The colder he was, the better.

She sat at the door, listening to the hall chatter. An hour went by. Then another. One guard sounded sick. He’d be less than alert.

Another sounded disgruntled. His name was Sal, and the more she heard of his conversations and phone calls, the more she suspected he could be turned. His mutterings under his breath after a phone call with Brujos certainly said yes. Interesting. An ally, maybe.

Another hour.

She didn’t really dread what she’d have to go through over the next few days. Back when she’d been a spy, she’d at least dread the guys a little bit. That was shame for you—it made your comfort matter less.

She smoothed the apron over her crotch, happy with the pocket. She’d last into the night, wait until most of the mansion slept, and then she’d get to work searching for the files. That would be the dangerous part. The files would not be easy to find. She’d bluff if she got caught. She could sell it in this outfit. Probably. Maybe.

It was an insanely dangerous job, no question. But she hadn’t lied to Dax—they’d send any other Associate in a heartbeat. They’d feel shitty about it, but they’d send them anyway. Only right that she should be here.

She wouldn’t have volunteered to do this if other agents were involved, but this was a situation where she could only let herself down. No partner, no support. And at the end, they’d get the bargaining chip that would defuse the standoff. Everybody would get something they wanted. No oil tankers would be blown up. Nobody would die.

Totally worth it.

She thought about how Liza had looked at her, as though Zelda was a fucking angel sent from heaven to save her ass. Liza. The one person who still thought Zelda was brave.

She’d find and copy the files tonight. After a few days, security around her would loosen and she’d get away. It would have to be at just the right moment—an escape Brujos could believe from an untrained, unskilled woman like Liza. Something that could be chalked up to guard error.

She’d get away and fake Liza’s death. There were cliffs out there. Rio and another Associate were out in a boat beyond the cliffs as fishermen, ready to report seeing her fling herself off.

Liza would have a fresh start. They’d have their bargaining chip. And maybe Zelda could hate herself a little less.

A sheer white robe went along with the outfit—totally see-through, except for the feathers part. They’d find the robe washed up, and she’d be long gone.

Handle it,
she told herself.

Brujos would want to make it shitty. He’d want to upset her and make her feel like hell, but she’d been upset and feeling like hell for six years, ever since getting Agent Randall killed. Brujos couldn’t touch her—not in any way that counted.

Near Buena Vista, Valencia, South America

H
ugo Martinez steered
the Jeep down the twists and turns of the mountainside trail heading down toward Buena Vista. The tiny farming village was nothing more than a collection of cinder block homes and shabby businesses, a school, an open market, and a
pensión
for the floral wholesalers. And there was a café—Café Moderno, it was called. Hugo and the boy were its best customers. Most days its only customers.

Hugo’s stomach growled. He was dreaming of
llapingachos
, thick with potato, stuffed with cheese, topped with fried eggs. The boy was dreaming of connectivity, holding up his cell phone, looking for reception. Their isolated mountaintop home was too far from civilization to get a signal, but the little village had a tower that worked.

Sometimes.

The mountaintop was the first real home Hugo ever had, and its isolation suited him right down to the steel blades he still kept in his boots. The harshness suited him. The windswept barrenness suited him. Even the savinca crop that grew in gnarled rows upon the terraced mountainside suited him. The plants calmed his mind and dulled his pain.

The savinca farmers down in the village never allowed the crop to flower. The
Savinca verde
was only valuable to wholesale florists when the flowers were in bud form, so that they could bloom just before they were sold for exorbitant amounts of money in high-end floral shops. In fact, a tract of open flowers always meant tragedy—no farmer would let the precious flower open unless he was injured or dead. You never wanted to see the blood-red heart of the savinca.

In this way, it was the perfect metaphor for him.

He sometimes wondered if it was in his DNA to feel at home among the savincas. His mother had come from the village, after all. His ancestors would have farmed them for generations.

The villagers didn’t know. To them, Hugo was an outsider. It was better that way.

Walking between the ancient rows of plants was the closest Hugo ever came to serenity.

People rarely understood that it was the large, violent animals that most needed serenity.

Hugo and the boy had their own field of savincas. Their land was too high in altitude to be the best growing spot for the rare flower, but some grew. Hugo allowed the boy to sell whatever crop he could harvest. The surly, snarling boy had been kicked out of every school he’d been sent to. Selling the crop was one of few opportunities to interact with people and use math. The boy used the proceeds for spending money. Hugo was rich now; he didn’t need money from flowers.

The killing business had been good to him.

Hugo had tried hiring governesses and tutors for the boy, but none had lasted more than a week with them—miles above anything, trapped with a barely civilized boy and a master who was cold and harsh as the devil himself.

And with every new servant came renewed risk of exposure. It was for the best that nobody would tolerate them.

He and the boy passed the stand of scrub trees and the bright blue rubble of the old church and turned onto the main street.

Café Moderno was anything but modern, but it had become crucial to his and the boy’s existence. It allowed them to live without a cook, and provided for more interaction and math for the boy. Nobody had to know that Hugo had funded it using the nearby Banco Valencia de Bumcara branch as a kind of front.

Today wasn’t a market day, but even so, the main street was eerily quiet.

Instantly, he understood the cause. He tasted the faint scent of destruction on the back of his throat the way a wine connoisseur might take a whiff of Cabernet, identifying its distinct notes. This was a mix of melted plastic and sulfur. Rubber. They’d find burnt-out stores and at least one burnt-out vehicle. A body or two. It took only one more breath to identify the fuel used. They rounded a corner, and he had the user. Like anything else, violence had a signature, right there in the open if you had the eyes to read it.