Behind the Mask (Undercover Associates Book 4) (34 page)

E
l Gorrion examined
the text on his phone and frowned. The ex-agent, Zelda, had arrived in Juachez with the American farmer. They had behaved amorously in a café and then they had split up, knowing, perhaps, that they were being followed.

On the run together.

She had seduced the farmer. He was protecting her; that much seemed clear.

The other pieces of the puzzle were far stranger.

A fighter in a business suit had arrived in Buena Vista hours after Hugo and Zelda had left. The fighter queried the villagers and then raced up the mountainside to ransack the American’s house. On his way back he’d attacked and completely disabled three of El Gorrion’s best men—seasoned fighters. The man in the suit was highly trained, that much was clear, but it was something more than his training that had spooked them.

Could it be Kabakas? He didn’t wear the mask or carry the barong swords, but who else could take down three of his best fighters? He spoke fluent Spanish—a Venezuelan, one thought at first. The other said he spoke with a Mexican accent.

The man wore a red silk shirt and shiny black shoes and he was frightened of nothing. Neatly coiffed; urbane, even. It wasn’t how El Gorrion remembered Kabakas. He hadn’t seen his face, but the impression he had of the man was rough and hulking.

Once he had the men tied, he’d made a phone call in their presence. The conversation was in English. Even more interesting, he’d used Zelda’s name twice. A colleague of some sort, or maybe a rival. Not Kabakas.

But Kabakas was in play, and El Gorrion would find him and end him. And this time he would be ready—he was pulling all of his men in, all of his weaponry—grenades, bazookas, all of the heavy stuff.

He would not be made a fool of again. And his men would not run; he’d see that they couldn’t. He demanded honor; from himself and from his men, too.

The woman Zelda had gone to a hotel. His men had lost them in the crowds, but El Gorrion had a network of eyes across the town. Even the hotel clerk was his. Zelda had left a note—blank. A signal of some sort.

His source inside the CIA had told him she had been diligent about hunting Kabakas, driven, a serious hunter. Yes, she was the key, somehow. She knew who Kabakas was, and where he was. Or maybe Kabakas knew who she was. El Gorrion didn’t understand the pieces, but he knew they were connected.

He texted back:
Stay on them.

S
he was still
sitting on the bed, reading the instructions to the hair color, when he arrived. Heat built in her core the moment she heard the key in the lock. She moved the weapon closer, just in case she was wrong, in case it wasn’t him. She still didn’t trust herself. It was like missing an arm, missing that trust.

He walked in. “You’re here.”

“Of course I am.” He threw the duffel bag on the bed next to her, and a chunk of his inky hair shifted to cover his eyes. He looked sleepy, dangerous, a wild animal woken from hibernation. He put out his hand and she returned his weapon. He checked the windows and the view to the street and then he headed into the bathroom. A creak. He wanted to know that the windows would open, that they could leave fast. She’d gone through the exact same ritual.

You’re here.

One of their top agents, Macmillan, would be able to make a recording of that voice and show it visually as lines on a computer screen. She imagined the words as hard slashes with a strong, deep base full of unheard complexity—hate and lust and need. Or maybe that was just her.

She headed for the bathroom as soon as he came out. “You can sleep while I do my hair. This is going to take awhile.” She pulled the door shut, locked it, and leaned against it. Had he been following her? God, what was wrong with her that she hadn’t run? She could have killed him in that shadowy doorway and run off. He’d made it pretty clear he was only keeping her alive as long as he needed her to save the savincas. Didn’t she deserve more than that? Was showing him she was worthy so much more important than staying alive?

What the hell was wrong with her?

But she would never kill Hugo; that wasn’t in her. And then there were the flowers; they alone could save them. Hugo had the muscle, and she had the science. The
Savinca verde
meant something in this rabbit hole of hers. So did Paolo.

Doing right meant something to her. Justice meant something to her. Nobody could take that away from her.

She stripped down to her bra and panties—no sense in getting her clothes full of dye—and started up with the messy business of combining the little bottles of fluid. She put on the plastic gloves that came with the kit and drew the thick, dark solution through her hair, beginning on the side.

And thought about her priorities. Like survival.

When her hair was full of dye, she leaned out the open window and studied the raucous street below.

Deep inside El Gorrion territory. Not ideal.

Most of the buildings were two- or three-story concrete block structures, shops on the bottom and living quarters above, everything painted in a riot of colors. The Valencians were avid artists, incredible muralists.

Small groups of people congregated at street-level entrances. She traced the scent of fried sausages to a busy stall on the corner. The stall next to that one seemed to be selling fried green plantains.

She memorized every detail as she waited the recommended twenty minutes for the dye to take…and tried not to think of Hugo on the other side of the door. Or what would happen once this mission was done.

Or even once she left the bathroom.

When the twenty minutes were up, she moved to the sink to rinse the dye. A knock at the door. Three raps.

“It’ll be a while,” she said.

The lock clicked. The door opened.

“Hey!” She spun around to face Hugo. He slammed the door shut behind him, gaze roaming wantonly over her mostly naked body.

Her belly felt melty. “You can’t be in here.”

He said nothing, chest rising and falling under the dark gray T-shirt.

She motioned to the goopy helmet of dye covering her hair. “I’m not done with this process.”

“Zelda,” he grated, rattling off some dark and wildly dirty Spanish. Then he yanked her to him and kissed her, whiskers rough on her skin.

“Hugo!” she said, pushing him away, leaving brown smudges on his shirt. “We can’t—”

“We have to,” he panted.

“Look at me! I’m full of dye. You have to let me rinse it off.”

He stood there like a predator. It created a kind of vulnerability that she probably shouldn’t like. “You’ll do it after.”

“That’s not how it works,” she said.

He reached out a finger and touched her bare belly. Slowly he trailed that lone finger up to the bottom of her bra, taking her mind firmly offline with just one swipe. Then he hooked it under and pulled her to him. “I will rinse it, then.” He kissed her neck. “I will handle it from here.”

She pushed him away, trembling with arousal. Usually, having goop in her hair would be the most unsexy thing she could imagine, but the way he looked at her told her he didn’t agree. “I don’t need help.”

“Then explain to me beauty salons,
corazón
.” He jerked his chin. “In the sink? That’s how you rinse it?”

“Hugo!”

He glided his finger down her bare belly, causing her insides to undulate. “You have no choice in the matter, Zelda,” he said. “You are my prisoner in this. I take care of what’s mine. Turn around.”

Her heart beat in her throat. “Seriously?”

“Must I turn you myself? Must I tie you? Are we back to that?”

She studied his hooded eyes. Was he serious?

His tone was strangled. “Face the sink. I have this under control.”

She pulled off the gloves and turned to face the sink, the mirror. His head loomed above hers in the mirror, gaze dark, hair unruly. He reached around her to turn on the water, adjusting it to his satisfaction. “Bend over.”

She complied, putting her head under the stream. He stood over her, massaging the water through her hair, bringing incredible precision to the chore. This was the precision he brought to throwing blades. An artist. A killer.

He made her tip her head and stroked a bit over her ear. His fingers were magic, movements strong and deliberate. He was making the process his as he made everything his. As he’d made her his that first night with those slow, languorous motions. Destroyed by pain and opium, and still he’d made her his.

He gathered her hair on top of her head and leaned over to kiss the back of her neck. “I have this…” he kissed her again “…under control.” He kissed her again, pressing into her. She could feel the hard log of his cock at her ass, nearly bursting through his jeans.

He didn’t seem under control. He seemed out of control, and God, she loved it.

“I have needed to be inside you all day,” he said, breath ragged, massaging the dye out of her hair.

“Hugo—”

“Quiet, or I will gag you again. All day I have imagined taking you, making you come over and over and over.” Her blood raced as he pushed her head to the other side, working symmetrically. “When you sucked in my fingers, I imagined them inside you.”

He turned off the water and pulled her up by her hair.

She opened her eyes to see him behind her in the mirror, holding her wet hair, focused down on her with a level of intensity that felt frighteningly primal.

“And I imagined that I would make you come screaming. After that I would take you.” His words came out in gusts. “I can wait no longer.” The furrow between his eyes looked deeper, his cheekbones more sharp-cut, more ruthless somehow. Her killer, her lover.

“Okay,” she said stupidly.

He tightened his grip on her hair; she could feel his intensity clear through his fingers. His voice lowered, control clearly fraying. “Hold on to the sink. You must hold on.” He didn’t wait for her to comply; he fit her hands to the sides of the sink himself. The way he thought he had to stabilize her for what he was about to do—even that turned her on.

With trembling fingers he undid he bra. Or maybe that was her trembling. The whole room trembled. She had to remove her hands from the sink to allow him to pull the bra free of her arms. He planted them back on the sink like she was an unruly child who hadn’t behaved. “You must not let go.”

She gripped the cool porcelain, blood racing, as he pushed off her panties. He reached one hand around her hip, pressing his fingers between her legs, and with the other hand he took hold of a nipple, twisting it roughly.

“Tell me to stop,” he said. “Tell me now.”

“God, no,” she said, moving against him. She wanted nothing more than to touch him back, but he seemed to feel so strongly about her need to grip the sink.

With a grunt he pushed a finger into her wet core, then he stilled and pulled it out. “This is not right.” He grabbed her hips, hoisted her up, and turned her, settling her onto the edge of the cool porcelain sink, facing him now. He grunted in approval. “You will watch me as I make you come.”

“Yes,” she whispered, ready to promise anything.

He pushed her legs apart, looking at her with the expression of a man possessed, then he bent his head to her breast, taking a nipple with his teeth, shooting twin bolts of pain and pleasure clear through her. “Back pocket,” he rasped.

“What?”

He rocked against her, biting her, coaxing her.

She slid a hand around to his back pocket and found a condom. “You didn’t follow me. You stopped at a store.” God, he’d bought condoms instead. Did he trust her now? Had he decided not to kill her? You didn’t use condoms with a woman you were planning to kill. “You stopped to buy condoms.”

He seemed beyond answering. Beyond anything. He snatched it from her and ripped it open with such force she wondered if it had survived intact. “Take me out.”

With shaking hands she pulled his jeans open and shoved them down as he stepped out of them. He pulled off his T-shirt, exposing his muscular torso and the scars up and down him. Profanity tore from his lips as she grabbed him at the root; he pushed away her hands and rolled the condom over himself with clumsy movements, out of his mind.