Marisela Morales 03 - Dirty Little Christmas - Julie Leto (3 page)

What the hell was Belinda going to do with a child? She couldn’t love it. She couldn’t take care of it. That she could take care of herself up until now had been a combination of constant professional intervention and luck, which clearly, she’d run out of. And their parents? They couldn’t take on a baby at their ages.

Which left Marisela, who snorted so hard at the idea, her sinuses burned. She loved
los niños
as much as anyone, but her maternal instincts were satisfied in random, brief encounters at parks and grocery stores. Tiny baby fingers, chubby thighs and endless supplies of drool were like that green rock to the superhero in the red cape—they sucked all her powers away.

Marisela’s anger surged. Belinda had no business coming here like this, ready to pop with some asshole’s bastard kid, forcing a humiliating choice on their Catholic parents only two days away from Christmas. Of all the self-centered, arrogant, egotistical crap her sister had ever pulled in the name of her fucking syndrome, this was the worst.

This time, Marisela wasn’t going to let her get away with it.

She tore her hands through her hair. What the hell was she going to do? Put her on a plane back to London to deal with this shit alone? Take her home and implode their family on the most holiest holiday of the year? Her hand fisted. She spun, aiming at the nearest wall when her cell phone rang.

She cursed, wrenching her shoulder as she checked her fist before it collided with the wall. She spun and stretched out the cramp, then answered the relentless ring.

“What?”

“Where are you?”

Marisela looked up. “By number 15.”

“Well, get your
culo
over to number 11. Belinda’s got a big-ass bag and I’m not lugging it all over the damned airport while you have a temper tantrum.”

“I’m not having a temper tantrum.”

“Have you punched anything?”

Marisela shook her fingers out of her cramping fist. “No.”

“Then I stand corrected. But I know you like the back of my hand, so don’t deny that you’re on the verge. How about if you don’t lose your shit again in proximity of the airport police, okay? They aren’t going to be so forgiving this time and with Titan shut down, making your bail two days before Christmas might be more trouble than its worth.”

“Alberto would get me out,” Marisela muttered, wondering if her old boss—the one who’d had to fire her after she’d kicked the crap out of one of his bail jumpers—would really come through, holidays or not.

“He retired six months ago,” Lia snapped. “Look, I know you’re freaking out. I am, too. I thought for sure I’d be pregnant long before your sister. I mean, what the hell? How did she get luckier in bed than me?”

Marisela snorted. “What makes you think this happened in a bed?”

“Ew! You’re not really picturing your sister having sex, are you?”

“No,” Marisela said, but then she shivered and rolled her shoulders as she tried to banish the sudden barrage of pornographic images from her head. To have sex, a girl had to feel passion. Desire. Need. Except for the stimulation she got from mathematical puzzles, Belinda experienced none of those things.

At least, that’s what their family had always been told by the specialists and doctors.

Showed what the hell they knew.

Marisela moved toward where Lia directed, spotting her and Belinda, who was standing distinctly apart from the other passengers as the pre-recorded announcement about checking ID tags crackled above the crowd. Marisela shoved her phone into her back pocket and gave Lia a nod. Her best friend backed away, lugging the carry-on she’d somehow wrestled away.

“You hate me,” Belinda announced.

If her sister cared one way or another about this pronouncement, her voice didn’t give her away. To her, it was a fact the same as
the sky is blue
or
Ricky Martin is proof that God has a wicked sense of humor.

“I can’t hate you,” Marisela replied.

Her ordinarily stoic sister arched a brow. It wasn’t much by way of a reaction, but with Belinda, it was huge.

“Why not?”

“You’re my sister.”

“Genetics do not affect the formation of emotional responses. I’ve read studies which conclude that the closer the familial connection, the more tenuous or potentially explosive the impact of intense, emotional upheaval.”

Marisela stared. Belinda had just rattled off a shitload of words—only every other one that Marisela recognized—yet her expression remained casually blank, as if she’d just delivered a Florida weather forecast.

Hot and humid, with a chance of rain.

Normal.

Expected.

“I don’t hate you,” Marisela repeated, laying her hand on Belinda’s upper arm and pretending she didn’t notice the way her sister flinched. “I can’t hate you,
mija
. My life would be so much easier if I could, but I’ve been trying to hate your guts since the day I realized that you were going to be a pain in my ass for the rest of my life. But I still haven’t managed to hate you. Just one more thing I’m not good at.”

“You’re good at a lot of things,” Belinda stated.

“Yeah, like fucking shit up.”

“You have a terrible vocabulary.”

Marisela chuckled, then leaned against her sister so that their shoulders touched. “Just add it to my list of failings. Maybe while you’re here, you can help me improve.”

“I won’t be here that long,” Belinda replied, then darted away as her luggage came around on the carousel, not the least bit aware that she’d pulled off an expert comeback.

“You okay?” Lia asked.

“Not even remotely,” Marisela said, marveling at the strength and balance Belinda showed when she slid her suitcase off the belt, twisted it upright and pulled out the handle. “Come on, let’s blow this taco stand.”

“Aren’t you going to take her bag?” Lia asked.

“I’m taking her home,” Marisela said. “She’s lucky she’s getting that far.”

They rode up to the top floor in silence. When the doors slid open, Marisela and Lia both started toward the east corner where they’d parked, then came up short when her car was no longer where she’d left it.

“
Coño su madre
,” Marisela swore.

Lia laid her hand on her arm. “Where’s the car?”

“Someone stole your car?” Belinda asked from behind them.

Marisela jogged to the space where she was certain she’d parked, with Lia running close behind her. The emptiness was like a slug to her heart.

Damn it, she loved that car. She was going to track down whatever hoodlum had jacked it and cut his heart out with her fingernails.

Lia squeaked in disbelief and then dropped Belinda’s carry-on in the center of the empty spot.

Marisela stared up at the open sky and shouted, “Can this night get any worse?”

Headlights from a black SUV flashed, blinding them as the vehicle tore out of its spot across from the elevators and screeched to a stop in front of Belinda, blocking her from view. When her sister’s scream tore through the air, Marisela had her answer.

Four

Marisela launched herself back toward the elevators. She slid her hand into her jacket for her gun just as the SUV’s driver’s side window, tinted to perfect blackness, scrolled down. At the sight of a dark, round muzzle, she threw herself behind the nearest sedan just as six shots popped off in quick succession.

Two busted the windshield. One pinged off the asphalt and three flew wild.

On her knees, Marisela turned and saw Lia, frozen, in their empty parking spot.

“Lia, get down!” she warned.

The SUV barreled toward Lia, but with a visible shake, she darted out of the way. Belinda—and her suitcase—were gone.

Marisela flung herself flat against the ground and aimed at the truck’s tires. She pulled off several shots before the SUV slammed to a stop and the driver and a passenger, through the moonroof, returned fire. She rolled under a van for cover.

The gunfire stopped. Lia screamed. Marisela slid between two parked cars, aware of the sound of sirens drifting up from below. That was one good thing about increased security at airports—instant reaction to gunshots fired. She fought her instinct to charge and instead chanced a glance around the bumper. She saw nothing but the idling SUV and a hint of movement from behind a full sized, flatbed truck parked next to it.

It was Lia, playing tug-of-war with a ski-masked assailant and Belinda’s overnight bag.

Marisela took aim, then shouted, “Lia!”

Just as the man turned, Lia dropped to the ground, allowing Marisela a clear shot. Blood exploded off the top of the
maricón’s
shoulder. Marisela ducked behind a Mini Cooper, expecting return fire.

She wasn’t disappointed.

Glass exploded all around her, but the shooting stopped as the SUV tore down the exit ramp.

Marisela sprinted after them, firing successively at the tires. If any hit their mark, none did enough damage to stop the escape. She couldn’t risk aiming any higher. Not with Belinda missing. Not when her likeliest location was in the backseat.

She reached Lia, who was crawling back to her feet, blood streaking down her chin.

“What happened?” she asked.

“Someone just stole my car and took Belinda.”

Lia shook her head. “But why? And your car…it’s there!”

Marisela spun in the direction Lia pointed, spotting the Camaro parked crookedly in a spot behind another truck. She grabbed Lia by the arm, ignored her curse of pain, and pulled her along, determined to catch up to the sons of bitches who’d just taken her sister.

The
comemierdas
had signed their own death warrants.

She fished the keys out of her pocket and pressed the fob. But instead of the familiar double beep, an explosion of light and sound smacked them, throwing them back. A hailstorm of broken glass rained down and this time, when Lia started screaming, she did not stop.

* * *

Marisela couldn’t hear. No, that wasn’t right. She could hear, but the sounds were burrowing into her brain through a narrow tunnel, piercing her eardrum and then echoing in and out. She could hear Lia whimpering, or maybe howling in pain, but she couldn’t see past the cloudy haze filtering over her eyes. Smoke? Yes. But also lights. So bright. And heat. Intense heat. Damn. She blinked, afraid to rub her eyes with her hands, which were coated in filth and glass and grit.

The motherfuckers had kidnapped her sister, assaulted her best friend and blown up her car.

They were going down. As soon as she figured out how the hell to find them.

She crawled across the pavement. Glass bit into her palms and through the denim of her jeans. She followed the muffled sound of Lia’s cries, finally touching hot flesh.

Hot, sticky flesh.

“
Dios mio
, Lia.
Por favor.
Don’t be hurt. Please, don’t be hurt.”

She patted her friend’s body, found her arms and dragged her away from the heat. Every inch was a victory. Then bright lights, blue and red and gold like the lights on her parents’ oversized Christmas tree, twirled around in her altered vision.

Then came the noise. Piercing and painful. She drew her hands to her ears, silently screaming until the wails stopped. When thick hands grabbed her shoulders, she instantly curled onto her elbows and knees, then swept out what she hoped was an effective round-house kick before the motion spun her helplessly to the ground, the back of her head cracking against the shattered pavement.

“Crap. It’s okay. You’re safe,” the voice, male and gruff and unfamiliar, reassured. “You’re not hurt, just dazed. But your friend…”

The voice trailed off and his silence—or else, the lack of words, because silence was no longer possible in the hysteria of sound—told her Lia’s injuries were not superficial. The smell of gunpowder singed the inside of her nostrils, turning them into raw wounds that burned from the chemical stench of the fire extinguishers.

Her vision cleared enough for her to make sense of the scene. The police had descended, along with paramedics, though there was no ambulance in sight. Her car was smoking, the windshield shattered.

She moved to stand, but her knees buckled. When she fell, someone caught her. “Whoa, there. You gotta stay put.”

“My sister—”

Her sister…what? Was kidnapped? Taken by masked men in a dark SUV from which she’d gotten neither license plates nor make and model?

“She’ll be fine,” the cop reassured. “She’s hurt, but breathing on her own. The ambulance can’t navigate the parking structure, but the EMTs will take her down in the elevator and take her to St. Joe’s. It’s the closest emergency room. You, too.”

“No,” Marisela shouted, the reverberations of her own voice sending her into a spiral of dizziness, even though her ass was still firmly planted on the ground. “No hospitals.”

Especially not St. Joe’s. Never St. Joe’s. She’d been born there, but she’d nearly died there, too. Unless she was unconscious and strapped to a gurney, she’d never step into those sterile hallways ever again.

“You’re hurt—”

“Check me out here. That was my car those assholes blew up. I’m not leaving until you catch them.”

Marisela’s vision cleared enough for her to stumble over to Lia, lying on a wheeled stretcher. Two paramedics worked on her. While one gently laid her head back after swirling clean gauze around her eyes, the other tapped an IV line into her arm.

Still, she managed to gesticulate wildly as she answered the questions posed by a female detective in a crisp, navy suit.

Italians.
The only way to shut them up was to tie down their hands.

“And then the car just exploded! Where’s Marisela? I need to see her. Oh, God. Can I see her?”

Marisela shouldered her way close and grabbed Lia’s hand. “You’re going to see me after they take care of you,
entiendes
? Calm down.”

“Where’s—”

“Shhh,” Marisela said, trying to keep her voice soothing even as she attempted to keep Lia from mentioning Belinda. “I’m okay. I’ve got this. Just let them help you.”

The female paramedic, a pretty blonde with kind blue eyes, shot what Marisela assumed was a sedative into the IV. Once Lia settled down, Marisela asked, “Is she going to be all right?”