Never Surrender (Task Force Eagle)

Published by
Gullwood Press

Copyright 2013 Susan Hofstetter Vaughan

Cover design and digital layout by
www.formatting4U.com

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or
by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and
retrieval systems—except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical
articles or reviews—without permission in writing from the author at
[email protected]. This book is a work of fiction. The characters,
events, and places portrayed in this book are products of the author’s
imagination and are either fictitious or are used fictitiously. Any similarity
to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the
author.

For more information on the author and her works, please see
http://www.susanvaughan.com

DEDICATION

For all the writers who’ve guided and advised me about
this book and especially for my friends and critters, who made this book sing:
Luanna Nau, Debora Noone, Judi Phillips. You all are the best.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Many thanks to the writers and law enforcement experts
of Crime Scene Writers for your help with many issues in this book.

Chapter 1

Ricardo Cruz shook his head. Shit, another dead end. “That’s
it. The bird has flown.”

He and the other Task Force Eagle agents had driven
three hours from Boston to Portland, Maine,
por nada
. He unzipped his
raid jacket and placed his SIG-Sauer P239 in the holster.

Holt Donovan turned his DEA cap around backward, the
lid a switch from his usual cowboy hat. “Our quarry’s beat-up Ford Focus is
still parked out in the snow. Abandoning his wheels looks odd.”

“Search warrants won’t be good after today,” ATF Agent
Jake Wescott said, his Maine drawl softening his downer message.

“Good point.” Rick directed the others to re-interview
the landlord and question the other tenants while he searched the suspect’s
apartment.

Upstairs, he shot the deadbolt behind him and frowned
at the dingy one-room garret euphemistically termed a studio. He wouldn’t need
long. Someone had beaten him to the search. Whatever the dump contained lay in
the middle of the floor.

Stuffing from the cheap futon mattress was scattered
around like dirty clumps of the snow outside. Unmatched flatware and utensils
formed a tangled heap on the grimy linoleum. Yesterday’s
Portland Press
Herald
rested undisturbed on the stained coffee table.

Aside from the clumsy toss, the place resembled a
college dorm room more than a drug smuggler’s digs. Rock posters tacked to the
walls. Beer bottles and peanut butter jars alternated on the one set of dusty
shelves.

Jordan Paris might have gotten caught up in the drug
operation without knowing the score until it was too late.

Hands shielded with latex gloves, Rick picked up the
newspaper. The front page had his boss announcing the indictment of two
Mexicans captured last month.

Two little fish. With one dead exception, the big ones
had gotten clean away. Leaving them with a minnow, the Paris kid.

“
Mierda.
” Rick tossed down the paper.

He looked around a few more minutes. Worthless. He’d
learn little until the fingerprint report. Wescott and Donovan must have
finished downstairs. He switched off the light, and March’s early darkness
drenched the small room. The stairway below creaked.

He sucked in a breath. Adrenaline surged. He flattened
himself against the wall behind the door.

Three knocks rattled the apartment’s thin paneled
door. He waited. If it was Wescott or Donovan, they’d call his name. He held
his breath and gripped his nine millimeter.

The doorknob jiggled. A key clinked in the lock. Then
the knob turned, and the door eased open.

In the spill of light into the room, he saw a gloved
hand at the door’s edge. A hand holding a small automatic.

Before the intruder could make a move, Rick knocked
away the pistol.

A sharp gasp of shock and surprise. Then the intruder
slammed his chest with something hard, knocking the breath from his lungs.
Before he recovered enough to get a good hold, the smaller man swung a kick.

Letting his thigh take the blow, Rick flipped his
attacker and slammed on top of him. Darkness prevented a clear look. He jabbed
his gun barrel at the guy’s throat. “Federal agent. Give it up, and you won’t
get hurt.”

The intruder cocked his head in a careful nod.

Easing off his captive, Rick reached inside the
unzipped coat to pat down for weapons. A wool sweater covered a slight torso
with curves and soft, round . . . breasts.

What the hell?

As he lifted his gun from her throat and sat back on
his heels, the woman dragged in a deep breath. “You . . . you,” she gasped, “Nazi
bully. This is what I pay taxes for? To be crushed and then groped?”

At her outburst, his lips twitched with a smile. The
kid’s girlfriend? An accomplice? She sounded irate, but not street tough. He
kept his gun on her and flicked the light switch.

In the glare of the bare overhead bulb, the woman
blinked. She had a turned-up nose and wide mouth, lips clamped in displeasure.
Her eyes shot green fire at him.

He leaned across her to retrieve her gun, but found
instead a more innocuous item. Chagrinned, he handed her the small flashlight.

Beside the woman lay a voluminous purse. Her ramming
weapon.

He quickly checked the contents. Wallet, zippered day
planner, hairbrush, and various other female junk, but no weapons other than
the leaden bag. “I expected to see bricks inside.”

“I wish.” Her chin shot up a notch. It was gently pointed,
emphasizing the heart shape of her face.

“You can get up now.” Rising, he offered her a hand. “Who
are you?”

Refusing his help, she scooted backward before leaping
to her feet in an agile motion. Reddish curls threatened to spring free of a
carnivorous-toothed clip. Little butterfly earrings dangled from her earlobes. “First
I want to see ID. You have a badge, don’t you?”

He tucked away his gun and refrained from pointing out
the word
POLICE
on his raid jacket. “Yes, ma’am, Special Agent Ricardo
Cruz of the U. S. Drug Enforcement Administration.” He held up his ID case.

Juliana Paris’s racing heart gradually slowed to a
jog. Gathering poise, she took her time studying the official card. DEA? For
all his self-absorption and impulsiveness, Jordan was a straight arrow about
drugs. It made no sense.

The agent regarded her with professional suspicion.
Mocking her efforts at cool control, her cheeks burned under the scrutiny. She
made a production of stashing the flashlight, cracked and probably useless, in
her bag.

“I suppose you’re who you say you are, but what are
you doing in my brother’s apartment—in the dark?” Straightening to her full
five-foot-three, she folded her arms.

“Your brother.” The DEA agent rubbed his knuckles on
his jaw. “Can you prove that Jordan Paris is your brother?”

She would not be reduced to jelly by a good-looking
man with a sexy voice. “Prove? Not really.” She rummaged in her bag. “But here’s
my driver’s license.”

Agent Cruz didn’t take the license from her, but
framed the hand holding it with his own. “Portsmouth, New Hampshire? You drove
here this afternoon?”

She nodded.

He continued to grip her hand. His tanned fingers
contrasted starkly with her pale redhead’s skin. When he released her, she
snatched back her hand as if from a flame.

“Why the flashlight?”

“Sometimes Jordan forgets to pay his electricity
bills. My brother has issues but he’s no criminal.” For the first time, the
condition of the room registered. Everything strewn around. One hand flew to
her throat. “What’s going on? What have you done?”

“First explain why you’re here and what you know about
Jordan’s recent activities.” He gestured for her to take a seat.

Until he sat, she would stand. She wasn’t about to
have him looming over her. “I’m not sure what Jordan’s been up to lately. That’s
sort of why I came.”

“You must know where he works.” His gaze concealed
whether he knew the answer.

“Until two months ago, he worked for Vinson Seafood on
a dragger. When the boat went in for repairs, he was laid off. He’s been out of
work since.”

Juliana wished he wouldn’t keep looking at her with
such concentrated focus. It was unnerving. She licked her lower lip.

As if too warm, the agent threw off his windbreaker.
His black flak vest emblazoned with the yellow letters DEA confirmed his
status. His black turtleneck and pants displayed a trim yet powerful build.
With a cape, this man would make a better Zorro than that Spanish actor. No,
she wouldn’t think of him that way. She blinked away the image.

Cruz sat on the futon across the room. “So what
prompted your visit today?”

Perching on the edge of a metal folding chair, she
decided to tell the truth. Mostly. “He phoned me this morning and said he’d
gotten mixed up in something. He was afraid.”

She’d just returned after her morning jog and didn’t
have the breath to argue with him. His words came back to her.
“Jules, I’m
in over my head. I gotta disappear. Meet me, and I’ll tell you everything.”
But
now . . . She linked her fingers tightly in her lap.

“What else did he tell you?” Cruz scrawled in a
pocket-size notebook.

“He only asked me to come here. I’m sure he’s not
involved with drugs. Where is he?”

“I hoped you could tell me. I came to interview your
brother, but he’s not here.”

Mouth tight, she gestured at the room’s condition. “And
you did
this
? Did you suspect he was hiding in the sofa cushions? Maybe
in a drawer?”

His half-grin indented a dimple. “I found this place
exactly as you see it. I had just looked around and doused the lights when you
arrived. I do have a search warrant.”

A search warrant.
What was Jordan mixed up in?

Cruz opened a package of mints and offered it to her.
When she refused, he popped one in his mouth. “I quit smoking a year ago, but
now I’m addicted to peppermint.”

“I wouldn’t know.” No way would she think of this
agent in a personal way or be suckered by his little-boy grin. “What do you
think Jordan has done?”

“For the last month, he’s driven a truck for Sudsy’s
Seafood from Cumberland Harbor to Boston and Hartford. Hidden among the
lobsters and clams were containers of heroin and cocaine, smuggled in from
offshore to Dwight Pettit, a.k.a. Sudsy.”

Jordan had fallen into quicksand. She rubbed at her
belly, aching as if some creature were gnawing at her. “What makes you think he
knew what was in the truck?”

Cruz’s broad shoulders lifted in a shrug. “We have
only circumstantial evidence, but he’s our best hope of catching the drug gang.
Sudsy has disappeared.”

“Disappeared. And now so has Jordan?” Talons pierced
her. She chewed her bottom lip.
Jordan, somehow I’ve failed you.
“But
his car is still here.”

“He packed up. Landlord saw him leave with a duffel.”
He jerked a thumb toward the bottles and the posters. “Other than his art
collection, he didn’t leave much behind.”

“He doesn’t have much. Mostly he lives on a fishing
boat.”

“Will you help me find him?”