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.
At the end of the main street, they spotted the unmistakable blue lights of a police car flashing one block over. Cutting the engine, Santos coasted to the curb and backed the bike into a parking spot, pointing to the rusted sign on the corner. Someone had spray-painted over part of the letters, but they’d left enough to make out the name of the street if you already knew it.
“Calle Cinco,” he said softly over the intercom they shared in their helmets. “What do you think’s going on?”
She took her helmet off and set it on top of the saddle before running her hands through her hair. “I’ll go see. One person will attract less attention than two.”
“No. We’ll both go.”
“What’s wrong?” she asked. “Don’t you trust me?”
“You, I trust.” He tilted his chin toward a car heading in their direction. “Them, I don’t.”
A speeding vehicle rounded the corner on two wheels and raced for the spinning blue lights. As the car swept through the glow of a nearby bar’s neon rainbow, she recognized the black and white paint job. It was a Policía Federal Mexicana cruiser. “That’s not good.”
Santos nodded grimly. “We’ll need to be careful. Stick to the shadows. I don’t have answers for the questions they’d ask.”
They eased toward the direction of the lights, keeping their backs to the buildings along the sidewalk. The cops’ raised voices grew louder as they drew close, but there was no sense of urgency in their tone. She would have understood even if she didn’t speak Spanish. Cops all spoke the same language.
Someone was dead.
She glanced at Santos in the inky darkness. His expression was hidden, but the set of his shoulders told her he understood as well. Had something already happened to Carlos Hernandez’s sister?
They retreated into a recessed doorway across the street from the crowd of men in black uniforms with Mexican flag patches on their sleeves. Mixed in with the federal cops were local law enforcement officers. They looked as if they’d stumbled onto a party they hadn’t been invited to.
An ambulance waited but the lights on top of the vehicle were off. “Damn. We’re too late.”
“It might not be the sister,” Santos countered. “Let’s go one street over and see if we can move in closer from the back.”
The house behind Concepción DeLeon’s home had been abandoned. Dodging cobwebs and empty beer cans, they walked through the broken front door straight to a sagging porch that spanned the rear of the hovel. The sound of scrabbling nails preceded them, the flick of a skinny, hairless tail catching Rose’s eye before its owner disappeared into the gloom. From the small deck’s elevated position, they had an even better view than they’d expected.
Santos’s soft curse said it all.
On a tiny concrete pad big enough for two chairs, the naked body of a woman had been staked out, each arm and leg anchored with a rope to a short metal rod. She looked to be in her late twenties, maybe older. Her dark hair shone in a grotesque parody of beauty, the soft light by the back door bathing a body that was slim and toned. She had been pretty, but she wasn’t now. Her café con leche skin was dotted with myriad small round burns and a series of equally small cuts. She’d been tortured before her wrists had been slit, and she’d been left to die.
The door of the house burst open, and a sobbing woman ran out, one of the soldiers stumbling behind her trying to halt her progress. The woman took in the sight, shrieked, then covered her mouth, collapsing against the uniformed man who’d finally made it to her side. Her agonizing cries filled the air. “Concepción… Dios mio, Concepción!”
For a second, Rose wished she could cover her ears and her eyes, then the shellac of hardness she’d been forced to adopt as a police officer fell into place. The cartels were equal-opportunity purveyors of suffering. Race, religion, family…nothing mattered but money. The crying woman crumpled to the ground, and despite the soldier’s best efforts, he went with her.
“Son-of-a-bitch. We getting shit for information now.” Santos pivoted and headed for the front of the broken-down house. His coldness would have shocked someone else, but not Rose. He was thinking about his informant and saw her face when he looked at the dead woman. He knew if he didn’t find his CI soon, she’d be just as horribly dead. Rose took a deep breath, her shock segueing into pity. She would feel the same angry frustration if she were him.
He was straddling the motorcycle with the engine running when she finally caught up to him. As she reached his side, he tossed her helmet to her. “Put it on,” he ordered. “We’re going on to San Isidro. There’s nothing left for us here.”
San Isidro was not where Juan Enrique lived. Instead of asking who did, she slung her leg over the seat and clasped Santos around his waist, her senses suddenly filling to the brim and running over. The smell of his leather vest, the warmth of his body, the stubbly beard that darkened his jaw…the contrast between her heightened sensations and the evidence of brutality she’d just seen was overwhelming.
As they raced down the highway, all she could do was hang on. To her sanity…and her heart.