Instead of fighting for a turn on the ladder, Ian slipped between railcars and raced along the opposite side of the tracks, toward the front of the train. He wanted to be on the first railcar, where he could see what was coming. Passengers tended to ride facing forward, as well. He had a better chance of spotting Sarai from the front than the back.
The first railcar was packed, so he climbed aboard the second. The federal officers were striding along the causeway, watching passengers scramble for a spot in the middle section of the train. Ian ascended the ladder and army-crawled to a narrow space between two older men. His elbows bit into the hard surface and his injured leg dragged over the spiky grate. The other passengers ignored his strange behavior. He stayed flat on his belly, gripping the edge of the grate, until the train left the station.
Only then did he roll over and acknowledge his companions. They were mostly men, along with a few women and children. None matched the photo of Sarai Tomás. Two boys who looked about ten and twelve stared at him with tired, mildly curious brown eyes. Then they turned around to watch the world go by.
Ian did the same. He sent LaGuardia a quick text saying that he’d boarded safely and would call back later. Then he plugged his phone into a portable charger. He was committed to this assignment, even though it was sketchy as hell. He’d take sketchy over chickenshit any day. The fact that LaGuardia had trusted him with confidential information was somewhat comforting as well. Now that Ian knew Villarreal’s history with the Los Rojos cartel, he was more determined to find Sarai before they did.
But he needed to catch his breath first. His leg ached from the climb, and from the fall earlier. The stress of the past few hours, paired with the sleepless night, hit him hard. He was worn out. He wanted to just sit here for a minute, to reflect.
So he closed his eyes…and thought of Maria.
God.
What they’d done would haunt him forever. He would relive it in his private moments, over and over again. The way she’d felt in his arms. Her lips parting under his. Her scent, her taste, her little moans of pleasure.
Acábame.
He smothered a groan at the memory. Finish me. She had no idea what a plea like that did to a man. It had turned his body to stone and his mind into mush. He’d been tempted to finish her with a hard fuck against the wall, rather than a sedate stroke of his fingers. The urge to tear off her clothes and take her had been overwhelming, despite the public location. He’d only restrained himself because she was inexperienced, with a traumatic past.
Their interlude had been extremely inappropriate, regardless. The fact that he’d declined her offer to reciprocate didn’t wash his hands clean. On the contrary; they still smelled like her. He brought his fingertips to his nose and inhaled her sweet scent. If he’d been alone, he’d unbutton his pants and jerk off. He’d fantasize about the slick, hot clasp of her body. He’d savor the mental picture of those pretty tits, her ripe brown nipples puckering under his tongue.
But he wasn’t alone. He was on top of a train with twenty other people. So he dropped his hand to the metal grate, gritted his teeth, and tried to refocus. The only problem was her words haunted him as much as her touch, if not more.
I belong with you.
He didn’t know why she’d said that, after rejecting his proposal. Maybe she hadn’t believed he was serious about marrying her. It had been an impulsive suggestion, hastily made but not insincere. She’d needed his protection. He had strong feelings for her. He wanted her more than he’d ever wanted any other woman. Sleeping around didn’t appeal to him. It hadn’t appealed to him in years. He’d been living like a monk since they’d met. Why not settle down?
She did belong with him—and he’d never have her. They couldn’t run away together. There were too many obstacles between them. Ian blamed that thug, Armando Villarreal, for taking a hostage. This single, fucked-up move had devastating repercussions. Now Maria was an accessory after the fact. She might be on a watch-list, ineligible for U.S. citizenship—even if he married her. Contrary to popular belief, marriage wasn’t an immigration cure-all.
The train rattled down the tracks, leaving San Juan del Río. The hazy afternoon sun illuminated the faces of the passengers. It occurred to him that this was good lighting for photographs. He had a digital camera in his pack, but his phone worked just as well, and seemed a bit more incognito. He took it out and fiddled with the zoom feature. Then he took a series of stealth shots of the passengers on the railcars following his. Most were too far away for him to discern their features with the naked eye. With his phone, he could see more.
The task of studying dozens of individual faces on a small screen wasn’t easy. He scrolled through the shots with methodic precision, searching for Sarai. There were very few women. No women in disguise, as far as he could tell. Many of the passengers were indigenous men. He remembered Maria’s idea to disguise herself and got irritated all over again. She thought some baggy clothes would keep her safe? Yeah right. She looked about as masculine as—
Wait a minute.
He scrolled the opposite direction to study one of the photos again. There was a slender woman with braided hair, slightly mussed. Her arms were tucked around her body, head down. Although her face was turned away, he’d have known her anywhere.
Maria.
“Goddamn it,” he swore, startling the passenger next to him. “She got on the train.”
The man didn’t have a clue what he was saying. “Se?or?”
Ian looked up from his screen to identify which railcar she was on, though he couldn’t make out the individual passengers. Number seven. He was on railcar two. There were five cars between them. Jumping from car to car was possible, even with the train moving, but it was incredibly dangerous. His injured leg might give out on him at an inopportune moment. He’d have to climb down, leap free, and board her railcar. Also risky. Impossible in some areas, where the tracks were surrounded by slopes of gravel. He studied the rushing ground below, his pulse racing. It looked solid, but there were short concrete pillars at regular intervals.