Crossfire Christmas (8 page)

Risking another bolt to the door, Nash released his grip on her waist to reach inside his bag and pull out his flash wad of rolled-up bills. Her eyes widened as he counted out ten hundreds and pushed the cash into her hand. “Is this enough to borrow it for twenty-four hours?”

Teresa jumped to her feet, tossing the money back at him as if it burned her fingers. “Oh, my God. You’re a dirty cop? How much money do you have in there?”

The sanctimonious accusation stung more than it should have. He retrieved the scattered bills and set them in a neat pile on her bed. “You ought to know. My badge was in the same pocket.”

“I was looking for another phone. I didn’t even touch the other pistol or shotgun or boxes of ammunition in there. Once I found your badge and that little black book...”

His contact book?

Any truce between them had just ended. He dove back into the bag. It wasn’t there. “Teresa?”

She realized her mistake a moment too late and darted toward the bedroom door. Nash was on his feet in an instant, lurching forward as the room tilted. Damn it. She
could
outrun him.

But even in his condition, she couldn’t outmuscle him. He looped his arm around the waist, lifting her off the floor. Yet he was too off balance still to simply hold her against him, so he let his momentum back her into the wall and trapped her there with his body. She braced her hands against his chest, defiantly tipping her chin. “Stop grabbing me, you big bully.”

But the contact book was nonnegotiable. “Uh-uh, darlin’. You’re not going anywhere. Where is it?”

“Stop doing that.”

He felt her up, patted her down, checked every pocket until he found the book tucked in the rear of her jeans and he pulled it out. He waved the leather book in her face. “Who did you call?”

“No one. You trashed all my phones and the cords were in your pants.

He wasn’t buying it. If she’d looked through the pages of names and notes and numbers, then she already knew too much. Cartel names. Notes about his team’s murders. A list of potential suspects masquerading as coworkers. Any one of whom might want him dead. The idea that she might already know too much made him sick to his stomach. “Some of the people who want me dead are in here. Who did you call?”

The tone of his voice changed from a threat to a very real concern. Her fingers curled into the front of his shirt, pleading with him, and the struggles stopped. He hoped. Something was stirring behind his zipper, and it wasn’t the instinct to defend himself. He still held her suspended above the floor, his hips wedged into the cradle of hers. As he regained control of his fears, he realized his fingers had tunneled into the velvety length of her ponytail. Yes, it was as soft and thick as he’d imagined, it smelled cleaner than any horse he knew, and he was a fool to let this crazy heat she ignited in him distract him for even one moment.

“Teresa.” He let her toes slide to the floor but didn’t release her. “Whose name did you pull out of this book?”

Her fingertips pulsed against his chest. Was she afraid of him? Perhaps soothing the wounded beast? Was this the nurse trying to take care of him again? Or was she as vividly aware of each ragged exhale pushing their bodies against each other as he was? Was she just as baffled by the electricity arcing between them?

“Technically, I didn’t call anyone.”

“But...?”

She tilted her dark eyes up to his. “My internet comes through the cable line. I sent an email to the name with the star at the front of your book. Jesse Puente. I searched for his name online and it said he worked at the DEA like you do. So I emailed him.”

Nash dropped his forehead to hers and swore a blue streak. Then he pulled away from the grasp of her hands, arming himself, getting ready to leave. She clung to the wall beside the bedroom door but watched his every move. “He said you were a good cop. I’m an idiot for trusting him, aren’t I? I wanted to justify you kidnapping me, so I believed him. I took him at his word because I needed to make sense of everything my gut is telling me about you.”

Nash fastened his belt and holstered his gun. “What nonsense is your gut telling you?”

“That you’re not really a bad guy. Even if you’re a bad cop, there has to be a good reason why you’ve made whatever choices you’ve made and why you have all that cash.” She pushed away from the wall and blocked his path again. “If you were really a criminal without a conscience, you’d have shot at me instead of that tree behind your truck last night. You wouldn’t have cared if the duct tape pulled my skin or stuck to my clothes. I think there’s good in you. Or believe me, I’d have been long gone before you woke up this morning.”

Chapter Six

I think there’s good in you.

Well, if that didn’t sound a lot like the counselors at the Texas boys ranch where Nash had grown up. He’d been so angry after his parents’ murders, resentful that he’d been stuck in some remote patch of sandy grassland filled with hard work and horse manure. He’d started and finished his share of fights and wrestled with his own vengeful tendencies enough that it was easy to draw on the experience of his youth whenever he needed to assume a less-than-savory undercover identity. The men and women who worked the land, ran the school and counseled the troubled boys and teens there had worked a miracle on him, inspiring him to get his act together to get through school and become a cop.

But every now and then—when his closest friends were being murdered, when innocent lives were being destroyed and he couldn’t do a damn thing about it, when the woman he loved said she couldn’t handle his life and walked away—those masochistic demons would reappear.

He’d need some time to process Teresa’s opinion of him. Seeing him as anything positive, as someone she might trust, was just wishful thinking on her part. He was on a mission to find out the truth about the traitor who’d gotten his team killed—or he was going to die trying. It was whatever he needed, when he needed it. His life was all about survival and hard choices right now—not sexual attraction or guilty consciences or idealistic guts that had the wrong impression about him. Nash was afraid there’d be more casualties like Tommy Delvecchio before he got to the truth. But as long as he got the job done, he didn’t care.

There wasn’t anything good about that.

He clipped his badge back on his belt where it belonged. “What did Puente say?”

Teresa recoiled half a step, hugging her arms around her waist when he dismissed her overture of trust and support. “He thanked me for contacting him. I thought I was helping. Did I get you into trouble?”

A little bit, darlin’.
“Where’s your computer?”

“In the living room.”

“I need to see it.”

It hurt to do it, but Nash lifted the bag onto his uninjured shoulder and stalked down the hallway after her. The main rooms smelled like Christmas with the fragrant pine needles on her tree and the scents of home cooking filling the apartment. Taking stock of his surroundings in daylight, Nash shook his head. Teresa had not only emptied out the armoire, but she’d shoved it back into place, away from the door. He’d been a sitting duck for several hours, plenty of time for the mole in his department to find that email to Captain Puente and track it back to its source.

While she sat at the computer desk behind her couch to turn on the machine, Nash pushed aside the hodgepodge of toys and other gifts, wrapping paper and ribbons on the dining room table and set his bag down. He checked the front window and peephole of the door. Everything was still locked down, and nobody appeared to be showing more interest in her fourth-floor apartment than they should be. Reassured there wasn’t a pending home invasion, at least, he crossed to stand behind her chair.

“Show me the messages,” he ordered.

Teresa pulled up her email account. Nash leaned over her shoulder to read her message to the captain.

Dear Mr. Puente—I have a man here with ID that says his name is Charles Nash. He’s badly wounded, but I’ve taken care of his injuries. I don’t have a picture to send, but he’s about 6’3”, muscular, has dark blond/light brown hair and needs a shave. He has scarring on his left arm and back. To be honest, they look like knife cuts and a bullet wound. Is he really a DEA agent? Is he working a case for you here in Kansas City? He’s warned me several times not to contact the police, but I found your name in his bag and took a chance that you could help me.

He hasn’t hurt me yet, but there have been plenty of threats. Please advise before I turn him over to the authorities here. He asked me not to, which makes me wonder if he’s telling me the truth.

He doesn’t know I’m writing you. I don’t know how long I have before he wakes up, so I’d appreciate a quick reply. Sorry to contact you this way, but I don’t have access to a phone.

Thank you.

Teresa Rodriguez, R.N.

After he nodded to her, she clicked on Captain Puente’s alleged reply.

Dear Ms. Rodriguez,

Sounds like the Charlie Nash I know. You say he’s injured—have you taken him to a hospital for proper care? I’d like to follow up on his condition because yes, he’s working an important case for me, and if he’s out of commission, I need to replace him on the investigation.

Rest assured, you are safe with him. He’s a good man, if a bit of a loose cannon sometimes.

As soon as you can reach a phone, please call me at this number to verify your identity and confirm Nash’s badge number. Thank you.

Captain Jesse Puente

Houston Office

DEA

Nash read the phone number at the bottom of the email. Puente’s direct line. Was that significant? Why not simply request a reply to his email? Why not instruct Teresa to call the general office to get whoever was on duty, or notify the local cops to request backup for an injured officer?

While sorting out possibilities, Nash rubbed his jaw, massaging the stubble there. He needed a shave. He needed some food. He checked the clock on the computer and the time stamp of the two emails. Almost three hours old. Plenty of time to catch a flight to K.C. He needed to get out of here. But things had just gotten more complicated. He needed to come up with a plan F or G now.

“Have you made any other contact with the captain?” Nash asked.

Teresa shook her head. “I heard you moving in the bedroom. You must have been having a nightmare. But I didn’t want to risk you waking up and catching me out here. So I shut the computer down and went back to watch you sleep.”

The nightmare was the same whether he was asleep or awake. Nash pushed away from the chair. “There’s no proof that it was Puente who got the message. Anyone could have answered that.”

She followed him across the living room, rubbing her arms as though she was cold. “He made me think I could trust you. Should I have emailed my brother instead?”

“If it was me, I would have run out that door.” He nodded toward the television and sound equipment on the floor. “Your survival instincts are on the fritz. You had the means to escape. To turn me in. Why didn’t you?”

“If you didn’t have me, you might take Mrs. Walker or someone else in the building hostage. I can deal with you better than an old woman or a young family can.”

“Deal?”

“Yes.” She moved into the kitchen to stir the soup. “If Mrs. Walker knew about the guns in your bag and all the blood you were hiding under that blanket, she’d probably have a heart attack. If you’re a good guy and need help, I have connections no one else in this building has. If it turns out you’re a bad cop, I can put up a better fight than anyone else. So you’re stuck with me.”

Nash stopped at the kitchen peninsula, breathing in the fragrant meal simmering on the stove. “You’re a lot of trouble, you know that, Teresa Rodriguez?”

“I know.” Her agreeable response surprised him. She covered the pot and held up her hands, showing she had no hot liquid or dangerous utensils on her as she circled the counter to join him. “That’s my nickname.
Gamberro.
” The Spanish word for
troublemaker.
“I’ve been called that my entire life.”

So his wasn’t the only life she’d turned sideways? He settled onto the nearest stool, bringing his height closer to hers. “Who calls you that?”

“My older brother and sisters. My mother, when she was alive. I’m too impulsive. I have a temper. I lead with my heart.”

“You get yourself into trouble before you figure out a way to get out of it.”
Like stopping to help a stranded motorist on a wintry night.

Nash felt a little of that same chill that had her rubbing her arms for warmth again. “They make me feel like a child. But I’m twenty-nine years old. I have skills and talents I need to use. I can do more with my life than be taken care of. I’ve dealt with some horrible things as I’ve grown up. I don’t need to be protected from everything.”

“Yeah, you do.” Although he wondered how her idea of “horrible things” stacked up against his murdered parents and violent youth, he didn’t have time for curiosity or compassion. “The moment Captain Puente or whoever’s impersonating him opened that email in Houston, a clock started ticking.”

“What does that mean?”

He might as well spell it out since, as far as he was concerned, they were in this together now. “I’m an undercover agent, Peewee. I supervise a team of agents who’ve infiltrated a drug war. Only my cover’s been blown. So were theirs. By a crooked cop or someone else on the take in the Houston office.”

Her eyes widened in shock. “The men who tried to kill you were cops?”

“I doubt the three goons who came after me yesterday were actual cops, but they’re definitely working with one. No one except for the people in my office knew I was heading for Kansas City. Yet the cartel thugs who shot me up and murdered a friend didn’t just track me to my location. They were waiting for me.”

Her soft gasp barely registered. “You lost a friend yesterday?”

“A rookie agent. He was trying to help me.” Nash’s wry laugh elicited a frown. “Maybe I should have you contact your brother—see if KCPD has had a report of four dead bodies at a chop-shop near the river. They could at least get Tommy back to his family in Houston.” Any urge to laugh, even with that raw sarcasm, was crushed beneath the load of guilt he carried. “I didn’t even hold his hand or check to see if he was killed instantly. I just... There were too many bullets flying. I had to leave him behind.”

And now her hand was on his arm—comforting him? Seeing an opportunity to finagle her own rescue? “I can do that. If you give me back the cords to connect my phones, I’ll gladly call AJ and find out if he knows anything about your friend.”

Nash shook his head. “Just kidding, Peewee. No cops.”

She pulled her hand away. “I don’t understand. Clearly you’re upset. AJ can help. If I ask—”

“No.” Even if her brother had good intentions, it’d be too big a risk to take. “Someone at Houston HQ is funneling sensitive information to the Graciela cartel. I’m the only survivor of three different hits. Until I can identify the mole in our office, I’m off the grid. At least, I was until someone in Houston read your email. There are warring factions within the cartel, and both sides want me dead—I get that. But knowing someone I trusted leaked our names and locations? I intend to live long enough to find out who betrayed my men.”

“And you. He betrayed you, too.” Man, she was still feeling sorry for him.

He’d get her over that real quick. “Now your name is on that hit list, too. Every bad thing you think about me? Those cartel thugs are worse.”

“What did I do?”

He pointed to the computer. “You sent an email that can lead the traitor straight to Kansas City. Straight to this apartment. Straight—”

“To me.” She sank onto the stool beside him, her skin turning pale beneath its warm olive tone. “You think they’ll come after me to find you?”

“Yep.”

“Can’t you just call this Captain Puente to see if he’s the one who got the email?”

“What if he’s the traitor?” Nash had been proud to get assigned to Captain Puente’s team, had always considered the older officer a straight shooter. But then, he’d thought the best of every man on their undercover unit...until his friends had died, and the only explanation that made sense was a mole on the inside who’d leaked their names to the cartels.

Teresa’s knuckles turned white where she gripped the counter. “There isn’t anyone you can trust?”

“I’m flying solo on this. At least, I was until you picked me up.” Knowing he was wasting precious time and energy caring about her distress, he slid his hand across the counter to rest it over both of hers anyway. There was only so much guilt a man could bear. “That’s why I didn’t want you to call the local cops or your big brother. That’s why I didn’t want to go to the hospital. They’re all red flags to where I’m hiding out that I’m not ready to put up yet.”

Her grip on the counter relaxed, but she didn’t pull away. “You need to get better before you deal with those horrible men.”

“I don’t have that luxury. But I do need to stay ahead of these guys. I need to get some leads and pinpoint who set us up before they strike again. If I die, they’ll get away with murdering my men. I’m the only one who knows the leak came from our office. That’s why they’re looking for me. Once I’m gone, the bastard who gave up my team can go right on selling information to the cartels.” She shook her head and started to pull away, but Nash curled his fingers around hers, apologizing, reassuring, warning her of the danger. “And since they’re going to be looking for you now, too...”

“You’re not going to let me go, are you?”

“Nope. Rule Two, remember? Protect your assets.” He threaded the fingers of his left hand through the velvety strands of coffee-colored hair that had fallen over her shoulder. “I thought I could use you to patch me up enough to keep me going a few days longer. If I kept you from asking questions, if I kept things anonymous, you’d stay an innocent bystander and I could leave without making you a target. None of the people after me would even know of your existence. But that’s all changed now. You’re part of my team now. I’m not going to lose anybody else to these bastards. Especially a sweet thing like you.” Her chin tipped up with a jerk at the offhand compliment. Barely noticing the twinge in his shoulder, he pulled his fingers down through the length of her hair before letting her go and nodding to the kitchen. “You got a thermos or something you can pack up some soup in? Get an overnight bag with whatever you need for a few days.”

She gathered her ponytail and flipped it behind her back as she pushed to her feet. “I have a job. I have plans for Christmas. I can’t go with you.”

“Right now mine’s the only plan you have to worry about. You’re going to need my protection.”

“That sounds like a really desperate pickup line.”