One Wrong Move (3 page)

“Expose me for what?”

Camden turned away from the heat of the stove and ignored the meat as he stared directly into Dare’s eyes. He had to trust that Casey had done his job and Moore’s team was taking Shawn into custody right now. He didn’t want to put the boy’s life at risk but he didn’t want to miss this opportunity.

“Drug smuggling. Money laundering. Things like that.”

Dare laughed, a cruel animal sound. “That’s ridiculous.”

Camden shrugged and glanced away.

“That’s ridiculous,” Dare boomed again, stepping closer so Camden could smell what he ate for dinner—the lamb curry with brown rice and vegetables, bypassing his favorite fish for the night. Not only was he the chef for Dare’s restaurant, he might as well have been his personal chef, since the man ate at the restaurant every night and when he didn’t, he would request something be brought to his home.

“That’s exactly what I thought. That’s why we fought over it. Now you see why I couldn’t let him go around saying that shit and ruining our reputation.”

“Get your stuff and get out.”

CHAPTER THREE

Rayma

Rayma woke to incessant meowing and pawing. When she pushed Beacon away, he used his next trick: chewing on the headboard beside her ear to get her attention.

Everyone should have a cat, especially people with difficulties getting out of bed in the morning.

“I know, I know,” she muttered. She cracked open an eyelid and glanced at the time. Three a.m.

What had ever possessed her to work for the morning news?

The spotted brown tabby jumped to the floor as she pushed aside the covers and headed for the coffeepot. “Youch,” she hollered as Beacon nipped her ankle then turned and dashed to the kitchen.

He had been nearly dead when she rescued him—too young to be on his own, covered in ringworms. She’d fed and doctored him until he overcame some rough days. He almost had a concussion because of the kids next door, who knocked him around as if he were a soccer ball.

She’d found him steps from the beach the day after she moved into the small condo on the bay. She considered the cat a sign she was in the right place at the right time. Though she often doubted the sanity of her move from Austin, Beacon reminded her she was doing the right thing.

Rayma anticipated work in a whole new way that morning. Last night she’d emailed her video to her boss Tony, then posted a short blog with the video. She was anxious to see what Tony thought of it and if they’d take the story any further. But when she got to the studio, her boss was waiting for her with a scowl on his face.

“I need to see you in my office.”

He turned and stalked away, expecting her to follow.

“Uh-oh,” she told Nicole as she dropped her bag at the cubicle across from her friend. “Am I in trouble?”

“Aren’t you always?”

“If I’m not, someone else is. But this isn’t good. He wants to see me before I go on air.” Her nerves drummed against her ribcage.

“I’m sure it’s to tell you how wonderful of a job you’re doing, and to keep it up.”

“Uh-huh.”

She marched toward Tony’s office, her steps slogging through doubt and confusion. She thought the blog post was damn good. Entertaining. Something worth a million views. Didn’t hurt that the man on the video looked like a carved Norse god. She’d watched it over and over again last night just to make absolutely sure.

Tony was waiting for her at the door to his office, still wearing a scowl, which wouldn’t have concerned her if not for the timing. He always had a scowl on his face despite being an attractive older man with graying hair, three kids, and a fantastic wife who knew how to spoil him. Though he devoted most days to pissing someone off, Rayma admitted he was a good guy. He cared about family and would consider anything his employees had to say.

“Is everything okay?” she asked as he shut the door behind her.

“No, Rayma. It’s not okay.” He marched to his desk, across from where she stood. She didn’t bother sitting. Neither did he. Instead, he fisted his hands on the desk and leaned forward, eyebrows bunched. “You’re lucky you’re not in my office to get your termination notice.”

She blinked, lost focus on him, and decided to sit before her legs collapsed. “Why? What did I do wrong?”

“Your blog post about Vin Doux. You need to delete it.”

“Why? Why should I delete it?”

Tony sat and steepled his hands, resting his chin on them. “It’s damaging to a very important person in this community. Darrell Weberley supports many organizations in this area, and we can’t afford to have one of our employees post such libel.”

“It’s not libel. I’ve said nothing bad about his business, and nothing false. There’s a video of the chefs fighting, which is real. He refused to give an interview at the time. I gave a short review on the restaurant. Gave my honest opinion, which is that I think it’s terribly expensive and not worth the money.”

She’d decided to stop playing nice. Nice had gotten her nowhere so far.

“I mean, twenty-five dollars for one salad? Really? That doesn’t include the water I drank, which they charged for, too. It’s not like gold is lining the pockets of most of the people in this town.”

“Your blog isn’t meant for leaving reviews of restaurants or accusing them of unfair or even illegal practices. And you got the salad for free.”

“I mentioned that, and it’s because of the fight that everyone’s meal was free.” Rayma slid forward in her chair. “I never accused them of anything illegal. Am I picking up on a guilty conscience?”

“First there’s your post about drugs in the community, then about businesses as covers for criminal operations, then this post. It’s pretty scathing.”

“They were unrelated.”

Tony dropped his hands and stood, his face falling. His shoulders hunched, eyebrows gathered low in a regretful frown. He stood and planted his thumbs in his pocket, then turned and glanced out the window to the sea below.

Rayma approached. She liked her job. She didn’t love it, but she liked it, and she couldn’t afford to lose it. She didn’t want to be fired, but she didn’t want to give up her mission, and she wasn’t ready to tell him about it.

From here, the bay waters were choppy and disturbed, a good metaphor of her life at the moment. Not near as tranquil as the view from her condo, where the ocean churned into puddles on the beach, wiping away sand and polishing a new layer to an unusual smoothness.

Sea and sand. Nothing else.

What more did she need besides this? Good job, nice boss, comfy condo, safe existence.

Boring
.

“Look, Rayma…”

“I’ll delete the post.” She hated how her voice hinged on desperation, and as much as she didn’t want to delete the article, she could tell by his words that she wasn’t going to have a choice.

“I called you in here to try to talk to you, give you another chance—”

“I told you I’ll delete it.”

“I’m sorry, but I’m going to have to let you go.”

“But…” Rayma sputtered. “You just said you were going to give me another chance.”

“I told you I called you in here to give you another chance, but I see now that isn’t going to work.”

“Why not? I told you I’d delete the post. I’ll delete my whole blog.” She hated to beg, but there wasn’t much in the way of job opportunities in this small city. If she lost this one, she’d have to consider moving again. She wasn’t ready to move again, no matter how much she enjoyed her blog.

Tony’s forehead bunched, feet shifting. “I’m sorry, Rayma. You can stay until the end of the day, and I’ll get someone to help you gather your belongings.” He took two long lopes to his closet, opened it, and pulled out a small box, handing it to her.

She snatched the box from him and marched to the door. “I can handle my own belongings, thank you.” She yanked open the door and let it slam behind her, but none of those actions made her feel better.

It’s not that she loved the job, or even the town, but it was her chance to get away and rediscover her independence. Now what was she going to do?

***

Camden

“What were you thinking?” Moore chewed on the stump of his unlit cigar, an attempt to quit smoking cigarettes yet again. For some ridiculous reason, he considered cigars healthier.

“What?” Camden opened cabinets in search of breakfast while he ignored his boss’s temper. He knew exactly what Moore was talking about, but was eager to stretch it out. The news hadn’t aired the footage from the restaurant this morning, but he doubted that upped his chance for reconciliation with Dare.

The kitchen was Camden’s favorite part of this large but dreary coffin of a house. Wide and open, bright and airy, with a comfortable cheeriness. Besides the command room, it was the preferred area for agents to convene when they had something important to discuss. It was the only place where Camden didn’t feel enclosed in a tight box; here, it was like tiny holes had been poked through the box, admitting sunshine and air, and he could finally breathe.

Today, though, he couldn’t breathe. Not with Moore’s words suffocating him.

“Shawn hasn’t been found yet. We were hoping he could give us intel on Dare and his establishment.”

Camden grabbed the canister of protein powder and slammed the cabinet door closed. “He hasn’t been found?”

“We’ve got agents looking around the clock.” Moore struggled with a cereal box wrapper. Camden wanted to laugh. A macho DEA agent and he couldn’t even tear open the packaging.

He added a banana to everything else in the blender then pushed start, drowning out his concerns. Moore managed to get the cereal open and ended up spilling a quarter of it on the floor.

“Why’d you bring Shawn into it?” Moore asked. “He’s like, what, twenty?”

Camden stopped the blender, hit the pulse button one last time to piss the boss off, and poured the shake into his glass. “I didn’t bring Shawn into anything. He did it all himself when he threatened to go out there and expose Dare. I intervened. But yeah, I hoped it’d make Dare trust me more, see me as an ally who will take up for him.”

Camden had served as a special agent with the Drug Enforcement Administration for the past seven years and had worked undercover most of that time. Before that he’d served in the Army, learning a lot in the Special Forces then leaving to do what he was meant to do since adolescence. Joining the DEA and busting high-end drug lords had been Camden’s mission ever since the death of his fourteen-year-old brother when Camden was seven. That, along with the execution of his friend at sixteen, gave him an intense hatred for drugs and the people who made them readily available to naïve kids.

If Camden saved one child from death by a drug overdose or a drug-related slaying, he would feel he succeeded in life. He’d as soon kill Darrell now and get it over with, save the taxpayers a lot of money, and give him more time to find other pathetic individuals who made money preying on kids and giving them a lifelong addiction to drugs.

But the criminal justice system sucked. This assignment proved to be his hardest yet. For nine months he’d served as chef of a lucrative restaurant situated in a small city between Houston and South Padre Island. Besides cocaine delivery and money laundering, they were purported to be making a new drug, undetectable in a drug test, and they were doing a booming business.

Camden didn’t hold a culinary degree, but thanks to his babysitter’s good cooking and his interest in learning, he grew adept at food preparation. His skill, along with a fake degree, helped him land the job at Vin Doux. The team’s motto was still written on the dry erase board in the command room:
i
nfiltrate, identify, and imprison.
That was the goal of their operation, and he felt like they were finally moving to the second phase. They had identified their new goal: bust Dare’s annual event. But he’d gotten fired, and they didn’t have time to set up new agents.

“Did your plan work?” Moore asked.

Camden bit down a strong aftertaste from his protein shake and placed his glass on the counter, mentally preparing himself for his next task. He hadn’t slept last night. He’d been too busy wondering how to make things right with Dare, worried there was nothing he could do.

Stressed over how the hell he would tell Moore.

“No.”

“What do you mean no?”

Shawn had to be found. With Shawn’s testimony, they might lock Darrell up. For a few months.

“I was fired.”

“What?” Moore jumped from his perch on the table and let out the expletives that had run through Camden’s head all night long. The box of Captain Crunch flipped over, dumped what was left, and his bowl of cereal and milk jumped to the floor along with it.

His expletives were no longer addressed solely to Camden. He bent over and picked up the cereal box, slamming it on the counter.

Camden didn’t want to listen. Yes, this operation was important, but it was hard to get into Darrell’s good graces. A man as successful as he for so long wouldn’t take a chance on anyone. He was closer than any agent had ever been, besides Fletcher, and he’d thrown it all away in one incident. He needed to beg, borrow, or steal to get back into those graces.

“I couldn’t let Shawn go out there and do something stupid,” Camden said.

“You could have steered him out the back door.”

“I tried.”

“You didn’t try too hard if he was already out of the kitchen when you got to him.”

“Dammit, Moore, you weren’t there!” He knocked over the box, let it fall to the floor again in a resounding crash. His skin buzzed with white-hot anger. Moore always criticized him, had criticized Fletcher before he was killed.

Moore didn’t reply because Lacey flitted in, which was an understatement. When she entered a room, all five-foot-four of her, a storm blew in with her. She changed her hairstyle as often as people should change the oil on their car, and now sported a short, spiky cut with an orange-red color and blond on the tips. One good thing Camden could say about her was she didn’t even remotely resemble a DEA agent or, for that matter, any officer of the law.