Seduction Under Fire (9 page)

“You don’t know anything about me or the accident.”

“Jacob told me everything about the accident that ruined your career. About the shoot-out at the meth house you were raiding, how you two positioned yourselves in a bathroom but forgot to check the tub. I know about the little boy hiding inside, how he pulled Jacob’s arm when he tried to fire into the hallway.

“He hit you instead. It about killed Jacob to watch you bleed out on the floor of that filthy bathroom while they secured the house. He said you didn’t complain once. He said you insisted the paramedics take the boy away first.”

“Any cop would’ve done the same.”

“All you ever wanted to be in life was a police officer—you said it yourself today. That was your only dream and it died the day Jacob shot you. Don’t play me the fool by pretending your career is still on track. I know better.”

“My past has nothing to do with this.” She spread her arms, indicating the compound and the surrounding desert.

“You think one has nothing to do with the other? You don’t think I notice your hand shake when you hold a gun? Or that your limp gets worse with every step you take? Your leg hurts pretty badly right now, doesn’t it? Tell me I’m wrong.”

“Shut up about how broken and pathetic I am.”

“You’re missing my point.”

“Is that so? Because all I’m hearing is that you’re a dirtbag.”

“Camille, I pity you because you haven’t experienced enough happiness. Your whole life has been one letdown after another. All responsibility and pain, no joy. And what do you do for fun? Swim back and forth in a pool?” He swiped a hand across his forehead. “You need a life, and I stole any chance you had for one. Any chance you had to find some happiness,
live a little,
was destroyed because the day Juliana went into labor, you got to the hospital at the same time I did. Wrong place, wrong time. Boom, your life is over. It’s not fair.”

Camille’s insides had turned to fire. The exacting pain she usually felt with the memory of her accident was more akin to a match, igniting flames of rage that licked at her heart and lungs. She yelled with all the strength left in her. “Stop. Shut up. Just shut up.”

She couldn’t even see Aaron clearly, her eyes were so clouded by anger. She clenched her fists at her sides, trying to keep from attacking him like she wanted to.

Aaron took a tentative step toward her. “I pity you because you deserve so much more than the hand you’ve been dealt.”

The pain in Camille’s leg returned to her attention in full force. She was exhausted and hurt—physically and mentally. She sat where she stood, stretched out her left leg, drew her right knee in and rested her head in her arms. She didn’t want to look at Aaron anymore. Or the vacant cartel compound. She didn’t want to see the never ending desert or the brilliant blue sky.

“Camille, listen to me. You’re the bravest person I’ve ever met. And I know a lot of men who’ve been in battle, a lot of men who go up against murderers every day. You trump them all. You don’t let anything stand in your way, not a shaky trigger finger or a bum leg. I just... I respect that. You were caught up innocently in this whole mess, but without you, I’d probably be dead.”

Camille’s eyes brimmed with moisture to the extent that she stopped blinking, lest a drop jar loose to slip down her cheek.

“After everything you’ve been through in your life, you don’t deserve to be in the middle of the Mexican desert fighting for the right to live peacefully. You should be in California holding your niece and getting your goddamned passport so you can start traveling.” His voice was low but harsh. “You need to quit the effing police force and meet someone to start a family with—and spend every day for the rest of your life figuring out what makes you happy. Anything but this.”

He exhaled deeply and paced in front of her.

Camille understood his argument. He pitied her mess of a life. How humiliating, but how true. There were so many times she could have curled in a ball and had her own pity party. But it wouldn’t have done one bit of good—not then and not now either. She and Aaron needed to look to the future, to figure out how to rescue Rosalia and destroy the men who had marked them to die. They needed to deliver an epic cartel beatdown, not dissolve like a couple of wimps.

A rogue tear escaped from her eye.

“Don’t you dare start crying,” he commanded, stopping in his tracks and pointing a finger at her. “Or so help me, I’m going to hug you.”

Camille smiled at the earnestness of his demand.

Aaron didn’t return her smile, but offered her a hand. She accepted his help and didn’t protest when he draped his arms over her shoulders.

“I’d insist that you let ICE take you home, and allow me to make things right for both of us, but I’m guessing you wouldn’t go for that,” he said.

“No way. We’re in this together.”

They stood, embracing, until the cry of a bird in the distance interrupted the moment. With nothing left to say, Camille walked around to the passenger side of the Jeep. She tried hard not to limp, but failed miserably.

Aaron, still looking at her way too seriously, opened her door. She let him, but as soon as he started the engine, she put her hand on the steering wheel to make sure she got his undivided attention.

“Aaron?”

“Hmm?”

“Don’t ever pity me again.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Then
he smiled.

Chapter 7

W
ith Baja’s combination of dirt roads and pothole-riddled byways, it took Ana, in her ancient Pontiac hatchback, three hours to drive fifty miles. Three hours Camille spent in the backseat next to Sarah, who Camille hoped earned a backache the next day from constantly leaning forward to fondle Aaron’s shoulders, neck and hair.

The city of La Paz unfolded gradually, with the occasional shack giving way to dirt roads lined with them. Ana’s car thumped onto the first paved road after two hours of travel. The road gradually morphed into a bona fide highway and the real city started, with gray cinder-block houses and markets, auto repair garages and clothing stores sporting barred windows and half-empty shelves.

Throughout the drive, Aaron peppered Ana with questions about the city. La Paz had a population of roughly two hundred thousand people and sat on the southeast edge of the Baja peninsula at the back of a long, narrow bay fed by the Sea of Cortez, nine hundred miles south of the Mexican-American border and an ocean away from the Mexican mainland.

While the outlying sections of the city were relatively flat, the closer Ana drove toward the bay, the greater the downhill grade became, as if the whole of La Paz would eventually slip into the water. After going out of her way to give Aaron and Camille a mini-tour of the city, she turned away from the nicely maintained downtown district and into a less-picturesque urban neighborhood.

The houses were small and run-down, the streets narrow and jammed with parked cars. Save for the new Walmart and Costco Ana pointed out, this section of the city boasted no trendy shops like downtown, just taco stands and mini-marts, crumbling schools behind chain-link fences and drab apartment buildings. They dropped Sarah off in front of a freshly painted cottage with a weed-riddled yard and continued a few blocks more to Ana’s apartment.

Camille hated the lack of security that came with arriving in broad daylight. After exiting the car, she scanned the sidewalks and apartment windows for sinister-looking faces. Nothing appeared out of the ordinary.

Ana chuckled at something Aaron said and for one sinking moment, Camille second-guessed their new friend’s trustworthiness. What if Ana had ties to the Cortez Cartel? What if she and Aaron were walking into a trap?

Whoa there, girl.
Deep breath.

So what if they might be ambushed by a bunch of Mexican mobsters? The faster she found the cartel, the sooner she’d rescue Rosalia. Besides that, it wasn’t an ambush if she was armed and ready to fight back. With a hand on the grip of the gun in her pocket, she followed Aaron up a set of stairs to Ana’s second-floor apartment.

Ana’s place was small and tastefully decorated, with a living room that fit a sofa but little more and a bathroom that was only reachable through the single bedroom. Camille had the honor of using the bathroom first and let her eyes roam over the framed photos, knickknacks and books that topped Ana’s dresser. She managed to resist the urge to rummage through the bathroom cabinets, a decision she felt quite mature about.

She returned to the kitchen several minutes later. “Okay, Ana, the bathroom’s all yours.”

“Thank you, Camille, but Aaron was about to explain why the front page of yesterday’s newspaper contains a picture of you two being held at gunpoint.”

Camille sank into a chair and angled for a view of the newspaper. The grainy color photo showed the two of them at their worst—snarling, caged animals that had been put through the wringer.

“You know.” Aaron swatted the air with his hand. “Yesterday’s news.”

“The article claims you two are being held hostage by the Cortez Cartel. It seems that the cartel emailed your picture to both Mexican and American news sources and the American police, demanding that two men arrested earlier this week in California be released or they will kill you. Is it true? Were you kidnapped?”

“You’ll be safer not knowing the details,” Camille said.

“I deserve to understand the danger I bring into my home.”

Aaron rose, wiping his palms on his jeans. “You’re right about the danger. We’ll show ourselves out.”

Ana held her arm out to stop him. “Oh, no, you don’t. I want answers or I’ll call the police.”

Camille had no idea why Ana didn’t simply let them disappear into the night, but they couldn’t afford any involvement from the Mexican police. Aaron must have reached the same conclusion, because he dropped back into his chair.

“Start at the beginning,” Ana said. “Why did the cartel kidnap you?”

Aaron did most of the talking and Camille was happy to let him. He wisely left out several details, including Rosalia’s kidnapping, along with the fact that they’d already killed three cartel members and were planning to take down the rest. He also failed to disclose that they were armed to the teeth.

Ana nodded frequently and asked a couple of questions, but was otherwise nonplussed. “So, you’re both American law enforcement?”

“Yes,” Aaron said.

“Have you contacted your work or your families yet?”

“Yes, on both accounts.”

“I’m sure your families are anxious for your return. Perhaps you need a ride to the airport tonight?”

“Actually,” Aaron hedged, “we’re planning to stay in La Paz and gather intelligence on the cartel.”

Ana covered Camille’s hands with her own. “Remaining here would be very unsafe for you. The cartel—it is everywhere and it is merciless. If it finds you, you will die.”

A tingle of fear crept over Camille’s limbs, but she squelched it immediately. Her fear was nothing compared to what Rosalia must be experiencing. Besides, she and Aaron had already gone up against the cartel and survived. They could—and would—do so again, as many times as it took to secure Rosalia’s freedom as well as their own.

“It’s a risk we’re prepared to take,” she answered Ana. Aaron nodded his solidarity.

“Then I will help you as much as I can. You may stay with me as long as you need to.”

“Thank you for the generous offer,” Camille answered, “but one night is enough. Tomorrow the plan is for Aaron to find us a place to stay while I pick up supplies, then we’ll be out of your way.”

“Then tomorrow you may borrow my car to run errands. Sarah can drive me to work.”

“But why would you put your safety at risk for us?” Camille added, sincerely baffled.

“You want to fight against the smugglers who bring guns into my country. It is an issue close to my heart. Let’s leave it at that.”

* * *

It was liberation time. While Aaron showered, Ana found a pair of scissors and a box of hair dye left over from the time she’d streaked her hair with red highlights. The chocolate-colored dye was a safety net in case she’d hated the highlights, which she hadn’t.

“I’ve always wanted short hair,” Ana whispered with conspiratorial enthusiasm. “Good for you.”

Camille sat on a kitchen chair with a towel around her neck. “That page one color photo of me is reason enough for a change.”

Ana picked up the scissors and made dramatic snipping motions in the air. Hopefully she’d be more prudent with the cut than her demonstration threatened. “Ready?”

“I’ve been ready for years.”
Good riddance.

“Stop! Oh my God. Are you crazy?” Aaron stomped from the bedroom with wet hair, clad in the same clothes he’d worn that day. He strode to Ana, snatched the scissors from her and chastised both women with furious eyes.

“Aaron, calm down. The cartel will be looking for a woman with long blond hair. It’d be stupid for me to leave it like that. And honestly, I can’t wait to be rid of it. The only reason I kept it long was so I could put it in a bun for work. I think I’ll look good as a short-haired brunette.”

“Brunette?” He spit the word out as if it was a piece of gristle.

Camille pointed to the box of hair dye on the table.

Aaron’s face twisted into a look of pure horror. He grabbed the box of dye, stuffed the scissors in his pocket and stomped to the front door. “Wear a hat.”

He left, slamming the door behind him.

Camille shot a questioning look at Ana. “What was that about?”

“I think he likes your hair the way it is.” Was that a hint of a smirk on Ana’s face?

“What I do with my hair is none of his business. Do you have another pair of scissors we can use?”

Ana shook her head. “He took my only pair. You two are entertaining, you know that?” Oh, yeah, Ana was definitely smirking.

“I have no idea what you mean.”

“I know, and that’s why it’s so amusing.” Ana pulled the towel from around Camille’s neck. “I have the perfect hat for you to borrow. Let’s go look.”

Adding scissors and hair dye to her mental grocery list for the next day, she allowed Ana to pull her by the arm to the bedroom closet.