The Body Market: A Leine Basso Thriller (11 page)

“Are you all right to drive?” he asked.

“Yeah. I’ll be fine. Thanks for the ride.” Her hand on the door and ready to leave, she turned to him. “Is there something else you wanted to ask me?”

Herrera nodded. “I was wondering if you ever served.”

“No. Why?”

“Santa wouldn’t tell me much about your background, just that you could handle yourself.” He shrugged. “I figured you’d been in the military or maybe one of the alphabet agencies.”

Leine opened the door and got out. She leaned back inside the car.

“You’re close,” she said.

L
eine drove up
Interstate 5 and pulled off at the first motel. She managed to check herself in and make it to her room before she collapsed onto the bed. Fast approaching blackout from exhaustion, relentless pain, and less-than-effective painkillers, she passed out the minute her head hit the pillow.

She woke up two hours later, a rancid taste in her mouth from the meds. Groggy, she made her way into the bathroom and rinsed her mouth with water. She turned on the shower and walked back into the room to lie down on the bed while she waited for the water to heat. Pulling her phone free, she hit speed dial and put it on speaker.

“Where the hell are you?” were Santa’s first words. “Bob called to tell me he left you at an all-night parking lot and that you looked like shit.”

Leine closed her eyes. “I’m in Chula Vista at the Traveler’s Lodge just off I-5. Room 38.”

“I’ll be there in a few hours.”

“No.” Leine started to sit up but nausea hit her and she decided against it. “I just need to rest. I’ll be fine.”

“Bullshit. I’m coming down. Call the front desk. Tell them your husband is joining you.”

She didn’t have the strength to argue. “Okay,” she whispered before oblivion found her again.

***

Leine opened her eyes, unsure where she was. Light from the bedside lamp illuminated a glass of water and a box of tissues along with the telephone and clock radio. Some sports channel was running replays of a soccer match on the muted television. She didn’t remember turning anything on before she called Santa, although she did remember drawing the curtains closed before the shower. A narrow slice of dark could be seen through the window. She glanced at her watch. Nine thirty. She’d been out for hours.

Leine winced as she adjusted the sling. Her arm felt like it had been run over by a semi. At least she couldn’t smell death on herself anymore. She turned her head as Santa emerged from the bathroom, wiping his hands on a towel.

“Hi,” Leine said, her voice barely a croak. Santa’s gaze snapped to hers and a look of relief washed over him. He came around the foot of the bed and sat down, facing her. She watched him, her mind a hazy mess, happy to see him.

“Glad to see you’re alive,” Santa said. The vein at his temple pulsed.

“You’re angry,” Leine said, reaching for the glass of water on the nightstand.

Santa handed it to her and abruptly rose from the bed and began to pace.

“Goddamn right I’m angry.” Eyes flashing, he stopped pacing and crossed his arms. She winced, not used to being the subject of Santiago Jensen’s wrath. The air crackled with electricity—and not the kind Leine preferred.

“It’s only a flesh wound—” she started to say but Santa cut her off.

“Only a flesh wound? Leine, it’s a
fucking gunshot
wound.” Santa resumed pacing, working himself into a froth. “Bob told me you were jumped twice down there. How the hell did that happen? I thought this was supposed to be a routine visit. Research, you said.” He glared at her, jaw clenched.

Leine took a deep breath before replying.

“I’m sorry I didn’t call to tell you what happened. I didn’t want you to worry.”

“Didn’t—” Santiago snapped his mouth closed and stared at her in disbelief. “Goddammit, Leine. You need to keep me in the loop on incidents like this, all right?” He crossed the distance between them and stopped, his eyes dark. “You’re involved in two deadly incidents out of the country, get yourself shot, and then call me for help after the fact. Think about the position you put me in. You need medical care, and I can’t even take you to the emergency room. California law requires hospitals to report gunshot wounds. What am I supposed to do?”

“I had it treated,” she said quietly.

“By some bullshit, half-assed cartel quack who probably never saw the inside of an operating room.”

Not knowing what else to do, she clasped his hand and pulled him to her, moving over to give him room. His body, rigid at first, relaxed in increments—his head dipped to her neck as she rose to meet him; his shoulders followed when she leaned forward to nibble his earlobe; and the rest of his body as he carefully lay down beside her. With a sigh, he released his pent-up tension and returned the embrace, immensely careful of her injury.

“Next time you go on a ‘routine’ trip, I’m coming with you,” he murmured into her ear. He took the glass from her and set it back on the nightstand before turning his head to nuzzle her neck. This time the electricity was the right voltage, and Leine shivered at the trickle of pleasure shimmying down her spine. Santa’s mouth covered hers and she gave herself over to the sensations working their way through her.

What gunshot wound?

He handled her gently but went at her with relentless focus, as though trying to obliterate his anger. His warm lips and hands moved over her, the pressure of his body against hers summoning a familiar ache. He untied her sling, dropping it to the floor, and unbuttoned her shirt, carefully avoiding the bandages. Nibbling at her collarbone, he paused briefly as he unzipped her pants and slid them off the bed and onto the floor. Their eyes locked. His hands beneath her buttocks, he slid lower, pulling her to him.

The pain receded and she gasped as Santa moved back slightly, leaving a vacuum, which Leine demanded he fill. He returned once, twice, nipping at her thighs, her knees, her hip, but retreated each time, teasing her until she was out of her mind with desire and groaned with pleasure at his slightest touch.

Santa rose to his knees and licked his way along her stomach to her chest, taking turns with her left breast, and her right. Chills surged along her spine, eliminating whatever breath remained. Beyond caring about anything except release, she moved to unbutton his jeans, but he pushed her hand away. With a frustrated growl, she tried again. He pinned her wrist so she couldn’t move while he one-handed his jeans down just low enough to free himself. Greedy for him now, Leine struggled against his grip, but he wouldn’t let go.

He entered her slowly. With a sigh, Leine leaned her head back and closed her eyes, reveling in the sensory overload, losing herself in the moment. The passion built steadily, and she groaned with pleasure.

His expression a mixture of fury and passion, Santa drove deeper, intensifying the thrust, obliterating the earlier tenderness. She accepted him willingly and they moved in tandem, each gasping from the building tension, their rhythmic dance rapidly escalating until together they tumbled over the edge and into the void.

The ticking clock brought her back to the present.

“Now that’s an effective painkiller,” she murmured and closed her eyes.

They both dozed. Leine woke first and struggled to sit up. Santa was awake an instant later, supporting her back and head with his arm, piling pillows behind her. She leaned back to watch him, trying to discern his mood.

Jeans still unbuttoned, he walked to the table and fished in her bag. He held up the blister pack of pain pills.

“You need a couple?” he asked.

Leine nodded, marveling at how quickly he could switch from anger to passion to caring for her. Hopefully she could keep him away from anger mode for a while.

“I found the car,” she said.

Santa brought the pills and handed her the glass of water. “And you took a bullet for the effort. Doesn’t seem like much of a trade.” He watched her swallow the painkillers and took the glass from her when she was done. “Why didn’t you call me as soon as it happened?”

“Because there wasn’t anything you could do.”

“You didn’t call Herrera, either.”

“I know,” Leine admitted. “I shouldn’t have trusted my informant. I thought I had things handled. I should have at least called Lou.”

Santa’s expression was a combination of hurt and irritation, and his jaw pulsed—a sure sign he was fast entering the danger zone again.

He looked pointedly at her arm. “How did it happen?”

Leine told him about Willy Flint and finding Josh in the car at the bottom of the ravine, about Ignacio and his sidekick ambushing her. She mentioned the other gunmen had Eastern European accents but glossed over the threat they represented, not wanting to fuel Santa’s ire. By the end, his expression had turned from pissed off and hurt to stony acceptance.

“Flint’s the key here. I’ll check with Bob, find out what I can.”

“I already asked Herrera. Flint’s a low-level, unreliable snitch, apparently working on the side for Otero. I’d be surprised if he knew who the other gunmen were. He probably alerted Otero, who called someone else.” Leine shifted her weight, trying to get comfortable. “It’s pretty obvious Otero’s working with the new guys on the block. He’s into something bigger than a simple carjacking operation. The only angle that makes sense is organ trafficking. They took Josh’s kidneys, probably more. The thing I don’t know is what happened to Elise.”

“You may be right about Otero branching out,” Santa said, climbing back into bed. “Makes sense, if he’s working with an Eastern Bloc crime syndicate. Organs are a lucrative market, especially when you don’t have to pay for materials.”

“Then why not do Elise the same way and leave her in the car with Josh?”

“Maybe he played the hero.” Santa shrugged. “Got in the way. Could be they had to kill him and decided to trash the Porsche, make it look like a carjacking gone bad. They didn’t want to lose the product, so they cut into him. Elise might have been more valuable alive.”

“You mean sell her into the sex trade.”

“I mean
rent
her.” Santa stared at the ceiling. “They’d get more money putting her to work. If they didn’t shoot her full of drugs to keep her docile, once she outlived her ‘usefulness’ they could sell her off in pieces.”

Leine leaned her head against the pillow. “So you’re saying Otero or this other group might be holding her somewhere?” A flicker of hope sprang to life inside her, accompanied by the thick, cottony fog of the medication.

“That’s it. No more pain pills.” She didn’t have the luxury of time. The longer she delayed the search, the less chance she had of finding Elise, dead or alive.

A
key rattled
the lock and the door opened. Elise sat up, knees to her chin, and waited. This time a short, stocky man walked into the room carrying a metal tray. He turned on the overhead light and set the tray next to the bed. Some kind of weird looking food sat on a green plastic plate along with a plastic fork, another glass of murky water, and a syringe.

The tribal tattoos on the man’s shaved head and curling along his neck gave him a fierce appearance. He picked up the syringe and reached for her. Elise cried out and tried to wrench her arm away, but he was too quick and too strong.

“Stop it—” she shrieked, fear clouding her vision.

Tattoo backhanded her across the face. Shocked into silence, she touched her mouth. Her fingers came away bloody. Her heart was pounding so hard she thought it would jump into her throat and cut off her air.
Can a seventeen-year-old have a heart attack?

He grasped her wrist and pulled her arm straight with one hand while holding the syringe with the other. Elise squeezed her eyes shut. Salty tears slipped down her cheeks, stinging the cut on her lip. At the prick of the needle a whimper escaped her. She opened her eyes to slits and watched her blood fill the syringe. When it was full, Tattoo removed the needle and reached in his pocket for a crumpled tissue, which he threw at her. Elise pressed it on the needle site and bent her arm to stop the bleeding.

“Eat,” he said as he slid the syringe into a paper bag. Her stomach roiled at the gelatinous, oblong roll of unidentifiable food next to a pile of sauerkraut resting on the scarred plastic plate.

“Don’t you have any bottled water?” she asked in a tiny voice.

The tattooed man stood with his arms crossed and stared at her. Elise quickly dropped her gaze. Ravenous, she reached for the plastic fork on the tray and cut off a slender wedge of the roll. She picked up the slice with the tips of two fingers and bit into it, holding her breath at the tangy smell of the sauerkraut.

The lukewarm blob turned out to be cooked cabbage stuffed with soggy rice and onions and some kind of questionable ground meat. There didn’t seem to be much seasoning and Elise wondered why anyone would go to the trouble to make such bad food. She tried another bite but spit it out onto the plate. The stocky man continued to stare and she suppressed a shudder.

The real possibility of being raped with no one to hear her cries skated through her mind, but she quickly replaced the thought with one of him telling the person in charge to let her go since she cooperated so well. She held her breath and forced down the last of the cabbage roll, fearing it would be hours before her next meal.

Finished, she wrapped her arms around her knees, trying to make herself as small as possible. The man reached for the plate and lightly brushed her thigh. Reflexively, Elise shrank back, jerking away from his touch. A flicker of anger crossed his face.

To her immense relief he left, slamming the door behind him.

The key rattled in the lock and she began to breathe again.