Turned (2 page)

“I’ve
been
ready,” he pointed out, his gaze automatically drifting to the open files scattered around the room. He didn’t need to see her picture to visualize his mark’s face.

Eliana Garcia, aka Ana Martin.

Former Primos Sangre gang member. Sister to Gloria.

A female with long glossy dark hair and large dark eyes, her beauty straddling the line between ingenue and seductress, tempting a man to alternately protect and challenge her even as the ugly scar on her face warned him not to try.

The woman who just might be able to get them where they needed to go.

Soon he’d have more than her photographs to look at. He’d meet her. Talk with her.

He’d do whatever it took to bring her in.

He’d do his job.

It was all he had left thanks to the vampires who had captured and tortured him.

It was all he had left now that he was no longer human himself.

After a few more perfunctory instructions from Carly, Ty ended the call. Then he couldn’t help it. He’d memorized Ana’s face but …

He found his favorite photograph of her, the one in which she was
almost
smiling. The promise of that smile was as intoxicating as it was frustrating. Next to seeing her smile outright, there were only two things he wanted more.

To fuck her. Hard.

And to drink her blood while he was doing it.

He slapped the photograph facedown on the table. He was shaking.
Shaking
with need for a woman he’d never even met. A woman whose past should have repelled him. Instead, he’d been inexplicably drawn to her since the moment he’d first seen her photograph, and now that he’d gotten the green light to go to her, the dark images from his nightmare had been replaced with unshakeable fantasies of taking her and sucking her blood.

It wasn’t going to happen. He couldn’t feed from her. Couldn’t fuck her.

No, it was more than that—he
wouldn’t
.

Six months ago, he’d been turned into a vampire. Afterward he’d been tortured. First by the vampires who seemed determined to test his immortality and his tolerance to pain. Second by his own body. Anytime his captors left him alone, he’d craved blood and sex. Lusting after them to the point where it was all he could think of. All he was interested in. Eventually, his overwhelming hunger had waned. Now he had a strict abstinence policy. No human blood. No sex other than with his own fist. It was the only way to be sure he wouldn’t sink to the depths he had before.

If only he knew more about being a vampire. How to
be
a vampire. How to
stop
being one. All he knew was what the FBI had told him.

Vampires were born. They breathed and they had heartbeats. They very much
lived
, but they lived in secret, interacting with most humans without giving away what they really were. When they’d been discovered years before, vampire leaders had assured the FBI they were no threat. While they drank human blood, they only drank from a small group of humans who knew what they were and whose ancestors had volunteered for the job for centuries. Moreover, turning humans into vampires, while technically possible, was forbidden as a matter of vampire law and morality. In the end, the FBI had decided it was in everyone’s best interests to keep the existence of vampires a secret.

The FBI, however, was also keeping its own secrets from vampire leaders, the major one being that it had disregarded vampire law by employing several vampires—now labeled “Rogues”—to turn human recruits.

Well, surprise, surprise. Even as the Rogues had been turning human recruits in exchange for FBI favors, they’d been running their own operations behind the scenes. Maybe the FBI had suspected as much. Maybe they’d been willing to turn a blind eye to minor infractions. But after Ty, Peter, and Ben had been captured and turned, the FBI had gone into damage-control mode. No more human recruits would be turned—not until the Rogues were contained. Failing to do so would not only put the whole operation at risk, but might alert the general human population about vampires before the U.S. government was ready for that to happen.

That’s where Ty came in.

He was still a special agent with the FBI. Granted, he was being hidden away like a dirty secret, but he was an undeniable asset. Like the born vampires, Ty could move as fast as a cheetah. And like the born vampires,
he was unable to tell a lie. But the animal blood that weakened born vampires was more than enough to sustain Ty, and he could survive brief contact with the sun while born vampires burned instantly upon direct contact. On the flip side, he could only occasionally read minds, while born vampires could easily and consistently do so.

Now he had one immediate task—recruit Ana Martin for Belladonna, an off-the-books agency formed by Assistant FBI Director Rick Hallifax.
So
off the books that the only people who knew it existed were Hallifax, his right-hand man, Special Agent Kyle Mahone, Peter, and Carly, Ty’s boss.

If things worked out the way they wanted, soon she’d be Ana’s boss, too.

CHAPTER
ONE

Seattle, Washington

A few weeks later …

Back in the Bronx, Eliana Maria Garcia’s weapons of choice
had been a smart mouth, the occasional threat of a knife, and her fists. Now, standing with her back pressed against the brick wall behind Monk’s Café, Ana Martin had something even better—a gun. One she was hoping she wouldn’t have to use.

Confronting the man who’d been following her, however, was unavoidable. She’d noticed him at the bank yesterday, then the market. But last night she’d seen him outside her house. And moments before? Across the street.

That was one coincidence too many. She’d left Primos Sangre over seven years ago, but if there was one thing the gang had taught her, it was that survival meant confronting danger head-on rather than running from it. Since she didn’t trust the cops—didn’t trust anyone—her only choice was to handle this herself. Her way.

If only she wasn’t so scared. But she’d put her old life behind her, and even though she wasn’t happy—could never be happy without her sister—she was often content. Sometimes when she looked in the mirror she even managed to like the person she saw looking back at her. The thought of losing that scared her more than any
threat of physical harm ever could. And it scared her enough that she was willing to fight to make sure it didn’t happen.

The sun had set long ago. Now and then a stab of light from a passing car pierced the shadows of the alley where Ana was hiding, forcing her to dodge back. Invisible, shrouded in darkness, she waited. When she heard footsteps, she knew it was him.

Forcing her near-numb fingers to tighten their grip on the gun, she watched as he walked past her, then made her move, coming at him from behind, pressing the barrel of her gun against the back of his head.

He didn’t even jerk.

From the back, he looked big. Broad. Muscles rippling. Dangerous.

But from the front? Even from a distance, he’d looked more than dangerous. He’d looked deadly. Beyond handsome. Midnight hair and eyes just as dark. Savage and sophisticated at the same time. She’d never seen his equal. Certainly never met anyone that came close.

Part of her knew she’d gotten the drop on him a bit too easily. That perhaps she was doing exactly what he’d been expecting. Hoping.

But it was too late to go back now.

“Hands where I can see them,” she managed to get out.

Slowly, he raised his hands in surrender. Only she still wasn’t buying it. Her nerves screamed at her to run, but logic kept her feet planted firmly on the ground. Somehow, she knew if she ran, he’d only come after her.

“Why are you following me?”

No answer. No surprise.

With her free hand, she patted him down, the way she’d learned to do in the gang. By the time she’d frisked him from the back, she was the one who was sweating. And not from exertion.

Nothing about him was small. He was tall and buff, more than big enough to overpower her slight frame. Sangre-style paranoia set in, and it occurred to her that this guy might be undercover. She instantly recalled the run-ins she’d had with cops as a teenager. The way they’d often pulled her long dark ponytail, hard enough to make her back arch and breasts lift. The way they’d sometimes copped a feel or implied they’d leave her in peace if she made it worth their while. She’d never given them that satisfaction.

But no, she decided. This guy’s vibe was just too different. Not so much cop as outlaw.

His entire body was contoured with interesting ridges and bulges and planes. This close she could smell him, a subtle spicy scent that managed to convey unabashed maleness and warmth despite what seemed to be a rather low body temperature. The man held himself in control. Unlike her. Gritting her teeth, she ignored the rush of heat to her cheeks and moved faster to disguise the telltale trembling of her hands.

“Turn around,” she commanded.

Slowly, he did.

Despite the heat in his gaze, his mouth was tipped into a mocking smile, as if he knew how affected she was by touching him. What he didn’t know—
couldn’t
know—was how confused she was by her reaction. He made her feel … restless. Edgy. Vulnerable.

She hated it.

As such, she hated
him
.

Methodically, she frisked him from the front, delving between his denim-clad legs to make sure he wasn’t packing more than nature had provided.

He grunted slightly and said, “Keep that up and you might find more than you want, princess.”

His accent was clipped and tidy—upper-crust British. Despite herself, her gaze shot to his.

“Don’t call me that,” she said automatically, just before she found the gun tucked into a sleek holster concealed inside his waistband.

She pulled it out, and the sight of the Luger didn’t surprise her. The well-made weapon suited him. Swiftly, she slipped it out of his holster and into the front of her own waistband.

The only other time she’d seen a Luger was when she’d delivered a package to Pablo, the leader of Devil’s Crew, another street gang, and he’d insisted on inspecting the contents before he paid. He’d told her the guns had been stolen from some Richie Rich who liked fancy cars as well as fancy guns. When he’d asked her what kind of car she drove, she’d told him the truth. None. She’d only been fourteen at the time.

Even so, her youth hadn’t stopped her from fighting the gang leader when he’d decided to inspect more than the package she’d delivered. All she’d gotten for her trouble was a beating and the ugly scar on her face.

To her, big and male was synonymous with power and violence.

“I’m not going to hurt you,” the man in front of her said softly, as if he’d read her mind. “If you’ll listen to me, I can help you, Ana.”

The fact he knew her name shocked her … and scared her even more. “Fuck you,” she snapped without meaning to. Swearing was an old habit, one she’d fought hard to break, but sometimes it came out. When she was angry … when she felt threatened … the tough girl inside her lost control, cursing and spitting and speaking Spanish in an effort to protect herself despite the fact it merely revealed how vulnerable she really was.

How weak.

She bit her lip, furious that he’d sensed her fear. Furious that his offer of help made her easily long for things she couldn’t possibly have.

She’d gotten soft. Too soft. And once again she was paying the price. The only question was how high the price would be this time.

“Move.” She gestured with her gun. “Face the wall.” He had her so rattled she was second-guessing herself. She needed to frisk him again. Make sure she hadn’t missed anything the first time.

He merely stared silently at her, and she forced herself to snap, “Now.”

Unbelievably, he practically rolled his eyes just before he obeyed, cursing when she suddenly shoved him face-first against the brick; Eliana Garcia, gang member, was quickly chipping away at the civilized, respectable woman Ana had been trying to become.

But instead of retaliating, he waited while she frisked him yet again. When she was done, when he failed to make a move on her, she relaxed slightly. “Face me.”

As he did, she saw the slight trickle of blood now dripping from a cut on his forehead. She felt a momentary pang of guilt. Along with it came the strange temptation to wipe the blood away and kiss the wound better. To kiss
all
his hurt away. Hurt she somehow sensed was there.

Which was beyond ridiculous. Like one of those tear-jerker movies where the love of a good woman saved some useless son of a bitch.

He didn’t need her to wash his freakin’ pain away. He needed to know who was boss. Besides, she didn’t take care of anyone but herself anymore. It was better that way. Safer.

Instinctively, she gripped her gun tighter while he leaned back against the wall and crossed his arms over his chest, no longer smiling but watching her with an intensity that made her shiver.

“You’ve been trailing me since yesterday,” she said, “and not just because you like my coffee.
¿Porqué?
”