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“You’re doing it again.”
“Am I? What am I doing exactly?”
Beth shrugged. It would sound stupid if she tried to articulate it.
“You’re uncomfortable because I look at you when I speak to you? Is that it? Where I’m from we call that manners.”
Beth shook her head. “Of course- I know that. It’s just-you look at me like you’re studying me.”
Torres was silent for a moment and then he surprised her by nodding. “Sorry. Maybe I am. It’s been a long time since I’ve been around a normal person. You’re the only nice person I’ve spoken to for the last two years. So yeah, I guess I want to hear what you have to say. I’m sorry if that creeps you out.”
Beth sighed. “That’s kind of sad. Now I feel bad for you. If your only normality is me, then you have bigger problems than my failed M&M therapy.”
“What’s wrong with you? As far as normal goes, you’re pretty good.”
“Nothing’s wrong with me except I have overshot normal and entered boring territory.”
Torres shook his head. “You’re not boring. You’re nice, you’re normal, if that’s boring sign me up. I could use some of that kind of boring in my life right about now.”
“Sounds like you could use an M&M right now. Shame I ate them all.”
“Do you always eat M&M’s when you’re upset?”
Beth nodded. This time she didn’t wait for the long silence that always followed her statements; she just carried on talking. She may as well not fight it; she was going to end up speaking to him anyway. “Sucking on them slowly calms me down. I usually feel better after four. Until today my high was ten.”
“I’ll have to try it.”
Judging by his pronounced lack of body fat, she doubted he indulged in chocolate very often, if ever. “What do you when you’re upset? If you don’t drink and haven’t had sex since you went undercover. What’s left? You’re woefully lacking in vices. That’s just not normal. Everyone needs something that they pretend to try to give up.”
Torres thought for a second. “I work out. Not much of a vice, but it works.”
Beth nodded. “You must be upset a lot.” She realised too late that she had said the words out loud. “I mean…you know…it is obvious you work out a lot…you know…you’re very muscular.” Beth’s cheeks burned hotter with each word, finally she decided to take a leaf out of Torres’ book and just stop talking.
Torres’ mouth curled into a lopsided smile. “Sounds like I wasn’t the only one staring.”
Beth cleared her throat. “I’m very observant,” she said in her defence, though someone would have to be legally blind not to notice how physically fit Torres was. His body was like an anatomy lesson, everything perfect and oversized. Each muscle was well defined and distinct from the others.
“Apparently you are.”
And apparently he had changed his tactics from silence and staring to flirting. Beth’s cheeks were burning now. She shifted from one foot to the other. This was probably a side effect of being undercover too long. He was flirting with her because there were no other women to flirt with. It was the equivalent of being the last woman on earth. Beth glanced down at her watch. She didn’t care what time it was, she just needed something to distract her. She could still feel his gaze on her, her flesh warming under the inspection.
“I should…probably get back to the diner… I want to leave Wanda a tip. She shouldn’t have to deal with jerks like Flores.”
Torres nodded. “I already did. I left her $100 of the ill-begotten money you don’t want me to talk about. And for the record no one should have to deal with Flores, but that’s why we get the big bucks.”
There was a hint of sadness, or maybe regret in his voice. “OK. Well then I guess I just need to get home.” Beth paused to think. They were done, maybe forever. Once she told him she had identified Archila’s killer, she would have no reason to see him again.
Should she tell him?
She knew who Archila’s killer was. That was why she had tried to meet him last night, to tell him, but even now something stopped her. Last night she didn’t tell Torres because she needed his help, but now there was no excuse. Her head pounded as her conscience deliberated the consequences of telling him. She couldn’t be certain what Torres would do with the information, but in her heart, she knew. Telling Torres would be giving him tacit consent. But withholding the information would be a betrayal; he had only joined the DEA to find Archila’s murderer.
Beth took a deep breath. “Um…before you leave. I have some information on Archila’s killer.” She spoke quickly so she wouldn’t be tempted to change her mind. He deserved to know, he had held up his end of the bargain. What he did with the information was on him now. Whatever he did, she would ignore, it would become one of the many details she pretended didn’t exist.
Torres’ jaw tightened.
“His name is Javier Martinez. Does the name mean anything to you? We got his name from an informant but it checks out. He is known to the DEA. My partner picked him up a few years ago on meth charges. He is small time. He won’t get us any closer to El Escorpion.”
For the first time, he did not look at her. His eyes were glazed over, his thoughts somewhere else. He looked different again, like he had in the elevator. The switch had been tripped, all the warmth gone. In an instant he went from teasing to terrifying.
Beth’s skin went cold. Immediately she regretted telling him. She wasn’t sure why, it wasn’t like the world would mourn the loss of Javier Martinez. But this didn’t feel right. If Torres was looking for closure, he wasn’t going to find it by killing Martinez. “We can speak to the office in Mexico City. I’m sure they can bring him in by the end of the week. He would face trial in Texas—”
“No,” Torres cut her off.
“You don’t need to—”
He cut her off again with a raised hand. “I‘ll take you home now.” He wasn’t listening to her. She doubted if he could even see her through his rage. He was consumed by it. Every action now would be guided by his vendetta.
Beth followed him back to his car. Letting Torres take her home wasn’t appropriate, but nothing about her relationship with Torres was appropriate. That ship had sailed when she recruited him. She gave him her address and settled into her seat. She racked her brain for things to say to dissuade him from going after Martinez, but her mind was blank. She had no argument to offer that he would listen to, so instead of speaking she stared out the window at the fields of blue bonnets. Usually she missed California, but when the blue bonnets were in bloom, there was nowhere she would rather be. All of Texas was covered in the bright wildflowers. Even the side of the freeway was softened by the delicate flowers. They made Texas seem smaller, softer, more like home, less like the consolation prize it was.
Torres pulled up in front Beth’s house. He had not spoken for the entire drive and neither had she. This time the silence was not an invitation to speak, it was a carefully constructed wall designed to keep her out. “I should’ve known you’d have a picket fence. Very American dream.” he commented quietly.
Beth nodded, looking past him to her small bungalow. It was modest, but it was her small slice of the American dream. As a kid growing up in a one-bedroom apartment that overlooked the freeway, her dream was to have her own house with a yard. And now she did. It wasn’t much but it was all hers, or it would be after twenty more years of monthly payments.
Beth cleared her throat. She knew this was the last time she was going to see Torres and she had just started to get to know him. Maybe it was the finality of it, or the situation with her mom, but she wasn’t ready to say goodbye yet. Torres looked like a monster but he wasn’t. He was different to Flores. There was something else to him, not just an unbridled passion for violence. “Do you want to come in and have a cup of coffee? Shouldn’t brag, but I make some of the best instant in Texas.”
“No, I better go.”
Beth nodded. There was more she wanted to say but she wasn’t sure what. She hesitated before she said, “If Martinez was brought back to Texas, he would get the death penalty. He killed two border agents. He won’t be getting a slap on the wrist. The Mexico City office is on his tail.”
Torres nodded but did not say anything. They both knew what she was saying. Torres did not need to go after Martinez. But they both knew he would. He was too far in now to go back. If there was any question about that before, it immediately vanished when she saw the tattoo of Santa Muerte on his chest.
Beth stepped out of the car and took a deep breath. This was it. “Take care, Torres.”
“You too, Gatita,” he said before he pulled away.
Chapter Three
Torres stared down at the worn map. His finger circled the red dot, over and over, along the border of Sonora and Sinaloa, the last known address of Javier Martinez. He wouldn’t let himself believe it was almost over. He had spent so much time, given up so much to get to this point. He couldn’t yet imagine what it would feel like to live without the manacles shackling him to his disastrous past. He wouldn’t let himself be fooled into believing the guilt would go. He would live with that forever. But he would be done.
Done.
What did that look like? Shit if he knew, but he couldn’t wait to find out. First thing he would do, he would go and see his mom, explain things to her, make things right. She would understand, maybe even be proud. She would know he hadn’t become a drug lord. Her last surviving child was not running drugs for Los Zetas. It would take time for her to understand. And it would take time for Torres to forget the look of pain and disgust that had contorted his mother’s face that last time he had seen her. He still saw it when he thought of her; two years later and that was still the image he saw.
The doorbell rang.
Torres’ head shot up. He glanced at the clock. It was too late in the day for a delivery, and he wasn’t expecting anything. On reflex, his hand went to his back, touching the cold metal of the gun that was permanently fixed to his body. He slid the weapon out of its holder and clicked the safety off.
“Who’s there?” Torres demanded.
“Its Sal.”
Flores.
The short hairs on Torres’ arms stood taut. He rubbed his thumb over the barrel of the gun. Flores should not be here. He never came to Torres’ home. Ever. They met at Flores’ house or at a truck stop on I35. Torres wasn’t even sure how he knew where he lived. In the nearly two years he had been renting the one-bedroom apartment, he had had two visitors, and both of them had been delivering Chinese food.
Slowly Torres slid his gun into the waist of his jeans, in front where he could reach it.
“Que pasa?” Torres asked as he opened the door.
Flores did not say anything, rather he shook his head and handed Torres a large manila envelope.
“What’s this?”
“Your woman. What’s her name?”
A cold sweat broke out along Torres’ brow. His hand moved lower to the gun at his waist. “Why?”
“Look at it. They found her. This was slid under my door. I tried calling you.”
Torres glanced over at his phone sitting on the coffee table. He’d turned off his phone eight hours ago so he could concentrate.
Torres slid a glossy photo free from the envelope. It was a picture of him sitting beside Beth on the curb outside the gas station. Torres ground his teeth together as he studied the picture. Across Beth’s face, someone had drawn a scorpion, the mark of Los Treintas. They had ordered a hit on her.
Torres ran a hand along his jaw. “When did you get this?” Once a hit was ordered, it was carried out within hours. Torres was being taunted, that was what Los Treintas did, it added another layer of terror. They always sent the photo to the family.
“About an hour ago. I tried calling.”
Torres pinched his nose between his thumb and his forefinger. “Shit,” he said to no one in particular. He sat down on the couch and laid the photo on the coffee table beside his phone, scrutinising every detail.
“I’m sorry.”
Torres could hear Flores speaking but he didn’t know what he was saying. He needed to think. And he could not do that with Flores breathing down his neck.
Torres stood up suddenly. “Thanks for telling me.” He put a hand on Flores’ shoulder and guided him to the door. The look on the man’s face indicated he was confused by Torres’ sudden change in demeanour. “I need to think,” Torres said by way of explanation, which was the truth.
Flores nodded.
Torres shut the door behind him and locked it. He turned and slid down to the floor, his back hard against the door. “Shit,” he said again.
What was he going to do? Christ, she could already be dead by now. He shook his head when he realised that that would actually be the easiest solution. It was self-preservation, better her than him. He couldn’t die yet, not with Martinez still breathing. For whatever reason El Escorpion had ordered a hit on Beth but not on Torres. He was sending a message to him. Apparently he thought Beth was the way to hurt him.
Torres almost laughed at the thought. He barely knew her. He had no loyalties to her. He had seen hundreds of people die, in Iraq, and just as many die since he got home. Her death would not even register to him. And that fact made him cold. At what point did he become the dragon instead of the slayer?
He shook his head again. All these thoughts were too deep for him; he didn’t have the luxury of giving a shit any more. He didn’t owe her anything. His only loyalty was to Moses Archila. He would find the man who killed him. Nothing else mattered. Yes there would be casualities, but there always were. He could not mourn for every soldier lost along the way…or every agent.
If he warned Beth, she would be taken into protective custody, as would he, for his own sake. And then Javier Martinez would get away.
There was really only one choice so he would not let himself overthink it or second-guess himself. He would do what needed to be done. He always did.
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