Beth is still reeling from the murder of her beautiful sister Paige – a hit ordered by ‘El Escorpion’, the notorious cartel leader she has relentlessly pursued for the last six years in her role as DEA agent.

Reunited with her lover and undercover agent Torres, who is now her husband, and raising their adopted daughter Alejandra, she should be happier. But her role in Paige’s death eats away at her, as does her final fling with her old partner Patterson, which she has hidden from Torres…

So when truths are exposed, Beth and Torres’ fierce passion turns into an embittered battle. Beth’s only desire now is to track down El Escorpion once and for all. But will her search for justice cost her everything?

Also by Kierney Scott

The Firing Line trilogy:

Blurring the Line

Holding the Line

Twice in a Lifetime

Dirty Little Secrets

Crossing the Line

Kierney Scott

Copyright

HQ

An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd.

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

First published in Great Britain by HQ in 2015

Copyright © Kierney Scott 2015

Kierney Scott asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

E-book Edition © June 2015 ISBN: 9781474035552

Version date: 2018-07-23

KIERNEY SCOTT is originally from California, but moved to Scotland to enrol in the PhD programme in Educational Research at the University of Edinburgh. Four days after she arrived, she met her husband, who persuaded her it would be more fun to get married than to write a thesis. After the birth of her daughter she decided it was time to go back to school, but soon she discovered all she wanted to write was romance novels. She admitted her literary proclivities to her husband, who promptly bought her a laptop and told her to start writing her book.

When she is not writing, you will probably find her at a spinning class or baking (read eating) cupcakes. Her butter-cream icing is legendary, if only in her mind. If you want her recipe, or you just want to chat, you can contact her at KierneyScott@gmail.com or follow her on Twitter at Kierney Scott @Kierney_S

For my sisters

Emily, every day I am amazed by your strength and resilience. I am so proud to be your sister.

Erin, my small but mighty baby sister, no one circles the wagons like you.

I love you both. Thank you for being mine.

Contents

Cover

Blurb

Book List

Title Page

Copyright

Author Bio

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Epilogue

Endpages

About the Publisher

Chapter One

The process was very civilized now. So streamlined, just a simple form filled in and emailed to the warden. No months of waiting for background checks and clearance any more.

Beth still remembered the day her mom’s clearance came in. Ruth Thomson’s eyes brimmed with tears, but she smiled wider than Beth had seen in months. The next Saturday, Ruth woke Paige and Beth up before dawn. The black sky was speckled with yellow stars and the red haze of Central Valley fog.

It was an adventure, Ruth told them. And it was. They walked ten blocks in the dark, to get the bus to Folsom, Ruth carrying Paige and Beth clutching her Cabbage Patch doll to her chest like the prize it was. She didn’t even mind that the doll’s previous owner had taken out the red string braids and colored its face with blue permanent marker. Beth had a real Cabbage Patch doll.

Beth shook off the memory. That was a long time ago, almost thirty years. So much had changed since then. She had been such an optimistic child; the world was a place of hope and adventure; that is what her mom had taught her. What would she say to that child now, her six-year-old self, clutching a raggedy cast-off doll? Would she warn her that life wasn’t going to turn out the way she hoped?

She glanced around at the families around her. There were families of every color, children of every age, waiting for visiting hours to begin. It wasn’t even 7 am and they had already been up for hours. The children should be in bed or watching cartoons and eating cereal. But at least they weren’t waiting outside in the rain.

They didn’t have a visitor’s center when she was little. Her family stood at the gates, in all weather, waiting eagerly for a guard to let them in and begin the process of clearing visitors. People lucky enough to have cars would come the night before to line up, starting before midnight. Entire families would drive up from as far as San Diego, sleeping in the car, pissing in bottles, just to see their beloved inmate.

So civilized now…with the toys and games for children and the comfortable seats, and the pamphlets for helping explain prison to children. Here was a novel thought: maybe dads shouldn’t commit crimes and then children would not have to sleep in the car and give up Saturdays to come visit them in prison.

Beth folded the pamphlet and stuck it in her pocket. She tapped her fingers against the red vinyl upholstery of the chair. One thing hadn’t changed: the waiting. Half of a prison visit was always wasted on waiting and processing.

She could have come here officially, as a DEA agent. She visited prisons on a regular basis with her job and she never had to wait. She was straight in, day or night, only stopping for the cursory pat down and chat with guards. She was on a first name basis with guards in prisons throughout Texas and the South West. She even occasionally made it to California, here to Folsom Prison.

Folsom was one of the nicest prisons, at least from a visitor’s perspective. God only knew what it was like for inmates, probably forced sodomy and prison shanks, like everywhere else. But for visitors it was pretty. The prison was set in wooded grounds, acre after acre of rolling hills, with all sorts of wildlife: deer and wild turkeys and rabbits, even peacocks. As a kid she loved it. It was like visiting a farm. Back then her apartment overlooked I80 and the only wildlife she saw was of the road kill variety. Her weekend visits to Folsom Prison were a small slice of heaven.

And then there was the Great Wall of China. That is what she had thought it was, the massive yellow stone wall that surrounded the prison. Her six-year-old mind did not question why the Great Wall of China was in Northern California, at a State Prison, it just was, and she loved it. Other kids in her class would brag about their vacations to the beach or Monterey Bay Aquarium, but Beth didn’t care, because she had seen the Great Wall.

Silly kid…

She ran a hand over her hair, smoothing down her ponytail. She hoped no one recognized her today. She wasn’t here in a professional capacity.

There was a spot on the CDCR Form 106 to state the relationship to the inmate. She left it blank, but still she had been granted visitation. There was more than a small part of her that had hoped her request would be turned down. She could tell herself she had tried and then move on. She would shut the door on this chapter in her life and never look back.

“Numbers 1–20.”

Dozens of people hopped to their feet. It was time, at last. Beth smiled at the toddler next to her. She looked about three. Her tight black curls were styled into several small braids with pink and purple beads at the end. She had bright brown eyes. She reminded her of Alejandra. Beth’s smile widened as she thought of her own daughter.

The little girl dropped her pacifier. It landed in the trash on top of a soggy half-eaten sandwich. The little girl reached for it but Beth picked it up before she could put it back in her mouth. “Baby Girl, that’s dirty. You don’t want that in your mouth. It will make you sick.” She couldn’t tell which was dirtier, the pacifier or the heap of trash it had landed on. In seconds a bleached blonde woman crossed the room to them, her hand outstretched, her other hand on her hip, and a don’t-fuck-with-me-look on her face. Her hands and arms were covered in tattoos. Beth immediately recognized the tattoos, Beth recognized all gang tats; that was part of her job. She gave training seminars on it at the DEA. This woman was a Criplette, a female Crip. They were a particularly ruthless bunch; they had a fondness for beating their enemies to death with baseball bats. Beth sighed. Poor kid. She stared into the little girl’s eyes for a long moment. Make better choices. Silently she prayed the beautiful little girl in front of her would have a chance and not be another life lost to gang culture.

The woman was staring at Beth hard, trying to intimidate her. Why? It was just what they did, there was no switch to turn it off or dial it down. A gang member was a gang member 24/7.

Beth’s back straightened. No one intimidated her any more. This woman could posture and stare her down all she wanted.

“Bitch, give it.”

Beth turned around as if she was looking around. “Are you speaking to me?” Her voice was intentionally quiet so the woman would have to strain to hear her. “I know you can’t be speaking to me because people don’t speak to me like that. Your baby needs a new pacifier. This one is cracked and dirty.” Even if she washed it, it still would not be suitable. The cracks harboured bacteria. Beth rose to her feet to join the long line forming, waiting to be processed and allowed in. She held tight to the pacifier. Beth had no intention of letting the child put the filthy thing back in her mouth, it was covered in what Beth could only guess was a combination of dirt and mould. The concept of hygiene had been lost on this family. It was none of Beth’s business but she had a hard time minding her own business where children were involved. They couldn’t speak up for themselves. The little girl couldn’t say, “Don’t drag me prison to visit your baby daddy, and give me something clean to stick in my mouth.” But Beth could. And she would.

“Bitch, give that back,” the woman seethed.

Beth continued to stare straight ahead. She didn’t have time to deal with this woman. Beth had made her point. The woman would ignore her but saying something was just enough to salve Beth’s conscience; that was the best she could do today.

She felt a sharp tug on her ponytail. Her neck snapped back from the force. In an instant Beth spun around. Her eyes narrowed into tight slits. “You don’t want to pick a fight with me. You will lose.”

“Fuck you.”

Beth smiled. “Is that all you can say?” She shook her head; another failure of the United States educational system. “There are a million more interesting ways to say that, invest in a thesaurus, learn a few. And don’t touch me again. Ever,” Beth warned. Her smile never faltered but her tone had just enough edge to let the woman know she was serious.

“Watch your back, bitch.” The woman jumped forward, landing inches from Beth’s face. Her eyes were wide, her hands clenched in tight fists, ready to deliver a blow. “This isn’t over.”

Beth didn’t react. She was trying to intimidate her but it was a pretty pathetic show. Beth could have laughed if she wasn’t so annoyed. Beth stared down gang members for a living, she had been held at knife point by a member of Loz Zetas, the head of Los Treintas had hired a hit on her. This Central Valley wannabe was no more of a threat than the cockroach scurrying across the polished concrete floor.

Beth turned around. This woman didn’t deserve another second of her time. She just wanted to get this done and go home, back to Texas, back to her own little girl, and her own tattooed former gang member. The irony was not lost on her. Torres has done things that would have landed him here, or someplace worse, had he not been paid for his services by the Department of Justice. His crimes were OK, admirable even, because he was playing for the right team. That is what she told herself anyway.

Beth watched as one by one the visitors were ushered through the metal detectors, their bodies searched, their documents inspected. She could still leave. He didn’t know she was coming. She could go back to the airport and get an earlier flight.

But she wouldn’t because Beth Thomson had stopped running from her problems. Nothing could be as scary as seeing the scorpion spray-painted on her sister’s window. Nothing could be as painful as planning Paige’s funeral. Nothing could rip her heart out like hearing her daughter cry for her auntie. Nothing could be worse than what she had gone through already.

Beth put her driver’s license, keys and manila envelope in a tray ready to be x-rayed. She smiled at the guard, Jackson, according to his name badge. When he did not return her smile she remembered why, she wasn’t on his side today. He didn’t know they were playing for the same team. Today she was just a random woman visiting an inmate.

She sat down at the Formica table closest to the patio doors, where there was plenty of natural light to counteract the effects of the fluorescent lights. There was a large courtyard, complete with a play structure for children. That was new.

She hated doing interviews in windowless prison rooms. She always left with a headache. Usually she could hope to leave with a confession or at least a strong lead, so then it was worth it. Today there was not going to be a payoff, so she wasn’t going to endure a migraine.

The room filled up quickly, anxious families huddled around tables, waiting. Beth stared past them into the courtyard and into the rolling golden hills. Golden, is what she thought of them when she was younger, now they looked more scorched, like the sun had burned the life out of them, but they were still pretty all the same.

She stood when the guard ushered him in. There was a look of confusion painted on his worn features, followed by recognition, and then finally a smile. “Beth.” Her name sounded like a question. He looked different, of course he did, over a quarter of a century had passed since she had seen him, but it was more than that. He seemed smaller now, his shoulders narrower; his frame slighter.

Beth could not bring herself to return his smile. What should she call him? Joe? Mr. Cummings? The dickhead who broke my mom’s heart? Dad?

“Hi,” was all she could say.

He moved towards her as if he were going to hug her. She held out her arm instead, offering him a hand to shake. It had been a long time, the best part of thirty years. She had stopped making the weekly treks to visit when she was nine. One Saturday morning, she refused and she never looked back. Her mom and sister continued but once she made her decision, her dad was dead to her, cut out like a cancer. Her family knew better than to discuss her dad with her. When they visited, they kept it quiet. The Thomson family had a strict don’t ask don’t tell policy in place when it came to dear old dad.

His smile widened. “You look so much like your mom.”

Beth shook her head. She didn’t. She looked like him. There was no denying that now. His hair was lighter, bleached from the sun and the passage of time. His skin was a soft golden hue of a well-worn baseball mitt. Between his grey-blue eyes, the exact shade of hers, were deep ridges. Mindlessly she rubbed the furrow between her own brows.

“How’s your mom?” he asked. He took the chair across from her.

“She’s fine,” Beth said but then she shook her head. “No she’s not. She’s not fine. She has Alzheimer’s, she’s not ever going to be fine again.” Beth fought the overwhelming feeling that nothing was going to be fine again. Maybe things had never been fine in her life, but once upon a time she was better at pretending. “I don’t know how much Paige told you.”

Beth turned and looked out the window: a little boy was being pushed on a swing by his dad. She wanted to get home. Maybe she should not have come. She wasn’t sure why she had come. She told herself it was for Paige, because her sister had not let go of their dad. She didn’t even know until her sister was murdered, that she had been traveling to California every two months to visit their father in prison. It wasn’t until Beth had gone through her sister’s things that she discovered the truth, in the form of letters, several years’ worth, neatly filed. Everything about Paige was neat and orderly. Even in death. Everything was laid out, filed, and organized.

When Beth died, some poor soul was going to have to sort through a cluster fuck of paperwork. Her system made sense to her, but no normal person would understand.

Beth suddenly remembered why she was here. She thumbed the glossy cover of Paige’s funeral program. She stopped herself before handing it to her dad. She couldn’t just hand it to him and say, “Your kid, the one who actually liked you, is dead and it is my fault.” That would be cruel. She had no loyalty to this man, this stranger in front of her, but he was a person. She folded the paper and returned it to her lap.

She would tell him about her mom first. Give him the bad news before she gave him the horrible news. “Mom doesn’t have long now. She can’t speak any more. She can’t feed herself. She’s not mom any more really.” Beth shrugged her shoulders. That was the long and short of it. The woman in the nursing home in Texas wasn’t really her mom. Ruth Thomson was loving and vibrant and smart, so smart. The person they were talking about was a shell that bore a passing resemblance to her mom.

“I’m sorry.” Her father reached across the table to take her hand. It was then that Beth saw it, the shamrock tattoo, with a 6 in every leaf and the letters A and B below.

Aryan Brotherhood.

Her father was a member of a white supremacist group. She shouldn’t be surprised. People needed affiliations to survive in prison. He was white after all, so it wasn’t likely that he join the Mexican Mafia or the 415s, so the Aryan Brotherhood was a logical choice. But still it disappointed her. Her husband and daughter were Mexican after all, but he didn’t know that. She was a stranger to him as much as he was to her.

Beth cleared her throat. She looked down into her lap at the pile of photos she had brought. She handed him one of her mom that she had taken at the River Walk in San Antonio before her mom had gotten too sick to live at home. Beth had tried to take care of her as long as she could. But in the end it wasn’t safe and the decision to put her mom in a home was made by social services. Beth could keep Alejandra or her mom…and she chose Alejandra.

She smiled down at the picture. She was so pretty. And that wasn’t her bias talking; Ruth Thomson was as beautiful inside and out. Beth handed her dad the photo. When he took it, his fingers brushed hers.

She didn’t hate him.

The realization hit her with the force of a ball bearing being shot into a concrete wall. She expected to hate him. He was a criminal and a pathetic one at that, just a shitty bank robber. And he couldn’t even get that right. An undercover police officer was shot in the process, so her dad had a felony murder assault added to the charge. It didn’t matter that Joe Cummings had no intention of hurting anyone that morning. Someone died and he had to pay.

He had torn their family apart, broken every promise he had ever made, ruined her mom’s life, but she didn’t hate him. She felt nothing…except a shadow of sadness. He had ruined his own life too, not just her mom’s.

“Can I keep this?” he asked.

Beth nodded. “I brought it for you. I have a few others. I don’t know how much Paige told you about things.” A quarter of a century was a lot of ground to cover. She wasn’t sure where to start.

“Paige told me just about everything. Both in Texas now. My daughters, the vet and the big shot special agent.”

There was no mistaking the pride in his voice. He didn’t deserve to be proud of them. He hadn’t contributed to their success in any way; it all came down to their hard work and sacrifices, but Beth wasn’t going to take it away from him. Everything else had been taken away; he had nothing, so she would allow him his misplaced pride.

“How is your daughter?”

Beth’s gaze shot up. “She told you about Alejandra?”

“Yeah. You’re a mom. I’m a grandpa.”

Beth shifted in her seat. Technically he was, but not really, not in any meaningful way. She glanced again at his tattoos. “She is Mexican, my daughter. So is my husband.” She was giving him the opportunity to say something racist, anything that would give her an excuse to leave.

His eyes widened. “You’re married?”

A lump formed in Beth’s throat. He didn’t know she was married. He couldn’t because Paige didn’t know. She had been murdered before… Her gaze lowered to the table. “Yes I’m married. His name is Torres, Armando Torres. We worked together. He is first generation Mexican American.” This time she pointed to his tattoos. “I know what they mean.”

Joe rubbed at the faded ink. “I’ve made mistakes, Beth.”

She stared at him for a long time. Was that his way of apologizing…or explaining…or rationalizing? “Me too,” she said eventually. Shit, she had made mistakes. They had that in common.

He gave a faint smile. “It is good to see you, Beth.”

She bit into her lip. She could just leave now and not tell him. Now that she had seen him, she didn’t want to tell him.

But who would? There was no one left.

“I have some bad news. It’s Paige.” Beth stopped. This was the last moment he would have a family. The magnitude of it, hit her. There would be no one in his corner. She wished she could go back in time to the moment her life was still whole and push pause, really take in all she had. But she couldn’t and now she was about to take away all her father had left. Maybe if she were a better person, she would step in and offer to be the loving daughter. But she wasn’t that person…it just wasn’t her…she couldn’t. There was no pushing pause in life; it was what it was. “Paige died. Last month. She was murdered by the gang I am investigating. She’s gone. That is why she hasn’t come to see you.”

At first she thought he did not hear her. There was no reaction, nothing. He stared at her, scrutinizing her. But then his shoulders drooped and his head fell to his hands. His body shook as silent sobs tore threw him.

A coldness settled in her core. She should feel something. Her arms should want to encircle him. His body was representing every emotion Beth had felt in the last thirty days, shock and anguish…despair. But she felt nothing now, except maybe jealousy that he still had tears left in him.

Beth had not cried in over a week. They were gone, her tears all used up. Maybe people were given a finite amount and she had gone through her ration. Or maybe her pain had hardened her. That is what she wanted to think. That her grief had fortified her, given her strength she never knew.

But what it was, what she feared, was that the bitterness had consumed her compassion. It was gone, her empathy, her compassion, maybe even her morality. It was gone now, burned away like flesh scorched by acid.

She watched as his body shook. She counted the seconds between sobs and noted how his skin went from ruddy to near purple and he struggled to get enough air into his body.

And the whole time she felt nothing.

Minutes past. She had nothing left to say. She stood up. “I’m sorry. I didn’t want you to hear from a guard.” She handed him the funeral program she had brought. On the cover was Paige smiling, holding Alejandra on a trip to the beach. It was her favorite picture of her sister. She had tried to find one of Paige on her own, but none of them captured Paige, her goofy smile and her carefree spirit. This was Paige, the Paige she remembered.

Beth pointed to the photo. “That is my daughter. Paige was helping me raise her. She was a good mom. She was the fun one who gave Ally sugar like she was trying to put her into a diabetic coma and I was the one who worried and nagged. We were a good team.” And now it was just Beth.

Beth handed her dad the rest of the photos. Prison policy meant that she could only bring in ten so she had had to be merciless in her cull, picking only the ten that most perfectly captured her sister. She shuffled through until she found the one of Paige at her graduation. “She was top of her class at UC Davis.” Her sister would not have mentioned it. It was Beth’s turn to be proud. She had paid for Paige to go to vet school, made it possible for her to live her dream. And she had…for a while… “And here is Paige with Morningside Mac. He is a Grand Champion. He had paralysis of the larynx or something. Paige could have explained it better. But basically she saved his life. He would have had to be put down. That operation paid her mortgage.” Beth smiled again as she remembered her sister. Every night, without fail, she waited for Paige to come in, say something outrageous and then plop herself in front of Beth’s television to watch mind-numbing reality TV. But she never came, and every night Beth went to bed with a boulder in her stomach that wouldn’t shift. She would give anything to speak to her again, to hug her and hear her laugh.

Beth pulled out another picture. “Here is one of us at Disney World. That was a fun trip. I like Florida. Shame it doesn’t have a border with Mexico or I could have been transferred there.” Her job with the task force meant she needed to be in Texas.

She handed the rest of the photos to her dad and watched silently as he made his way through them. He smiled a few times and then cried again. This time Beth placed her hand on his arm. She felt nothing but it seemed the humane thing to do.

“Do you have a picture of your husband?” he asked.

Beth’s eyes widened. “Torres?” she asked as if there was another husband her father could be asking about. She patted her pockets. She had left her phone in the rental car. “Umm…Torres is…I told you he is Mexican. And we worked together. Not a lot else to say.”

“Is he a good man?”

The question took her aback. Was Torres a good man? Depends on who you were asking and if your definition of good precluded murder. “Umm…yeah…he is a good man. He has always had my back.” That much was true. With Torres she always had someone on her side. That is why she married him. She probably shouldn’t have, he had only asked her out of a misplaced sense of loyalty. It wasn’t particularly fair to him, to saddle him with her and her daughter. If she was a better person, she would have said no, for his sake, but she wasn’t, and she wasn’t proud. She would take whatever he offered because he was all she had left, the only person on her side.

And he would take care of Alejandra. Beth wouldn’t let her be orphaned again. When things went downhill with Torres, when he finally realized who she was, he would still be there for Alejandra, and that was all that really mattered. She might be a shitty person but she was a devoted mom.

Her dad nodded. “You said he worked with you. What does he do now?”

Beth sighed. The truth was too complicated to contemplate retelling. “He is a carpenter.” Again that much wasn’t a lie. He was also a soldier and a special agent and a drug runner and the head of a hit man squad, but she left those details out.

“Does he earn a good living?”

Joe Cummings was acting the part of a father, making sure his daughter was well looked after.

Surreal: this attempt at family normality. He didn’t have the right to know about her life. Why would he even care? He hadn’t even seen her in over twenty-five years. They were strangers. “We do OK.” The truth was they were more than comfortable now. The Department of Justice had offered Torres a settlement. They were more than happy to throw money at him in return for him keeping his mouth shut about Patterson setting him up. He would never need to work again if he didn’t want to. Torres couldn’t not work; it went against everything he was. He had returned to carpentry, starting with a playhouse for Alejandra that was about the size of the apartment Beth had grown up in. The playhouse had polished wooden floors and granite worktops. News of the tiny garden mansion spread through the neighbourhood and in a week, Torres had orders for three more. One person even requested a house with running water. As Paige always said, “Thank God for people with more money than sense.”

He wiped at his face. “Thank you for coming, Beth, for telling me in person. I can’t believe she’s gone.” He squeezed his eyes together.

“I know. I pick up the phone to call her at least once a day. Every time I hear something funny I want to call her and tell her. She liked to laugh.” It was a stupid thing to say. Who didn’t like to laugh? Paige laughed a lot, that is what she meant. She laughed at everything. She could make a joke out of anything. Even when Torres was gone and their mom’s disease was getting worse, Paige found things to laugh about. She missed that, the levity that Paige brought to her life. Would she laugh again the way she did with Paige? She hoped she could, for Alejandra.

Beth sat down again. She could spare a few more minutes with him, it was after all the last time he would spend with his only family. That is what she was; begrudgingly she admitted it to herself, she was his family. For this one moment she would be that for him.

She spent another hour talking with her father, answering questions and talking about her mom and sister. They both knew this would be the last time Beth came to see him. She didn’t say it, but they both knew. They would go back to being strangers again. Eventually he would die and Beth would think about him for a few minutes or a few days and then he would be gone again like he never existed. She should be sad about that, but it would be like missing something she never had.

Eventually she stood up. “Take care…Dad.” She reached out and embraced him. It wasn’t for her, or even for him, it was for Paige and her mom. They loved him, and Beth loved them.

Her dad began to cry again. His arms tightened around her. He didn’t want to let her go. She understood that feeling better than most. This was the moment, the one before he lost everything in his life. She closed her eyes and willed it to last a little longer because she knew the sting that would follow…and the darkness. God she wished she could go back to the moments before she lost Paige.

“I’m sorry,” he managed to say between sobs.

Beth’s legs went slack; muscles that she didn’t know were tight, loosened. They were words she didn’t know she needed to hear. “Thank you.”

With those two words, the pain and bitterness she had carried for thirty years, washed away.

Chapter Two

Beth couldn’t remember where she had parked but then she realized she was looking for her SUV not the small red Prius she had rented at the airport. She took a deep breath and looked around at the bare trees. The leaves had already turned and most had fallen. This was California, her home; the place she had worked so hard to come back to. But it didn’t feel right. It wasn’t the same. This wasn’t her home. For over a decade every decision she made was about getting back here. But now all she wanted to do was get back to Texas to her sassy five-year-old and her scary-looking tattooed husband. They were her home now, for as long as Torres chose to be there, he would be her safe place.

As she slid the key into the lock, there was a sharp tug on her ponytail. Her head snapped back.

In an instant Beth spun around, just in time to see the peroxide blonde from inside swing at her.

Without having to think, Beth stepped to the side, preventing the punch from landing on her face. She used the momentum of the swing to spin the woman around. Beth slammed her hard against the side of the car. She still had a hold of her arm; that alone was enough leverage to keep the woman in place. Suddenly she saw the little girl staring up at her.

Beth shook her head. “Seriously? You attack me in front of your kid? Some people really should not be parents. I told you not to mess with me. You really should have listened.”

“Fuck you, bitch.”

Beth pulled up on her arm. It was a small movement designed to inflict maximum pain.

“Ouch, you mother fucker,” the woman howled.

“Please stop swearing in front of your child.” Beth turned and smiled down at the little girl. She reminded her so much of her own daughter. “Mommy is having a hard time remembering her manners. But I’m helping her remember. That is nice of me, isn’t it? Good manners are very important.”

The little girl’s dark brows knit together, not sure what to make of Beth.

Beth lowered her voice to a whisper so the little girl could not hear her. “You’re not very tough now without your gang. Bet you wish you had a gun right now or a baseball bat.” Beth gave her arm another small pull upward. “Did I forget to tell you I have a black belt in karate? Yep I did. Must have slipped my mind. Also forgot to mention I am a special agent with the DEA. So you just assaulted an officer of the law. Never a good idea. The court frowns on that. Do you have anything sharp in your pocket I could cut myself on?”

The woman didn’t answer.

“You really need to learn to play nice.” Beth pulled up on her arm again, not stopping until the woman bellowed. She hated that she had to do this in front of the little girl. Life would be so much easier if parents put their children before their need to be assholes.

“No, no I don’t have anything.”

Beth loosened the pressure on her arm. “Good. See how much easier things are when you play nice. It’s all about human decency.” Beth reached into the woman’s pocket, finding a California State driver’s license. “Pleasure to meet you, Tasha Baker. I will be sure to tell your parole agent how we became acquainted.”

“Bitch, I don’t got no parole officer.”

“Really? Because that ugly tattoo on your neck tells me you’re with the Crips. And the one on your wrist told me you served time. So don’t lie to me. You have a parole officer. Chances are you just got your kid back. So right after I speak to your parole officer I’m going to speak to your kid’s social worker. All this because you couldn’t listen. Next time when someone says don’t mess with them, don’t mess with them. Or better yet just don’t mess with people. It’s all about human decency. Get some, Tasha.”

Beth turned to the little girl. “Baby Girl, listen to me. Make better choices. Your mama has a hard time. She will probably let you down a lot along the way. Be strong and make better choices.” Beth could only sigh. The cards were stacked high against this poor kid. But she could still make it. She had to tell herself that.

Beth returned her stare to Tasha. “I am going to let you go now. You are going to take your child and walk back to your car. If you try anything stupid, like say trying to hit me again, I will hit you back. Hard. And that would be embarrassing. In front of your kid and all. And then I will take you to the ground and I will sit with my knee in your spine until the police send someone to arrest you. All very embarrassing for you, Tash. Can I call you Tash? I feel like we are at that level now. Since you’ve pulled my hair and I’ve made you scream. So Tash, walk away and don’t look back. And buy your kid a clean pacifier. I personally think she is old enough to do without but you’re her mama, so I’m going to cut her some slack.”

Beth sighed as she settled into the driver’s seat. She sat and just stared out at the bare trees. God this had been a shit day. But still nothing, she felt nothing. No that was a lie, she felt like the trees, bare, stripped down to the point where life was merely nominal. But the leaves would be back. There would be a spring and the flowers would bloom.

She would too. She had to believe that, the same way she believed the little girl had a chance.

She shook her head. Once upon a time she had been better at lying to herself. Maybe it was this place; it was hard to believe in a happy ever after when you were sitting in a prison parking lot.

She really wasn’t going to miss California any more.

Beth reached into the glove compartment and pulled out a bag of M&Ms. This day called from M&M therapy. She knew it would and had planned ahead and bought a family size bag. There was no way four ounces was going to cover it this time. She remembered there being a time when half a dozen pieces would do the trick. She sucked on them one at a time, never biting into them, letting them dissolve on her tongue. The combination of slow breathing and the spike in her blood sugar always lifted her mood, at least temporarily. Like any drug, the effects were short-lived and she needed more and more to get her fix…but they would do until she could get home and see Torres. He was a far more powerful opiate. The withdrawal from him would be a bitch…

It was just after 9pm when Beth arrived home. She was still having a hard time adjusting to calling her new house home. She knew it would take a while before she stopped thinking of her small bungalow as home. They had moved to a nicer house, a bigger house in a gated community. The move made sense, Torres barely fit in her bungalow and the new house had the security they needed. There was a protective detail assigned to Alejandra around the clock. After what happened to Paige, she was taking no chances. Alejandra would grow up shadowed by a bodyguard until Beth brought down El Escorpion.

Beth tiptoed up the stairs to Alejandra’s bedroom. She was lying on her tummy, arms above her head, fast asleep. Beth pulled the blanket up over her shoulders and leaned down and pressed a small kiss to her cheek. “I’ve missed you, Pretty Girl,” she said to her sleeping form. She had been gone less than twenty-four hours but it was too long. Beth stood and stared at her child for a while, watching the slow rise and fall of her chest.

She is safe. The tight knot in Beth’s stomach loosened a little. She is safe. Beth repeated the words to herself over and over until she almost believed them. She never fully would, and that was OK, because that meant she would never let her guard down again. She couldn’t save Paige, but she would protect Alejandra.

Eventually she kissed her cheek again and then went to look for Torres. She knew where he would be. Where he always was, in the garage working, cutting or sanding. A rush of anticipation shot through her when she thought of her husband. That was one emotion that has not been dulled, the thrill she got when she was with Torres. Sometimes it was the only way she felt alive.

Beth held on to the cold wrought-iron banister as she rushed down the steps.

“Hey,” Beth said when she reached him. He was bent over a workbench. His shirt stretched taut over his biceps. His skin looked darker from the contrast of his white shirt.

He looked up and gave her his trademark half smile. Her heart faltered. He was so perfect, scars and all. She didn’t even notice the slash on his cheek any more. It wasn’t until people reacted to his appearance, that she remembered. Objectively he was a terrifying sight, he was six feet of scars and muscles and tattoos. But to her, he was just Torres, her gorgeous husband; the one who held her when she cried, and kissed her until she was breathless. He was hers for now and that was all that mattered tonight.

“Hola, Mami.”

Beth crossed to him wordlessly. She stood on her tiptoes and pressed her mouth against his. His lips opened to her, returning the same urgency. His hands dropped to her hips, pulling her hard against him. She reached between them, pulling up his shirt. She needed to feel him, the smooth knotted scars of his burned chest.

She pulled back just enough to speak. “Take off your shirt.”

“Giving orders now, Gatita?”

Once upon a time she did give him orders. He was her recruit; she had trained him. And now he was her husband. “I just want to see you.” She didn’t wait for him to lift his arms before she started pulling up.

“Hard day?”

Beth didn’t look at him; instead she studied the think black lines of his Santa Muerte tattoo and the scar it covered. She hadn’t told him she was going to Folsom to see her dad. She told him she was in the office catching up on paperwork. “Yeah,” she murmured. That much wasn’t a lie; it had been a hard day.

She had lied to him and she did not regret it even a little. Torres knew about her dad, that he was in prison. That was more than she had ever told another man. He didn’t need to know that she went to see him today. That would make it too real. It was done now, that was all that mattered.

Beth circled her index finger trough a loop in his belt and pulled him closer to her. She needed him. It wasn’t lust or desire, though they were there, it was something deeper; she needed him to feel alive, to feel anything that wasn’t wrapped up in fear and anxiety.

With Torres, everything else disappeared. There was no room for anything else.

“Let’s go to bed,” she murmured against his lips, pulling him towards the door.

Torres never slept more than four hours a night. Every night after she was asleep, he got up again to work in his shop until 2:00 or 3:00. Sleep had never come easily to him, but it was worse now since he escaped from Colombia. He never said anything. She just knew. She could feel it in the tautness of his muscles, never relaxing, always ready to move, to strike. He always waited until he thought she was asleep, and returned before she woke, but she knew, they just didn’t talk about it. They both had their secrets. And they both knew not to push.

What they had now was good. It was solid and passionate and fulfilling, but it was also delicate and new and most likely unsustainable. They had known each other for six years, but this, the new permutation of Beth and Torres as a couple, was new, born out of necessity and devastation, formed from their broken pieces. Eventually they would crack, everything did. But right now they were in the moment before everything turned to shit. She couldn’t go back to that moment with Paige, or with her mom, but she was living in that moment now with Torres, and she would enjoy it until it was gone.

The Torres that came back from the jungle wasn’t the same man that left. And what he returned to was more different than he could have imagined. There was no warm welcome, just resentment and regret.

But they found their way back together. It was inevitable. The pull was too strong, their connection too intense, so they were together, scars and all. Was it love or addiction? The answer didn’t really matter, because he made her feel good and quitting him now wasn’t a choice.

She had waited for the “I love you” when he came back, but it never happened, not even when he proposed. After Paige died, when she was at her lowest point, he was there for her. He told her that she was going to marry him and he was going to take care of her. That was the closest to a declaration she was going to get and it was more than she deserved.

They had loved each other once. She truly believed that. But now, what they had now, what was it? Could it still be called love after so much pain had been inflicted? Torres leaving, Beth turning to Patterson, the abandonment and the betrayal… So much had happened, but still Torres was the one who made her forget.

Beth pulled his hand and led him to their bedroom. She had more to forget tonight than usual. She pulled him closer and ran a hand over the raised skin of the slash on his face and then lower to the Santa Muerte tattoo that covered the left side of his chest. His muscles grew taut under her touch. Her hands dropped lower still, to his wrists, which were now wrapped around her waist. They were encased in thick scar tissue, a remnant from his imprisonment. His whole body told his story, it was written in the scars and tattoos. He looked like he could be an inmate; that is why she had picked him. She needed someone who could infiltrate a drug cartel, but his looks alone had not done it, his ruthlessness had.

He was a killer and a drug runner and a gang member and he was the only person who could make her forget all of that.

Torres pulled her hard against him. His body was a solid wall of muscle. Physically he could overpower her without even trying. If he wanted, he could break her; snap her in two. And she liked that; there was nothing to fight against with Torres, because she would lose. All the control was his. She didn’t have to think or fight or rationalize, all she had to do was feel.

She was already wet and ready for him. A shot of desire ran through her as she traced the deep lines that defined the muscles of his chest. She licked her lips. There were so many places her mouth wanted to be: his full lips, the flat plane of his belly; the thick end of his cock. She couldn’t decide which she wanted first but in the end the decision was taken from her. Torres pushed her down against the mattress, his solid body creating a cage around her. And then his mouth captured hers, hot and exploring, his tongue slid between her lips.

Her body clamped in anticipation. She felt so empty, only he could fill the need in her. She was ready, she didn’t need kissing or foreplay, she just needed him, his cock buried deep inside her, the connection: the fullness.

Frantically she pulled at his jeans, trying and failing to pull them over his hips. She pulled her mouth away so she could concentrate on the buttons keeping her from her goal.

Torres pushed his hips against hers, effectively pinning her to the bed. “Why the hurry, Gatita?” he asked. His voice was thick with his own controlled desire. He held her wrists hard against the mattress.

She could not verbalize it. The words didn’t make sense, even to her, but she was in a hurry. She was always in a hurry with Torres, desperate to have every moment with him, before it ended.

She pulled against him, trying to free her hands so she could reach him. She needed to feel him.

Torres lifted himself off her. His dark eyes hooded with desire. “Stop fighting me, or I’ll tie you up,” he warned. His tone was neutral but there was no doubt that he was deadly serious. Torres had the control here, he always did, and she willingly gave it.

Another wave of desire crashed against her. She gave her head a terse shake. She didn’t want to be tied up, not tonight. Most nights there was nothing she liked better than being tied to the bed so he could fuck her in any manner he deemed fit. Nothing was off limits with Torres; she had soon learned that. She had come into the relationship naïve. She had had her fair share of partners, but once she slept with Torres she realized she was far from experienced.

He used her body any way he wanted. Sometimes she was reticent, but in the end she always begged for more. Between them, words like dirty or taboo had no meaning. All her inhibitions had been stripped away. Torres didn’t allow them. He wanted all of her body, all of her. There was never a question, no room to protest, he took and she gave. There was nothing more erotic or liberating than being tied down and fucked hard.

Torres kissed her neck, his tongue darting into the delicate hollow of her neck. With agonising deliberateness he slowly undid each button of her blouse, rewarding each exposed area of flesh with a lick. She moaned when he reached her belly, so close to the centre of all her sensation. She licked her lips again. Her mouth was so dry. She needed him inside her now. Her hands fisted the sheets to keep from clawing at his jeans. He had told her to stop, and Torres didn’t ask twice. The warning was purely a courtesy; if Torres wanted her tied up, she would be bound to the bedframe before she had time to protest.

She needed her hands tonight to run along the scarred surface of his skin, and pull him closer. Torres undid the front fastening hook of her bra. He didn’t move, he just studied her breasts, his eyes drinking them in. They were too small, she knew that, but he said they were perfect. The way he was looking at her now, gave her no doubt that he was telling the truth. Gently his hand brushed her breast, his calloused thumb circling her nipple. Blood rushed to the dusky peaks, the sensitive skin strained to meet his touch. It was so gentle now, she could barely feel it, but her body responded just the same, demanding more, but he wouldn’t, not yet. He wanted to watch her; that was what he wanted. The lights were on, and he had every intention of watching.

For reasons that escaped her, Torres was mesmerized by her body, every response, each moan, he took it all in, transfixed, especially her orgasms. He loved to watch her come; that more than anything had taking some getting used to. Before Torres, she had never had an orgasm with a partner. She thought she couldn’t, she was far too inhibited; that is what she had told herself. Turns out, she just hadn’t been doing it right or, more to the point, she hadn’t been doing it with the right person.

Torres had once told her that people weren’t good or bad in bed, it was their chemistry that mattered. She still didn’t believe him; some people were just good, like him. He was even good enough in bed to overcome all of her shortcomings. Her body would never respond to anyone else the way she did to him.

His touch became stronger, still soft but now she knew she was not imagining each stroke. Gently he pulled on her nipple, rolling it slowly between his thumb and forefinger. Her breath came in small pants. She could come like this, with nothing but the scrape of his calloused skin against her nipples, but he wouldn’t let her, not yet. She bit back a moan so Torres wouldn’t know how turned on she was. If he knew, he would stop and then move to another part of her body and kiss and lick her until she was near breaking point before moving on to start again. It was torture pure and simple, and she hated it as much as she craved it with every fiber of her being.

“Don’t close your eyes, Gatita.”

She immediately obeyed, not wanting him to stop.

“Torres,” she moaned. “Please… Please” She could not formulate a sentence. She didn’t even know what she was asking for. She pulled down her pants and threw them in the corner along with her shirt and underwear. “Torres, I need to feel you.”

“Oh, you will,” he said, half his mouth rising in a crooked smile. Her heart momentarily forgot to beat. She loved his smile, his lopsided grin, always smirking, and his straight white teeth. “You’ll feel me here,” he said lowering his head to her breast. Beth’s breath caught. He flicked her nipple with his tongue before he took it in his mouth. When he sucked, another wave of sensation rocked her, taking her to another level. “And here,” he said as he took her other nipple between his teeth. He pressed down with just enough force to blur the lines of pain and pleasure. It took all her energy not to moan again. Her lips rocked against his, seeking relief, it would only take a few strokes and she would be coming, hard and fast, but Torres prevented her from moving. He was in control. She forced herself to take a deep breath and focus on each sensation, the heat of his breath, the sharp graze of his teeth, the rush of blood, the scratch of his stubble. With another deep breath, she relaxed into it. There was no need to rush with this. With her body, she trusted him completely. No matter what he did, it would feel good. He would push and tease and make her scream with frustration and desire, but he would always make her come. Beth didn’t trust most people, but she trusted Torres to make her feel good.

Torres licked his way down the valley between her breasts and over the plain of her stomach and then to the thatch of curls at the top of her thighs. He pushed her legs open until her knees rested against the white duvet. “And here, Gatita. You’re going to feel me here,” he promised.

She sucked in a sharp breath as his finger slid up her, parting her folds, exposing the throbbing point at her centre. Slowly he ran his finger up and down, admiring her. She didn’t dare try to shut her legs. She belonged to him, all of her. “Do you want me to kiss you here?” he asked.

There was no question, he was going to do it; the only uncertainty was if he would make her beg for it. She would, she was shameless when it came to Torres. There was no room for pride where he was concerned. But she wouldn’t need to beg tonight, because he wanted it as much as her. Torres had reached his point of no return too. She could tell because he had slipped into Spanish. The switch in language was involuntary; she doubted he even knew he did. When they had sex he always spoke Spanish to her, whether he was whispering praise or telling her all the ways he was going to defile her, it was always in Spanish. She would never tell him he did it, because he might stop, and it was one of her favorite things about going to bed with Torres, that and the full body orgasms that made her legs shake and her toes curl, those were nice too.

“Que linda,” he murmured. How beautiful. Beth wasn’t beautiful, she knew, she had a mirror, but to Torres she was and she feared for the safety of anyone who said differently.

The light above them was too bright. There was nowhere to hide, no dim lighting to soften her edges. It was just her spread open for him. She could close her eyes now, he wasn’t looking at her face, but she wouldn’t because she wanted to watch as his head lowered and his tongue found her clit. There was nothing as erotic as watching Torres lick her pussy, his dark head nestled between her pale thighs, the muscles of his broad shoulders contracting under tan skin, as his mouth worked to bring her to climax, the sight alone was enough to make her come.

His head lowered. Gently he licked her thighs, and then the delicate folds, and then the wet opening of her body. Her hips bucked as he made intimate contact. The sensation was almost too much and it was made greater by the feeling that he shouldn’t be doing it, it was too intimate, too personal. She would never consider doing it with anyone else, but nothing was off limits with Torres, there were no rules. His tongue darted in and out of her, making love to her with his mouth.

Her hands fisted in his hair. Higher, she needed him higher. She needed him to suck on her clit, just one stroke of his tongue. That is all she needed. He knew it but he wouldn’t do it, not until he was good and ready. If it were possible to die of desire, she would be six feet under.

Oh God she needed him higher. She arched her back, trying to reposition herself, open her body further to him. “Please, Torres,” she begged. Her hands fisted in his hair pulling his dark head higher. “Please.”

Torres raised his head. On his face was a lazy smile. He was enjoying this, making her suffer. He was a sadist. “Please what, Gatita? What do you want from me?”

“Make me come,” she begged.

“You know I will. When are you going to learn to trust me?” His smile was devious but his eyes were hooded with desire. This was torture for him too, he wanted to be inside her, but he was proving a point…a frustrating…erotic…exquisite point.

Her head fell to the side. This wasn’t an argument she would win.

Moments later, he returned to the top of her thighs.

She groaned. This might kill her. She needed to come soon, the pressure that built was nearing painful but he was keeping her there, in a holding pattern, not allowing her to make her final ascent. She thrashed about, rubbing herself against his face. The course stubble of his chin bit into her flesh. It hurt but it felt too good. God she needed more…the pain the pleasure…him…she just needed him.

“Torres,” she moaned.

With that cry, his tongue found her clit. She sucked in a ragged breath. It was good, too good. Her legs shook, bright colours flashed behind her eyes as she came hard against his mouth. Her whole body shook with it, as wave after wave of pleasure hit her.

For a precious moment, the world stopped, everything was good. She remembered what happiness felt like.

She closed her eyes and tried to capture the feeling so she could remind herself that she still could feel something.

Beth didn’t have long to languish in the peacefulness of the moment. In seconds Torres was above her, his thick cock at the entrance of her body. With one powerful stroke he was in her and the carnal assault on her senses began again.

She was climbing again, each stroke pushing her higher. “Oh God, Torres, I’m going to come again,” she cried. A powerful spasm rocked her body as she came around his cock, her flesh moulding around him, merging with his, becoming one. Tremor after tremor rocked her until her body could give no more, but still he thrust into her, his cadence merciless, his restraint gone.

She bit into her lip to stop from screaming. Her flesh was too sensitive. Every stroke was agony…and bliss. She loved this part, when it was just about him. It hurt but she loved it. He was using her, fucking her. It was hard and fast, no finesse, just frantic need. She felt used…and sore…and needed…and cherished…and loved. They didn’t say the words, but her body knew. There was no amount of physical pain too much for this.

She watched his face. She loved that face, the scarred bearded face. She ran her hand along the slash on his cheek. With a low animal grunt, he came and warmth flooded her.

He collapsed onto her. He rolled over, so he did not crush her, their bodies still entwined.

Gently he pressed a kiss to her temple.

Beth smiled. She was home.

Beth was draped over his chest, her head resting just above his heart. He ran his hand over her thick blonde hair. He waited for her breathing to change, become slower and deeper, a sign she was asleep.

She was asleep but he didn’t move. She wasn’t dealing with her sister’s death. Nobody dealt well with death, but they dealt with it. They cried or got angry, or in his case he joined the DEA and made his life’s mission to destroy the man who had killed his best friend. He still missed Moses Archila, he always would. He still thought about the sound of the gun. Waking up in the hospital and knowing his best friend was dead and he could have prevented it was the hardest thing he had ever endured. It was worse than his flesh being burnt off in the roadside explosion, worse than being a prisoner in the Colombian jungle.

The guilt would never leave him but he dealt with it.

Beth wasn’t even dealing, she was ignoring. It was what he expected; it was what she did. At first she surprised him, she cried and shook and swore. She grieved.

And then she shut down; all her emotions were gone, pushed down and turned off. She was ignoring the fact her sister was murdered. But she couldn’t ignore this forever. Eventually it would come out and it would be raw and brutal and ugly and she would have to fight to not be drawn under. But he would be there.

He gently pulled his arm out from under her head, replacing it with a pillow. He crossed the room. He needed to work.

But first he needed to pick up her clothes. He could only smile. The woman was completely incapable of getting clothes is a hamper…or wrappers in the trash. In her defence, she got them close, sometimes within a few inches but she never could fully commit. Lucky for her she had lots of other talents, some of which she had just demonstrated.

Torres put Beth’s shoes beside the closet door and before he reached for her pants. As he folded them, a pamphlet fell out, the cover catching his eye: Helping Your Child Understand Prison, Advice from the California Department of Correction.

Torres took a deep breath. Her dad. She had gone to see her dad. He folded the pamphlet and put it back in her pocket. She didn’t want him to know, so he would pretend he didn’t.

Chapter Three

A chirping noise pierced the silence of the inky darkness. On instinct Beth’s hand reached out to silence her alarm but the noise continued. It was too early. And it was Sunday, why was her alarm on?

Beth gave the alarm another hard whack. When that didn’t silence it she gave the cord a hard yank.

“It’s your phone.” Torres’ deep voice was a gravelly whisper. He had been asleep too which meant it really was an ungodly hour. Beth glanced at the clock. She had to squint to make out the numbers: 3:38.

She slid her finger across the screen to accept the call. It was an unknown number. “Thomson,” she said.

“Agent Thomson, this is Detective Jamison from Carrizo Springs.”

“Uh huh,” she murmured. Beth glanced at the clock again. It was too early or too late, either way her brain hadn’t fully engaged. Carrizo Springs. She wasn’t working a case there. She couldn’t even think offhand where it was in relation to her.

“Sorry to bother you at this hour but there is an alert on file that says to contact you when there is anything to do with Los Treintas.”

Beth sat up, giving her eyes a good rub. “Yeah that’s right. Thank you. What is going on?”

“There was an incident tonight. A Border Agent’s house was vandalized. No confirmation yet, but it appears that his wife and children are missing.”

Beth’s heart stopped in her chest.

She shook her head. They weren’t missing.

Beth knew that if they were dealing with Los Treintas, his family was dead and it was only a matter of time before he knew it too. Oh shit…

Beth slid out of bed. “What’s his name?”

“Raul Garcia.”

The name didn’t mean anything to her. “Where is he now?”

“He’s home. Detectives and forensics are there.”

Where were her clothes? She has left them in a pile in the corner of the bedroom. She opened her top drawer and pulled out underwear. He shouldn’t be in his house, but he would want to be there in case his family came home. “Don’t let him pick up any packages. Intercept anything that comes to the house. Do you understand?” Los Treintas always sent the heads of victims to their families as a warning. Raul didn’t need to see that, no one did. Her heart was vibrating now, the beats too close together to discern one from the next. Another hit, just like Paige. Beth closed her eyes and pushed down all the memories from that night. She couldn’t deal with them now.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Good. Send me the address to this number. I’m on my way.”

“What’s up?” Torres was sitting up in bed. She could just make out his form in the darkness.

“Just work. I need to go to Carrizo Springs.” Beth tried to sound nonchalant but her voice wouldn’t cooperate. Thoughts were firing at her, memories, only freshly buried.

“Tonight?”

Beth continued getting dressed. She pulled on a pair of fresh jeans and a T-shirt. “Yeah I shouldn’t be long.” Beth let out a rush of air. “No that’s not true. I don’t know how long it will be.” She considered telling him that there had been another hit but she wouldn’t. Torres was out. He didn’t need to be sucked into it.

No that was a lie. The truth was she needed him to be out. She needed a beacon on shore guiding her back to normality so she didn’t lose herself in this sea of depravity.

“I’ll be back…later.” Beth opened the safe where she kept her gun and slid it into its holster.

It took just over an hour to reach Carrizo Springs. Raul Garcia’s house was on the corner of a main street backing onto a gas station. It was nothing fancy, just a small stucco bungalow on a busy street. If he was on the Zetas or Treintas pay roll, he certainly hadn’t invested the money into the modest house or the old minivan in the driveway with a broken taillight and an exhaust held up with duck tape.

There was a rusted swing set in the yard and two bicycles lying in the grass.

“I’m Special Agent Thomson.” Beth held up her badge for inspection but the officers guarding Garcia’s door merely nodded and made room to let her past.

Beth’s breath caught when she saw the scorpion painted on the door, a dark maroon colour that had already dried and begun to crack. “That’s not spray paint,” she said to no one in particular. “Has it been tested? I need this tested.”

The younger looking of the two officers spoke. “Yes, ma’am, it’s blood.”

Beth nodded. “Human?”

“Yes, ma’am,” the officer said almost apologetically. He was young, still fresh-faced and alert, still eager, not yet beaten down by the job. Give it another few years.

“It needs to be tested to see if it’s a match to any of the victims.”

Another officer joined them at the door. “Jamison?” she guessed.

The detective smiled and nodded. He looked to be about forty. He was tall but slight. The Longhorn belt buckle around his waist was more than decorative; it kept his trousers anchored around his slim hips. He was bald now but based on his pale freckled skin and green eyes, he had been a redhead.

Jamison reached out and shook her hand. “Good to meet you, ma’am. Thank you for coming out tonight, well this morning now.” His smile was wide like this was a social call and he really was pleased to meet her.

Beth nodded. She did appreciate Texas manners. A man could be standing over a dead body and he would stop to exchange pleasantries with a lady.

“Any news on his family?”

The smile on Jamison’s face faded. “Yes, ma’am. Four bodies have been found off 83, just south of Crystal City. No ID yet.”

“Decapitated?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Beth took a deep breath. It wasn’t a surprise but still…another family torn about by Los Treintas. She shook her head. “Has the husband been informed?”

“No, ma’am. We were waiting for you. I thought you would want to question him first.”

She nodded again. “Thank you.” Jamison had done her a favour. He knew that once Raul Garcia was told the fate of his family, he would be inconsolable. His use as a witness would be more than compromised; he would be useless to the investigation. While there was still hope, Raul would do whatever he could to bring his family back alive. “Can you please call Victim Services? Have them on hand. He is going to need all the support he can get. And intercept any packages that are sent here or to his work. I can’t stress that enough.”

The heads of his family would already be in transit. The Los Treintas were predictable if nothing else. The heads were always sent to the family as a warning, as if losing a loved one wasn’t painful enough. Bile rose in the back of her throat as her body responded to the memory of the night her sister was murdered. She had never seen her dismembered head. She knew it had been sent because she had read the coroner’s report, but she had been spared seeing it. Someone had made sure it never reached her. She wasn’t sure who she had to thank for that, either Torres or Jessop, but she was grateful. She would do her best to extend the same courtesy to Raul Garcia.

“Can you please send me a copy of your case files? I don’t care how small a lead, I would like to see it.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Beth took a deep breath. Time to get to work; time to figure out what made Raul Garcia a target. She stood at the threshold and surveyed the house; no high ticket items that would be out of keeping with a Border Agent’s salary, no flat screen televisions or abundance of electronics, just beige-coloured walls covered in framed photographs. Every wall had at least one family picture but most had several. There were school pictures, wedding pictures, candid shots taken at the lake or at birthday parties. Picture after picture of smiling children and their devoted parents. Grief pierced her veneer, tiny niggling shards of sadness found their way to the centre of her chest but she ignored them.

Judging from the pictures he had three kids: two primary school-aged sons and a preschool-aged daughter. They were beautiful, so young, so innocent. Beth’s throat constricted. She forced herself to look away. She couldn’t think about them right now.

Beth stepped over the pile of discarded shoes in the hallway. Even if she hadn’t seen Raul Garcia’s picture on the wall, she would have immediately recognized him as the victim. He was slumped over on the couch, his hands scrunched into fists, his eyes vacant. She recognized every emotion written on his face because she had felt them all, the anger, the disbelief, the frantic need to do something even though there was nothing to be done.

“I’m Special Agent Thomson – Beth. My name is Beth.” She didn’t reach her hand out to shake his because Raul had lowered his head into his hands.

She considered telling him she understood what he was going through but she didn’t, he wouldn’t appreciate it. No one understood anyone else’s pain. The sad truth of it was everyone was alone in their despair. People could empathize and support but they would never really understand the depth of anguish, they could never feel it. Grief was isolating and unique, singularly different for every person. Had anyone told her they understood what she felt when Paige was murdered, she would have laughed or screamed. No one could ever understand someone else’s pain.

“Special Agent? Like from the FBI? Did you find them?!” Raul asked as he jumped to his feet. He shoved his hand into his pocket. “Here. Take this. You’re going to need a recent picture of them.” He flicked through the pictures in his wallet until her found a picture. “Here.” He thrust the small picture at her. His hand shook as his fingers grazed hers. “It’s the boys’ first day of school. Amalia’s hair is longer now but it still looks like her. This will be OK, right?” His eyes pleaded with her.

A boulder lodged in the pit of her stomach. His family was never coming home but he didn’t know it yet. The enormity of that settled on her, squeezing out all the air from her lungs. She closed her eyes and silently counted to ten. For a moment she couldn’t speak. It was too real again. A month ago it was her waiting for news. She was the one in denial, hoping against hope that everything was going to be OK. This month it was Raul. Next month or next week it would be another family destroyed. How many more lives would the Treintas ruin?

Beth stared down at the photo. His whole world was represented in this picture. And they were gone. Her eyes began to burn. There were no tears, her body had none left but it hurt just the same.

Beth squeezed her eyes shut and told herself to focus. She wouldn’t be any use to anyone if she carried on like this. Later she could reflect and lament and feel despondent. Right now she had a job to do.

She put the picture in her pocket and pulled out a notepad. “I am from the DEA. The investigation into your family’s disappearance is ongoing.”

Raul visibly relaxed. He was expecting her to tell him they were dead. On some level he knew but he was fighting it with every ounce of reason he had. Guilt pricked at her but she ignored it the same way she ignored the pain in her stomach. “Mr. Garcia, when was the last time you saw your family? Where were you tonight?” She hated asking but she had to. He needed to be ruled out but more importantly, she needed to establish the timeline for the abduction.

“Maybe 6:00, 6:30. It was poker night. Some of the guys at work have a game. Once a month. We take turns hosting. Tonight it was at Sal’s.”

“I need the names of everyone there tonight. Anybody that knew you would be out tonight.”

Raul looked up. His dark brown eyes were rimmed with red circles. “Just my buddies from work.”

Beth waited for Raul to process what he had just said. It was possible that Los Treintas had stalked him, followed him, waited for the perfect moment to strike. But it was far more likely that another Border Control Agent had tipped them off. Thanks to Torres, the DEA had identified a dozen agents on cartel payrolls, but they were only the tip of the iceberg.

When Raul didn’t respond, she asked, “Why would Los Treintas want to send you a message? What contact have you had with them?”

He shook his head and started to cry. “I should have let them through.” Raul hunched over, his body shook as he sobbed.

Beth stiffened. Electricity ran the length of her spine. “Who?” She held her breath as she waited for a response.

“Three weeks ago a truck came through. Driver said it was medical supplies, but it wasn’t. I knew it wasn’t. I turned it away. The next day a guy comes through. He says that the truck will be coming through again. Offered me $1000 to look the other way. I should have taken the money.” Raul sobbed again.

Knowing everything she did about Los Treintas, she had to agree, he should have taken the money. But her job meant she could never admit that. Even if she could, she would never tell Raul. He didn’t need anything else to feel guilty about. Once the Treintas had clocked him, his family was as good as dead. She had seen it too many times to count. Plata o plomo: silver or lead. Cartels controlled people, either through money or violence. When Raul turned down the money, he had signed his family’s death warrant. But there was no dwelling on that now; it wouldn’t bring them back.

“What happened?” Beth pushed.

“I told my supervisor. But it didn’t matter. The shipment never came. I thought—”

“I need your supervisor’s name,” Beth interrupted. She caught Jamison’s gaze, one ginger brow arched in question.

“Chuck O’Grady. He’s a good guy. He said he would take care of it. But he didn’t need to. They never showed up.”

Bile rose in the back of her throat. That good guy may have gotten Raul’s family killed. Beth looked over again to Jamison. “Pick him up.”

Jamison had already started dialling as he walked into the other room.

“What can you tell me about the shipment? What was the name of the company?”

Raul shook his head. “I don’t know.”

“Think, Mr. Garcia. Any detail could help. Take your time. What colour was the truck? Was there any writing on the sides? A picture or something.”

“There weren’t any markings. White, no logo, California plates.”

Beth nodded her encouragement. “Did you get the license plate number?”

“No.” Raul’s voice broke as he started to weep again. “Find them please. Please.”

She was losing him. He needed to focus; she needed to get him back. “It’s OK. What about the driver? What can you tell me about the driver?”

“I don’t know. I can’t remember.” The words came out in a breathless whisper. He was frantic now. He looked like a rabid dog chained to a fence. He rubbed his hands quickly over the chenille-covered arm of the couch. Over and over he rubbed, vigorously pressing his hand into the material. It was going to rip but he wouldn’t notice. Details like that could not reach him now.

Beth shook her head. “OK what about the man who offered you the money? Would you recognize him if you saw him in a photo line-up?”

Raul shrugged his shoulders.

“Was he Mexican?”

Raul nodded.

“Good. How tall was he?”

“I don’t know.” Raul scrubbed at his face. “Can we talk about this when you find them? I can’t think right now. I need my family. Please just find them.” He said more but the words were lost between gasps and tears.

Beth took a deep breath. She needed a description, a name, something to go on. She wasn’t getting anywhere. And she wouldn’t. She had been in the game long enough to know when she hit a brick wall.

Beth looked up when Jamison came back into the room. His brows were knit together; his mouth was a tight white slit.

“Did you find O’Grady?” Beth asked.

Before Jamison could answer, gun shots rang out on the street. Six shots, fired in quick succession followed by the squeal of tires.

Beth slammed her back against the wall, knocking a picture off the wall. “Get down!” she screamed. She drew her gun. “Call it in. We need back up.”

Jamison nodded.

Beth kept her back firmly against the wall as she made her way to the front door. She took a sharp breath before she opened the front door, scared of what she would find.

The two officers were slumped on the concrete steps, surrounded by pool of blood. At least one was still alive because the blood continued to drain from his body, but she could not immediately tell which one.

“Shit!” Beth dropped to her knees. “Call it in!” she screamed again. Shit! So much blood. She couldn’t even see where they had been shot. She rolled the younger officer onto his back. There were two shots to his chest and one in his neck. God he was so young. She didn’t even know his name. She never asked. She held his head in her lap as she checked for a pulse. “Oh God.” He was dead. She didn’t even know his name.

Jamieson knelt beside her. “Ambulance is on its way.”

“Check his pulse.” Beth pointed to the other officer.

Jamison pressed two fingers to the side of his neck. “It’s faint but there’s a pulse.”

Relief washed over her. Beth looked down at the lifeless body below her. “What’s his name?”

“This is Mike Philips and that,” he said pointing to the man in Beth’s lap, “is Tom Higgins. Tom is engaged. Going to get married December 1.”

Was engaged, Beth silently corrected him. He was dead now. He wasn’t getting married. But Mike still had a chance. Please let the ambulance get here.

“Where is O’Grady?” Beth asked.

“Killed, along with his wife and daughter.”

Beth nodded. No surprise there. There was no loyalty in Los Treintas. Even if you accepted their money, there was no guarantee you would be safe. People were expendable. When they were no longer of use, they were killed.

And some were left behind to suffer and serve as a warning. That is what Raul was, a warning for everyone else. He made a mistake by getting in a cartel’s way. Every Border Agent working would know his fate and it would be foremost in their minds when they were checking cargo or processing documents.

Behind her, Raul screamed. It was a guttural sound that reverberated in her core; it was a shriek that sounded more animal than human.

Her head jerked up and that is when she saw it: in a large clear bag, four severed heads.

“Oh God.” Beth sprung up. In an instant she was at Raul’s side, her arms around him for support. He screamed again as his legs bucked and he collapsed down on the worn floorboards of the porch, bringing Beth crashing down with him. She never loosened her hold. There were no words, nothing she could say to begin to numb the pain so she just held him as he screamed.

She closed her eyes. She had no emotions left, but she didn’t need them because she could feel all of his, each drop of pain that fell from him was absorbed by her, became her own. “I will catch the man who did this. I promise. I swear I will make him pay.”

Her words were swallowed by his sobs.

“I promise,” she said again and it was true. These people’s lives meant something. All of them. Beth was going to bring El Escorpion down.

He would pay.

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