Leaning forward in her seat, she met Sarge’s pissed-off stare with one of her own. “We bust our backs for this program, put up with the crap law enforcement shovels at us, and now you’re telling us our efforts have meant nothing?” She settled back with a scowl on her face. “This is bullshit.”
Sarge walked toward her, his wide build shifting with each step. He leaned down to prop his hands on the table in front of her and leveled his rugged face with hers.
The fragrance of Old Spice hit her.
Max had worn that scent.
For the first time she noticed the finer lines around Sarge’s hound dog eyes and mouth. The wild locks of salt and pepper hair usually stole her attention, until his attitude slammed against her.
“You looking for demerits?” The question was quiet, menacing.
“No.” She already had enough black marks in her damn file. “Just telling you how I see it.”
“Let me tell you how I see it, Switch. The day you broke the law, you lost your freedom. Instead of taking the consequences of your crime, you agreed to do a job. No questions asked. You’re damned lucky you were chosen for SIDE in the first place.”
“Sure. Locked in the john with a doped-up dealer and caught in a shoot-out? Real lucky! We could have caught a bullet, and for what? A second-rate dealer so high he thought he could survive flying lead?”
He pushed off her desk. “You got yourself twenty demerits.”
“Screw that.” She stiffened in the hard chair. “For putting our lives on the line, we deserve to know what we’re dealing with before we head into a situation like last night.”
“Don’t give me that shit. I sent you in to pull off a simple deal. We needed Johnson by the balls in order to make him tell us what he knew about the X shipment. Instead he ends up dead because
you
couldn’t keep your head.”
“You’re not laying that on me. I did my part. He gave me Saven’s name, didn’t he?”
“That won’t hold up.”
“We find his supplier—”
“That’s just it. We don’t have his goddamn supplier because the punk’s dead. If you got a problem following orders, forfeit your position on the team. There’s a cell waiting for you in Northern Cal’s Women’s Facility.”
She shoved back her chair, but gritted her teeth against a retort she’d regret later. “I follow the rules. It’s the jerks in Narcotics—”
“Damn it! Sixty-fucking-demerits, Switch. If I have to go any higher, your ass is back where I found you. You got that!”
Back where he found her…
A mild concussion, two black eyes, dislocated shoulder, and forever coated with someone else’s blood.
She jerked away from Sarge’s ruthless face, stared down at her fists in her lap.
“That’s right,” he said gruffly. “A ten-year sentence instead of five. A lousy thief whose luck finally ran out. Let’s get something straight.” He raised his voice to ensure everyone in the room understood. “You’re all dispensable. There’s always someone else to replace you.”
When she didn’t say a word, his bulky shoulders rolled. “Anybody else have anything to say?” His tone implied an unspoken, “Do and die.”
No one said a word.
Not the Hacker, the Gigolo, the Versatile Crook, and for sure not the Walking Underground Info Bank. They knew what she did: Sarge could snap his fingers and they’d disappear.
Ana scanned their faces, swallowing past the rock in her throat. The team wouldn’t even look at her. Big freaking surprise.
Can’t go back to a cell.
She rubbed at her nervous stomach. She’d waited years to be out of the system. To be able to go where she chose, be able to do anything she pleased. Working for SIDE had been the lesser evil, the only way she’d be able to live and breathe, compared to more years of having no control over her life.
Now the little freedom she coveted might be taken away.
Sarge scanned the room. “That’s what I thought. Now don’t make me tell you again. Head for the gym. After your workout, contact your sources. I want information on all suspects. And I want it yesterday.” His stare hit Ana like a bull’s-eye. “As for you, Switch. You’re on my shit list for this operation. I say jump, you don’t ask how high, you just damn well better jump.”
Ana rubbed her hands across her face.
Yeah. The story of her life.
Friday
8:45 a.m.
Thump—thump—thump.
Jonas Saven attacked the hanging punch bag with smooth, deliberate jabs. Perspiration beaded down his naked chest. Rotating his hips to the right, he pivoted on the ball of his left foot, bent his elbow, and shoved his weight into a lateral punch to the lower bag. It crashed back toward him, he feinted to his right. He countered, the force of his punch so hard the impact vibrated straight through the padded glove.
“I’m telling you, Jonas, it’s all
his
fault.”
Not now
. Sweat leaked into his eyes. He blinked it away.
Thump—thump—thump.
“If it weren’t for you, where would he be?”
Jonas bounced on the balls of his feet, shifting his weight from foot to foot. After beating the bag for an hour, the muscles in his arms and torso were already strained. The slow burn that meant his limit was near.
Focusing on the bag, he pushed on.
Thump, thump—thump—thump.
“Jonas, are you hearing me?”
He glanced at his sister, observed her pace back and forth in front of his office couch, her long legs eating up space. She halted, pointing her forefinger at him.
He swung out again.
Thump—thump.
“You’re the strength behind the gallery, the club, the operations.”
His gaze jerked to her. His arms fell to his sides, damp shoulders rising with each pant of breath.
Swallowing past his parched throat, he said, “What do you know about the operations?”
“Enough to know that you’re the one who takes care of everything.”
No, she didn’t know the truth. “Kara, I’ve told you before. Ray runs everything fine. Last night…” He paused. “Last night was out of his hands.”
She scoffed. “Is that what he’s telling you?”
Jonas rubbed the sweat off his forehead with his forearm. “When’s this obsession—”
“Pleease.”
“—you have with Ray going to end? There isn’t anyone I trust more.” He looked at her point-blank when she flipped brunette layers of hair over her shoulder. “Understood?”
She sneered, but even that disdainful look couldn’t mar her beautiful features. “Don’t try to lay one of your commands on me this time, Jonas—because it’s not going to work. Besides, you’re not my father.”
The blow hit its target. He merely blinked, feeling his face go blank.
“Jonas, I didn’t mean—”
Not saying a word, he held up a gloved hand.
She sighed. “You just make me so angry when you don’t listen. Ray Brooks got someone killed last night and you could be next.”
Stevie.
His fault, no one else’s. He whirled.
Thump—thump—thump—thump—thump
.
Kara growled in frustration.
“Jonas.”
“Am I interrupting?” Raymond Brooks’s voice cut keenly into the conversation.
Kara’s head swung to the doorway of the office, her topaz eyes burning to molten gold. Tossing her hair, she pushed past Ray without another word.
Ray shut the door quietly behind her. Ray did everything quietly. That’s what made him so dangerous.
Jonas blew out a frustrated breath and ripped the Velcro strap off his padded glove with his teeth. Placing it between his ribs and elbow, he yanked the glove off, turning to Ray as he removed the other.
Ray and Kara’s turbulent relationship was a mystery. Hell if he knew what had started the tension between them. He didn’t ask Ray too many questions, out of respect. Trouble was, Ray never volunteered anything about his personal life.
As for Kara, Jonas didn’t care to listen to her typical long list of complaints.
“Listen…” he began.
Ray turned away to look out the office window. A clear indication he was unreceptive to the usual tedious excuses for his sister.
“Why don’t you tell her what she wants to hear?” Ray asked.
“Not a good idea. Keeping the truth from her has always been to protect her.” Jonas thought of his fatherless nephew, the young boy a spitting image of his family. “Now it’s to protect Elliott.”
“I know I always say it. For twins, you both couldn’t be more opposite.”
Jonas remained quiet. The obvious didn’t need confirmation.
“Last night,” Ray said. “It was a disappointment.”
Disappointment my ass
. Jonas hurled his gloves in the corner, grabbed the sweat rag that hung from his waist and swiped his face. He wanted to turn his back on this conversation—on the last twenty-four hours—and walk out of the office. But that wasn’t him. He dealt with any obstacle that got in his way.
Even though Stevie had worked as an employee, hadn’t been reliable—hadn’t been family. It didn’t matter. The kid lost his life under Jonas’s protection.
“The blame’s my own,” Jonas said.
Ray turned from the window, a flash of heat breaking his calm before he masked it.
Jonas prided himself on his own ability to control his emotions, but Ray had him beat by a landslide, always had. In five years they’d grown from watching one another’s back to becoming something like brothers. To be honest, he wouldn’t be in his current position if it hadn’t been for Ray.
Slicking his hands back over his bound hair, Jonas walked to the mini fridge and retrieved a bottle of water. “Stevie was just a kid. My responsibility. That someone had the balls…”
To infringe on his territory and take out one of his employees spoke a direct threat—an absolute challenge.
“The question is who?”
The plastic crushed under Jonas’s grip. “He’d been tapping his sources like he was told.”
“Hadn’t checked in the last twenty-four hours before his death.”
“He mentioned an X dealer named Dolini. Handed me a file on the guy. Dolini’s not working alone. He’s small-time.” He met Ray’s eyes. “I’d asked him to find out more.”
“We both know the kid was going nowhere but down. His last paychecks were going up his nose.”
Jonas looked down at the carpet. One more task that had slipped through his fingers. “It doesn’t make it any easier. The kid pissed somebody off or ended up in the wrong place at the wrong time. I will find out what happened. We need to see if this is a message for us or if Stevie got caught running his own game.” He took a swig of water. “Someone’s got to talk to Dolini.”
“Who are you sending?”
“Myself.” When Ray began to protest, Jonas said, “I want this done right.”
Ray nodded. “Word from Israel?”
“The shipment’s been verified. It’s on its way, estimated arrival within one week. Not much time to find out the recipient or the location without anyone talking.” He walked to the window and glanced down at the busy street. “I find out who’s behind this, and then I get my hands on that shipment.”
9:08 a.m.
Ana flew through the air, landing on the training mat, her sweaty shoulders scraping against rubber.
Damn it!
“Up now, now!”
Gritting her teeth, she rolled to her feet and crouched, hands out, eyes straight on her opponent. A few hairs escaped her headband, clinging annoyingly to her cheek, and sweat ran down her neck into her sports bra. Her muscles ached from two hours of physical training.
They circled each other. Jax’s pale eyes never left hers, his hands out and ready.
“Rush him!”
“He’s a mountain,” she muttered.
“Do it!”
Her eyebrows furrowed, but she wasn’t dumb enough to glance at Sarge, giving Jax an open advantage. Jax’s codename was based on a video game character with arms made of steel, steel that could pretty much pound her to a pulp. His shaggy blond head was damp and his bare chest glistened with perspiration. The guy’s right arm was solid with tatts, the left spotted with various designs, and his long legs were covered with gray sweat pants.
Jax gave a slow smile, taunting her with his thick fingers to come at him.
“I don’t give a damn how small you are—or how big he is—rush him.”
Fine.
She feinted to her right, ducked low, and rammed her left shoulder into his hard stomach, wincing as the impact radiated down her back.
Jax’s footing slid on the mat and then dug in. Bands of armor gripped around her slick waist, hauling her upside down, slamming her spandex-covered butt against his solid torso.
She hooked her legs over Jax’s broad shoulders, bending them on either side of his neck and squeezing her knees toward each other.
“Did I ever tell you I like my Latinas spicy and hot?” Jax grunted above her.
“Did I ever tell you I couldn’t give a flying fuck?” Blood rushed to her head. She pressed harder with her knees, performed a full sit up, and aimed for a throat hit with her knuckles.
Jax’s eyes flickered. He released her waist, gripped her biceps and shot her off of him like a damn slingshot. She flew, hit padding and tried to roll. Too late. Jax landed on her, knocking the air out of her lungs. He grabbed one arm, trapping it against the mat. His musky deodorant filled her nostrils, heavy chest pushing against hers.
Son of a—
“Pin!”
She sucked in air, coughed.
“Bitch.”
“Anytime you want to go another round,
chiquita
, let me know,” Jax murmured into her ear. He winked, got to his feet, and took a few steps to his water bottle on the floor.
Ana slowly sat up, body throbbing. She eyed Jax’s muscled back with disgust. Every inch of his five-eleven muscled frame hollered dangerous felon, from his sharp-edged, stubbled jaw and guarded blue eyes, down to the leather biker attire he usually sported.
She didn’t know a lot about his past, but she imagined that when it involved crime, he could have been a jack-of-all trades. Anything short of murder. Maybe. Whatever his last stunt had been, it had left him beat up pretty bad and punched his ticket for a ten-year prison sentence.
It wasn’t a secret the guy was her nemesis on the SIDE team. She categorized him with things she could do without, but still had to deal with. Like her period—it annoyed her, made her cranky as hell, but she still had to live with it once a month. Jax had the same effect on her, only she had to live with seeing him six days a week. Popping an aspirin and making him disappear would be the answer to her dreams.
“Come on, Paul.”
She glanced at the next mat. Skates’s long frame was sprawled under Digit, his arm yanked up, her knee jammed into his back.
Jay-man was on the floor beside him. “Get out of it. You can do this.”
“I can’t,” Skates groaned in pain.
Poor kid.
“For Christ’s sake, Skates,” Sarge muttered. He held a stop watch and diverted his gaze to Romeo running laps around the private gym SIDE rented three days a week. Romeo hit his fourth lap and gave the signal with a raised arm. One mile.
“Four minutes, twenty-three seconds.”
Romeo, the fastest runner on the team—hell, the fastest runner she’d ever seen in person—walked head down, chest heaving, sweat running down his lean body. That guy could push his body past its limits and never suffer after effects.
Ana returned her attention to Sarge.
Come on, call it a day, you hardass.
She already had her list of sources to scout out for X dealers.
Sarge ran two fingers down his mustache. “Rotate!”
She shut her eyes. Damn.
Jax stepped in front of her, offering a hand.
She reached up, took hold, and was lifted to her feet. She tilted her head. “Back for more?”
He smirked, leaning in close.
“Charla con mi mas adelante?”
“What?”
His brow wrinkled. “You don’t understand Spanish?”
Because he apparently did and she didn’t, heat crawled up her neck. “So what about it?”
He smirked. “Talk with me later.”
She gave him a suspicious look. “Why?”
“Proposition.”
Friday
12:05 p.m.
Showered, changed and body sore, Ana strolled beside numerous tourists and Bay Area natives on Fisherman’s Wharf. A pack hung on her back, carrying a bribe for her source. A slap of wind blew a mixture of varying scents, underlying it all the strong odor of raw fish. The barks of the lounging sea lions echoed in the distance. Sea gulls screamed above, the sun nothing more than a lit bulb smothered under a thick haze.
The air held a frigid bite. The city had flown through a late Indian summer during September and now, just weeks later, geared for fall. Some days the ocean fog rolled in the early hours and stayed till lunch, and other days Mother Nature said, “Screw you all,” and just let it rain.
Ignoring the urge to wrap her arms around herself against the cold, Ana searched the crowd for her source. She found Mouse Finler beside the Seaside Cafe, one of the various small diners on the Wharf that directly aligned with a view of the carousel. Each time she searched him out, she noticed him staring at the ride spinning in circles.
The cigarette he toked burned down to the last ashes. The teen hovered three inches above Ana’s five-four frame. He had a head the size of a grapefruit and a body with limbs like twigs. Like Ana, Mouse had been a regular resident to the state homes, only his mother deliberately handed him over to the system when he kept running away.
Now at eighteen, he could do what he wanted. Too bad all he wanted was to stay high.
Ana pushed her hair out of her eyes. “How’s it goin’, Mouse?”
“Can’t complain.” He flicked the butt to the ground, sniffed and huddled into his soiled coat.
Opening her pack, Ana retrieved an apple and wrapped peanut butter sandwich she’d swiped from SIDE’s kitchen. The food would probably be Mouse’s first decent meal in days.
He snatched the offering, ripped off the wax paper, and began scarfing down his feast.
“What’s up?” he asked around pockets of food packed inside each pale cheek.
She shifted her weight to her right foot and shrugged. Mouse was her regular informer. He scurried the streets, nibbling up information like his namesake nibbled up trash. She knew how to play it with him—straight to the point and casually indifferent, no different than the starched-collared state counselors he’d dealt with in his life.