INFORMANT Page 18

  The tears that spring to my eyes are genuine. I blink to hold them at bay, then tilt back my head. “Ricco,” I manage weakly, “They took him. The men at the Lucky Dragon took Dally. They took my sister’s baby. They’re going to hurt him unless we do something to stop them.”

  My words get through. I watch his jaw tighten at they penetrate. Ricco knows Dally—he’s held him, played with him. He knows my sister. He knows what a good person she is, knows how much she means to me. He even knows how I worried about my ‘lowlife’ brother-in-law.

  It’s incredible that I once wanted to keep those areas of my life entirely separate. Thank God that didn’t happen. My gratitude that Ricco knows my family has no bounds. He studies my face for a long moment, then his gaze shifts from me to his father. He gives a curt nod.

  My relief is so intense it nearly chokes me. For the first time since Jess’s hysterical call interrupted my shift at the Karma, a tiny kernel of hope blossoms in my chest. We might actually get Dally back—if Ronnie plays this right. I should have coached him earlier, told him what I was bringing him into, but now it’s too late.

  It doesn’t begin well. Ricco sets me away from him and moves to stand beside his father’s throne. Miguel motions for Ronnie to approach them. Ronnie steps forward, flanked on both sides by the two hulking men who delivered us here.

  Miguel’s lips curl in distaste as he surveys Ronnie from head-to-toe. He is the antithesis of sleek Cuban grooming. Baggy cargo pants, loose shirt, tattooed arms and neck, unkempt hair. His slouched posture conveys nothing but vague menace and shiftless indifference.

  “Speak,” Miguel orders.

  Ronnie’s words pour out. How he was broke, desperate, stupid, so he took a job at the Lucky Dragon making deliveries. How he learned he could make a hell of a lot more money if he ran drugs between deliveries of pork fried rice and lo mein noodles. How he picked up a duffle that turned out to be filled with counterfeit money, and then all hell broke loose.

  “Please,” he finishes, his voice hoarse with desperation, “You have to help me get my son back. You have to.”

  Miguel is still for a long minute, then his gaze flicks to the bald, hulking man to Ronnie’s right. He nods, and the bald guy slams his fist into Ronnie’s gut, doubling him over.

  I give a startled cry, but don’t move. No one does. We all wait, watching, as Ronnie absorbs the blow and then slowly straightens.

  “I have to do nothing,” Miguel says.

  Ronnie manages a nod. “You’re right,” he gasps out. “I’m sorry.”

  “Did you steal the money?”

  “No. No. I swear to Christ, I didn’t take it. I was the delivery guy. That’s all. I’d drop off, pick up. Hell, most of the time I was just delivering food. I didn’t pay attention.”

  Ricco shakes his head. “Why should my father believe you?”

  “Look, I’m a mechanic. I fix cars. My wife and I are trying to save up money to buy the building we’re in—that’s why I took the job. Even Kylie’s been helping us out financially. If you don’t believe me, you can ask her.”

  “So you admit you needed money,” Ricco persists.

  “Yes, yes. I was trying to earn a quick thirty or forty thousand for the down payment. But what they’re saying I did doesn’t make sense. I wouldn’t take half a million dollars from these guys and then stick around. No one would do that. That’s insane. The guys who stole the money—the guys who gave me the counterfeit bills—they left town. They’re gone. I’m just the fucking idiot who got caught in the middle.”

  Miguel steeples his fingers and silently studies Ronnie. “If you are lying to us,” he says, “you will die. Painfully.”

  “I’m not lying.” He takes a deep, shuddering breath. “I swear on my son’s life, I’m not lying.”

  “So. A simple miscommunication.”

  A simple miscommunication? Miguel’s summation of events—beating my sister and kidnapping an innocent baby—is so outlandish I nearly scream. I catch myself just in time. I am a guest here, and it is imperative that I show the proper respect.

  I step forward, standing beside Ronnie to present a unified front. “Please,” I say meekly, “we don’t know what to do. The men at the Lucky Dragon threatened to kill Dally unless we came up with half a million cash. We don’t have it. They also threatened to hurt him if we went to the police.”

  “So you came to me,” Miguel says.

  “Yes.”

  “And you wish me to intercede on your behalf, to call Sun Yee and ask him to return your nephew.”

  “Sun Yee?” My heart slams against my ribs and my breath comes out in a rush. My mouth is so dry I can barely form words. “You know who has Dally? You know how to reach him? You can talk to him?”

  “Of course. That is why you’re here, is it not?”

  “Yes. Yes. That is why we’re here.”

  “And if I do this… favor, what can I expect in return?”

  “Anything,” I say. “Anything.” I will make a deal with the devil if that means getting Dally back.

  Miguel’s smile is patronizing. His leering gaze slowly rakes me over, then he gives a slight shake of his head. “Gracias, senorita, but no. As you can see behind me, we have no shortage of whores.” His words are received with a smattering of laughter from the assembled crowd.

  Ricco objects in a flurry of Spanish, but his father holds up a hand to silence him. “I am talking to you,” he says, pointing to Ronnie. “You come here, wanting to use my men, my influence, my power. What will you give me in exchange for the life of your son?”

  Ronnie doesn’t hesitate. “I can tell you where and when the Lucky Dragon’s next shipment is coming in.”

  Miguel quirks an eyebrow. “Go on.”

  “They bring everything they need in shipping containers from China.”

  “Rice? You are offering me rice?” His mocking words are greeted with more laughter.

  “No, not rice,” Ronnie says. “Guns, drugs, money. They bring everything in at once. It’ll be coming in through one of the piers south of the city. Their next shipment is arriving ten days—I don’t have all the details yet, but I can find out.”

  Heavy silence rings through the room. “Now that,” Miguel drawls, “that would be a satisfactory favor. Possibly even worth the life of your son.” He glances over his shoulder at a man standing in the crowd. “Call Sun Yee’s men and tell them I want a meeting. Tomorrow. Tell them the child they took has my protection and must be returned.”

  Ronnie wavers for a moment, and then collapses to his knees. “Thank you. Thank you.” He’s shaking all over. I should collapse as well, but all I feel is numb.

  Miguel dismisses us with a wave of his hand. “Leave us.”

  The bald guy jerks Ronnie to his feet and shoves him toward the door. I still can’t move. My gaze locks on Ricco. I open my mouth to speak, but nothing comes out. How do I put into words the depth of my feelings? I am so wrapped up in this ugliness that I’ll never get out. At the same time, if Dally lives, it’s because of Ricco and his father. Before I can decide what to say, the burly driver wraps his hand around my upper arm and pulls me away, thrusting me toward the door. My time is up.

  I follow Ronnie down the rickety wooden stairs of the building and outside to the black Lincoln. Ronnie slides into the back and Miguel’s men resume their places in the front. I’m about to get in the car when Ricco’s voice stops me.

  “Kylie.”

  I turn and walk toward him. He stands in front of the building and holds open his arms. Shaking, I fall into his embrace. “Your nephew will be safe now,” he says. “I promise.”

  “Ricco, I don’t know what to say.”

  He rests his chin atop my head and brushes his hands down my back in long, soothing strokes. “Tell me why you didn’t trust me. Why you wouldn’t speak to me or return my messages.”

  He’s referring to our last night together in the Mission, at Carnaval. I don’t pretend not to understand. He is speaking ca
ndidly, so I will, too. “I got scared. I’ve never been with anyone like you.”

  “Like me?”

  “Someone with the sort of…” I hesitate, fumbling for the right words, “connections you have.”

  “Yet my father and I were the first ones you called when you needed help.”

  “Yes.”

  “Power can be frightening if you’re not accustomed to it.”

  “Power? Is that what I saw in the alleyway?”

  He gives a mild shrug. “An extension of power, si.”

  “What happened to that man in the alley?”

  “I told you. He was injured, so we brought him into the shelter to see a doctor.”

  A wave of sadness washes over me. He’s lying, but there’s no way for him to know that I know. No way for him to know that I’ve already identified Julio Juarez to DEA agents. I would be dead if he knew that.

  “And now?” Ricco asks.

  “Now?”

  “Now what happens between us?”

  This is where it gets tricky. I tilt back my head to study his eyes. “I like to think we’re friends.”

  He smiles, obviously amused at my words. He has control here, and we both know it. “I like to think we’re more than friends.”

  His hands slide up to cup my ass. He pulls me to him, grinding his hips against mine. His lips slant over my mouth, taking me in a kiss of hungry possession. There is no gentleness in his touch, no soft persuasion. He is dominate, rough, crudely forceful.

  I try to pull back slightly, to slow him down, but he won’t allow it. He is claiming me as his, whether I want him to or not. My resistance is both slight and futile. His fist clenches around my hair, holding me in place.

  With his opposite hand, he reaches into my blouse and fondles my breast, squeezing hard. I bite back a cry of pain. I feel his erection pressing against my hip, and I wonder for one frantic moment if he means to take me right there against the side of the building. Just toss up my skirt and go at it.

  But I guess that’s not the point. The point is to show me that he could, if he wanted to. From this moment forward, I belong to him, whether I want him or not. The ruse of being friends, of him courting me, is over. He doesn’t have to ask anymore. He’ll just take.

  That’s our bargain. It’s unspoken, but Ricco’s intentions couldn’t be more clear. I’ll get my nephew back and he will get me.

  My thoughts must show on my face, for Ricco pulls back with a satisfied smile. He lightly runs his fingers across my cheek. “Si. We will be much more than friends,” he says.

  It’s early evening. I don’t have any idea what time, but the street lights are just beginning to flicker on. We are distracted by the squealing of tires as a car floors it around the corner of Delores and 21st Street. I look up in time to see a dark green BMW wagon driving off into the distance. Beckett.

  I guess it should have occurred to me sooner that the DEA would stake out Diaz’s building. Beckett must have seen everything. Fuck. A wave of total mortification washes over me.

  Without a word, I turn away from Ricco (or should I say, he allows me to turn away), and climb into the waiting Lincoln. The driver puts it in gear and heads back to the Sunset District. I feel Ronnie’s gaze on me, but I avoid his eyes. I set my jaw and stare militantly out the window instead. My humiliation at being publicly groped is too fresh.

  After a mile or two, Ronnie touches my knee. “Hey,” he says. “You okay?”

  I reluctantly turn and our eyes meet. I read dark understanding in his gaze, along with tension and impotent fury. He’s beating himself up for the entire situation.

  “Yeah,” I say. “I’m okay. It’s all gonna work out.”

  I only wish I believed that.

  Day Seventy-Seven

  Night

  On Saturdays, my mom goes straight from her day shift at Walmart to her night shift at the assisted living center, so I’m home alone when I get a text from Jane.

  Hey. I thought you and Ricco broke up.

  Cute. Just to piss him off, I text back: We did.

  But I just saw you together.

  I know. It’s complicated. To further piss him off, I add a winky face before I hit send.

  He doesn’t respond.

  Ten minutes later there’s a knock at my door. I know it’s Beckett before I swing it open. What I am completely unprepared for is how strongly the sight of him affects me.

  It has been almost two weeks since I last saw him. I remind myself that I can’t completely trust him. That I can’t trust myself whenever I’m around him. He is bad for me, I am bad for him, and we are wrong together. Especially now. Beckett is DEA. I have just sold my soul to the Cuban mob. Hard to imagine this working out for us.

  The right thing to do would be to slam the door and send Beckett away.

  But I can’t. My body reacts to him the same way a drowning man reacts to his first gulp of air. The way a junkie lunges for a needle. Beckett is my oxygen, my drug. I have no idea whether he is saving me or destroying me. All I know is that I feel as though I’ve been holding my breath for days on end, and only in this instant am I truly alive again.

  Here’s the worst part: until now, I’ve held it together. I didn’t fall apart when I learned that Dally had been kidnapped. When I saw my sister’s bruised and battered face. When I looked into Miguel Diaz’s dark, sociopathic eyes and begged for his help. I even held it together when Ricco manhandled me on the street.

  But Beckett represents safety, security, strength. He is larger than life. My gaze hungrily rakes in his height, his broad shoulders, and the leather strap which holsters his gun. The gratification I feel at seeing him standing there is beyond overwhelming. Jess and Ronnie are together at their flat. My mom doesn’t know anything—we are all convinced she would immediately call the police if she knew what was happening—so I’m staying home alone and pretending as though everything is totally normal.

  Now that’s changed. Beckett’s presence means I don’t have to bear the entire weight of this nightmare all by myself. Tension leaves my body like helium escaping a balloon. I am limp with relief. Though I have to admit, he doesn’t look like he’s here to save me. He looks totally pissed off. Furious. I don’t care. All that matters is that he’s here.

  “Kylie,” he says. “What the fuck?”

  I grab him by the front of his shirt, pull him inside, and lock the door behind him.

  “I thought you were getting out,” he says. “I thought you quit.”

  I shake my head. “Beckett,” I say, my voice breaking, “I can’t.”

  I don’t mean to lose it, but I do. To my horror, my tears come fast and hard. Some women manage to look beautifully vulnerable when they cry. Not me. I am a horrible, messy, ugly crier. My eyes swell, my nose turns red, and my skin gets all blotchy. I never cry in front of other people. Except in front of Beckett, apparently.

  Since I can’t seem to stop them, I bury my face against his chest and let my tears fall. He stiffens, asks me what happened. Gasping, I shake my head. I can’t talk yet. Eventually he realizes there’s nothing to do but ride this out. I feel his arms wrap around me, hear him murmur soothing nonsense against my hair. He pulls me with him onto the sofa, cradles me in his lap, and rocks me back and forth.

  “Kylie,” he says, “you’re scaring the shit out of me.”

  I give a choked laugh. “I don’t mean to.”

  “Tell me what’s going on.”

  I can’t. Not yet. My tears have finally stopped, but if I talk about it, I’ll fall to pieces again. This is all I can handle right now. I am sitting in my darkened living room—the lamps are off and I haven’t bothered to turn them on—curled in Beckett’s lap. I don’t know how long we simply sit there like that until something occurs to me. “Remember that baby gorilla we saw at the zoo?”

  It was cradled in its mother’s lap in exactly the same position Beckett and I are now. The only difference is that they were perched on a tree limb, rather than on a sofa. />
  I feel, rather than see, Beckett’s smile. “Yeah,” he says. “Does that make me a mama gorilla?”

  “I guess so.”

  “All right.” He softly strokes my hair. Then he pulls back and looks at me. “Better?”

  I shake my head and draw in a deep, shuddering breath. “No.” I made it through the emotional storm, but nothing’s changed. The reality of my situation is exactly the same.

  His brow furrows. “What’s going on?”

  “I’ll be right back.” I stand and go into the bathroom. My head is throbbing and I ache all over. I blow my nose, splash cold water on my face, down a couple of aspirin. When I return to the living room, he passes me a cup of water and watches as I slowly sip it.

  “When’s your mom coming home?” he asks.

  “Around midnight.”

  He pulls out his phone and checks the time. Quarter till nine. “Kylie, talk to me.”

  I do. I don’t hold anything back. I lay out the whole sordid mess. Ronnie running drugs for the Lucky Dragon, the duffle full of counterfeit money, Dally’s kidnapping, my phone call and subsequent meeting with Miguel Diaz and his crew. Incredibly, it sounds even worse when I say it all out loud.

  When I’m done, Beckett doesn’t say a word. I’ve been pacing while I talk, but he remains sitting on the sofa. He drags his hands over his face and stares at the carpet. Finally he says, “Where’s the baby now?”

  Dally. My chest constricts painfully. “Sun Yee’s men still have him. Miguel put in a phone call to say that Dally was under his protection. He brokered a meeting with Sun Yee for tomorrow. We’ll get Dally back then.” I say that forcefully, confidently, unwilling to even consider any other outcome.

  “Sun Yee,” Beckett repeats. He shakes his head. “Jesus Christ. Do you even understand what you’ve gotten yourself into?”

  “It doesn’t matter.”