LOVER UNDER COVER Page 12

  "Remember the redhead with the mean right hook I told you about?" he said to his wife.

  Shea's eyes widened. "Really?"

  Caitlin groaned with embarrassment, but the feeling faded when Shea looked at her, her gray eyes alight with lively amusement. "Darn. I would have loved to have seen that. I miss all the good stuff."

  Despite her discomfiture, Caitlin couldn't help smiling back. "I'm so embarrassed," she said. "It's just not like me to do anything like that."

  "I understand, Caitlin," Chance said softly. "I heard about Eddie." Her gaze went to his face. His eyes were warm with understanding, and when he spoke again, his voice was quiet and oddly comforting. "We all do things out of character sometimes, under stress."

  "Yes," Shea agreed softly. "We know that better than most, I think."

  Caitlin looked at them, at the quiet contentment and unmistakable love that glowed in their eyes, and wondered what awful battle they'd had to fight to get to where they were. But there was knowledge there, too, and she knew they meant what they'd said. And that they would understand.

  "I feel even worse," she admitted, "now that I know I was wrong."

  "Wrong?"

  "About Quisto."

  Shea looked at her assessingly. "Many people underestimate him, in many ways. Some see only the surface charm, some see only the cop."

  "And some never look any farther," Chance added.

  Caitlin's gaze flicked to the big man; had that been aimed at her?

  "There's a lot more to Quisto than meets the eye," Shea said. "That's why he's Sean's godfather. And Sean is his namesake."

  Caitlin blinked. "He is?"

  Chance nodded. "Sean Rafael Buckner."

  "Because," Shea put in quietly, "if not for Quisto, Sean might not be here at all. And Chance and I…"

  She let her words trail off, looking up at her husband with a love so pure glowing in her face that Caitlin felt her throat tighten unbearably.

  "I was working undercover on a case when we met," Chance said quietly.

  "And I was a suspect," Shea said wryly.

  "To everyone but me," Chance said. "And Quisto, because he took my word."

  "But when I found out Chance was an undercover cop, I thought everything we'd shared was a lie. If Quisto hadn't come to me and convinced me otherwise…"

  Both Chance and Shea looked down lovingly at their son, who was playing with a shiny lock of his mother's hair, trying his best to smear his breakfast into it. Sean Rafael Buckner. There were more facets to Quisto Romero than she ever would have imagined, Caitlin thought. She had, just as Shea had said, underestimated him.

  * * *

  There was no way around it, Quisto thought resignedly. He'd spent all day and most of the night talking to every cop he knew and could trust to keep his mouth shut, and every contact he had on the street, and he'd gotten exactly nowhere. He'd known, probably from the start, that there was only one way he was going to be able to get this done, but he'd hesitated, knowing how much trouble he was letting himself in for if something went wrong. Against orders, out of his jurisdiction, using department-owned property, on a case being hushed up at a high level … there couldn't be a more volatile recipe for disaster. Or any more potent reasons to simply stay out of it.

  And on the other side there was only one reason to get involved in it. The death of one skinny fourteen-year-old street kid who had trusted him.

  He sat up on the edge of his bed, running a hand over his stubbled jaw, then yawning once more. He'd only had about four hours of sleep, but it would have to do. He needed to get over to his mother's and pick up Caitlin.

  Caitlin.

  Perhaps there was another reason to get involved.

  He shook his head sharply, then got up and headed for the shower. For the first time in a long time, he felt the need to take a cold one. His mouth twisted wryly; Quisto Romero didn't have to take cold showers. But then, he didn't react to women the way he reacted to Caitlin Murphy, either. He was cool, controlled, and most of the time relatively uninvolved, even in the most intimate of moments. He liked it that way.

  And if he wanted to keep it that way, he'd better quit thinking about a certain strawberry blonde, he told himself. But how he was going to do that, when she was smack in the middle of all this, he didn't know. He still couldn't tell her what he was doing, couldn't risk it. So how was he going to keep her from poking around even more, and perhaps earning herself more than just a grim, bloody warning? That warning might slow her down, might make her a bit more cautious, but he doubted very much that it would stop her.

  So, he thought as he let the water roll over him, he'd just have to move fast. He would call in and take the next couple of weeks off, maybe more. He had the time coming, and although it was unusual to take it like this, it wasn't unheard-of. Lieutenant Morgan would no doubt have his suspicions about what he was up to, but hopefully he would look the other way long enough for Quisto to get the job done. He would make some calls to some people he trusted to set up what he needed, and make sure that the few members of the Pack who could recognize him were still locked away. Then he'd come back here and change cars; the BMW was much more in keeping with the hasty cover he'd worked out.

  But first he would pick up Caitlin and deliver her safely to the Neutral Zone. He would prefer to take her home and tell her to stay there, locked up and safe, but he had a fairly good idea what kind of reaction that would get.

  And he'd have to stay away from her. He couldn't concentrate as intently as he would have to to pull this off if he was thinking about her all the time. And the more he saw of her, the harder it became to chase her out of his mind. She always seemed to be there, taunting him, tantalizing him, giving rise to images that left him aching in a way he'd never known.

  And there he was, thinking about her again. He shut off the water with a sharp movement, but still stood there for a moment, thinking.

  He'd never given much deep thought to the way he conducted the social side of his life. He'd often been teased about his supposed string of conquests, but it had never bothered him much. Yes, he played the field, but he'd never pretended not to. And he made the rules clear up front; if a woman thought she could convince him to change them, she was welcome to try, but he refused to feel guilty when she failed.

  His family—with his mother being the most vocal—had been nagging at him for years to find some nice girl and settle down. To "grow up," his oldest sister said. He had laughed them off, feeling no urge to join them in marital bliss. He was different, he told himself; he wasn't cut out to be tied down. He'd been convinced cops shouldn't, anyway, not when every day they walked out the door there was the chance they might not come back.

  At least he'd been convinced until Chance and Shea. They, and his godson, were the ones who had made him wonder. When Chance had one day told him he wasn't tied down, he'd been set free, Quisto had looked at his partner's once-haunted eyes and known it was the truth. And when he looked at Shea's, he knew she counted it well worth the risk.

  That was it, he thought firmly as he got out of the shower, toweled himself dry and dressed; it was the Buckners who had upset his equilibrium. Not Caitlin Murphy. And by the time he reached his mother's street, he had the strawberry blonde neatly tucked back into the category where she belonged, that of a concerned and somewhat unruly citizen who had gotten too caught up in a case. She needed protection, and to learn a little caution, but it wasn't up to him to take care of it.

  It lasted until he turned the corner.

  In the middle of the street were the same group of kids, minus Chico, playing the same game. And in the middle of them, her hair a fiery beacon in the morning sun, was Caitlin. She had a stick in her hand, and her eyes were fastened on the black-and-white ball with the fierce intensity she brought to everything. She was yelling and cheering as loudly as the kids, running as fast, spinning, turning, and when she blocked a goal—a goal being a hit off the fire hydrant at the exact end of the cul-de-sac—the
kids cheered her raucously.

  He felt like doing the same thing. And then he felt like plucking her out of that group of cheering children and spiriting her off somewhere private to explore the crazy feelings she caused in him. For a very long time.

  He shook his head, wishing that was all it would take to shake off these feelings. The task he'd set for himself was going to be tricky enough without that kind of distraction. He made quick work of his greetings to his mother, and Caitlin surrendered her stick to the smallest boy with a flourish. She was ready to go, anxious to get back to the Neutral Zone in time to open.

  "I don't want them to think they've scared me off" was all she said before lapsing into silence for the rest of the ride. Quisto ruefully acknowledged the accuracy of his earlier thought; no way would she just go home and stay there until this was over, one way or another.

  Quisto was grateful for her silence—he didn't feel up to small talk this morning—but he was edgy at the same time, wondering why she was so quiet. And why she kept glancing at him like that. Perhaps leaving her with his mother hadn't been such a great idea; who knew what kind of crazy things his mother had told her?

  But he hadn't had to worry about her last night, and that alone was worth a great deal. Just because he hadn't accomplished what he hoped to, it didn't change that.

  She gave him a rather puzzled look when he just dropped her off in back of the Zone.

  "I checked the building before I came to get you," he said. "Everything looks fine. I don't think they've been back."

  "Oh." She seemed to accept his explanation, and she unlocked the door.

  "If you need me, you've got my pager number."

  Something in her expression changed at his words, but she only nodded as she pulled the door open. He opened his mouth to go on, then shut it again. He started to get back into his car, then stopped.

  "Just let it rest for a while, will you? Please? Don't give then any reason to think you need more than a warning."

  He'd never pleaded with a woman before, and he didn't like doing it now, but his worry overpowered his pride. He would do, he realized rather grimly, just about anything to keep that brutal vision he'd had of her from coming true.

  Unexpectedly, she didn't argue with him. "I'll let it rest. For now."

  He was so glad she'd promised, he didn't even mind the qualifier. He'd deal with that when the time came. And if he got lucky, maybe that time wouldn't come at all.

  * * *

  So much for luck, Quisto thought. He'd been walking these streets for two solid days—and now into two nights, he thought, glancing at his watch and seeing that it was after nine—and nothing. He'd gotten a lot of looks, some wary, some speculative, but no one had approached him. No one had asked him who the hell he thought he was, moving through the Pack's territory as if he belonged.

  Maybe he'd taken the wrong approach. He started to head back to where he'd parked the BMW, rather blatantly, on a corner near Steele Street

  , wondering if going in as a typical gangster who'd had to leave his home turf for new environs would have been a better idea. Maybe he should be in baggy clothes and walking with that homeboy swagger.

  But he'd gone with his gut feel on this, the feel that the Pack saw far too many of those to want another one. And that he was a bit too old to carry it off without arousing suspicion; any gangster who survived to his age usually had his own niche carved out, and would die before leaving his neighborhood. So here he was, wearing carefully chosen clothes that stopped just short of being too flashy, topped with a black canvas duster-length coat that was too warm for summer weather, but made the impression he wanted. His hair was slicked back with gel, and although he hated the feel of it, he wanted to be recognizable. Noticeable. And he was getting noticed; it just wasn't having the results he wanted.

  He turned the corner and immediately changed his mind. Four men were waiting for him beside the Beemer.

  Two of them he'd never seen before, but the other two he recognized immediately; he'd seen mug shots of them when he and Chance began investigating Eddie's information that the Pack was looking to set up shop in Marina del Mar, and were going to start with a boatload of narcotics coming into the marina.

  The group, two Hispanics, a black and a Caucasian, were typical of the Pack's membership, looking hardened, tough and merciless. And right now, they weren't looking at him like they wanted to invite him for tea. He looked at each one assessingly. No visible weapons, but he had little doubt they carried them, concealed in any number of inventive ways. Although he'd forgone his pistol, he had a few weapons of his own tucked away here and there; a man would be a fool to walk these streets without them. Especially when his intention was to leap into the lion's den.

  "Alarico wants to see you."

  He turned his attention to the tall, gaunt man who'd spoken, one of the Hispanic men, whose eyes looked unnaturally wide and dark, and whose skin looked damp; Quisto wondered what he was on.

  "How nice. Let me just give you my card, and he can call for an appointment."

  The man's eyes flicked quickly to his companions, then back to Quisto in disbelief. He took a swipe at his runny nose. "He don't call punks like you. You go to him."

  "Not if that's the best he can do in the way of a gracious invitation," Quisto said.

  He heard a chuckle, and glanced at the source. The muscular black man's mouth was quirked upward at one corner. "Perhaps you should explain to our guest the honor he is being given by not being simply slaughtered right here."

  The man's voice was beautiful, low and pleasantly modulated, his words enunciated with a precision that was clearly natural and not studied. It made the threat somehow even more believable than any crude street language would have.

  "Shut up, Carny," the tall man said sharply. Then, back to Quisto: "Move it, pretty boy. The boss doesn't like to be kept waiting."

  "And I imagine it doesn't happen often, with this kind of charming escort."

  "Muévete, pendejo," the man snapped.

  Quisto wasn't sure he cared for the change from pretty boy to the untranslatable but far more insulting pendejo, but he chose not to dwell on the matter, or the order to move it.

  "Ah, amigo, when you ask so sweetly, how can I refuse?"

  The black man chuckled again, earning himself another dirty look from the tall one, which seemed not to faze him at all.

  They fell into a formation around him, two in front and two behind, and Quisto knew from the wordless efficiency with which it happened that this was not new to them. Perhaps this truly was Alarico's official welcoming party. He allowed himself a small bit of satisfaction; he'd obviously piqued the leader's curiosity, or he would have sent this band out to run him out of town, rather than bring him in. Or, as Carny had said, simply slaughter him where he stood. He knew the Pack's record well enough to know that that wasn't at all out of the realm of possibility.

  He didn't know exactly what he'd expected, but he knew the Pack's headquarters wasn't it. He hadn't been surprised when they turned onto Steele Street

  and led him toward a large warehouse, but he'd been beyond startled when he stepped inside and found what looked for all the world like a modern office.

  And a lot, he realized with a wry amusement, like a police station. A few desks, a couple of file cabinets, maps on the walls marked with colored pushpins, and several phones. Off in one corner was an entertainment center, where a big-screen television faced a couple of comfortable-looking couches.

  "Nice," Quisto said. "Who says crime doesn't pay?"

  "Shut up," the tall, thin man said as he planted a hand on Quisto's back and shoved him toward an open door that led to what had apparently once been a private office.

  Quisto whirled, crouched, and came up hard and fast with a fist into the thin man's belly. He heard the air whoosh out of the man's lungs in the same instant he heard the unmistakable sound of automatic weapons being readied. The thin man yowled as he stumbled backward, then fell. Quisto
didn't look at any of the three other men he was sure had drawn down on him. He kept his eyes fastened on the thin man, who was clutching his belly, shrieking his rage. Quisto stood and straightened his coat.

  "Don't ever," he said coldly, "touch me again."

  He turned his back on the man, knowing what would happen. It did; he heard the scrambling as the man regained his feet.

  "Don't try it, pendejo," Quisto said without turning around, "or I'll paint this pretty place with your blood."

  He heard a curse, low and exceedingly profane. He braced himself, ready to dive, gauging his room, wondering if the man would just shoot or, as he'd been counting on, feel the need to kill him with his bare hands.

  "Carlos! Enough!"

  The order, short and sharp, came from the doorway. The thin man stopped; Quisto heard the slight slipping of his feet as Carlos's run at his back came to an abrupt halt.

  "You'll have your chance later," the same voice said. "Now go."

  Quisto turned slowly, and gave the man in the doorway a slow once-over. About his own height, with a pockmarked face and a pair of brown eyes that were oddly pale, he wasn't overly impressive, but his aura of power was evident.

  "Alarico, I presume?" Quisto said.

  The man nodded, as if pleased he had known. Proud, Quisto thought, filing the knowledge away as a possible weak spot.

  "And you … do you have a name?"

  Quisto hesitated just long enough for the thought that he wasn't going to answer to form before he said easily, "Rafael will do."

  Alarico frowned. "Just Rafael?"

  "That's all you need for now. Unless you're going to write me a check."

  Alarico looked startled. Then he laughed. Quisto wished he could be a little more certain it was out of amusement, rather than malevolent intent.

  "Come in and sit down … Rafael." Alarico gestured toward the inner office. "We have … things to discuss."

  "Do we?"

  "Yes, we do."

  The words were cold, harsh, and Quisto knew the fun was over. He stepped obligingly into the room, wondering as Alarico followed and closed the door behind him if he would ever get out.