The Agent's Secret Child. B.J. Daniels
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might have been made to look like Abby, but she couldn’t be made to think like her, when suddenly, the pace picked up.
No more sleepy little Mexican town. No dozing, waiting for something to happen. In a matter of seconds, the motel-room doors began to fly open followed by loud curses as patrons stumbled out into the square.
Jake stared down at the commotion. Smoke rolled out of the doors of the rooms as if the entire motel was on fire.
He let out a curse, staring in disbelief as he came fully awake himself. Four of the five motel-room doors stood open, smoke pouring out. Couples stood in skimpy clothing or nothing at all, coughing and cursing, several of the men trying to hide their faces.
The motel was a brothel!
The noisy excitement brought onlookers from the cantina and the church and the motel office. Ramon Hernandez was one of the people who rushed out into the square. And the man he’d had watching the back of the motel ran around to see what was happening, as well.
Instantly, Jake saw that he had two big problems. Ramon’s men had blended in with the small crowd gathering outside the motel. Shooting into this bunch was out of the question. So was getting to Isabella Montenegro and the kid without having to confront Ramon and his men. The odds had suddenly changed.
The second problem was that Isabella and Elena Montenegro weren’t among the guests who’d tumbled out of the rooms. In fact, only the one motel-room door was still closed and he could see smoke curling from around its edges.
Where there is smoke there’s—
He swore again and dove for the balcony and fire escape. Either Isabella and the kid were still in the motel room, dying of smoke inhalation or—
He rounded the back corner of the motel in time to see a woman and a small child scurrying down the alley, their heads draped with wet bath towels like veils, smoke trailing after them.
As he passed the small open bathroom window that the pair had just come out of, he realized he hadn’t given the woman enough credit. He shook his head as he took off after her. Who was this woman?
ISABELLA HAD FOUND the flammable kitchen cleaner under the sink. Her gaze had leapt to the bathroom window, then to the metal grate in the ceiling. Standing on the night table with a kitchen knife, she’d been able to pry the grate open. Sure enough, it was an air vent and she suspected it ran the length of the motel. At least she hoped so.
She climbed down and, taking the assortment of threadbare towels from the bathroom, she soaked all but the two largest and thickest with the cheap cleaning fluid. From beside the two-burner gas stove, she’d taken the box of matches and a candle she’d found next to the stove.
“I’m going to need your help,” she’d said to her daughter.
Elena had nodded solemnly and looked up at the open metal grate as if she already knew what her mother needed her to do.
JAKE FOUND the discarded wet towels still reeking of smoke a few blocks from the motel.
But just when he was starting to think Isabella might not be as dumb as he’d first thought, she disappointed him. She made a serious mistake. She tried to flag down a bus.
Didn’t she realize Ramon’s men would stop and search the bus as soon as they realized she wasn’t in the motel room? Apparently not. Either that, or the bus was the best plan she could come up with on short notice.
He wondered how she’d gotten this far as he watched her from a distance, debating what to do. He didn’t have to debate long.
The roar of an engine preceded the dust-colored van he’d seen parked behind the church earlier. One of Ramon’s men was driving, another riding shotgun. Jake guessed the others were in the back. He wondered where Ramon was.
He looked back at the bus and the two figures running to catch up with the slowing vehicle. Dust churned up under the wheels, the tiny sun-soaked particles sparkling against the desolate background.
Jake swore as the van careened around the corner, headed straight for him and the bus. Isabella Montenegro and the kid had just run out of luck.
He lifted the rifle from under the serape he wore and, taking careful aim, squeezed off a shot. Boom. The right front tire blew. The van began to rock and reel out of control. One of the men hurled himself out the passenger side of the van just before it hit a low rock wall with a resounding crash. Steam billowed up from the badly crumpled front end and the engine died with a final groan.
Jake turned. The bus had stopped, the door open. But Isabella and the child were no longer next to it. Had she foolishly gotten in, thinking there was safety in numbers? Surely not.
Off to his right, he caught a glimpse of movement and saw a woman running with a child in her arms. He had to give the woman her due. She could move flat-out when she had to.
He ducked into an alley. He’d cut her off and get her to hell out of this town before she got herself and the kid killed. Or worse, got him killed as well.
ISABELLA ROUNDED a corner at a run, the sound of the gunshots and the crash still ringing in her ears, and skidded to a stop at the sight of the man blocking the alley.
He stood in the middle of the narrow alleyway, boots apart, arms at his side, just yards from her. He wore a serape. She could make out enough of the short-barreled rifle’s shape under the thick woven cloth to know he was armed. She knew he was dangerous because she recognized him.
He wore a hat pulled down low. It shaded his face, as did the sunless alley. But she didn’t need to see his face clearly to know who he was.
Right now, he looked like one of those gunfighter heroes from an old spaghetti western. But she didn’t fool herself that this man was any kind of hero.
From the instant she saw him, it happened within seconds. She stopped running and shot a look over her shoulder. She could hear curses and running footfalls and knew Calderone’s men were close behind her.
She hugged Elena to her and swung her gaze back to the man blocking the alley. FBI agent Jake Cantrell.
He hadn’t moved, but he looked like he could in an instant. And would. She heard Calderone’s men, close now. Any moment they’d come around the corner of the building but suddenly they seemed less dangerous than the man facing her.
She started to turn and run back toward Calderone’s men, but didn’t get two strides before strong fingers closed over her arm and jerked her and Elena into a recessed doorway.
“Don’t make a sound,” Jake Cantrell warned as he flattened them against the wall with his body.
She could feel the solid steel of the rifle barrel pressed against one breast, the business end tucked up under her chin, cold and deadly. “Silencio,” she whispered to Elena.
She couldn’t see Jake’s face because of the way he had her pinned to the wall with his body and his weapon. But she could feel the coarse fabric of the serape against her cheek and the stark incongruity of the cold rifle barrel and the warmth where his body pressed against hers. She could also smell him. Dust. Sweat. Cedar. Soap. And an undentifiable dangerous male scent that filled her senses like an admonition.
The running footfalls stopped at the mouth of the alley. She could hear just enough of the hurried discussion among Calderone’s men to know that they were desperate to find her and Elena. Ramon was furious, and if they came back without the woman and child—
Jake lifted her chin a little with the end of the rifle barrel.
Her fear made enough room for a pulse of anger. Why did he feel he had to threaten her further? Wasn’t holding her at gunpoint sufficient? Holding her against a rough rock wall with his body and his weapon?
But she concealed the anger quickly, just as she’d learned to do with Julio.
Calderone’s men moved on, running again, the sound of their retreat finally drowned out by the pounding of