San Antonio Secret. Robin Perini
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course there happened to be another reason to locate himself a good distance from an airport, be it CTC’s private strip or a commercial facility. Rafe couldn’t fly to Denver on a whim.
To see her, the biggest mistake of his life.
Sierra was not someone he should be thinking about. Not now. Not ever.
Rafe parked the car across from the motel, scanning the lot’s perimeter. He’d stayed alive this long by being cautious, not doing the expected. This was his last night in Mertzon. He was getting too comfortable. Too recognizable. He’d move on tomorrow. Find another town, another motel. Another temporary home.
His first stop, to verify that the small slip of paper he’d inserted into the doorjamb earlier in the day hadn’t been moved.
He probably could’ve used some of CTC’s electronic toys, but sometimes low tech did the job better. And safer. No one could jam a paper’s nonexistent, electronic signal.
His gaze slid above the Do Not Disturb sign. Still there. Good. He rounded the building. The motel’s small office had hung out the Closed sign and locked the door. Evening church. Being in Mertzon was like going back in time fifty years. Rafe didn’t mind. Fewer people; fewer questions.
Once he’d completed his surveillance, and satisfied he hadn’t been located, he unlocked his small room and snagged a can of Texas-style chili out of a paper bag sitting in the corner. His movements smooth with practice, he disengaged a can opener from his utility knife and punctured the top, then headed back outside. He rested his dinner on the truck’s engine to heat up. Not exactly gourmet, but filling enough on an unusually warm January night.
Rafe pulled out a longneck bottle of beer from his ever-ready cooler and waited for his dinner to heat. He had this particular meal down to a science. At least he wasn’t living on protein bars. Or worse.
The curtain fluttered in the window of the room next to his. Rafe set down the beer and tensed, his hand easing toward his weapon. He’d stayed alive by never making any assumptions.
Seconds later the door cracked open, and a small head peeked through the opening.
Rafe relaxed and settled back against the truck. “Hi, Charlie.”
The seven-year-old boy looked down the row of doors one way, then the other, before tiptoeing out of the room, his eyes wide, staring at the chili bubbling on the engine.
“Whatcha doing, Mr. Vargas?”
“Fixing dinner. The diner’s closed.”
“Yeah, I know. Mama had to close up, then she went to clean the mayor’s house. She won’t be home until late.” The boy’s stomach growled.
“Wait here, Charlie,” Rafe said. He paused, raking his gaze up and down the kid in speculation. “Don’t go near the engine. It’s hot.”
Rafe strode back into the dingy motel room, with its Spartan furnishings. Digging into his supplies, he grabbed two spoons and a bowl.
The boy stood on his tiptoes peering at the chili, balanced precariously near the engine.
“Charlie,” Rafe’s voice warned, quiet so as not to startle the kid, but firm. “What did I tell you?”
He grimaced and scooted back. “I didn’t know you could cook like this. When we lived in our car last summer, we ate cold stuff.” He wrinkled his nose. “Cold peas don’t taste good. They’re mushy.”
“Better than being hungry.” Rafe snagged the chili with a napkin and poured half the meal into the bowl before handing it to Charlie.
“I guess,” the boy said, stirring the meal. He couldn’t quite take his eyes away from Rafe’s face. “Why do you wear a patch?”
The words sped from his mouth as if he’d been warned not to ask the question but couldn’t help himself.
Rafe blew on the chili and swallowed a bite. “Well, I got used to wearing it on the pirate ship...”
Charlie’s eyes grew wide with shock. “Really?”
Rafe adjusted the eye covering. “Nah. I was in the war. I got hurt, and it messed up my eye. It’s taking a long time to heal.” That was the fairy-tale version, of course. Fifteen men had died during the operation that had damaged his eye. It might never heal completely, but Rafe considered himself lucky to make it out alive.
“Are you a hero?” Charlie asked.
“No.”
“Oh.” The boy stared down at his dinner.
Rafe had disappointed the kid, but what could he say? The truth was much too complicated, so Rafe settled for another bite of dinner. The mild heat didn’t give him the kick he liked. He tapped in some Tabasco Habanero Sauce. Another bite. Now that was more like it. He glanced over at Charlie’s rapt expression. “Want some?”
Charlie grinned and held out his bowl.
Rafe hesitated. “You sure?”
“Yeah.”
Rafe dropped a smidgen onto the chili nestled in the boy’s spoon. Charlie swallowed a big bite. Immediately he started coughing. His ears turned red; his eyes widened. Rafe bit his inner cheek to hide a rare grin. He patted Charlie on the back and handed him a cold bottle of water from the cooler.
The kid chugged it down. “I don’t like that stuff,” he squeaked, shoving the chili at Rafe.
“I think you got the worst of it.” Rafe ignored the boy’s outstretched hand. “It’s safe. I promise.”
With a suspicious gaze into the bowl, Charlie stuck out his tongue, swiping the meat and beans for a tentative taste. “It’s okay.”
“Eat up.”
“Thanks, Mr. Vargas.” Charlie downed half the bowl, then stared at the remainder. “I’ll save the rest for Mama. Her boss wouldn’t let her bring leftovers home tonight.”
“Tell you what, Charlie. You finish your dinner. I’ve got enough for your mom.”
The little boy grinned and ran back to his room. Charlie was a good kid. Rafe sighed. He just prayed the next few years gave Charlie and his mom a few breaks. Rafe knew from firsthand experience how easy it could be to go down the wrong path.
Charlie returned with a chocolate snack cake. “Today is January 31. I’m seven today, and Mama bought me a couple of cupcakes.” He tore one in two and handed it to Rafe. “This is for you.”
“Thank you, Charlie.” Rafe didn’t know if he’d be able to choke down the cake, but Charlie’s proud expression decided for him. “So, do you go for the frosting or the filling first?”
“Cake first.” Charlie bit at the bottom of the dessert.
“I’m a filling man,” Rafe said.
A few bites later the dessert was gone. “Your birthday, huh?” Rafe turned to his SUV and reached into the glove box. He pulled out a yo-yo and turned back to Charlie. “Happy birthday.”
The boy reached out his hand and touched the toy with tentative fingers. “It’s mine?”
“Someone gave me one when I was a little older than you.” Rafe wedged his finger into the slipknot and executed a couple of throw downs. He went into a Sleeper, then Rock the Baby. “Now you try.”
Rafe coached Charlie for a half an hour. A car rattled into the motel parking lot. Charlie looked over and bit his lip. “It’s Mama. I’m not s’posed to leave the room.”
A tired-looking woman exited the clunker vehicle. “Charlie Ripkin, exactly what do you think you’re doing?”
“Look, Mama. Mr. Vargas gave me a birthday present.”
She ruffled her son’s hair. “Thank Mr. Vargas. You have to go to