Revenge Read online

  “You don’t get to do this, Mark!” I reach up and grab his nipple, twisting it. He grunts, but doesn’t let go of me. Damn it. Nothing I do works.

  And then he drops me on the ground like a sack of potatoes.

  “Ow! Why’d you do that?”

  He shrugs and gives me the thousand mile stare. You know the look. The one cops give you as you complain about the speeding ticket they’re giving you.

  That look.

  “Because you wanted me to put you down.”

  I stand up slowly and rub my sore butt. “Not like that.”

  “Pardon me for not meeting your every whim, Oh Queen, while I try to save your life,” he says through gritted teeth. His eyes look like a pale fire, blazing in the sunshine, his hair half wet and half dusty from the desert dirt.

  We look like something out of a sad part of a Mad Max movie.

  “Sarcasm? Seriously, Mark? With me? You’re the one who lied to me for three years. You lied about who you are, you lied about what I meant to you, you lied and you lied and you finally tell me the truth—”

  His eyes go uncertain suddenly.

  “—and I let you in. Oh, my God!” I pick up a rock and wing it at his head.

  He has really, really good reflexes. Mark just moves subtly, six inches to the left. It whizzes by.

  “I gave myself to you last night. This morning—”

  “I remember,” he says thickly. “I can still smell you. Taste you.”

  My anger turns into a tangled ball of string with a big, heaping dose of arousal mixed in for fun.

  Urg. All my words become a whirling dervish.

  I hate him and I want to ride him, all at the same time.

  “And because you’re still on me, lingering on my skin, scraping against my lips, infused in my fingertips, my mouth, and all of the rest of me,” he says softly, looking down at me. Mark’s words stop. He looks up and I follow his gaze.

  The other cop has Eric handcuffed and is stuffing him into the police cruiser. Hard. I hear Eric make a sound of pain.

  Mark makes a hmph sound and turns his attention to me. It feels like a laser of intensity aimed straight at my soul. His hands flex with tension and his arms are slick with water and sweat. He looks so masculine. So powerful.

  All male, all fight, all primal.

  “And because of that, Carrie, there’s no fucking way I’m letting you get away again,” he adds. “And I’m sure as hell not letting those bastards steal you and turn you into one of those—”

  My chest is heaving from exertion. My arms feel like they’re ten feet long. Whatever this day was supposed to become has unraveled. All I know right now is that Mark is being some over-controlling man who doesn’t even resemble the person I know, and I just tried to kick him in the nuts and threw a rock at his head.

  We’re both doing a great job of being anyone but the real us.

  “One of those what?” His last few words ricochet around in my head.

  He reaches for his squawking radio. I can’t make out the words but I’m pretty sure it’s his partner. I take a good, long look at Mark. I lick my lips. I can’t help it.

  Even exhausted, baking in the hot sun, dragged through this weird little mirage and half wet, half muddy, I stand here in awe of him. My body aches from sex with him just a few hours ago. I have thighs that quivered from the brush of his cheeks against them as his mouth went to places so intimate I blush at the thought.

  My fingers wrapped around his private flesh. Guided his body into mine. We stroked and thrust, arched and gasped, drawn together by instinct and kept together by need.

  And now he’s being a caveman and I’m standing here drooling?

  “One of those what?” I repeat, finding my voice.

  “Huh?” He seems genuinely confused.

  “A minute ago, you said you wouldn’t let me be turned into ‘one of those’—what, Mark? What aren’t you telling me?”

  Ah. There it was. That instantaneous uncertainty that ripples through his face sometimes when he’s deciding whether to lie.

  White rage fills me again.

  “You are still lying to me,” I hiss.

  The other cop comes right up to us as my last words light across the air like an arc of electricity. Mark’s eye widen and a message passes between us.

  Don’t say anything.

  I’m tempted not to follow that order. I’m not exactly in the mood to do as told. But then:

  “Joe says they found another van load. Seventeen of them,” the officer murmurs to Mark.

  “Fuck!” Mark shouts.

  “Van of what?” I look at the officer’s name tag. Murphy. Can’t read his first name. Not that I care right now. I open my mouth. My lips stick together. I realize I’m parched. Desperately thirsty. Aside from the coffee and the apple I threw up a few minutes ago, I haven’t had anything to eat or drink. And before everything went crazy with Mark and guns and running and our fight, I cried all the available moisture out of my body.

  I’m dehydrated. I’m tired.

  I’m done.

  Murphy looks at Mark, who shakes his head just slightly enough to push me over the top.

  “You bastards! Both of you!”

  Murphy gives me a look that says no one ever calls him bastard.

  “You’re hiding information from me that I need!” I bend down and pick up a rock.

  “She’s not planning to throw that at you, is she, Officer Paulson?” Murphy asks. He looks familiar. Maybe someone’s older brother? Murphy. Wait. I remember a Murphy in high school. Geeky band kid. Played tuba.

  “She’s a little unstable,” Mark says with a grin, folding his arms across his chest. He’s practically daring me to hit him.

  “She’d be assaulting an officer if she threw that at you.”

  I stop my arm.

  Damn. He’s got a good point.

  But then again, is Mark technically really a police officer? He told me he’s undercover. That means he’s a federal agent with the DEA pretending to be a cop.

  Is it okay to assault a federal agent?

  Even if it’s illegal, I don’t care. I’m done. So done with this day.

  “Why are you harassing me and Eric when there are women who need to be rescued?” I shout at both of them.

  They share a look.

  “I am rescuing a woman,” Mark says slowly. “You.”

  “I don’t need to be rescued! Eric just showed up while I was puking and crying.”

  Mark’s eyes change so fast. “You were sick? That’s why you stopped the car?”

  “Uh, Officer Paulson?” Murphy asks. I know they use each others titles when they’re around the public. “What are we booking the guy in the back of the squad car for? What charges?”

  Mark gives me a hard look and says, “Assault.”

  “He didn’t assault me!” I protest.

  “Because he didn’t get a chance to because Murph and I got to you before he could!” Mark’s words blast at me like a huge burst of heat.

  “So now you’re charging people with pre-crime? It’s like I’m in a sci-fi movie!” I shout back.

  “Women are aliens, so that would make sense,” Murphy mutters.

  “Shut up!” Mark and I shout at him in unison. At least we agree on something.

  Mark makes a disgusted sound in the back of his throat. He plants his hands on his hips and runs one tight hand through his hair. Mud falls off in droplets.

  “Shit,” he says slowly, looking at the ground. He’s obviously thinking. “I guess we have to let him go.”

  “He didn’t hurt you?” Murphy asks me quietly.

  I shake my head.

  “Not one little bit?” Murphy pries.

  “If you have to arrest anyone for hurting me,” I say through gritted teeth, “you should arrest Officer Paulson. Look at me! He tackled me!”

  Murphy gives me a slow up and down look. He’s so careful in his inventory of my body that I start to feel uncomfortable. You kno
w the phrase, “He undressed me with his eyes”?

  Murphy looks like he’s undressing me with his eyes, his hands, his nose, his mouth...

  “Enough!” Mark thunders, giving Murphy a shove. “No one’s charging anyone with anything. And I never laid a finger on Carrie.”

  “Not true!”

  “Not an assaulting finger.”

  “Not true, either!”

  “You want to press charges, Carrie?” Murphy asks me.

  “Against who?” I squeak.

  Murphy jabs his thumb towards Mark. Mark gives him an incredulous look. I can tell Murphy’s trying not to laugh.

  I suddenly like Murphy a lot more.

  Chapter Thirteen

  I pretend I’m actually considering it.

  “Oh, c’mon, Carrie,” Mark says with disgust. “Don’t even joke about it.”

  “Will he have to wear handcuffs?” I ask Murphy, completely ignoring Mark.

  “I can cuff him, ma’am, if you consider him a danger.”

  We both turn and look at Mark.

  “You’re serious?” he says to no one and everyone. Actually, he looks up at the sky, like God’s playing a sick joke on him.

  Huh. Maybe He is.

  “You’ve taken a simple situation and turned it into a nightmare, Mark! From jumping me in the parking lot yesterday to—”

  “Whoa, whoa, whoa—hold on there.” Murphy’s face tightens. He moves, his face shadowed now, and I can see him better. He puts himself between me and Mark. He’s beefy and short, the opposite of Mark. Bald head. Clean shaven. Bright blue eyes, keen and sharp, shine out from under the brim of his uniform hat.

  “You attacked her in a parking lot yesterday, Officer Paulson?” Those last two words come out with some bite.

  “It’s not what you think,” Mark protests. He shoots me a look that says, Help me out here.

  “The perps always say that,” Murphy replies.

  “Whose side are you on?” Mark roars, turning toward him, fists flexing.

  “The law’s side,” Murphy says in a deadly voice.

  Oh, great. Now I have to break up a fight between two cops who are fighting over...what? Not me. Over—

  “Hey! Hey! Get me out of here! Carrie! Help!” Eric’s voice floats on the wind.

  The three of us turn toward him. Murphy scowls.

  Not at Eric.

  At Mark.

  “I’m releasing him,” Murphy says.

  Mark makes a sound like a caged animal. Three years ago, he was the most reasonable guy in the world. Charming. Sweet. Easygoing and casual.

  This Mark? This Mark is a neanderthal.

  “Fine,” he barks. “But you warn him. If he comes anywhere near Carrie again, I’ll—”

  “You’ll what?” I challenge.

  “He’ll regret it,” Mark declares. The sun is shining behind him. His face is obscured. If I could meet his eyes I’m sure I could see a killer instinct for blood in there. Eric’s blood.

  Murphy just stares at Mark, like he’s studying him. “Easy, there,” he finally says. “You need to be careful what you say about a citizen who’s done nothing wrong.”

  “He’s done plenty wrong,” Mark shoots back.

  “How do you know?” Murphy and I say in unison.

  “I—” Mark struggles to say something, and a cold wave of misery washes over me. He can’t say anything. What he knows comes from being a DEA agent, and Murphy has no idea.

  Sympathy replaces the misery in me. Mark lives all these different lives inside the same, single body. It must be hard. So hard.

  “Eric’s fine,” I say, stepping between the two officers and putting my hand on Murphy’s forearm. He jolts, but doesn’t move it. Those blue eyes meet mine, fierce and intense. “Let him go. I’ll talk to him at work on Monday and clear this all up.”

  “You will not talk to him,” Mark demands.

  I ignore him. Murphy gives me a curt nod and walks back to the squad car.

  “Carrie!” Mark shouts.

  “Mark!” I shout back, mimicking him. “What is wrong with you?”

  “You have no idea what Eric is involved in.”

  “You keep saying that, but then you don’t tell me anything.”

  I watch in my peripheral vision as Murphy helps Eric out of the back of the car, undoes the handcuffs, and sends him back to his car. Within fifteen seconds Eric peels out, his tires screeching away.

  “Good riddance to bad trash,” Mark says.

  Murphy walks back, a sick look on his face. “Scanner says they got another one.”

  Mark’s eyes dart everywhere but to me. “WHAT?” he bellows.

  “Yeah. This one has no arms, no legs, and...” his words die out as Murphy looks at me. He closes his mouth like a steel trap.

  “What?” I ask. “And what?”

  “And another three women have gone missing. Reported at various times in the middle of the night, and this morning. All of them from parking lots or...” His words die out again and he looks at Mark. Then at my car.

  Then at me.

  “What Murphy’s trying to say,” Mark says to me in a voice filled with acid, “is that these motherfuckers are stealing women from parking lots and the side of the road.”

  I look over at my car.

  “Right. Am I still overreacting?” Mark snaps at me. “They’re disappearing from roadside assistance situations. I’m driving along, headed out for a meeting about the killings, and I see your car by the side of the road, and find you with fucking Eric! The guy I warned you to stay away from!”

  “Why?” I plead. “What’s so bad about Eric?”

  Mark glares at Murphy, who takes the hint and saunters back to the police car.

  “You want me to be honest?” he asks in a quiet voice.

  “Yes.”

  “Brutally honest?”

  “Yes!”

  “Carrie, I don’t think Ignatio Landau has anything to do with a drug ring. Not any more. If he is a drug lord, it’s an extra. A thing to do on the side. I think he’s doing something much, much worse.”

  “What’s worse than turning a university into a giant drug operation and then framing my dad for it?” I ask, incredulous.

  “He’s a sex slave trafficker.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  I’m speechless.

  Mark and Murphy’s brief conversation explodes in my mind like a giant firework in the sky.

  Van load.

  Seventeen of them.

  “He’s kidnapping women and turning them into sex slaves?” I ask. The words seem unreal. Are they really coming out of my mouth?

  Mark shakes his head. “No. Worse. He’s smuggling them across the Mexican border and then selling them off. He uses them as drug mules first. We’ve had three of them die from having plastic bags they swallowed burst inside them, killing them with overdoses.”

  “Wait. What? Explain that.” My words feel like little bubbles, floating out of my mouth and toward the sun.

  “He kidnaps women in Mexico. His henchmen do. Then he forces them to swallow small plastic balloons of drugs. They cross the border through some sort of network—we’re not sure. We think there are underground tunnels somehow, but we can’t prove much of it. They surface, he gets the drugs out of them, then he sells the women off into the sex trade. Some of them are as young as eleven.” Mark looks sick.

  “That’s real?” My eyes feel like they’re popping out of my head. “I thought that was just some urban legend people spread. You mean people seriously do that? Here in America?”

  Mark’s looking at me like I just fell off the turnip truck. “There’s no atrocity that goes on anywhere in the world that isn’t also happening right here in the United States, Carrie.”

  If he’d slapped me I couldn’t have been more shocked.

  We live in southern California. People cross the border all the time illegally, normally coming from the south to the north. They search for jobs, a better life, more opportunitie
s.

  The idea that Dean Landau is involved in trafficking women across the border to act as drug mules and then as sex slaves makes my nausea come back.

  Too many pieces make sense now.

  “Amy?” My voice sounds like rust come to life. “Is Amy being sold into—is she going to be a—oh, God.”

  He braces himself. I can see it through the caked-on mud, through his anger, through his struggle to decide how much to say and how much to keep to himself.

  Then his shoulders drop.

  “I don’t know. We’re doing everything we can to track down these fuckers,” he snaps. Rage twists his face into a kind of determination that makes me feel hope. His shoulders rise again and he gives me a steady look.

  “And I do know one thing.”

  “What?”

  “They’re never getting you.”

  Mark’s walkie-talkie makes a weird sound and he picks it off his belt, murmurs into it, and then Murphy flashes his lights.

  Eyeing me up and down, Mark gives me a look that says nine emotions all at once.

  “I’ll walk you to your car,” he finally says with a sigh, reaching for my arm.

  I drop the rock I’d forgotten I was holding.

  “Whew,” he says with sarcasm.

  I roll my tongue in my cheek but say nothing.

  By the time we’re back at my car, I feel deflated. I’m supposed to go work at the animal shelter and rescue Cindy as she struggles to hold the place together, but I’m filthy, exhausted, dehydrated, and so emotionally tapped out all I want to do is cry under a moonlit night while eating Xanax-flavored chocolate fudge ice cream.

  Mark stops at my car door. I look up at him. The sun is high in the sky now, and he moves just enough to block it.

  Those eyes. Oh, those ferocious eyes. He’s loving and protecting and defending and warning and needing me with those eyes.

  “I’ll be careful,” I concede. “I still think what you did to Eric is horrible, though.”

  “If he’s in as deep as I think he is with Landau, then what I did to him is a cakewalk compared to what he’s doing to help kidnap and enslave thousands of women in Landau’s network.”

  I shudder. How can you shudder in ninety-degree heat?

  I do anyhow.

  Mark’s walkie-talkie makes feedback noises again and Murphy waves impatiently.