Jo Robertson - The Traitor

He undid the first two buttons to run his fingers along the swell of her breasts at the top of her brassiere. When he followed with his mouth, he felt her shudder in his arms and wondered if she'd climax from just this much. He felt the painful, hard thrust of his erection against his slacks and pulled her onto his lap, continuing his assault on her mouth and neck. God, she felt so good, tasted so delicious.

Bella squirmed in his lap and he knew she could feel the hard, hot thrust of him against her ass. He reached inside her bra and caressed one breast, lightly pinching the nipple between his thumb and forefinger. She moaned and began her own assault of his jaw and neck.

He flipped her on her back and quickly ripped off his shirt and undershirt before he stretched out on the sofa, half covering her body with his own. He framed her face with his hands, holding himself off her body with his elbows. His breathing was labored and unsteady.

"What are we doing here, Torres?" he muttered.

"I don't know. I don't care," she answered, eyes closed as she kissed him hard, her tongue smooth and urgent in his mouth.

God, she was like a drug. He couldn't keep his hands off her, couldn't leave her alone. He wouldn't be satisfied until he was deep inside that sweet, soft body, until he pounded away at her like -

An annoying buzz sounded in his pants pocket.

Diego Vargas' office in downtown Sacramento was a visual testament to every immigrant who'd made a better life in the land of the free and the home of the brave. The surroundings of the councilman's office showed his Mexican heritage and his powerful connections to California's movers and shakers, Latinos and gringos alike.

Gabriel Santos disliked being summoned here, especially at this ungodly hour of the morning after a long week of driving many miles up and down the state. He wondered privately why Vargas could not have conducted this business at his home instead of having Santos pick him up in the Cadillac and accompany him downtown.

After they entered the office, Santos remained standing while Diego sat in a stiff-backed chair behind the impressive dark wood desk, signing papers and ignoring his attorney's presence. Glancing around the room, the attorney noted the new addition to Vargas' desk – a family photo. The councilman never kept pictures in the office except political ones, him with the governor and various congressmen, with celebrities, even of him with César Chávez when Diego was a boy.

The new photo was of Vargas and Corazon, his eleven-year-old daughter, a recent picture because Cory wore new braces on her teeth and tried to hide her smile. Diego had his arm around her shoulder, holding her tight against his barrel chest.

And where was Vargas' wife Magdalena in this family picture?

Finally Vargas signed the last document with a flourish and looked up. "The RICO charges have been dropped?" he asked, continuing the thread of the discussion they'd begun as they drove from Vargas' mansion to downtown.

"Sí, we knew the feds were not going to be able to prove them." Santos crossed his arms and shifted his weight onto the balls of his feet. "But from last year, the rape charges – "

"That was completely bogus!" Vargas' thick brows drew together in a scowl as he interrupted. "You told me the girl agreed to silence, and the D.A.'s office has not pursued the allegations."

"They haven't, El Vaquero, but that is what bothers me."

"Why should that bother you?" Vargas shoved back impatiently from his desk, his ample gut stretched over his belt. "It is good, no?"

"The Bigler County D.A.'s office had too much evidence to drop the charges, but they did not follow the investigation. One has to wonder why that is, considering Sheriff Slater is usually like a bulldog with a bone."

"I do not fucking care why," Vargas growled as he pushed out of his chair and moved to stand chest to belly with Santos. "There are more pressing matters."

Santos willed his face into granite, a trick he had a great deal of practice with. "What matters?"

"Another overdose, some stupid college kids."

"Local?"

"Granite Heights at Beale's Lake."

Santos shrugged. "They will not be able to tie the charges to us. Our protection runs too deep."

"¡Chingada! Maybe in L.A., but not here!" As Vargas shouted, spittle dotted Santos' tie and shirt front. Diego raised his meaty fist as if he would strike. "Take care of it. Get rid of the dealer," he ground out. He spun on his heels and stalked back to his desk, sinking heavily into the leather chair.

Santos wiped his hand discreetly over his chest. Vargas threatened and blustered, but he would never strike Santos. Even El Vaquero knew which lines not to cross with his bodyguard. Santos tried again to persuade his pig-headed boss. "Such reactionary steps are not necessary, El Jefe , and they may bring more attention to the situation that we wish."

"¡No cuido! I don't care. Get rid of the dealer." He passed over a folded note. "Here is the address. Do it yourself. I do not wish to have loose ends." He swiveled his chair towards the window and ignored Santos while he quietly left the office.

Ay, some day Diego would go too far. Wounds had been festering within Santos for over twenty years and the pus of their infection was a grievous lesion on his body. One day he must lance the abscess and cut out the pustule to cleanse it. He did not look forward to that day – Santos was a man to avoid overt trouble – but neither did he fear it.

Downstairs in the parking lot, he pulled the sepia photo from his jacket. The pickup and delivery of the girl in the picture had been the first important assignment he had completed for Diego Vargas many years ago. Santos had been a young man then, eager to make his mark, hungry for far more than food to fill his belly.

New to this country, he nevertheless had many years of practice at thuggery in Mexico. Huge and strong like an ox even as a young man in his late teens, he had honed his skills in the fires of Mexico's slums.

But he never forgot the young girl, those large dark eyes, huge in her frightened face, the slender body and full breasts. Her name was Maria and she was seventeen. Vargas was a fat pig of a man even then, and he liked his girls young.

A moment passed before Rafe identified the sound that had interrupted them. Cold reality washed over him, and he saw the same mood-breaker in Isabella's wide, chocolate eyes. Reluctantly, he rolled off her and sat on the edge of the sofa, slanting a look her way.

After the fourth ring he flipped open the cell phone and barked into the receiver. "Hashemi."

Slater's voice sounded equally loud over the phone and by the look on Bella's face, Rafe knew she could hear Slater's words. She furiously shook her head.

"Trouble here, Mr. Agent-Man," the sheriff said in his deep, slow drawl. "Better get out here pronto."

"Drugs?"

"Yeah, maybe more of the China White."

"Where?"

"Beale's Lake. Get directions from Torres."

Rafe turned to glance at Bella whose look clearly said, how did he know?

"Give me her address," Rafe covered. "I'll pick her up."

"Sure." Slater's voice sounded puzzled, but Rafe couldn't tell if that was real or he was fishing. "But I got the impression she was with you."

"Why the hell would Torres be with me? She can hardly stand me." Rafe wasn't about to let the sheriff know what'd happened between them tonight. Or that he was sitting on her sofa right now. At her house. At this hour.

"No reason," Slater said cryptically and rattled off the address that Rafe already knew.

He closed the phone and put it back in his pocket, not looking at Torres as he put his shirt back on. "There's another drug death." He ran his fingers through his hair in a quick attempt at combing.