Jo Robertson - The Traitor

Without knowing she would do it, she stood suddenly, ventured toward the bar stool where her purse still lay, and retrieved her cell phone. She punched Slater's number on speed dial.

"Why do you wish so badly to catch Diego Vargas?" He spoke at her ear, startling her.

She ended the connection. "What?"

His gruff voice softened, taking on the tone of a priest or therapist. "What sin has El Vaquero committed to make your fight with him so personal?"

She dropped the phone back in her purse, feeling like a young girl caught in a misdeed. "There's nothing personal," she retorted. "I'm just doing my job, the task of putting scumbags like your boss away for a very long time."

Santos' laugh was a booming eruption from his barrel chest. "You should not use such fiery words when you are trying to persuade me of something, pequeno guerrero."

Little warrior! The reference to her small stature irritated her, and she scowled at him.

Santos read the precise moment when Isabella's decision reflected in her face. A conciliatory look came first. He marked her struggle between resignation and determination, and admired her strength and hardiness.

Sitting on the barstool, she clutched her handbag on her lap, while he walked around the counter to stand opposite her.

"I don't care about the drugs," she confessed, staring out the patio window to the dark night of the city.

"Oh? What do you care about, Isabella?" He called her by her first name, turning the power balance back to himself. She was too intelligent not to realize what he was doing, but she responded anyway.

"The girls," she whispered, "I care what happens to the young girls."

"They are hardly babies," he countered, although he knew in his heart this was not true. They were all bebés in much the same way as Magdalena's Corizon was an infant. Certainly all of them were innocent. Although they did not remain innocent for long.

"Why should you care so much for poor Mexican girls you do not even know?" Santos forced mockery into his voice so that he would not feel her pain.

She hunched her shoulders and slid off the bar stool. "I lost someone. A long time ago."

He strained to hear her voice.

"I know what it means to lose someone you love."

Santos knew the emotion raging in her face was genuine. She could not be such a good actress as to fool him. Imposible. "What do you propose, Ms. ADA?"

"Full immunity in exchange for Vargas."

He roared with laughter. " ¡Un qué idiota usted debe pensarme! What an idiot – "

"I understand Spanish," she snapped. "And I don't think you're an idiot, Mr. Santos."

"To betray the man for whom I have worked nearly twenty years? What could possibly induce me to commit such folly?"

"Complete immunity from prosecution," she repeated, standing taller.

"Pero." He smiled and spread his hands as if at the antics of a very young child. "But that is what I have now."

Isabella turned fierce again, the combatant preparing to attack. "We will catch Vargas," she spat, her nostrils flaring, "and when we do, you will go down with him. Hard. Your hands are very bloody and you will have to pay a price for that."

Santos sat on the bar stool she'd just vacated, his knees nearly bumping her leg. "Let me tell you a story, Ms. Torres."

He interlocked" his fingers between his legs. "When I was a young boy, my father was arrested by the federales. Starved. Beaten. Tortured."

She slumped against the counter, staring at him, her face ashen, her body taut.

"My father would not tell them what they wished to know." He shrugged. "Finally, they brought my mother and my sister into the village plaza. 'We will rape and murder them in front of you,' they said, 'if you do not give us the information we need.' He confessed, of course."

Santos smiled without joy. "You see, él creyó sus promesas."

"He believed their promises," Isabella repeated.

"Sí, but they cut off his penis and stuffed it in his mouth anyway. He bled to death."

Isabella shuddered and Santos knew that his story had made its point. "What happened to your mother and sister?"

"I do not need to tell you that, do I?"

She remained silent, her dark eyes wide and incredibly beautiful.

"So, I ask again, how do I know I can trust you to keep your word?"

She acted as though she would not answer. After a moment she slung her bag over her shoulder and walked to the foyer, composing herself, he believed. There she turned and stared at him across the room. A steely look had returned to her face.

"Look into my eyes and tell me you don't believe me," she said. "I don't lie."

"All attorneys lie," he smiled. "I know this better than anyone."

He sighed heavily and stretched his big body as if he were bored with the whole conversation. "But I will take your proposal into consideration."

"Don't take too long," she warned. "I may regret my generous impulse. The deal won't be on the table forever." She slammed the door behind her when she left.

Santos gazed at the closed door for a very long time. "Touché," he said to no one.

Eventually he cleared away the remains of the dinner and sat out on the patio to disassemble his weapons. After he had cleaned them, he stored them in the cutaway behind the kitchen sink. These tasks were merely ploys to avoid looking at the picture, but he would not let his curiosity rule him.

Finally, he prepared for sleep. He sat on the edge of the bed, retrieved the snapshot from his nightstand, and lay down to examine the worn photo. Every detail of what Vargas had done to the girl for a period of five years flashed through his memory, and with them, a rage so unfamiliar he could not breathe for the storm of it.

A vague glimmer of an idea stirred within him, but he thrust it aside. ¡Es imposible!

Nonetheless, tomorrow he would search the public records. He would find out who Isabella Torres once loved so much and lost long ago.

When Bella pulled into the driveway of her small bungalow, she recognized the car parked at the curb. She punched the remote control to raise the garage door and eased her compact car into the tiny space. Through her rearview mirror, she watched as Rafe climbed out of his car and stalked toward her. His body looked tight and angry.

"Where the hell have you been?" he yelled as she swung her legs from underneath the steering wheel.

She grabbed her briefcase, stood up, and slammed the car door before answering. "Good evening, Agent Hashemi. Wasn't lunch enough of a visit for you? And since when have you begun monitoring my comings and goings?"

They'd lunched earlier, an uncomfortable situation where all she could think of was how handsome he looked despite the scruffiness of his five-o'clock shadow and his mussed-up hair. He'd constantly run his fingers through the dark curls, while she'd tortured herself with the memory of the crisp feel of thickness beneath her fingers.

"Smart-ass," he retorted, blocking her way. "Answer the question. Where have you been?"

"If you must know, working the case."

At lunch she hadn't even hinted at what she planned to do – meet Santos on his own turf. Hashemi would've quashed that idea without consideration.

They'd talked a little about the case, more about each other, light inconsequential chatter that said little. But the tension beneath the banter spoke volumes.

Her words now seemed to calm him. "Oh, that's good. What part of the case?"

She shifted from one foot to the other, wanting to get rid of him and soak in a hot bath. "Look, it's late, I'm tired. Let's talk about this tomorrow."

"No," he insisted, taking her keys from her fingers before she could protest. He walked to the back door, keyed the lock, and punched the remote to close the garage.