Jo Robertson - The Traitor

Rafe sighed. "All right. I won't force you to let me in on the meet with Santos."

She smiled. "Good."

"Even though I could."

She merely lifted an eyebrow.

"I could take over the entire investigation. Make my own federal deal with Santos. Get to him ahead of you."

She dropped her jaw. "You wouldn't."

Suddenly serious, he turned her to face him. "Yes, Isabella, I would. If I thought it would do any good, if you wouldn't go off half-cocked and do something reckless out of sheer stubbornness. But for now I'll settle for you acting responsible around the thug."

The tone of his voice, worried and sympathetic at the same time, warmed her. She leaned against him, drawing a little comfort for the task ahead. She had to cut a deal with a monster in order to catch what was undoubtedly a larger monster.

Santos was the devil incarnate. Of that she had no doubt. He'd been responsible for the death and destruction of countless victims in his role as legal counsel and enforcer for Diego Vargas' drug cartel.

But she had a personal stake in seeing that Vargas went away for the rest of his natural life. She believed he had a hand in her sister Maria's disappearance twenty years ago, even though she had absolutely no proof.

"What are you going to offer him?" Rafe asked at last.

"I'll take the death penalty off the table," she answered promptly, knowing Santos wasn't the kind of man who'd submit to life in prison.

Rafe shook his head. "He'll never go for it."

Bella shrugged.

"What do you expect from him?"

"As much as I can get. Vargas and his connections for sure, more if I can get it."

"For life without parole? Santos is a wild animal. He won't let himself be caged like that."

She knew Rafe was right. She read the concern for her safety on his face. "I'll be okay," she said, edging away. "Don't worry."

Rafe captured her face in his hands, the long brown fingers rubbing across her cheeks, the thumbs trailing sensually over her lower lip. She caught his thumb between her teeth as she rested in the cradle of his thighs.

"I'll be careful," she promised again. "I won't let him trick me. I just need to get everything from him that I possibly can."

"Don't let him hurt you, Isabella," Rafe whispered into her ear, his breath warm at her temple. "I'll have to kill him if he hurts you."

Rafe had no intention of letting Bella meet with Santos, even in broad daylight, without sufficient protection. And that meant him tailing her, along with an agent and a deputy. He figured what she didn't know couldn't hurt her.

After dropping by the Sacramento field office, where he'd enlisted another agent, he stopped at the hospital to check on Slater, whose condition was much improved. The sheriff told Rafe everything he remembered about the attack at the safe house.

Who else, Rafe wondered, had Vargas gotten his hooks into early on and set up as an informant for the cartel? What other traitors led secret lives of betrayal that'd gotten Luis Rodriquez and the girl Esperanza killed?

After leaving Slater, Rafe secured his seat belt, started the ignition, and swung his car onto the freeway, heading toward the courthouse where he knew Isabella was pounding out the deal she planned to offer Santos.

At a gas station while Rafe filled up the car's tank, Max Jensen called again. Rafe slipped on his sunglasses, merged with the traffic on Interstate 80, and put his cell on speaker mode. "What's up, Max? Did I forget something else?"

"Hashish, old man." Max's voice held an undertone of forced conviviality.

The strain of his marriage must be getting to him, Rafe thought, as a squiggle of uneasiness wormed down his back. "Are you okay, buddy?"

"Nah, Hash, I'm a fucking mess."

Rafe attempted humor. "Just like my case, huh?

"Sounds like I came just in time to rescue your ass." Max's tone didn't quite measure up to his words and Rafe made a quick decision.

"I'll be there in a few hours," he said and disconnected. First he'd observe Bella's meet with Santos, then he'd attend to Max.

Thirty minutes later he watched Isabella leave her vehicle and wend her way through the American River Parkway. If she was going to broach Santos alone, he'd be sure to have her back.

The two men were shouting at each other, their voices loud and vicious, certain to wake up Corazon who slept in the other room. Santos clenched his jaw and tightened his fists until they became great sides of beef, weapons to kill with a single blow.

When he stepped into Vargas' office, the noises ceased abruptly. Diego planted his feet on the rug in front of his desk, his florid face even ruddier than usual, a white dress shirt pulled tight across his gut, and a blue-patterned tie choking him off at the neck.

In front of him stood Max Jensen.

"All I'm sayin' is you've got a traitor in your organization." He punched his bony forefinger into Diego's chest. "And I'm not fuckin' going down because you can't control your cartel."

Santos stepped between the two men and nudged the policeman aside. He took Vargas by the arm and led him to his great leather swivel chair, then brought him a glass of water. "What's wrong?" he asked, turning back to Jensen.

"Someone's going to name names," he grumbled. "Dates, times, places – Christ, God! – everything!"

Santos knew the little ADA would not have released his name to anyone she was not positive she could trust. Who then? "How do you know this?"

"Never mind how I fucking know! Vargas' whole operation is crumbling around him, and I'm not gonna be destroyed in the process!"

Santos took one step forward and not-so-gently shoved the man into an armchair. He loomed over him, planting both arms on either side of the chair. "How?" he asked again without raising his voice.

Jensen licked his lips as if he were thirsty. Santos knew he was buying time and did not want to give his source.

At last Jensen sighed heavily "What does it matter now?" He struggled to rise, but Santos' arms kept him bound to the chair as if they were steel ropes.

"¿Cómo?" Santos' voice was a deadly whisper.

"Hashemi, the DEA agent, told me. Rafe Hashemi."

"Ah!"

Jensen peered around Santos' arm to catch Diego's eye. "We've been friends since we were kids."

Santos took a calculated risk. "So tell us, Detective Jensen, who is this great traitor who has infiltrated El Vaquero's organization? Who is the man with the cojones to attack a man like the councilman?"

"I – I don't know the name yet," Max muttered.

Santos turned back to Vargas, spread his hands, and shrugged elaborately. "No puedo luchar al enemigo que no conozco."

Vargas' small pig eyes, flat and emotionless, stared at Santos for several moments. Then he swung them back to Jensen.

"What'd he say?" Jensen demanded.

"'He cannot fight an enemy he doesn't know,'" Vargas answered, bouncing his eyes back and forth between the two men as if he could not determine who to trust. "Verdad, it is true. When you hand me an enemy I can see, touch, whose blood I can taste… " The words spewed like venom from his mouth. "Then come back to me."

"I'm telling you – "

"Get out!" Vargas roared.

Santos followed the detective out through the gates to the rental car parked just inside the drive. "When you discover who this… traitor is, see me personally." He flashed a warning smile. "Do not disturb El Vaquero's peace of mind needlessly again."

He thought the detective would protest. Indeed, his fists clenched and his eyes narrowed. "You tell Vargas to be careful," he warned. "Some big shit's gonna hit the fan. I'm not having the turds land on me."