Cold Spite (Cold Justice: Most Wanted #5)

Chapter 1

CHAPTER ONE

Five years earlier

R icky Alonso removed his treasured bone-handled balisong—the only physical legacy he had from either of his unnamed and unknown biological parents—from his back pocket, flipped it open, and used it to slit the thick plastic wrap covering the off-white brick of prime Colombian cocaine. He closed the blade with a flick of his wrist and slipped the butterfly knife into his back pocket. Each brick was marked with a simple line drawing of an open hand, indicating exactly who was gonna kill you if you messed with their product. Ricky wet the end of his finger and lightly pressed it to the cut. He licked the tip of his finger and grimaced at the bitter taste on his tongue.

“ Es bueno, jefe. ” Pedro, barely eighteen and initiated into the gang by his older brother, Felipe, when he was fourteen years old, sampled the coke after he did, his dark eyes going wide.

Ricky liked him. Pedro was a nice kid.

This was the part of the job he hated.

“ No soy el jefe, chico .” Ricky wasn’t the boss. He was a soldado , a foot soldier, who had somehow, ironically, found himself in charge of this small cell of the Mexican cartel. The last patrón , or chief, had been a crazy asshole who’d gotten himself shot by the La Guardia Nacional four months ago after kidnapping a blonde tourist he’d taken a shine to. They’d both died in the shootout.

Ricky had managed to protect the rest of the men from the same fate, which had earned him kudos with them and their bosses.

Ricky took orders.

Followed rules.

Same as everyone else. Otherwise, you risked the wrath of the cartel leaders—amongst others. But here, in this small corner of hell, he supposed he was, theoretically, in charge.

Unless they discovered the truth.

Then he was dead.

It would all be over soon. He needed to get through the next few hours, and everything would be okay—except for the whole ripping-out-his-heart-and-letting-it-bleed-to-death thing.

That was a problem for later. First, they had to survive.

“You want to try?” Ricky offered the brick to the hulking man with sandy-brown hair who watched him with animus gleaming in his pale blue eyes.

The American shook his head.

“This is the only chance you get, amigo .” Ricky smiled coldly and let the warning ring loudly through the sweltering heat of the mechanic’s workshop from where they were currently running their operation. “The people we both work for don’t like it if we help ourselves to the merchandise.”

“I don’t do coke. I’m not a junkie.”

Probably scared of the random drug screenings conducted by the US military, although most active-duty personnel figured out a way to get around them if they needed to.

Those blue eyes were hard and distrustful even though the man’s expression remained largely flat. “I’m just the delivery guy—as long as I get paid.”

Ricky gave him a skeptical look. Two of the gang members narrowed their gazes to match his. No one trusted the man from Louisiana. Even in a world of stone-cold killers there was something off about the guy. Something that made the hair on Ricky’s nape lift in warning.

His gut twisted.

He fucking hated this plan.

“Pay him his money.” He jerked his head at Pedro, who scrambled to get the cash, then turned away from the table where the boys were weighing the latest consignment of cocaine. “ Ponlo en su camióneta. Cuéntalo primero. ”

He left the other gang members to skillfully stash as much coke as possible in the Cajun’s bright shiny new truck that cartel money had probably paid for and headed into the office where Lacey waited.

He walked inside, shut the door, and sucked in his breath. Leaned against the glass as he took in the most beautiful woman he’d ever laid eyes on. She made it so he could barely breathe. She sat there wearing nothing more glamorous than cutoff jeans, a white tank, and strappy leather sandals, but the vision of her hurt his eyes.

The things he felt for her were strange and overwhelming. He didn’t have a family. Had never had a family. Wasn’t sure if this was what love always felt like but, if it was, no wonder wars had been fought over it. She was everything he’d ever wanted. Everything he could never have.

He cleared his throat, wished he didn’t feel as if he was going to throw up. “You’re sure you want to go through with this?”

She ran her fingers carefully through her short blonde hair. “I’m sure, baby.” Her voice was soft as powdered sugar.

She stood and walked toward him, and it was like watching silk dance in the wind.

“I don’t trust him with you.” His voice was like gravel in his throat. His hands caught her hips as she stopped in front of him.

She ran her fingers down the front of his T-shirt and then hooked her thumbs into the waistband of his jeans.

“He wouldn’t dare touch me.” They were both conscious of the eyes watching them through the glass office windows and the fact people could be listening to them.

Hell, he knew people were listening to them.

“I don’t like you being anywhere close to that hijo de puta .”

Her expression tightened, at odds with her sotto voce. “I can take care of myself.”

He cupped her jaw. “He’s dangerous.”

Her lips curved, and he ran his thumb over their warm pink softness. “I have plenty of weapons.”

They were so close he could smell the mint of her toothpaste. He wanted to taste her. He needed to taste her. Everything about this woman consumed him even though he couldn’t afford to be distracted.

She kissed him, and the feel of her mouth on his washed away all rational thought. He slid his hands over her butt and pulled her hips to his, her breasts pressed to his chest, her arms wrapped like vines around his neck.

Despite the oppressive heat, he wanted to feel her skin against his. Wanted to absorb the sweetness of her body, feel the lithe strength of her matching him perfectly in every way.

She opened her mouth and slid her tongue against his, and he wanted to press her against the wall and fuck her until they were both slick with sweat. And then lay her on the softest bed and make love to her until she couldn’t move. He wanted all that, and the thought of letting her go was as unthinkable as cutting out his own tongue. And yet…

Whistles and lewd comments from the outer garage reminded him they weren’t alone. It was too dangerous to drop his guard. One wrong move in this pit of vipers, and they’d both be dead.

He slipped the balisong out of his back pocket and into her shorts without the others being able to see. “If he touches you, kill the motherfucker.” He pulled away and exited the office.

He strode up to the Cajun and didn’t stop until he’d pushed the guy up against the door of his extended cab. All his men gathered around him, but despite what this pendejo mistakenly thought, Ricky didn’t need their backup to hand him his ass.

“The woman is mine, ? entendido ? You make a move on her, you even breathe in her direction, I’ll dice you up and feed you to the vultures myself.”

The man’s muscles tensed as if to fight back but then his eyes slowly took in the other men in the garage—all dangerous, most of them killers—and then rose over Ricky’s shoulder to find Lacey, who Ricky could hear walking toward them.

Ricky didn’t turn around or risk taking his eyes off this treacherous piece of shit.

“Don’t worry, amigo .” The Cajun sneered. “I wouldn’t touch your whore even if she begged me.” But his face said otherwise.

“Want me to kill him for you?” Pedro offered, eager to prove his devotion.

Rage and fear churned inside Ricky. He only had to say the word, and this scumbag would be dead. But he wanted this motherfucker ruined. He wanted him stripped of honor and exposed as the worthless pedazo de mierda he really was. Killing him wouldn’t serve Ricky’s purpose. So he left the rage banked deep inside and tried to tame the fear.

“No. Not today, amigo . He has a delivery to make.”

“That’s good to hear,” Lacey said from behind him. “Because this whore has plans tonight. I have a date with my girlfriend and don’t want to be late.” She chewed gum impatiently. “Let’s hit the road, compadre . Unless you’ve changed your mind about doing this, in which case Ricky here can give me a ride to the border, can’t ya, baby?”

The air crackled with tension as the gang members looked at him for instruction.

It was his decision, who lived and died. It was a heady power, and he could see how easily it would corrupt.

“Whatever you want, baby.”

Ricky stood back and crossed his arms over his chest, staring down the Cajun. The man straightened and then sneered at Lacey. “ Get in.” He climbed into the driver’s seat and started the engine with a roar.

Lacey reared up on tiptoe to brush her lips over Ricky’s cheek. “See you soon.”

He nodded brusquely. It took everything in him to let her go. A million things wanted to trip off his tongue. All of them began with “I love you. Be careful.”

Lacey hoisted herself into the truck and waved to all the guys. They drove away with a blast of heat and fumes from the hot exhaust. Ricky had never felt more alone.

“ Lacey estará bien. él no se atrevería a tocarla .” Pedro patted his shoulder.

She’ll be okay. He wouldn’t dare touch her.

Ricky wanted to throw up.

Pedro looked at him uncertainly. Ricky wanted to warn this young man to get out of town. To leave now before it all went to shit and his life was destroyed forever.

Ricky looked around the garage as the cartel’s many minions continued packing coke and money into heavy canvas bags. There were other deliveries to be made. Misery to disseminate. Money to collect. Lives to ruin and accounts to be tallied. Hours of work to be done in this evil trade to keep the top of the organization wealthy beyond belief.

Sweat beaded his temple and ran in a thin trickle over his jawline and down his neck. He hated the intensity of the heat—the cloying miasma of engine oil, casual violence, cocaine dust, and greed.

A text came through on his cell. A fucking tongue, eggplant, taco, and droplet emoji from “Leticia.”

The last person he wanted to have sex with, of any variation, was CIA Intelligence Officer Patrick Killion.

But it was the signal.

“I need a drink.” He walked into his office and picked up his wallet, keys, and a packet of cigarettes he didn’t like to smoke but did anyway .

His heart felt heavy.

He headed over to his beat-up Camaro, paused. Looked at Pedro. “Wanna come?”

Pedro grinned, eyes shining with happiness at being singled out. “No, patrón , I’ll keep watch. I’ll let you know if there are any problems. Don’t worry. Lacey will be fine. The puto cabrón wouldn’t dare cross you.”

Ricky wasn’t convinced, but he could do nothing about it now. He slid inside. He had his orders. Time to get the hell out of Tijuana. His mouth went dry as he pulled away, watching his crew in the rearview, men he’d spent months befriending and getting to know.

Men with girlfriends and babies to support. Men with mothers and grandmothers who loved them. Some of them were pure evil. Others, simply trying to survive.

Pedro’s smiling face and warm brown eyes followed his path like a Golden Retriever watching its owner leave for work.

But Ricky Alonso was dead now. He wasn’t ever coming back.