Secret Agent Surrender

She knew he and his brothers had been torn apart. All six foster kids had been sent to different places. But that was all she knew; she’d thought about looking him up more than once over the years, but she’d never done it. Now, she almost wished she didn’t know the path he’d chosen.

Was it her fault? If she hadn’t walked into the study when she had, if that fire hadn’t started, would he have traveled a different path?

“Brenna.”

The soft voice behind her startled her, and Brenna stepped sideways on her stiletto. She would have fallen except a strong hand grabbed her waist. For a moment, her back was pressed against a ripped, masculine frame she didn’t have to see to instinctively recognize.

She regained her balance, her pulse unsteady as she spun and found Marcos standing inches away from her. This close, she should have seen some imperfection, but the only thing marring those too-handsome features was the furrow between his eyebrows. It sure looked like disappointment.

Her spine stiffened, and she took a small step backward. “Marcos, uh, Marco.” She glanced around, seeing no one, but that didn’t mean much. Carlton was notoriously paranoid. For all she knew, he had cameras inside his house as well as around the perimeter.

Marcos must have had the same thought, because his words were careful as he told her, “I never expected to see you again after that night. And now you’re with Carlton, huh?”

All through dinner, she could see Marcos trying to figure out her relationship with Carlton. The drug kingpin had seen it, too, because he’d made offhand comments that implied she was his, without being so obvious she’d be forced to correct him. But apparently, Marcos had bought it.

She flushed at the idea that he thought she was sleeping with a drug lord for jewelry and cars. But she also heated at the idea of keeping up the ruse that she’d spent a night in Marcos’s bed.

What would that be like? Her thoughts wandered, to the two of them, sweaty, limbs tangled on the huge bed in her room. She shook it off, but it must not have been fast enough, because when she focused on Marcos again, the look he was giving her told her he’d imagined it, too.

“Uh, no. Carlton and I aren’t dating, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“I’m not sure that’s what I’d call it,” Marcos replied softly.

She scowled at him. “We have a business arrangement, and it’s not what you think, so stop looking at me like that. The fact is, my arrangement with him is probably not all that different from yours.”

Except it was. The ruse she was running with Carlton was about access, not drugs. If she really planned to go through with what she’d promised him, though, it was probably worse than dealing drugs.

His eyes narrowed on her, studying her with a too-keen gaze, and she tried not to squirm. He had the look of a lot of criminals who made it long enough to build an empire—or so she’d come to believe in her limited experience. Oddly, it was a similar probing look that cops used.

“So, Brenna, what do you do when you’re not hanging out in Carlton’s mansion, wearing spectacular dresses?” Marcos asked, shifting his weight like he was getting comfortable for a long chat.

The urge to fidget grew stronger. Lying didn’t come naturally to her, as much as she’d tried to convince her superiors that she could do it—that she could do this, come into a drug lord’s home and lie to him over an entire weekend, get him to give her insight and access. She’d actually felt pretty confident—well, a careful balance of confidence and determination—until Marcos had shown up. Now, she just felt off balance.

“I work for the foster care system.” She kept up the story she’d given Carlton. “I grew up in the system,” she added, even though he knew that. But it was more a reminder to herself: always act as though Carlton or one of his thugs was watching. “And I wanted to be on the other side of it, make some changes.”

Marcos tipped his head, his eyes narrowing, like he suspected she was lying, but he wasn’t sure about what.

She longed to tell him the whole truth, but that was beyond foolish, and one more sign that her boss was right. She wasn’t ready for undercover work, wasn’t ready for an assignment like this.

If she told Marcos the truth, she’d be dead by morning.

Still, she couldn’t help wondering what he’d say. The words lodged in her throat, and she held them there.

I’m a cop.

Chapter Three

Brenna Hartwell was lying to him.

Marcos didn’t know exactly what she was lying about, but he’d been in law enforcement long enough to see when someone was doing it. And not just to him, but to Carlton, too. He prayed the drug boss didn’t realize it.

“What do you do for the foster care system?” he asked, wondering if even that much was true.

She fidgeted, drawing his attention to the red dress that fit her like a bandage, highlighting every curve. She was in great shape. Probably a runner. Or maybe a boxer, given the surprising muscle tone he’d felt when he’d grabbed her to keep her from stumbling in her shoes.

“Right now, placement,” she said, but something about the way she said it felt rehearsed. “But I’m trying to get them to start a program to help kids transition out of the system.”

It was a notoriously tricky time. Kids who spent their lives in foster care hit eighteen and that was it. They were on their own, and they had to learn to sink or swim without any help pretty fast.

Some—like Marcos’s oldest brother Cole—did whatever it took. Cole had taken on two jobs, built up his bank account until he could afford an apartment big enough for three. Then when Marcos and his other older brother Andre had been kicked out of the system, they’d actually had a home waiting for them.

But Marcos was lucky. And he knew it. Most foster kids didn’t have that. Most kids found themselves suddenly searching for shelter and a job. Tons ended up instantly homeless, and plenty took whatever work they could get, including something criminal.

Had that been what had really happened to Brenna? When she’d shown up on their foster home doorstep that day eighteen years ago, her chin up, blinking back tears, his heart had broken for her. A few months later, she’d been gone. He’d always wondered where she’d ended up, but he’d been too afraid to search for her.

Some kids got lucky, ended up in foster homes with fantastic parents who ultimately adopted them. Others, like him, bounced around from one foster home to the next, from birth until eighteen. He supposed he’d never searched for her because he’d always wanted to believe she’d been one of the lucky ones.

“What about you?” Brenna asked, and he was surprised to hear the wary disappointment in her tone.

She was in Carlton’s house because she could offer him something. If it wasn’t sex, like Carlton had been implying over dinner, then it was some kind of criminal connection. So, who was she to judge his motives?

Still, he felt a little embarrassed as he gave his cover story, the way a real dealer would. “Carlton and I share similar business interests. We’re talking about a transaction, but I need to pass his test first.” He gave her a lopsided grin. “How do you think I’m doing so far?”

She shrugged. “I wouldn’t know. I think you and I are in similar positions.”

Interesting. So her association with Carlton was relatively new. He wondered if he could get her out of here when he left, convince her to move her life onto a different track. Maybe all she needed was a little help.

It was a thought Marcos knew could get him killed. Doing anything to disrupt Carlton’s life before he committed to the deal and Marcos could slap cuffs on him threatened the whole operation. But the idea hung on, refusing to let go.

For years, he’d had an image of Brenna Hartwell in his mind: a perfect, grown-up version of the little girl who’d made his heart beat faster. And even though she probably couldn’t have lived up to that fantasy even if she weren’t a criminal, he was still drawn to her in a way he couldn’t really explain.

“I should go to bed,” Brenna said, interrupting his thoughts. She stared a minute longer, like she wanted to say something, but finally turned and headed off to her room.

All the while, he longed to call after her, longed to ask her why she’d set that fire eighteen years ago. Instead, he watched her go until the door near the end of the hallway clicked quietly shut behind her.

Then Marcos headed to his own room, down a different hallway. He’d just turned the corner when Carlton pushed away from the wall, out of the shadows, nearly making Marcos jump.

The drug kingpin’s eyes were narrowed, his lips tightened into a thin line. “Maybe I didn’t make myself clear at dinner,” Carlton said, his voice low and menacing, almost a snarl. “So, let me be plain. Stay away from Brenna. Or our business here is finished before we get started.”

* * *

“SHE’S A ROOKIE!”

“Sir, she’s determined. She dug all this up on Carlton Wayne White herself. She’s found an angle we never even considered and I think it’s going to work. She—”

“She’s got no undercover experience.”

“No, but we can give her a crash course. She’s smart. We’ve never gotten this close to him before.”

“I don’t like it. And the DEA wants this guy for themselves. They won’t be happy if we jump into their territory.”

“So don’t tell them. It doesn’t have anything to do with drugs anyway. Not really.”

“Hartwell could get herself killed.”

Brenna had overheard the conversation last month, between the chief at her small police station and her immediate boss, the guy who’d convinced her to join the police force in the first place. Victor Raine was the closest thing she had to a friend on the force. She’d met him years ago, when she’d first gotten out of foster care and gone to a presentation on job opportunities. He’d been there, talking about police work, and she’d gone up and asked him a bunch of questions.

Ultimately, when she’d gotten a surprise college scholarship offer that covered not just her tuition, but also part of her lodging, she’d chosen that instead. But years later, after she’d graduated and bounced from job to job without feeling fulfilled, she’d looked Victor up. She’d visited him at the station, and somehow found herself applying to the police academy.

Before she knew it, she had graduated and was a real, sworn-in police officer. It was scarier—and better—than she’d ever expected. But typical rookie patrol assignments had lost their luster quickly, and she’d started digging for more.

Her plan to infiltrate Carlton’s network had come to her by accident. She’d been on foot patrol with her partner, a newbie right out of the academy, barely out of his teens. Next to him, her six months of experience had seemed like a lifetime. They’d gotten a call about a disturbance, and when they’d arrived, they’d found a kid stabbed and left for dead on the street.

She’d cradled his head in her lap while she’d called for help, and tried to put pressure on his wounds. He’d stared up into her eyes, his baby blues filled with tears, silently begging her to help him. But he’d been too far gone. He’d died before the ambulance had gotten there, and she’d been left, bathed in his blood, to answer the detectives’ questions.

She’d had nothing to tell them. He hadn’t said a word, just looked at her, his gaze forever burned into her memory. So, as they’d dug into his murder, she’d followed the case’s progress.

She’d learned the kid’s name: Simon Mellor. And she’d discovered he was just eighteen years old, a few months out of the foster care system, probably killed running drugs for someone because he couldn’t find any better options for himself.

The fury that had filled her then still heated her up whenever she thought about him. The investigation had stalled out and it looked destined to become a cold case, so Brenna had made it her mission to figure out who’d killed the kid. What she’d discovered had led her back to Victor, to the biggest favor she’d ever asked her mentor.

And he’d agreed, gone to their chief and begged for her chance to go undercover in Carlton’s operation. Brenna had stood outside the door, just out of sight, but she’d heard her chief’s “no way” coming long before he’d said it.

So when he’d announced, “Hartwell could get herself killed,” Brenna had pushed open that door, slapped her hands on her hips and told him, “That’s a chance I’m willing to take.”

This morning, as she slipped into another slinky dress Carlton had bought her, she realized that was a strong possibility. She was way out of her league here. The quick training she’d received on undercover work—how to remember a cover story, how to befriend a criminal and keep the disgust she really felt hidden—could only take her so far. And now, with Marcos here, she felt unfocused when she needed every advantage she could get.

Carlton Wayne White was behind Simon Mellor’s death. He hadn’t held the knife—he was too far up the chain for something like that. But he’d ordered it. And Brenna was determined to make him pay.

But if that was all there was to it, her chief never would have approved this assignment. What Brenna had uncovered went way deeper than one boy’s murder. Because he wasn’t the only kid who’d wound up dead shortly after getting out of foster care, with rumors of a drug connection surrounding his murder. She didn’t know how he was doing it yet, but Carlton was using the foster care system to find pawns for his crimes.

If she was right, he’d been doing it for years, building his empire on the backs of foster care kids.

Most of what she remembered from that horrible night eighteen years ago was the fire. The smell of the smoke, the feel of it in her lungs. The heat of the blaze, reaching for her, swallowing up everything in its path. But one of the things in its path had been papers, and years later, when she’d seen similar papers at the foster system headquarters, she’d known.

Carlton Wayne White was using someone in the system to get names of kids who were turning eighteen. Kids who’d have nothing: no family, no money, no help. He’d swoop in and offer them a chance to put a roof over their head and food in their bellies. And then they’d die for him.

It all ends soon, she promised herself, yanking open her door and striding into the hallway—and smack into Marcos.

What was he doing outside her room?

She didn’t actually have to speak the words, because as he steadied her—yet again—he answered. “Carlton told me to come and get you for breakfast.”

She couldn’t help herself. Her gaze wandered over him, still hungry for another look after so many years. Today, he was dressed in dark-wash jeans and a crewneck sweater that just seemed to emphasize the breadth of his chest.

“Brenna,” he said, humor and hunger in his tone.

She looked up, realizing she’d been blatantly ogling him. “Sorry.” She flushed.

The hunger didn’t fade from his eyes, but his expression grew serious. “Brenna, I want—”

She wanted, too. Maybe it was just the chance to finally do something about her very first crush, or the fact that she’d never expected—but always hoped—to see Marcos again.

It was foolish and wrong for so many reasons, but she couldn’t seem to help herself. She leaned up on her tiptoes in another pair of ridiculous shoes and practically fell toward him, looping her arms around his neck.

His hands locked on her waist, and then her lips were on his, just the briefest touch before he set her back on her feet.

“Brenna,” he groaned. “We can’t do that. Carlton—”

“He’s not here right now,” she cut him off, not wanting to think about Carlton and the dangerous mission she’d begged to get assigned to. Because all she could think about was Marcos. The boy she’d never been able to forget, morphed into a man she couldn’t stop thinking about. She leaned back into him, and she could tell she’d caught him off guard.

Before he could protest again, she fused her lips to his. Just one real taste, she promised herself, and then she’d back away, leave him alone and go back to her mission.

He kissed the way she’d imagined he would in all those childhood fantasies she’d had, where she grew up and got out of those foster homes she’d been sent to after the fire. Like a fairy-tale ending come to life.

Except this wasn’t a fairy tale. And Marcos was a drug dealer.

She pulled away, feeling dazed and unsteady. He didn’t look much better; he actually seemed shocked he’d kissed her back at all. But as she stared up at him, breathing hard and trying to pull herself together, she could see it on his face. He was thinking about kissing her again.

And, Lord help her, she wanted him to.

“I warned you to stay away from her!”

Carlton’s voice boomed down the hallway, making her jump. She almost fell, but braced herself on the wall as Carlton strode toward them, fury in his expression and ownership in his voice that made a chill run through her.

Then he snapped his fingers and his thugs pounded down the hallway, too.

Marcos put his hands up, trying to placate him, but it didn’t matter. One of the guards slung his semiautomatic rifle over his shoulder and punched Marcos in the stomach, making him double over.

As Brenna gasped and yelled for Carlton to stop them, the thugs each took Marcos by an arm and dragged him down the corridor.

And she knew what was going to happen next. They were going to kill him.

Chapter Four

Marcos tensed his muscles, but it didn’t stop the pain when one of Carlton’s guards slammed an oversize fist into his stomach. The punch doubled him over, his eyes watering. They’d been hitting him for five minutes, and he could feel it all over his body. Gasping for air, he staggered backward, giving himself a few precious seconds to gauge his options.

Fight or flight?

His car was a few feet behind him, his DEA phone secreted in the hidden compartment, his keys always in his pocket. But there was no way he’d make it. Both bodyguards had semiautomatic weapons slung over their backs. He couldn’t run faster than they could swing the weapons around and fire.

Fighting was a problem, too. These two might have looked like more brawn than brain, but they weren’t stupid. They were staying on either side of him, one at a time stepping forward for a hit, the other keeping enough distance that he couldn’t take on one without the other being able to fire.

Besides, Brenna was still inside. He could hear her, screaming at Carlton to stop them. And it didn’t matter what deal she had with the drug kingpin. If Carlton was this angry at Marcos for a simple kiss, what would he do to Brenna for choosing Marcos over him? Marcos couldn’t leave her.

Not that he was going to have much of a choice, the way things were going. The guy came at him again, before Marcos could fully recover, and swept his feet out from underneath him.

He hit the concrete hard, pain ricocheting through his skull. Black spots formed in front of his eyes and bile burned his throat. His biggest undercover assignment, and he was going to die all alone in the middle of the Appalachians. Would they even find his body? Would his brothers know what had happened to him?

The thought gave him strength, and as he made out a size thirteen crashing toward him through his wavering vision, Marcos rolled right. His stomach and his head rebelled, but he held it together, shoving himself to his feet. He was unsteady, but standing.

And then he spotted her. Brenna stood in the doorway to the house. She was screaming, he realized—it wasn’t just his ears ringing. Carlton had his arms wrapped around her, lifting her off the ground, but not moving as she swung her feet frantically, trying to escape.

Fury lit Marcos, and it seemed to intensify the pain in his head. He must have swayed on his feet, because the guards both moved toward him at once, smiling, and Marcos recognized his chance.

The first guard swung a fist. Instinctively, Marcos ducked, then stepped forward fast, getting close enough to slam an uppercut into his chin.

The guard’s head snapped backward, but Marcos didn’t waste time with a follow-up punch. He twisted right, bringing his palm up this time, right into the second guard’s nose. Blood spurted, spraying Marcos as the guy howled and staggered backward, his hands pressed to his face.

In his peripheral vision, he could see Carlton’s surprise as he let Brenna go. She stumbled, losing one of her shoes as she came running toward him. Behind her, Marcos could see Carlton’s hand reach behind his back—surely where he had his own weapon.

He opened his mouth to warn Brenna to duck when the first guy he’d hit shoved himself to his feet. Marcos barreled into him, taking him to the ground hard, his only hope to grab the guy’s weapon and shoot first.

It was a desperate move, and unlikely to work, but he didn’t even have a chance to try, because the second guy pulled a pistol that had been hidden under his T-shirt. He was swinging it toward Marcos when Brenna slammed into him, taking the guy down despite the fact that he must have outweighed her by a hundred pounds. They fell to the ground together, but Marcos didn’t have time to do more than say a silent prayer neither of them had been shot as the guy underneath him suddenly rolled, bucking Marcos off.

He shoved to his knees, ready to slam into the guy again, but he’d somehow managed to yank his AK-47 up toward Marcos.

Marcos’s breath caught and then a gunshot rang out.

Shock slammed through him, and it took several seconds before he could process it. He hadn’t been hit. The guy in front of him was down, though, eyes staring blankly at the sky, gun lying uselessly at his side.

Marcos glanced over at Carlton, but the man looked as surprised as Marcos felt. Carlton’s weapon dangled in his hand, like he’d been getting ready to use it but hadn’t been fast enough.

Swiveling to stare at Brenna, Marcos watched as she slowly lowered the weapon she’d somehow gotten away from Carlton’s other bodyguard. He lay half underneath her, moaning in pain.

She was breathing hard, blinking rapidly, and he knew instantly that she’d never killed anyone before.

Marcos saw movement from the corner of his eye, and he knew before he looked up that Carlton was raising his gun hand. Marcos gauged the distance to the nearest AK-47, but it was too far, and he knew it even before Carlton barked, “Don’t even think about it.”

His gaze lifted, and he readied himself for a second time to be shot, but Carlton wasn’t pointing the pistol at him.

He was pointing it at Brenna.

* * *

“DO YOU HAVE some kind of death wish?”

Carlton’s voice, usually loud and boisterous, was scarily quiet. But the menace came through as clearly as if he’d screamed at her as he pointed the gun at her head.

Brenna realized her mistake instantly. She shouldn’t have lowered her weapon. She should have swung it toward Carlton.

But she’d never shot anyone before. Sure, she’d fired a weapon hundreds of times. In practice. She’d even held a weapon on resisting suspects before. But she’d never had to use it to protect herself or someone else.

Until now.

There was no question Carlton’s bodyguards were going to kill Marcos. Nothing she’d said had swayed the drug lord. And when he’d released her, she’d acted on instinct. Instinct and fury, and something fiercely protective that scared her.

And afterward, when the man had dropped to the ground, no dying scream, no time for surprise to register on his face, her hand had just gone slack on her. She hadn’t even consciously decided to kill him and now it was over.

She’d just killed someone. Regret hit with the force of a tidal wave, but there hadn’t been any other way. She couldn’t just stand by and watch Marcos die.

Pushing the emotions down, Brenna tried to focus, telling herself she could deal with her regrets later—assuming she lived through the next few minutes.