“As I was saying,” Dreyer said with a hard glance at Aaron, “the latest intel is that the Cortez Cartel’s weapons distribution operation is being headquartered near the Baja capital city of La Paz, along the Sea of Cortez.” He pushed a button on his laptop and a satellite image of the Baja peninsula projected onto the wall behind him.
“As we already suspected, the Mexican government’s crackdown on cartels within Baja’s border cities has spurred them to move to obscure locations and utilize more creative means to smuggle weapons into their country.”
With another push of a button, Dreyer projected a grainy photo of a Hispanic man with jet-black hair and a round, oily face. “This is our next target, Rodrigo Perez, Alejandro Milán’s second-in-command. Perez has been running the weapons-smuggling division of the Cortez Cartel for approximately one year and manages a crew of at least thirty men.”
Aaron felt the vibration of his cell phone in his shirt pocket. He flipped it open to find a short text message—Jul n labr.
“Look at that,” he muttered to himself. “I’m about to be a godfather.”
He caught the eye of Nicholas Wells, the other Park Ranger in the unit, and held up his phone. “Family emergency,” he mouthed, scooting out of his chair. He opened the door and slipped into the bright afternoon, his headache forgotten.
She should have known he’d be at the birth of Juliana and Jacob’s child—he was her brother-in-law’s best friend, after all—but Camille’s stomach still lurched when she heard the deafening rumble of Aaron’s obnoxious car pull into the hospital parking garage behind her.
Unwilling to park on the same level as him, she drove past whole rows of available parking spots, waiting for him to choose one first. To her chagrin, he passed every open spot, too. In her rearview mirror, she saw Aaron chuckling behind his wraparound sunglasses and knew he was onto her plan. Even in the dim light of the garage, his dimples sparkled. The man was like a barbed thorn in her side—irritating and impossible to dislodge.
Finally he conceded and pulled into a space on the fourth level. Camille drove to the roof.
Then it occurred to her that in a matter of minutes, she’d be sitting in a waiting room with the man she’d successfully avoided for over a year. She thunked her forehead on the steering wheel and groaned.
She first met Jacob’s best friend two years earlier, and it had been a miserable experience. Simply put, Aaron was the most arrogant man she’d ever known. Handsome to a fault, with wavy blond hair and a body so meticulously ripped it was the perfect advertisement for his bloated ego, he’d made her feel like a piece of meat from the moment he introduced himself without raising his eyes higher than her chest.
When he figured out she wasn’t going to drool all over his showy muscles, lame jokes and expensive car, he’d been equally put off by her.
At Juliana and Jacob’s wedding, Camille put on her game face and tolerated Aaron for the single dance required of the maid of honor and best man, then spent the rest of the reception watching him hit on all the young, single women in attendance. She couldn’t believe how easily they fell for his boyish good looks and perfect body. They didn’t even notice he was treating them like interchangeable objects. She made a game of predicting which one he’d invite to his room that night. Because the wedding party had rooms on the same hotel floor, it was an easy mystery to solve.
And her prediction had been correct.
She knew Aaron thought she was a killjoy, but unlike the girls falling all over him at Juliana’s wedding, Camille didn’t require the validation of a man. And it was a good thing, too, because being a young female cop with a statuesque figure was like being an island in a sea of chauvinism. Why this particular chauvinist rubbed her the wrong way, Camille wasn’t sure. Frankly, she tried not to think about it—ever.
She grabbed her bag of clothes and purse and locked her car. When she got to the stairwell, she paused. Which would Aaron be less likely to take—the stairs or the elevator? She decided to take the stairs, even though her dressy shoes were beginning to rub, because it would preclude any chance of being stuck in the tight confines of an elevator with him. If he chose the stairs, she could hang back and let him go first.
As she turned the corner onto the fourth level landing, Aaron materialized in the stairwell.
“Camille, what a … pleasant surprise,” he deadpanned, falling into step beside her.
“I see you’re still compensating for your shortcomings with that offensive car.”
He chortled. “It’s good to know time hasn’t softened your icy heart.”
Narrowing her eyes, Camille picked up the pace. So much for hanging behind; she wouldn’t give him the satisfaction. She motioned to his dark glasses. “Are you hungover again? Funny how every time I see you, you’ve been drinking too much. Maybe I’ll send you an AA pamphlet.”
With her skirt and shoes slowing her down, Aaron paced her effortlessly.
“Gee,” he said, “that’s a nice suit you’re wearing. Borrowing your grandma’s clothes again, are you?”
“You’re such a pig.”
“And you’re still a shrew, so we’re even.”
That was enough for Camille. “Out of my way,” she snarled. Elbowing him in the chest, she propelled herself into the lead.
He quickened his steps to match hers. “Always such a bully. When’re you going to figure out no one likes a bully, Blondie?”
“When’re you going to figure out I hate you, you misogynist prick?”
“Sweetheart, I figured that out the day we met, and I dropped to my knees, thanking the Lord for small favors.”
They broke into a sprint, their feet flying and their knees pumping like football players running a high-step drill. Camille knew she was acting immature, but she simply had to be the first person to the bottom of the stairs, the first person through the hospital doors, the first one to reach Juliana’s bedside.
As they traversed the last flight of stairs, Aaron shouldered past her, taking the steps two at a time. When Camille tried to match his stride, one of her shoes flew off. She grabbed the railing to keep from pitching headfirst to the ground.
Aaron reached the bottom level of the parking garage and scooped up Camille’s shoe. He turned to face her with a smug smile. “I’m sure your grandmother will want this back.”
Gasping at the insult, she yanked her other shoe off and hurled it at him.
He ducked, but his laughter was drowned out by a revving engine, its echo thunderous in the confines of the garage.
A white minivan screeched to a halt behind Aaron as its side door opened. Two masked men armed with fully automatic assault rifles were staged inside. Aaron whipped his head around, but it was too late. The men pulled him in and pointed their guns at Camille.
“In the van, puta. Now!” one of the men shouted at her.
Impossible. This couldn’t be happening. She was there for the birth of her niece.
“Camille, run,” Aaron called from within the van.
Run? Where? The only route was back up the stairs and then she’d still be trapped in the garage. Her eyes settled on the rifles, AK-47 knockoffs, probably Romanian. Wherever they were from, the guns made her only choice perfectly clear. Numbly, she got into the van.
Aaron sagged against the floor with half-closed eyelids as though he were drifting to sleep. “Aaron, what …? Why are you—” She yelped, turning toward the pain in her upper arm. An unmasked, baby-faced man with slicked-back hair was plunging a needle into her.
“Oh, God, no.” Then her tongue, along with the rest of her body, grew heavy, and she crumpled over Aaron’s limp form.