Absolute Doubt (Fallen Agents of T-FLAC Book 1) Page 11

  Seriously, deliciously, wrong.

  Dear God, I’m going nuts, because I’m lusting after a freaking bishop, and I’m not that kind of person. I might not be a Catholic, but surely lusting after a bishop is a mortal sin even for non-Catholics. I might design lingerie for a living, but I’m not a mortal sin kind of woman. I’m just not.

  Oliver, would you please let me know where you are so I can get the hell out of here?

  She glanced down the road, almost expecting to see the vehicle from Xavier’s compound returning. No such luck. Great.

  River walked to the corner and headed for Jorge Abano's house on the next street over. When she arrived at the one that Ines had said was baby-poop-colored, she knew she was at the right place.

  She guessed Jorge was at least a hundred and sixty-three years old. His thinning hair was dyed jet black. But the dye hadn't taken as well to his bushy eyebrows, which were an interesting shade of muddy green. He was barely five feet tall, stooped, toothless, and so cheerful she couldn't help but smile back whenever he glanced up to give her a gummy grin.

  River couldn't fathom why he'd removed all four tires from the car, which was in his crowded garage and up on blocks.

  Noisily and often, he paused to suck Coke from a bottle through a straw. Eyes twinkling, he offered the bottle and straw for her to share. She politely declined.

  The little red convertible wasn't ready. In fact, it was far from ready. The hood was up, all four tires were off, but Jorge insisted she wait. He directed her to a narrow retaining wall right outside the garage.

  It was barely ten in the morning and already blistering hot. Sitting on the low wall in a miserly patch of shade outside Jorge’s garage, River watched him "work" on the car for a while. It was as exciting as watching paint dry, but she was in no hurry. The drive up to the plant and mine would take, according to Father Marcus, less than thirty minutes.

  With surprisingly good service, she was able to respond to a dozen e-mails, took two business calls, and spoke to her assistant in New York. Music started up in the square as musicians tuned up and rehearsed for later that night. They were only a few blocks away, but sounded as if they were standing practically at her hip. No more phone calls for a while.

  Instead, River Zagged Bishop Daklin. Good grief, the man had a Wikipedia page! A small picture showed a non-smiling Bishop Daklin in his black robes with the pink sash and heavy gold cross, hands piously crossed. Clearly, surly was his resting face.

  "Señorita?" Jorge held up the half-empty bottle of Coke with a straw in it.

  "No, gracias, Jorge." With a smile, River declined his generous, but germy offer for the second time, then returned her attention to her phone and the delicious, forbidden Bishop Daklin.

  The Most Reverend Asher Daklin had been born in Salem, Mass. Asher. The name suited him. River scanned the short entry. Like the bishop himself, the facts were cold and dry, short and to the point.

  Pretty much all she learned was that he was a Virgo.

  She tried Oliver's number again with the same results. She got up to walk over to show Jorge his picture. He shook his head and told her he'd never seen the man before.

  They talked about Jorge's years working the emerald mines. The dark and wet. The constant cold deep inside the mountain. He didn't miss it.

  Apparently el Jefe's sons, Eliseo and Trinidad, worked there. Eliseo in the mine itself, Trinidad in the plant, sorting. Jorge liked Eliseo, but had little time for Trinidad.

  "In the old days, when el Jefe was a younger man, he'd allowed garimpeiros. You know what?" he asked in English.

  River shook her head.

  "Independent miners." He mimicked her headshake as he picked up a wrench. "No more. Either we work in the mine, or we have no job." He applied the wrench like a hammer to the tire rim. "We aren't greedy. We’re all happy to dig in the smaller veins for emeralds. Main shaft go down a hundred and thirty meters. He say no. Too dangerous. Big trucks inside the mine now. Not before. Liseo say not so many emeralds no more."

  River did some quick math. "The shaft goes down over four hundred feet?" She could just imagine the conditions. Give her fresh air and sunshine any day.

  "Sí, with many branches deep into the mountain. When I worked there a year ago, we found a new vein with nice dark schist with how you say? Folded?" He made a motion, as if he were folding a sheet. "Good stringers of quartz. The emeralds like to hide where the quartz meets the schist. We drove a new horizontal tunnel out into the schist, maybe forty-meters. We no sure if it's one vein or the same one folding back on itself many times." He switched to Spanish. "Then Liseo say stop. No more work. Go home, not safe. Some people, maybe twenty, still go to work every day. But no more emeralds."

  River tried to follow along as Jorge noisily slammed the wrench on some metal part of the undercarriage of the car as he talked. From the square, the mariachi band played with enthusiasm. She raised her voice, "The emeralds are played out?"

  "No," he assured her. "Mining ore now."

  She had no idea what he was talking about, but clearly he was thrilled to have a captive audience. When he stopped talking to concentrate on beating the rental car to death, she said in Spanish, "I'll come back later, okay, Jorge?"

  He beamed. "I will be here, señorita."

  River grinned back. No doubt he would. "Is there somewhere I could rent a car? Or borrow a car?" Because it appeared unlikely that he'd get the tires back on her vehicle in the next decade.

  "Abad?"

  "That's three hours away."

  He shrugged and went back to hitting the rim of the front wheel with a wrench.

  Eight

  Franco was aware, every second of every day, that his partner watched him from hidden cameras positioned strategically around the hacienda. As far as he knew, there was no audio, but someone like his partner would be adept at lip reading. Franco had nothing to hide. They often shared toys and playthings. He had no secrets. He knew where each camera was, having positioned the ones in the playroom himself. They often played back the recordings and shared those moments together as foreplay for their activities.

  It amused him that hidden cameras watched her every move. Too bad there was no sound, but with the jammers intermittently, at his convenience, blocking all audio and cellular calls, he was lucky to maintain a visual on the camera feeds.

  "I told you to get rid of her," his partner ordered. "Use whatever means necessary, and I mean it. Do so now, before we move."

  "She'll be gone in the morning." Best ask permission. With rising excitement in anticipation of an affirmative answer, Franco fastened the top button of the crisp white shirt. "May I --?"

  "Do whatever the hell you want with her. As long as she's gone before we leave."

  Permission granted. Franco's cock leapt, and his heart raced. Even though he couldn't be seen, he bowed his head in gratitude. "Thank you, Master."

  #

  Velvety dusk dropped like a soft blanket over the valley, leaving a sliver of orange rimming the highest black peaks of the mountains.

  Standing between Xavier and Father Marcus in front of a table prepared for them on a raised dais, Daklin ran a finger beneath his cleric’s collar. Tonight, he was full out bishop, with all the trappings. He'd like to strip off the layers of cloth and the restrictive collar and cool off in the fountain, but an orderly and somber line of people waited to speak to him and receive his blessing.

  The townspeople had gone all out, with colorful Christmas tree lights strung in the trees, and flickering candles on tables. The potluck was in full swing, with women of every age bringing Daklin loaded plates of food to sample. Spicy fragrances of roasting meat and a tantalizing bouquet of spices drifted on the warm evening air, mingling with the scent of candles and humid vegetation that pressed in on all sides of the town.

  Small lanterns placed beneath the fall of water surrounding the fountain’s top tier turned the pouring water into liquid gold. Across the square, a group of musicians in colorful
Cosian dress played enthusiastically, much to the appreciation of their toe-tapping, clapping–with-the-beat, audience.

  The music was a combination of Andean and Spanish with African roots. The sweet sounds of the charango, a flutelike instrument, the driving rhythms of Spanish guitars, and the pounding beat of the cajón, a six-sided box-shaped percussion instrument from Africa, underscored the sound of hundreds of people talking quietly. The low tones were an indication, Daklin, knew, of deference to the honor the bishop was bestowing on them.

  It didn't matter who Daklin talked to, or where he looked, his vision was filled with River Sullivan. Most of the women wore black and most were well into middle age. The young people had left long ago to go to the bright lights and sophistication of big cities like Abad and Santa de Porres.

  River was also dressed in black. But on her, it was sexy.

  Who the fuck am I kidding?

  He wanted her with a dangerous intensity that he had to fight to control. Hard. His mouth watered for a taste of her. Fuck, for a sip, just one goddamned fucking sip of Tovaritch. He wiped a rough hand across his mouth. She was sex personified with touchable creamy skin, and pale hair that made his fingers flex at his sides as he imagined his hands fisted in the sunny strands. It didn't help that he knew what she looked like under those clothes. Every dip and curve, every silken inch, every pale hair between her thighs was imprinted on his fucking synapses.

  Heart-shaped pubes.

  Shit, he was glad he was wearing this bishop’s dress or the good people of Los Santos would know exactly what he was thinking.

  "This is Señora Martinez." Father Marcus drew the elderly woman forward with a gentle hand on her stooped shoulder. "Sofia here bakes the best bread this side of the mountain."

  The lady blushed like a girl and ducked her head. Daklin smiled and said the required blessing. His mind wasn’t on the blessing, the woman, or her bread. He observed River in his peripheral vision as she moved around the party guests, talking, laughing.

  She was as at ease, as if she'd known these people for years. It was a special talent. Josh had had it too: the ability to make friends wherever he went. Everyone had loved his brother. And, apparently everyone here was falling in love with River. Damn, she was so fucking pretty it was hard to drag his attention away from her and back to the people patiently waiting to speak with him.

  Every now and then, she'd hold up her smart phone, showing people pictures of her brother. Marcus had told him this afternoon that she'd been busy in his absence. Running before having breakfast with Marcus, then spending time doing a Zag search before landing on Bishop Daklin's Wikipedia page. She’d spent seven minutes and eleven seconds reading about a man who didn't exist, then did two more searches with Daklin’s name in an attempt to find out more about him. Headquarters had a trace on all people who were investigating Daklin’s well-crafted cover.

  Unfortunately, her damned rental car wasn't ready. A tire and rim had to be brought in from Abad. Unacceptable. He needed her gone. Preferably yesterday. The day before he’d seen her naked in her room would have been even better.

  He turned to Franco on his left. "Since Miss Sullivan's brother is no longer here, and her rental car is still out of commission, I wonder if you could spare a car and driver and have someone take her to Santa de Porres airport in the morning?"

  "That's a good idea, Your Excellency. I'll have one of my men do that after breakfast."

  "I'm sure she'll appreciate it," Daklin said smoothly as Marcus introduced him to an elderly couple. I'm sure she'll be pissed as hell. But she wasn't his concern.

  The couple withdrew, and Marcus patted the back of a middle-aged man with a luxurious mustache. "And this is Cristopher Guispe. He is fourth generation in Los Santos. His great-grandfather, grandfather, father, and now he and his son, all worked in the mines."

  "Sandro and I no longer work the emeralds, Your Excellency." Guispe met Daklin’s gaze with steady black eyes. "There is no longer work for us here. Our families are hungry. We want to work."

  "Bishop Daklin has many people who wish to speak with him," Xavier said sharply in the local dialect, cutting the man off. "Be on your way."

  Daklin lifted a hand. "No," he said in Spanish. "I want to hear."

  "We used to have open pit mining, many people working." Guispe spoke rapidly, as if afraid Xavier would cut him short again. "Working hard. Life was difficult but good. We fed our families and tithed to the church. But now," He cast a nervous glance at Xavier. "with underground operations, vertical shafts, Liseo says the emeralds are played out. Then, no need so many workers in the shafts. Big trucks do the work of twenty men moving the schist."

  "That's progress." Xavier spoke directly to Daklin. "There's no need for a hundred men to toil all day when we have machinery to do most of the work. The shafts have had to be made deeper and deeper to locate the ore holding the emeralds. Soon the mines will near the end of their economic life. But for now, we still employ people to wash the ore on the sluices, and have workers at the sorting tables."

  For show. They had to demonstrate some emerald production, if they didn’t want the locals to pack up and move to the bigger towns, spreading word of what they were really mining.

  "We are garimpeiros." Guispe raised an inquiring eyebrow, then explained. "Small, independent miners. We work only for ourselves. Yes? We go downriver for tailings."

  Tailings, or mine dumps, were the materials left over after separating the valuable fraction from the uneconomic ore. They'd take the emeralds they found and sell them where they could.

  Daklin talked with the man for several minutes, prayed briefly with him, and subtly looked for River before the next man was introduced. His eyes found her, briefly, standing talking to three women, then he shifted his attention to Renán Ortiz.

  Renán, Ramse's father, was the man who'd blown the whistle on the production of E-1x. They'd decided that Ortiz's father was not to know of Bishop Daklin's involvement. It was enough that he was aware that his son and T-FLAC were here.

  In a brief lull between people, Daklin turned to Father Marcus. "After the explosion last month, have provisions been made to protect the miners and villagers if there is another such accident? Some way to warn the townspeople to evacuate the valley?"

  "The church bells will ring five times. It instructs them to go to safety, to leave the valley."

  In the next few hours, the Charlie team would send in transport trucks to get the villagers out of danger. "That's good," Daklin said piously. "I pray that there are no further accidents." Tomorrow it would be Father Marcus's job to evacuate the rest of village before Daklin and his team rained hell down on Xavier and his mining production.

  He spoke to dozens of people, giving them a blessing and special silver medals with the image of the Pope on them. The medals were genuinely from the Vatican. Daklin was only prepared to go so far with this masquerade. Their perception of him was their reality. Knowing people, Daklin knew their moments talking to the Bishop would be the high point of their lives, a story to tell their children and grandchildren. He wasn't the real deal, but the medals were. That would have to be enough. This fiesta seemed to go on and on, his leg hurt like hell, and he'd handed out most of the medals in little black velvet sacks. Still, it didn't look as if it would end anytime soon. Four hundred and eighty-two souls lived in the town, and every one of them wanted a moment with the Bishop. They brought their children, and little old ladies brought their pets, two with their Chihuahuas, and three with their chickens, for a blessing. They all brought him food, and small gifts. No one knew of Xavier's vision, so they were curious, but too polite to ask, why he was there.

  Daklin was used to being invisible; his job necessitated it. Since his field of expertise was explosives, it didn't require deep undercover, and in fact, he seldom had to endure large crowds of cheerful people in a social setting. And it wasn’t even an option in his private life, not that there was much of that. He worked, returned home for the mandatory b
reaks between ops, then returned to work.

  He dated on the rare occasions he could be bothered, usually women from inside T-FLAC. Those were few and far between. He had a high sex drive, but it didn't mean he stuck his dick just anywhere, and now that he’d gotten a visual on what River looked like wearing only diamond earrings, he realized he hadn’t indulged enough lately. His fist was only going to get him so far.

  Swarmed by the people of Los Santos, he stood between Father Marcus and a beaming Franco, nursing a watered-down, now lukewarm lemonade. In another time and place, he’d have just poured more vodka into the drink and splashed an ice cube or two into it. Now, though, nothing would make the liquid taste better, and if that wasn’t bad enough, it pissed him off that he was failing in his attempt to avoid watching River Sullivan. If he had vodka to pour down his throat, he’d be able to forget about her, but no. The new world order meant no liquid-induced strength, so he had to suffer through the evening with nothing but sour, warm lemonade.

  For fuck’s sake, every nerve in his body vibrated as she headed in his direction. Candlelight made her skin look like satin. A hint of black lace drew his gaze to the softly rounded neckline.

  Cleavage and lace. Fucking kill me now.

  Steeling himself, he could smell the warm, tropical scent of her perfume as she approached. A modest neckline and wide straps exposed her throat and a hint of velvety cleavage. The dress fit like a lover's hands over her breasts, then flared from her hips to swirl around her thighs. Not too short, but short enough to show off long, bare legs. He bet the lace that covered her silky ass matched the black lace that peaked at him from her cleavage. He’d pull that lace off her with his teeth. The dress could stay on while he did her. The first time.

  Jesus H. Christ. He ground his teeth imagining pushing the dress up above her hips and slipping into her wet heat. He shook his head, and refocused on the two heavy-set elderly women who stood in front of him. Thank God one of them had a faint moustache. The other had a large mole on her cheek with gray whiskers growing out of it.