Ethan worked to combine the financial data we had pulled with the reports that the rest of the team had put together to make a list of our top suspects. Oliver and I worked over the next few days to find any hidden accounts or encoded communications linked to people on that list. I found that Oliver was an ingenious coder and his mind worked at the speed of light, but he did not have as much experience at hacking into secured networks. I figured it was because Oliver wasn’t one to break rules and wouldn’t hack unless someone in authority, like Ethan, asked him to.
Ezra used humor and flirtation to deflect most serious questions and was the glue that kept the group together. He did most of the cooking, kept track of where each member of the team was and what they were working on, and kept morale high. Each night so far he had taken off after dinner and when he returned hours later he always smelled of perfume and sex. It seemed to me that he worked to ensure that everyone else was happy because he was not. All the jokes and quick wit were there to cover up some pain in his past. I recognized it in him because I held a similar pain in her soul.
Ethan was their leader. He was also slightly apart from the rest of the group. He watched over the team like a father rather than a brother. They all respected him and followed his lead without question. In return, I saw that he treated each of his men with the same respect and considered their safety above the end goal of the mission. Sometimes I would witness Ethan in deep thought and his eyes would reflect a sadness so deep that I couldn’t even try to connect with it.
Liam was a quiet giant, but he was also quite intelligent. I knew they had him acting as a worker in the manufacturing plant at ChemGen because of his size but if he were to really work for this company, he would have been an engineer or chemist. He was able to see all the parts of a plan or a machine and pull them apart and put them back together in a very analytical way. I also suspected that he often took a more silent role in their team dynamic to observe everything. If there was ever a problem with the group, he would be the one that would know the root cause.
I was still very much afraid of him.
Christopher was infuriating. Charisma and charm dripped off his every action and he had everyone he met wrapped around his little finger. He was the embodiment of Christian values and the American dream all wrapped up into one delicious-looking package. The problem was that Christopher knew the effect he had on other people and he used it to get what he wanted. I was convinced any flashes of heat that would run through my system when he was near were caused by his manipulations. And I hated to be manipulated.
I had just finished showering and was trying to examine my stitches in the mirror when the bathroom door swung open and Christopher barged in. My firearm was on the counter under the pile of clean clothes but if I grabbed it, I would have to let go of my grip on my towel. I decided to see if Christopher would attack before I up and flashed him. But instead of jumping me or retreating out of the bathroom like common courtesy would demand, his eyes were drawn to the row of stitches in my back.
“Jesus,” he breathed out and raised a hand to touch me. I quickly pulled the towel up and turned to face him. “They really did a number on you.”
“It will heal,” I replied in a clipped tone.
“Yes. It will.” His eyes flicked to the bathroom counter where I had laid out bandages. “Here, turn back around. I will help you put these on.” I hesitated. I didn’t like turning my back on people and liked being touched even less. But putting the bandages on myself was always awkward and hurt my ribs as I twisted. He didn’t pressure me but waited as I weighed my options. That unassuming patience gave me the strength to slowly turn and expose my back to him and then loosen my towel to expose the entire wound.
He approached slowly, and I watched his reflection intensely in the mirror. He opened the bandage packets and stepped close to gently adhere them to my skin. He used a finger to press the edges of the bandages and I felt the touch reverberate throughout my traitorous body. When he was finished, he cupped both of my shoulders with his big warm hands and looked at me in the mirror. Butterflies exploded in my stomach and my breath became shallow and fast. His pupils dilated in the mirror and the look he was giving me shot heat into my core.
Somewhere a door slammed, and Ezra called out for Christopher to help him in the kitchen. Our eyes remained locked in the mirror as Christopher slowly removed his hands from my skin and backed out of the bathroom. When he was gone, I turned and slowly shut the bathroom door while letting out a huge gust of air. What in the hell was that? I asked myself. I leaned against the cool tile of the shower wall and called myself ten types of stupid. I would not fall for his games. I would not fall for any man’s games ever again. Plus, he was a member of this team. If I wanted any hope of staying here with Oliver, then I needed to keep all of my relationships with these men strictly professional. I would not be like Elena, destroying teams through passion and lust.
I dressed quickly and then stayed in my room hacking into personal email accounts for any trace of their spy until dinner. Ezra had made lasagna and it was one of the most delicious things that I have ever tasted. I remained focused on my meal for a good while and when I finally looked up, I saw Ezra wink at me. The food was so good that I gave him an unrestrained smile and murmured a quiet, “Thank you. This is incredible.” In his direction. He just tipped his head in response and turned back to the conversation.
A few minutes later Ezra’s phone rang and after looking at the caller I.D. his face lost its normal easy cockiness. He stood and walked stiffly out of the room before answering the call. Oliver and I looked over at the rest of the team with clear questions in our eyes. It was Liam that answered our unasked question.
“Must be his dad calling.” Liam failed to elaborate past that, but I felt the need to give Ezra his privacy. If I was unwilling to share my past life with them then I thought it only fair that they got to keep their private lives from me. I turned my attention back to finishing the rest of the delicious meal.
I was doing the dishes after dinner when Ezra finally returned and leaned against the counter next to where I was working at the sink. After a few moments of silent contemplation, he seemed to make a decision and asked me, “Want to go out and find some trouble tonight?”
There was a dangerous glint in his eyes that sparked my interest. What kind of trouble was he talking about? More to the point, I was sure that he would go whether I joined him or not. I figured I would give this whole team thing a try and go with him to make sure he didn’t get into any real trouble.
I wiped my hands on a dishtowel and said in a teasing voice, “I am curious about your definition of trouble, Mr. James.” He flashed his cocky smile in response and walked towards the door. I didn’t hesitate in following him.
Twenty minutes later I discovered that when Ezra said trouble, he meant an underground, no-rules, bare fist, fight club. We fought our way through a rowdy crowd of people either cheering or booing the fight before us. Two Cuban men, one short and burly the other taller but equally muscled were covered in blood and beating the shit out of each other. When we reached the edge of the hand-painted ring Ezra turned to gauge my reaction to the fight. I just smiled at him and turned to watch the ongoing fight.
This was not the first underground fight club that I had been to. Not even close. The Family had run something similar back in New York and they always wanted some of their girls present to entertain their high rollers. Ezra was going to have to work harder to shock someone like me.
The short burly man won that fight and we stayed to watch another fight between two female fighters before Ezra scanned the room and started moving towards someone he had identified. I followed and watched as Ezra had a whispered conversation with the man. When Ezra handed him a wad of cash and the man nodded in response, my stomach started to sink. This guy looked like he was responsible for the fight roster. If I was right, then Ezra had just signed up for a fight.
When we walked away from the man, I breached my no touching rule, rested a hand on Ezra’s shoulder, and leaned in to ask him, “Are you sure about this Ezra?”
He gave me a wicked smile in response and responded, “Don’t worry about me, sweetheart. I know what I am doing.”
In my experience, only three types of men entered this kind of ring. Desperate men in need of a quick payout. Cocky men who needed to prove how manly and strong they were. And men that were punishing themselves and wanted a beat down. While his confidence would indicate that he was the second type, I was worried that Ezra was really the third type.
I followed Ezra to a corner where he took off his shoes and shirt to reveal a black wife beater underneath. His one full tattooed sleeve blended into his shirt giving the illusion of being unbalanced. He started bouncing in place and testing out a few air punches. I turned to survey the room. The energy within the room had turned darker as one fully tattooed Cuban man brutally beat a smaller American man until he was unconscious on the floor. The crowd was out for blood and in my experience that usually led to someone getting seriously hurt, or dead.
The crowd started chanting ser-pi-ente as a dangerous-looking Cuban man with a large snake tattoo wrapped around his right arm stepped into the hand-painted ring. He was six-two and at least 250 pounds. That put him about 50 pounds heavier than Ezra and I didn’t like the drug-like haze The Snake’s eyes held. This guy was clearly a club favorite, which meant that he was good enough to win most of his fights and would put on a brutal show for the crowd.
All of my hard-won instincts were screaming at me that if Ezra stepped into that ring, he would not be walking out of it whole.
I stepped into Ezra’s personal space and forced him to meet my eyes before telling him, “Whatever issues you are planning on working out in that ring Ezra, cannot be solved by getting your skull dented in.” I even ventured out to reach out and touch his shoulder again before asking him to just walk out of the club with me. He stared back at me with eyes filled with torment, rage, and possibly self-hate and just shook his head before stepping into the ring.
The crowd booed at Ezra and started chanting Mata al Americano. Mata al Americano. Matar, I thought to myself. To kill. Adrenaline spiked through my system as The Snake threw a punch to Ezra’s face that he didn’t even try to block. Blood gushed from Ezra’s mouth and was sprayed in my face as his head jerked to the side. This was insane. Why had Ezra brought me here just to watch helplessly as he was killed by The Snake?
The punch to his face seemed to snap Ezra out of whatever destructive mentality he was in because he started fighting back after that. He was a good fighter and lightning-fast on his feet. But The Snake put his weight behind every punch and the ones that landed took a big toll on Ezra. After five minutes of constant swapping of blows, both men were breathing hard and bleeding. The Snake had backed Ezra up to the wall adjacent to where I was watching. There was a steel guard rail that looked like a handicap rail. The Snake faked with a right and when Ezra dodged, he hit him with a left to the jaw. Ezra fell back into the rail and slid to the ground. His right hand unconsciously held onto the rail as he fought a blackout. The crowd cheered, and The Snake raised both hands in victory before telegraphing that he meant to kick down on Ezra’s exposed shoulder, probably rendering that arm useless for the rest of Ezra’s life.
I reacted.
I darted forward from my position at the side of the ring and slid my small frame under The Snake’s raised leg and as he kicked down, I stood with all the force I could muster. My shoulder caught the back on his knee, and I stood up to my full height. The Snake lost his balance and fell backward cracking his head on the concrete floor. It was a clumsy move that cost me a lot of energy and the sharp pain in my chest told me I had just re-cracked my injured ribs. I would not last long if The Snake got up and started fighting me. I needed to end this now.
I moved to kneel on The Snake’s shoulders effectively pinning him to the ground with one of my shins placing weight on his throat. I was crushing his windpipe and restricting the flow of blood. The crowd grew quiet as he turned purple from the lack of oxygen. Right before The Snake blacked out, I asked in a judgmental tone, “¿Crees que está bien herir a alguien porque solo tú puedes?”
When he grew limp under me, I rose and went to help Ezra up. We needed to get out of there before whoever was running this fight ring decided to take the loss out on me. After I had Ezra standing with me supporting some of his weight, something that made me wince in agony, I reached back with my free hand and withdrew my Sig Sauer. I kept it by my side in a clear warning to anyone that tried to stop our exit.
The still stunned crowd parted and let us leave, but as we limped down the block, I heard yelling and was worried that men would come after us. I used the butt of my gun to break the window of some kind of Oldsmobile that was parked on the street. I reached in and unlocked the passenger door and placed Ezra inside. The car was so old that there was no alarm and I found it was easy to hot wire. I got the clunker running and sped away just as three bouncer-looking guys started running down the block after us.
I was still dealing with the adrenaline left in my system and when Ezra commented that “I was handy to have around,” white-hot fury engulfed me. Did he think that this was a joke? If he knew that he was going to pull that shit tonight why the fuck had he brought me along? Did he think that I would find watching him getting permanently maimed entertaining? I was so angry that I couldn’t form words and just tightened my grip on the steering wheel.
When we reached the townhouse that we were staying at, I threw the car into park but left it running as I got out of the car and opened Ezra’s door for him. There was no way that I was going to further injure my ribs to help this asshole out of the car when there was no one chasing us. After he stumbled out of the car, I slammed the door shut and moved back around the car.
“Wait,” Ezra said as I opened the driver’s door. “Where are you going?”
“I am going to return this car that I just stole to get your sorry ass home.” I spat out in a clipped tone and then sped away.
I left the car three blocks over from where I had found it and left 500 dollars in the glove compartment. I hoped that the owner would find it and use the money to replace the window and refill the gas tank. I used the walk back to the townhouse to calm down and process what had happened. Once I was calm, I conceded that Ezra most likely hadn’t gone to that club with the intention of being killed or having his arm damn near kicked off. He probably had done things like this in the past and after taking a couple of blows he was able to fight his way out of the situation.
But I still couldn’t fathom why he would bring me to witness his self-imposed punishment. If he thought I was the type of person who would like witnessing such things, then they had the wrong idea about me. I had grown up with constant violence and thought that I had left all that behind when I had become Payton Taylor. Yet in the six weeks that I had been with Whistler, I had been in two fights with Oliver, got stabbed in an alley, and now was involved in a fight club in Cuba. This was not the life filled with helping people that I thought being a Whistler agent would bring.
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