“Are we clear?”
“Crystal.”
LaGuardia’s harsh expression softened. He was one of those hard-ass military types, overworked and underpaid. He looked worn down.
Ian was worn down too. His undercover assignment as a drug dealer had taken a toll on him. It had reminded him of his dysfunctional childhood home. He probably needed a break, not another stress test, but he had to see Maria again. He couldn’t rest until he was sure she was safe. Villarreal’s enemies would be organizing their own search. They might target his daughter.
Maria had always been a trouble-magnet. And a man-magnet, through no fault of her own.
“They say you speak Spanish,” LaGuardia said.
“That’s right.”
“You won’t pass for Mexican.”
“No,” he agreed. He’d grown up in a poor Mexican neighborhood in San Diego. He’d wanted to belong to a big Mexican family, like his best friend Adam’s. But he spoke Spanish like apocho,and he didn’t look Mexican. He had ordinary brown hair and hazel eyes. His father had probably been some white-trash tweaker or a homeless bum. Maybe a traveling businessman.
Who knew? His mother certainly didn’t.
“We’ve got some camera equipment for you in the back,” LaGuardia said, taking a few documents out of his briefcase. There was a passport, photo ID, and media credentials. “You’re Ian Phillips, freelance photographer forNational Geographic.”
Ian accepted the items with gratitude. Pretending to work for Nat Geo wasn’t a bad gig. Too bad when this short assignment ended he’d be neither a successful photographer nor a DEA agent. He doubted he’d have a job with ICE, either.
Most SACs weren’t fond of rogue agents. Some of them didn’t even like independent thinkers.
“Thank you for the opportunity,” Ian said, regardless.
LaGuardia drummed his fingertips against the surface of the table. “You were at the top of your class in the academy. Your fitness level and IQ scores are impressive. I don’t question your drive or your intelligence, but I’m looking for a team player. Prove that you can follow orders and stay out of trouble, and I’ll consider you for a long-term position.”
“I appreciate it.”
LaGuardia grunted in response. “You’re dismissed.”
Ian picked up the camera equipment and a plane ticket to Mexico City on his way out. Then he bought some clothes and supplies before returning to his hotel. Tossing aside his backpack, he strode into the bathroom. After a quick shower, he left the stall, wrapping a towel around his waist. He wiped the steam from the mirror and took a hard look at himself.
What had Maria seen in him? He was a mess of shaggy hair and hollow eyes. His body was too lean. He was all muscle and bone and sharp edges. No softness, no give. No extra padding. He’d played the role of a junkie as if he’d been born to it.
And he had been.
He closed his eyes and thought about their night together. Her sleek curves and honeyed skin. Her hot mouth underneath his. Her cries of pleasure and tears of relief.
The empty place she’d left beside him.Insidehim.
He took out a pair of clippers and leaned his head over the trash can for a buzz cut. The uneven layers fell away like dead weight. When he was finished, he used the hotel soap to lather the stubble on his jaw. He shaved with swift precision, wicking the blade over his skin.
He paused at his upper lip. He didn’t want to look like a drug addict anymore. He also didn’t want to look like Ian Foster: dirt-poor, white trash, desperate to escape his upbringing. So he set down the razor and rinsed his face, leaving his mustache intact.
It was only a few days’ growth. He didn’t resemble a 1970s porn star or a Wild West gunslinger, but he wasn’t quite himself, either. He was Ian Phillips, hipster photographer.
National Geographicphotographer.
He nodded at his reflection, pleased with the easy transformation. In less than ten minutes, he’d changed his appearance considerably. He looked sort of academic, artistic. The mustache suited his face better than a scruffy goatee.
And Mexican women liked mustaches. Didn’t they?
