Chapter Three

Kyle

I start down the hallway and I’m almost to the living area when Myla appears in the archway separating me from the living area. “You took the job,” she says softly, standing her ground as I stop in front of her. 

“Yes, I took the job, and we’re going to talk about why you wanted that to happen, but just not now. Not until I secure the room.” I step around her, that sweet floral scent of her perfume following me all the way to the desk in the corner of the living area, where I grab the phone receiver and punch in the number to the bell desk. 

“I need to speak to Les,” I state, and the very fact that I’m still smelling flowers, and thinking of dark hair and green eyes, tells me how much Myla affects me. 

“He’s not available,” the female attendant on the line replies.

“Tell him it’s Kyle,” I reply. “The one in the Mustang.”

“Oh yes, sir.” I hear a complete change of her tone telling me money talks to Les. “He’s expecting you. Wait just one moment.” 

I start to turn and check on Myla, but already I hear, “This is Les.”

“I need you to personally bring my bags here to my room,” I instruct. “I assume you can see where I’m calling from.” 

“Yes sir. The private wing. I’ll be right up.”

I end the call and turn to find Myla standing in front of me, no more than two steps away. “Secure the room?” she asks, folding her arms protectively in front of her. “What does that mean? Is there a threat of some sort?”

“No active threat,” I assure her, “but considering you’re Michael Alvarez’s woman-” 

“Please don’t call me that.”

“Are you saying you aren’t his woman?”

“I’m saying you make me sound like a possession.” She doesn’t give me a chance to declare its accuracy, already moving back to her prior worry. “Why do you need to secure the room?” 

“From this point forward, I’ll be securing every room you enter, as long as you’re under my protection.”

“Juan’s people checked out the room.”

“Juan’s people aren’t responsible for your safety or mine.” And then because I can’t have her alerting anyone about what comes next, I step closer to her, our legs nearly touching, my voice a mere murmur. “I’m going to sweep for recording devices and get rid of them. Then we’re going to have that talk we mentioned.” 

I back away, but she grabs my arm. “No,” she hisses, her fingers gripping my jacket sleeve, our eyes colliding, the spark of some unnamed something I’ve sensed between us spiking hard and fast. 

I arch a brow. “No?”

“Don’t cross them.”

Her voice is barely audible, but I respond to the panic I sense in her, my hand settling on her shoulder. “You wanted me to take this job,” I remind her. 

“And I want you to consider who you’re working for.”

“I know what I’m doing,” I promise. “And I need you to trust me to protect you.” I pause, our gazes colliding, the air between us heavy. “Trust me.”

“Trust you? I don’t know you.” 

“That’s not what you said earlier.” 

“I don’t know you,” she repeats, pulling her hand back as if she’s just been burned.

But I don’t let her escape, my fingers snagging her waist, my hand remaining firmly at her shoulder. “You will,” I assure her, “and when you do, you won’t feel the fear I see in your eyes when I’m with you. Of that, I can promise you.” I release her, taking a step back, and she turns to walk away but not before I see the wash of unreadable emotion over her face, which has me wishing I could grab her and pull her to me and promise her things I don’t even know if she wants to hear.  

But I can’t and I don’t, because even if we weren’t being recorded, nothing I can say or do at this point changes the fact that she doesn’t know or trust me. The truth is, no matter what fear or panic she’s shown me, no matter how much hate she has for Juan, I can’t count on the Myla that Kara remembers still truly existing. I can’t even count on the spark I feel between her and I, indicating she’s not in love with Alvarez, but loyal to him, be it real or because she has Stockholm syndrome, which in and of itself could make her irrational and dangerous to both of us. And right now, I have to focus on drawing lines in the sand with the Alvarez clan, and creating a free zone for her and I to communicate. 

Reaching into my pocket, I remove a small electronic box, flipping the device on. It begins to beep and I turn in the direction it guides me, letting it lead me back to the desk. Reaching for the phone, I flip it over and remove the pencil head-shaped microchip I find there that could easily be mistaken for a battery. Resetting the scanner, I turn toward the room again, and find Myla now facing me, a question in her eyes. I hold up the chip between my fingers, showing it to her. Her chest slowly rises, her gaze lifting skyward, her reaction clearly indicating that she is not pleased, though I’m not sure if it’s about the room being bugged, or about me removing the recording devices. 

Whatever the case, I slip the microchip into my shirt pocket, and resume my search, locating two more devices. By this time, Myla is sitting on the couch watching my search, her expression emotionless, as I switch gears to begin a sweep of the air vents, and pretty much every nook or cranny where a camera might be hidden. “This room’s clean,” I announce, now certain that my two up close and personal encounters with Myla, though easily played off as attempts to test her loyalty to Alvarez, have not been recorded. I point to the master suite. Is that yours?” 

“Yes,” she confirms. “That’s mine and…” She seems to reconsider whatever she is going to say, before repeating, “It’s mine.” 

“We’ll inspect it last and end with a bang,” I say. Not giving her time to argue, I walk to the opposite side of the room and enter the dining area, where I find a single chip. Exiting back into the living area, Myla is back to staring out the window, and I can only hope she’s wistfully imagining escape, which I can give her, not my demise. I leave her there, heading down the hallway, where I search an office, a bathroom, and two more bedrooms, collecting only three more devices. I’ve just reached the junior suite by the door where I’d met with Juan, which is a perfect location for me to set up my room, and an electronic monitoring center, when the doorbell rings. I flip the “off” button on my scanner, stick it in my pocket, and step into the hallway, finding Myla hovering several feet away, her expression stark. 

“It’s my luggage,” I assure her. “You heard me call for it.” She nods, but she doesn’t look convinced. In fact, she looks pretty damn certain that we’re both about to have a gun pointed at our heads, which I find doubtful, but not out of the question. 

Giving us both a little peace of mind, I slide my jacket back, exposing the Glock at my ribcage. “If it’s Juan,” I comment, “I say that I shoot him.” 

She doesn’t laugh. “What if it really is him?” she says worriedly.

“It’s not.”

“You can’t know that.”

“Even if it is, I have several big guns and I know how to use them.”

Her eyes spark. “You think it’s that easy?”

I sober quickly, and don’t even hesitate to shackle her elbow and walk her to me. “I do not think dealing with Juan is easy,” I assure her. “But I can handle him and I’m not going to let you get hurt. I promise.”

She pulls away from me, as if my touch is fire, and I’m not sure if that’s good or bad. “You can’t make that promise,” she says, “and you know it.”

“I can and I am.” Another knock sounds and I turn my attention to the door, calling out, “Who is it?” and receiving an immediate reply of, “Les, from the bell desk, sir.” I refocus on Myla. “See? Everything is okay.”

“For now,” she concedes. “But he’ll be here soon.”

I’m not sure if she means Alvarez or Juan, but either way, I can’t leave Les waiting. I flip the lock and then erring on the side of caution, crack it open, confirming Les is indeed alone. Opening the door, I greet him, and step into the hallway to help him deal with my half a dozen equipment-heavy bags. By the time I’ve returned, Myla is walking toward the living area. 

Eager to get back to my work before Juan does indeed show up, I help Les gather the remainder of my bags, deposit them in my room, and then walk him to the exit, where I palm him a hundred dollar bill. “I’ll be here with Myla on an extended stay,” I explain. “I need a man on my side and I’ll be generous in exchange for loyalty. There will be five of those a day for you.”

He glances at the cash, and then at me, approval etched in his stare. “Consider it all yours. What do you need?”

“For now, just give me a heads up on any visitors coming my way, and that needs to happen even when you’re off shift. We’ll work through further details later.”

“Consider it done. How should I contact you?” 

We exchange cellphone numbers before he departs and I flip the lock back into place. With Myla still MIA, I quickly remove my scanner from my pocket again, turning it back on, and then locating one last recording device inside my temporary room. Ready to search her room, I head back into the hallway, but just as I’m about to enter the living room, she once again steps into my path. “I know you really think-” she begins. 

“Not yet,” I warn softly, indicating my shirt pocket, where the live chips are still present. Her eyes go wide with understanding, and I motion behind her. “Your room.”

She inhales and flattens her back against the wall, staring ahead and not looking at me. “Next time it won’t be Les at the door,” she warns softly, her gaze averted. 

“I have a plan,” I assure her. “More than one big gun and my own set of rules.”

Her gaze jerks to mine. “You already said that.”

“You needed to hear it again. And no one hired me, or wanted me here, because they thought I was a “yes” man, and I suspect your motive for wanting me hired was the same. Am I right?” 

“I can’t speak for them.”

“No. But you can speak for yourself when I’m done in your room and you will.” And with that promise, I move on, crossing the living area again and entering the high-end glitz and glamour of a master suite, decked out in pale blues and fancy artwork. 

Pausing a few steps inside the doorway, I scan for potential camera locations, a full living area framed by a wall of windows, to the right of the bed, a dresser with a flat screen TV above it to my right, directly across from a king-sized bed. And that bed, is what holds my attention, tormenting me. For a few brutal moments, I consider the moment Alvarez shows up here, and walks her toward this room, with the intent of shutting the door behind him. I’ll want to stop him. I’ll want to kill him, but if I do, I jeopardize the rescue of every woman caught up in his sex trafficking ring. 

The air shifts slightly, and I sense, rather than see, Myla enter the room, her presence jolting me back to the present. I step into action, following the beeping sound to the nightstand closest to the wall of windows framing the room, and remove a chip from the lamp by the bed. Myla says nothing, just stands in the entryway, watching me move through the room, removing chips, and surveying the curtains, furnishings, and movable objects for video equipment. My search leads me to the elephant statue sitting on the cabinet holding the flat screen television, and pointed directly at the bed, which doesn’t fit the décor. A quick inspection and I confirm there’s a camera inside which means that sick fuck Alvarez was going to watch her sleep. Or maybe it was Juan, in which case I will shoot the bastard. 

Fantasizing about how many ways I can kill Alvarez and Juan, and justify doing it myself to Blake, I scoop up the elephant, and walk across the room toward what I assume to be a bathroom. Flipping on the light, I enter a room so white it’s blinding, the giant tub on the other side of the bathroom clearly meant to help justify the ten-thousand dollar a night fee I estimate it must cost to stay here.

Setting the statue down on the counter, I pull the plug in the sink, turn on the water and set the elephant inside before removing   the chips from my pocket and tossing them in with it. 

“You lied,” Myla accuses me, appearing in the doorway. 

I turn off the water and face her. “What exactly did I lie about?” 

 “Not having a death wish for you or me.” She glances at the sink and then back at me, her green eyes sharp with certainty. “Any moment, all hell is going to be let loose.” 

“Good thing I know exactly how to tuck the devil back into his box,” I say. “You don’t like Juan, Myla. Let me make him go away.”

“You can’t,” she insists, no hesitation in her.

“I assure you, I can.” I narrow my eyes on her, trying to read her psyche. “But tell me. Is it just Juan you’re afraid of or is it Alvarez, too?

“He paid you to protect me, not hurt me.”

“That’s not an answer. Are you afraid of Alvarez?”

“You can’t defy him and get away with it.” 

“Again. Not an answer so I’ll take that as a yes.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“You didn’t have to.”

“You are making mistakes you can’t take back.”

“Being a pushover with these people would be my mistake,” I say. “I told you. They didn’t hire me to be a “yes” man, and I don’t get the impression you’ve survived in this world by being a wilting flower, either. So why would I?” 

“I know my limits,” she says, “and you clearly don’t.” 

“And I’m setting my limits while changing yours for the better.” 

My cellphone starts ringing and she swipes her long, dark brown hair behind her ear. “That’s going to be Juan.” 

“What did he do to you?”

“What he did or didn’t do to me isn’t what’s important. It’s what he’ll do to us both if you don’t answer your phone that matters.”

 In this case, I’m not sure if the “he” she references is Juan or Alvarez, but I reach into my pocket, grab my phone and hit the answer button. “Yes,” I say as my greeting. “I removed the listening devices, and the camera, because she knew they were here, thus I’ll never test her loyalty when they’re around.” 

Myla’s eyes go wide with shock that quickly shifts to disapproval that, while illogical to me, is not in doubt. It’s real. It’s a live charge and she whirls around to leave, and not sure what she will do to save herself from whatever perceived threat she feels from me or anyone else, I shackle her arm, maneuver her around, and place myself in the archway to prevent her departure. “The powers that be-” Juan begins.

“You mean Alvarez,” I state, while Myla’s expression tightens and she turns away from me, putting several steps between us. 

“You don’t need to name him,” Juan states, a reprimand in his words, while Myla sits on the edge of the tiled ledge surrounding the giant tub. “He doesn’t like to be named,” he adds.

“Tell Alvarez to call me,” I reply to spite him, while Myla squeezes her eyes shut, as if she wants to block out everything I’m doing. I wonder what else she’s blocked out just to survive this past year and if she knows she’s done it.

 “You deal with me,” Juan snaps. “And I’m sending a team up to re-install the devices, and if you don’t like it-”

“If you want to know if she’s loyal,” I say, leaning against the sink, and placing Myla in profile. “She has to think you aren’t looking. She has to believe you aren’t watching.”

“Knowing we’re watching keeps her loyal. Where is she now?”

“In her room,” I say, “and pissed at me because she’s afraid she’ll be blamed for my actions.”

“She should be afraid,” he replies. “You should be afraid, too.”

“Fear isn’t loyalty. Fear is a motive to run. You need to know what she’ll do when she thinks you’re not looking. Do you really want to tell Alvarez that her fear equals her loyalty and then let her burn him later?”

“It’s you I’m worried about burning us.” 

 “And yet you’re paying me a million dollars for eight weeks of work.”

“We are paying you a million dollars,” he agrees. “And we expect compliance in exchange.”

“Compliance isn’t success, and my failure comes with consequences that I’m not willing to pay. I won’t operate with my hands tied. If that’s what you want, then this isn’t the job for me.”

 “Take her to dinner while we re-install the room devices,” he bites out, the reply telling me Alvarez won’t be happy if I quit.

“I told her that Alvarez ordered the removal of all devices,” I counter.

“You did what?” He all but growls into the phone. “You are pushing my limits, but this changes nothing. In fact, this is good. She’ll never know we’ve re-installed the equipment.”

“She knew they were here the first time,” I lie. “She’s smart. Don’t let her be smarter than you. Alvarez needs to tell her he removed them because he trusts her, then, and only then, will you find out if she rises to the challenge or runs for the hills.”

He doesn’t immediately answer, remarkably silent considering his big mouth, before he says, “I’ll be in touch.”

“Make it fast,” I say, “because time is money that I won’t waste.”

“I said, I’ll be in touch,” he snaps, ending the call, and the moment I lower the phone, Myla is standing in front of me, green fire in her eyes. 

“First and foremost,” she says, “do not speak for me. Telling Juan that I knew about the equipment and didn’t tell Michael is bad for me. It means I knew and didn’t tell Michael.” 

“Why is that a problem?”

“It matters,” is her only reply. “They’re paying you a million dollars to be here with me?” 

“Yes. They are. Clearly you mean a lot to Michael Alvarez.”

“Silence means a lot to Michael Alvarez,” she counters, inferring she isn’t what’s important, but she’s already moved on. “Were you actually hired to protect me or test my loyalty?” 

“Both.” 

“If you’re testing me, then why would you tell me that?” 

 “Because if you fail their test,” I say, sliding my phone back in my pocket, “then so do I.”

Disappointment flares in her eyes, and quickly shifts to anger. “So this is self-serving.”

“This is what you call mutually beneficial. We both stay alive.”

“You assume I’m going to betray him,” she says, guarding herself as any survivor would.

“How long have you been with him?” I ask, despite knowing the answer. 

“Why does that have to do with anything?” 

“How long?” I push.

“A year.”

“Then you know him well enough to know that his definition of betrayal and yours might be different. And his is the only definition that matters. I’m not leaving this up to his interpretation.” 

She inhales and takes a step backward, leaning on the wall directly across from me, several beats passing before she asks, “Why did he choose you over someone else?”

“My FBI background.” 

“Because of my sister,” she says, her voice turning raspy. 

“Yes,” I confirm. “Because they think I’m the right person to keep you away from her.”

“Well then, you’re going to impress them because I have no intention of contacting my sister now or ever,” she declares, her fingers curling into her palms. “She thinks I’m dead. I’m not going to give her any reason to start a new mission to find me again.”

“Because she won’t approve of Alvarez?”

“Of course she doesn’t approve. She’s FBI. Or…I guess you are too, and it doesn’t matter to you, but it would to her.” She hesitates. “Do you know her?” 

There are equal parts hope and fear in that question, and I know that this is a moment of truth or lies that I will have to live with later, a decision thankfully delayed when a phone starts ringing in her pocket. She reaches inside her dress pants, removing it, but all too aware of the potential of Stockholm syndrome controlling her actions, I close the space between us and catch her wrist before she can answer the call. “Are you crazy?” she demands, her eyes and voice sparking with anger. “That’s going to be Michael, and the last thing either of us wants right now, I promise you, is for me to ignore him.” 

“Tread cautiously,” I warn. “He wants to trust you and I’ve given you the resources to ensure he does. Understand?”

“Yes. I understand, so let me go before he starts thinking the wrong thing.” I want to know what the “wrong thing” is, but right now the content of her conversation with Alvarez is all that matters. Her phone stops ringing. “Damn it,” she hisses. “That’s bad. Let me call him back.” 

“He’ll call back,” I say, “and we need to get our facts in line.” 

“I heard the call with Juan. I know what to say.” 

“You tell him that I told you that I was instructed to remove the recording devices.”

“I know,” she insists, and her phone starts to ring again. “I have to take his call.” 

I study her for several more beats, assuring myself we’re on the same page, before I release her and when I expect her to quickly answer the call, she doesn’t. Instead, her gaze drops to her phone, and she stares down at it. One second passes. Two. “Answer it,” I urge softly, instinctively settling my hand on her waist. “You can handle this.” For the briefest of moments, that “something” that keeps passing between us is there again, a magnet pulling us together. 

It jolts her. I see it in her eyes, and she reacts, cutting her stare, to murmur, “I hope you’re right,” before with a trembling hand, she answers the call. “Hello,” she says, pushing around me to exit the bathroom and enter the bedroom. Seeing this as an opportunity to assess her relationship with Alvarez, I stay where I’m at, listening and observing, in search of the true heart of Myla. “Sorry,” I hear her say. “I had to run to the bathroom and left it on the bed. Yes. I know. I was just a minute.” There are beats of silence, then, “Of course I knew you monitored me. I didn’t know it was a secret, but I do wish that you knew that wasn’t necessary. Not with me, Michael.” 

It’s exactly the right thing to say to feed the narrative I’ve set up. She wants his trust. He can give it to her and with it, enough freedom for me to walk her out of here without gunfire, but then there is silence. And more silence, and without seeing her face, I can’t know if that’s trouble I need to be ready to handle. Standing, I exit the bathroom, bringing the bedroom into view, finding her sitting on the couch, her body angled away from me, the phone at her ear, as if she’s trying to shut me out. I lean on the wall, listening, waiting. And watching. 

“He’s fine,” she finally says. “He’s better than Juan. You know how I feel about Juan.” She hesitates. “I want you to trust me. You can trust me. I know it’s hard for you to believe it anyway, but you won’t be sorry for this.” 

The sincerity in her voice grinds along my nerve endings with such force, it damn near crushes bones. Maybe she’s gotten really good at faking it with this man. Or maybe she’s actually come to care for him, even if it’s Stockholm syndrome, or simply her mind’s way of letting her survive. But if I assume she’s just surviving, when she might really be in love with Alvarez, the people who care about her, and that I care about, could end up dead. 

“I will,” she promises. “Yes. I’m very excited about my meetings tomorrow and about how this helps you, too.” There is more silence. Then, “Yes. Goodnight.” She ends the call and stands, whirling around to face me, steel in her eyes. “You’re playing with fire. You’re missing the big picture and you need to get a view right now.”

“It sounded to me like the call went well.” 

“A call means nothing,” she says. “It’s a temporary reprieve for both of us but we’re in the same hotel room around the clock for weeks. Those recording devices made sure he didn’t have to use his imagination about what’s happening when we’re alone. The minute he decides we’re sleeping together, we’re dead.” Somehow we’ve moved to the middle of the room, standing toe-to-toe again, as if a magnetic pull wants us together, and she realizes it at the same moment as me. I see it in her eyes. Feel it in the shift in the air. “This is dangerous,” she whispers, and it’s clear she’s talking about us. 

“But I’m not,” I promise her, “and on some level you knew that, or you wouldn’t have pushed me to take this job.” 

“I don’t know what I thought. I don’t know what I think now, but Michael’s possessive. The longer you’re with me and unmonitored, the more he’ll read into who and what we are.”

“Do you really want him to read into every interaction we have?”

“No, but…maybe you taking this job was a mistake.” 

“Nothing about this feels like a mistake,” I assure her, letting her read whatever she wants into it. “You need protection and I’m going to do whatever it takes to ensure you stay safe. So yes. I’m close and if I have to get closer, I will.” 

“What part of “you’re going to get us killed,” do you not understand?” 

“No one is dying that I don’t kill or let die.”

“No one lives that Michael Alvarez wants dead,” she counters, her eyes narrowing, realization of some sort filling her face. “You’re not afraid.” She sucks in air and then lets it out, before calmly asking, “This is part of the test, isn’t it?”

“I’m the one who told you about the test in the first place.”

“What better way to make me trust you and then try to convince me to turn on Michael?”

“No,” I say, my voice hard steel. “That is not what is happening here. I’m not setting you up.”

“But I can’t know that, now can I?” She takes several steps backwards. “Please go.”

“I’m not setting you up,” I repeat, my voice as solid as the wall I can feel between us now that she reinforces by once again folding her arms in front of her. “Myla-”

“I need you to leave and please shut the door behind you.”

The urge to refuse, and to demand she trust me, is instant, but I have to force myself to repeat the golden rule of undercover work: Earning trust is critical. Earning trust takes time you won’t want to give it. And finally, assuming you have it too soon, can get you and everyone else killed. Accepting these things, knowing they are about survival, I inhale, and with Herculean effort, force myself to walk to the doorway, pausing under the archway without turning. 

“I explained my motives and they stand. I’m looking out for only two people. You and me and no one else.” 

Exiting into the living area, I pull the door shut behind me, accepting the divide she’s demanded, but not for long. In fact, as I walk away, something is clawing at me, warning me that I’m missing something. I stop walking, fighting the urge to return to Myla, every instinct I’ve honed over the years telling me to pull Myla close and keep her there, and do it really damn fast.