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Armand stared at his phone, wishing he could reach through time and end the man who had just made his life more difficult. Since that wasn’t possible, he called the only number he had memorized.
The person on the other end answered after one ring. “Yes?”
“We need to replace that girl, the doe-eyed one. Start looking among the refugees.”
“I’ll see to it.” The line was uttered with a tone as flat and determined as the man’s personality. A good second-in-command. Together, they’d established a growing side business. Soon, it would be big enough to allow them to get rid of Walid. But not now. Now, was a dangerous time. A time he could ill afford to do what he intended to do.
“I’ll also need your help in covering the disappearance of a nun.”
There was a long moment of silence that Armand understood. The people here were very religious. Taking a refugee was one thing, but taking a nun?
“A nun will be difficult.”
“More difficult than saving your life?”
Another pause. Longer. Heavier. “We’ll have to burn the body.”
Chapter 4
A warm gust molded Dada’s tunic against her thighs as she strolled over the cobbled streets of the zocola, the main square. Late for the lunch rush, as was becoming her habit—along with nun puns—she hurried past carts of traditional Mexican foods, fruits and vegetables, flowers, and pottery.
Oaxaca was a pleasant city with historic buildings, terra cotta tiled roofs, stone arches, steepled white churches, and an abundant mix of locals, tourists, and refugees.
A lot of refugees. She homed in on one, a smiling toddler pulling a wheeled, wooden cockatoo. His mother sat, cup raised, begging for coin.
For a moment, Dada marveled at the tiny jeans covering the boy’s little marching legs.
The ache in her heart thickened into her throat. Looking away, her fingers automatically ran along the weave of her worn leather bracelet.
She was an undercover operative in the League of Warrior Women. Rescued from near death, she was here to rescue others, not indulge in what-ifs.
Chastising herself, she glanced one last time at the boy—and saw two men, twenty-somethings, come up fast behind the child. They didn’t slow, headed straight for the boy, then knocked him over.
Dada gasped. The boy fell and cried out. The refugee woman got to her feet, barked at the men, lifting her child out of their way as she backed up. The men followed. One of them wearing a green t-shirt spoke harshly, crowding her and the child.
Walking in their direction, Dada heard Green Shirt say, “…rather beg in the street?”
The other young man in a white t-shirt with a Honduran accent said, “Why wouldn’t you want a job?”
The young mother, nineteen or so, clutched her son, backing away. “I don’t want that. Tell him no.”
“Come with us,” Green Shirt said, reaching for her. “It’s safer.”
Fury steamrolled over Dada, propelling her straight into Green Shirt. Her shove sent him lurching, arms spinning. He sprawled to the ground, then darted back to his feet with a quickness that would’ve been comical if it weren’t so startling.
He swung around, teeth bared.
Dada tried to ease the tension. She could not afford to fight these men here where someone might see. “Never let it be said that a nun doesn’t know how to get a man’s attention.”
“Go back to God,” Green Shirt hissed, reaching into his pocket.
Dada stepped forward, hampered by the width of her tunic. She snagged the man’s wrist. Holding tight, she dragged him forward, twisted, then brought him to his jean-clad knees.
His hand opened. A knife dropped to the ground.
“Leave him go,” White Shirt said, moving in on her right side. His frantic eyes locked on her. His shoulders grew tight.
He had something in his hand.
A pipe.
Obviously not a practicing Catholic.
Dada shifted her feet as wide as she could into a balanced fighting stance, putting pressure on the delicate bones in Green Shirt’s wrist, bending his hand back. He cried out and swung feebly at her with his other hand.
White Shirt moved in.
Damn it. She’d have to fight.
She dropped Green Shirt’s hand, sidestepped, nearly tripped again. This damn tunic.
A figure moved gracefully between her and White Shirt. Huge biceps, veined forearms, broad shoulders, and a half-sleeve tattoo full of colors.
In a boxer’s stance, Sion ducked the whoosh of White Shirt’s swinging pipe. He came up under it, sent a devastating blow into White Shirt’s face. The thunk made her cringe.
White Shirt’s head snapped back. Blood rolled down from his nose and from the split skin above it. Pinning his glare on Sion, White Shirt swung again.
Dada had a second to react as Green Shirt rose to his feet and charged at Sion from behind.
Grabbing her tunic, Dada freed her legs, kicked the back of Green Shirt’s kneecap.
He fell, dropping to his shoulder, rolled, but then was back up, springing at her.
Dada’s brain shifted to attack. Her hands came up.
Green Shirt screamed. Put a hand to his ear. Swung around.
Knuckles bloody, Sion sent another strike at the man’s head. It barely skimmed as the guy moved quickly. They circled each other, avoiding White Shirt on the ground, a bleeding mess.
Sion delivered a series of blindingly quick boxing blows to Green Shirt. He grunted as the first two hits landed, dodged the last strikes, backed up, then looked toward his knife.
“Don’t,” Sion said, his tone ice.
A whistle sounded from across the square.
Police.
Green Shirt jolted into action, dropping his hands, and running over to his friend. He dragged White Shirt until he could get up and run.
The officer who’d blown his whistle ran across the square, waving people who’d gathered to watch the fight out of his way. He gave chase, telling Sion as he passed to, “Get them to safety.”
There was a moment of settling tension, as everyone realized the fight was over. People drifted off. Some looked away. Some offered Sion praise.
Dada quickly bent down and pocketed Green Shirt’s knife. She then picked up the child’s toy, then brought it to him.
He hid his face in his mother’s shoulder, so it took a couple of moments to get his attention. But his dark eyes eventually moved up and then to the toy. Dada encouraged him to take it. He did, wrapping chubby fingers around it, hugging it to his chest. His mother kissed away his tears.
“Thank you,” the woman said to her and then to Sion, who had bent to pick up his flannel shirt. She understood now why he always wore it—his tattoo was a footballer kicking into a goal.
Her gaze traveled from the tattoo over his broad chest, and she smiled. “Yes. Thanks for your help. I wouldn’t have wanted to release my jiu jitsu on them.”
Knuckles bloody, sweat soaking his shirt, a smile as pure and clean as sunlight cracked his face. He gave a long, low laugh. The sound raced along her body, settling warmth in her stomach. “Sister—”
“Dee.”
“Dee. Certainly can’t have martial arts nuns breaking assailants in half. Wouldn’t be proper.”
“No,” she acknowledged. “It would start rumors and keep people up all night with worry.”
Eyes still dancing, he said, “Ah, if they’re anything like me, they already have a hard time sleeping since you arrived.”
Their gazes held. His playful brown eyes smoldered. Dada wanted to reach out and touch him.
“Excuse me, Sister,” the toddler’s mother said, causing both her and Sion to jump.
Caught flirting with a Welshman when she was undercover as a nun. Not her finest hour.
Chapter 5
He was a heathen. It was practically written on stone tablets near a burning bush. He was corrupted enough to flirt with a woman of God. And to want to do much more than that, G
od save him.
He watched as Sister Dee introduced the two of them to the refugee woman. The woman, practically a girl, introduced herself as Rosa and her tear-stained child as Carlos.
Though Dee hadn’t asked, Rosa murmured, “I have never begged before. When I lived in Honduras, I had a food cart. But things there became so bad...” She looked at her son, slung on one hip, clutching his toy. “The gangs, the bosses could own you and your life with a look. Needing to keep my son safe, I sold my cart for this journey. Yesterday, I had my bag with all my money stolen, so now, I can’t even afford a place for us. And there are people here just as bad as those we fled.”
“Who is just as bad?” Dee said. “The men who left here?”
