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“Not a step you want to take, lad,” Sean says, his tone ice.
A whistle sounds from across the square.
Policia.
Green Shirt jolts, drops his hands, then runs over to his friend. He drags him up and they run. Well, Green Shirt runs. Baton Man grabs his weapon and kind of lopes after his buddy.
The officer dashes across the square, waving people who’d gathered to get out of his way as he charges after the men. Baton Man puts on a burst of speed, darting into a nearby alley.
There’s a moment of settling tension, as everyone drawn to watch the fight realizes it’s over. People drift off, some offering Sean praise, some calling me the Kung Fu Nun. This is not exactly the reputation I need.
As the last spectator leaves, I pocket the discarded knife. You never can tell when having a switchblade will come in handy. I then pick up the child’s toy and bring it to him.
The boy’s face is hidden in the shoulder of the woman holding him, so it takes a couple of moments of me whispering to him to get his attention. Finally, he lifts his head. My heart aches to see the tears streaking down his chubby red cheeks. He wipes at them, and his eyes go right to the toy.
I hand it to him with a smile. “It’s okay. The men have gone.”
Sniffling, he wraps his little arms around the toy and hugs it to his chest.
The woman holding him kisses away his tears. “Thank you for helping me and my son,” she says to me and Sean, who’s picking up his discarded flannel shirt.
I understand now why he wears that heavy shirt in this heat. Not concealed carry; he’s covering his tattoo—a footballer kicking into a goal.
I need to tell him he’s going about this covert work all wrong. He should play up his sport history, not hide it. It makes for such a tight cover: former footballer turned addict who disappears from the world and resurfaces in Mexico, trying to make a buck anyway he can. There’s no link between him and the teen who was taken, so why try to hide something that requires less effort to use as cover? Armand obviously doesn’t care to research, but if Sean ever gets in with Walid, he’ll discover Sean’s identity by running an image search.
I watch as he slips his glorious ink and large muscled biceps into the sleeves of his shirt.Sigh. Time to go back to being a nun. “Thanks for your help,” I say, echoing the woman. “I wouldn’t have wanted to release my jiujitsu on them.”
Knuckles bloody, sweat soaking his shirt, a smile as pure and clean as sunlight, Sean chuckles a long, low laugh. The sound races along my skin, settling warmth in my stomach.
“Sister—”
“Dee.”
“Dee. Certainly can’t have martial arts nuns breaking assailants in half. Wouldn’t be proper.”
“No,” I acknowledge. “It would start rumors and keep people up all night with worry.”
Eyes still dancing, he says, “Ach, if they’re anything like me, they already have a hard time sleeping since you arrived.”
Oh?
Our gazes hold as his playful brown eyes smolder.
Remembering myself, I raise a brow.
His eyes widen. His mouth drops open. Patches of red rise up under his beard.
That’s right, Sean. I’m still a nun. Well, as far as you know.
“Excuse me, Sister,” he says.
“Thank you for your help, my child,” I say, sounding and feeling like a pendeja.
Pushing my own idiota reaction and the desire that keeps rising in me down, I turn to the young woman watching us both with a confused expression.
Caught flirting with a Welshman when I’m undercover as a nun. Claro, not my finest hour.
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