Page 2 of Pulse

“It’s all good,” he said, folding his arms over his chest. He’d bulked up to his largest size since taking his job—working out like a fiend provided one of his only outlets for the stress. It was either that or becoming a raging alcoholic, and he couldn’t afford the risk to his safety by being drunk all the time. “Your fatherand I have been through every detail of this thing a million times. You coming to the dock?”

“Nah, but Dad and I’ll be at the drop location to help you unload when you get back.”

“Perfect.”

And it was. The more people the DEA could round up in one sting, the better.

Enrique stood, so Max followed suit. “You call me if you need anything tonight, okay?” Enrique said as he grabbed the back of Max’s neck and drew their foreheads together. The Del Rios were affectionate with those they considered family, and Max had been so since the moment they agreed to let him date Camila. “I mean it, man. If one fucking thing feels off, you call me. I’m here for you. You’re my brother in all but blood. As soon as you grow some balls and ask Cami to marry you, you’ll be my brother by law too. I got your back. You hear me? If justonefucking thing feels wrong.”

A sick feeling settled in his gut. He’d become accustomed to it over the past few years, but it still sucked. “I hear you.” The worst part of this assignment was trying to find a way to reconcile the way he both loved and hated Enrique and his family in equal measure. “Thank you.”

Enrique wasn’t a good man. Some called him a sociopath, but he knew damn well right from wrong and could empathize with those he loved. He enjoyed choosing wrong. Max had witnessed Enrique do things that would haunt him for the rest of his days. He’d watched the man kill in cold blood without being able to do a damn thing to stop it. One time, Max witnessed Enrique torture a man for hitting on Camila at a nightclub. Last month, Enrique carved his initials into a man’s tongue for mouthing off during a meeting.

As a law enforcement officer, allowing these atrocities to happen went against everything he stood for. As an undercover agent, it was just another day at the office.

But the flip side of Enrique’s violence was the man Max had spent every holiday with for the past few years. The man who called him brother. The man who had saved his life two years ago when a rival cartel member planted a bomb in his car. The dichotomy fucked with Max’s head. The shrink his superiors sent to deal with him after all this would have a field day rooting around his fucked-up emotions and unhealthy attachments from this assignment.

Three hours later, Max drove his pickup into the lot behind the cartel’s sneaker warehouse, a few minutes behind the semi-truck full of product. The legitimate side of the business did so well that he’d never understood why Domingo Del Rio bothered to run drugs. Then he’d met the man and realized money wasn’t why he ran the world’s most dangerous and profitable drug cartel. The man craved power like most craved water. He thrived on it, reveled in it, couldn’t survive without it, and he had it in spades.

Max parked his pickup next to the big rig backed into the loading dock. Hundreds of sneakers with drug-filled false bottoms were being unloaded into the warehouse. The shipment had arrived without a hitch. The hard part was over. Or so they all thought.

Little did they know that in exactly eighteen minutes, the DEA would flood the warehouse with agents armed for war and prepared to go to battle. They’d arrest everyone on site, Max included, to keep up appearances, then dismantle the cartel, ending the most prolonged and complicated operation the DEA had ever run against a drug cartel.

All thanks to him.

They’d give him a medal and maybe a promotion.

They’d debrief him until his hair turned gray, and he’d answer the questions correctly to keep them from putting him in a padded room. But at night, when he laid his head down, he’d be alone with his fucked-up thoughts and traumatizing memories.

Sixteen minutes.

He blew out a breath and exited his truck. If he lingered too long, someone would become suspicious.

“Yo, the man of the hour,” Enrique announced with a victorious grin as Max entered the warehouse. Men scurried all around, unloading the truck while at least thirty women sitting at multiple tables began breaking down the shoes and removing the product. He slung an arm around Max’s shoulders. “This man never disappoints. There’s no one I fucking trust more,” he bellowed as he slapped Max’s chest.

Max forced a smile. “Thank—”

Boom.

A ground-shaking blast rumbled through the building.

Enrique’s arm fell from his shoulders. “What the fuck?” he shouted, eyes wide and wild.

Men in tactical gear rushed in from all angles with weapons drawn and shields in place.

“DEA, get on the fucking ground!”

Max froze.

They’re early.

Why are they so early?

Even five minutes off schedule could fuck up the entire plan.

“Feds!” Enrique screamed. Fury transformed his face into a terrifying mask of death and violence. He lunged forward while reaching for the gun forever tucked into the small of his back.

“Don’t.” Max barked. He snagged Enrique’s arm before the man could grab his weapon and force the DEA to fire on them. “Just get the fuck down and don’t do anything stupid. They’llmow us down like animals.” And they would. He had no doubt the strike team would end any immediate threat with deadly force. It’s what they trained for.

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