Page 32 of Killer Secrets (Tempting SEALs 5)

"Oh, I think it's very much as it seems." He jerked a wooden chair forward, straddled it, and braced his forearms on the back. And then he smiled at them. A triumphant, knowing smile.

Eleanor pulled the sheet toward them.

"Leave the sheet alone." His hardened voice rasped through the silence that had been broken only by Eleanor's gasping breaths.

"El Patrón Fuentes does not mind how we find our pleasure." Liss suddenly had the temerity to speak up. She tried to simulate fear, but there was too much triumph, too much anger in her for her to carry it off.

"Liss, you forget who rules the roost here. That rooster has done cocked his last crow, so to speak, as far as decisions in this house are concerned, are we clear?"

She licked her full, wide lips as she flicked a glance around the room, obviously judging the threat. And coming up with death.

"Ian, it is so small a transgression," Eleanor whispered then, her limpid gaze imploring. "It was just a bit of consolation."

"Your sex games or preferences don't concern me, Eleanor," he assured her with an easy smile. It was a smile she didn't seem to find much comfort in. "Your association with Liss and, shall we say, cartel enemies does concern me."

He was watching Eleanor directly, though he caught the flash of fear in Liss's gaze with his peripheral vision. Poor Eleanor, she wasn't the liar she wanted to believe she was. Guilt marked her chocolate-brown gaze as surely as the forceful touch of Liss's lips on her breast had marked the taut mound.

"I do not know."

"Don't lie to me, Eleanor." He reached his hand out to Deke. Four pictures were placed in it, prints taken from the digital camera that had marked Eleanor and Liss's trip to the market the day before.

The two women were photographed speaking with a known Sorrell contact, Ernesto Cruz, then accepting two less than thin plain envelopes. Liss, greedy little bitch, had opened hers and fanned through the bills there.

He tossed the pictures to the bed where the women stared at them in rapt horror.

"I'm going to assume you gave them the only piece of information you could have acquired. The meeting with Radacchio that you believed was taking place late last night?" Liss stared back at him furiously, not bothering to hold her rage in, as Ian continued. "Ernesto's friends didn't find Radacchio at that meeting. They found a small army instead. His friends were returned to Ernesto in pieces this morning." The women paled, terror rounding their eyes even as Ian felt rage scour his soul.

Sorrell had sent the best he could acquire on short notice. Two of Ian's men had died, but Sorrell's men hadn't lived to take another breath.

It didn't matter that they were all criminals of varying degrees, murderers dozens of times over, each and every one of them, all in the name of the mighty coca and the almighty dollar.

"I lost two men last night, Eleanor," he said softly. "Two of my best. I'm not happy over that."

Her lips trembled as she quivered, fear paling her dark face and dampening her eyes.

"Ian, there was supposed to be no one hurt." Her breath hitched with panic. "They promised—"

"Are you a fool, Eleanor?" he snapped. "Look at Liss. Look at her." Eleanor's gaze shot to Liss's defiant face. "She thought Sorrell would triumph. That I'd die in the bloodbath her boss arranged."

"No, Ian," she cried.

He whipped the Glock from the inside of his jacket, the barrel aimed at Liss's head. For a moment, he had the satisfaction of her fear, but just for a moment.

"You won't kill us," she said quietly, confidently. "You do not kill women, do you, Señor Fuentes? You are not El Patrón. Only El Patrón understands this world. You are but a braying little burro—"

A weapon exploded, tearing into her skull, splattering the back of her head onto Eleanor and the wall behind her as she was flung backward.

The weapon had no sooner discharged than Ian was ducking and rolling, coming up, the gun braced in his hand and centered on the chest of the man who stood in the doorway.

Diego Fuentes. Ian's finger clenched, the need to tighten, to fire, nearly overwhelming his control. He could get away with it. He could kill the bastard and swear it was an accident. His superiors wouldn't question it, and he could still go after Sorrell. It would be so easy.

Diego's black eyes met his, knowledge in the curve of his lips as he lowered the gun. His pristine white silk shirt contrasted with his swarthy skin, the stiffly pressed black trousers and obscenely expensive loafers untouched by the blood he had just spilled.

"They are not women, they are traitors. Traitors die," he spat.

"So what does that make me, old man?" Ian suddenly snarled, coming to his feet as fury coursed through him. "I betrayed my country for you. What makes you think I won't betray you as well?"

"Blood is stronger than country," Diego said. "My blood in your veins. My heart pumping inside you, a part of me forever bonded with you because you are my son. Dispose of those whores and wipe them from your mind. No one betrays what is mine, and by all that is holy you are my son."

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