Chapter 3

Amanda's behind glass, standing with a small group of blond women as though they are preparing her for one of those lineups they always do on the cop shows on television. She's been crying. Her eyes are red and her face is blotchy. She's dressed in yoga pants and a tie-dye shirt, telling me she was at home, likely sleeping, when they found her. Her hair's a mess, falling in strings around her face, and she's not wearing makeup, another clue to the idea she'd been in bed when they dragged her out of her apartment. My heart breaks watching her, knowing she's frightened and confused, knowing I can't go in there and offer her comfort.

The door opens and I spin around, ready to confront whoever might dare come into my personal space. I'm a little surprised to find myself facing a man in a suit rather than the uniforms I'd been dealing with. He smiles and it's a charming smile, meant to disarm. He's handsome--blond and chiseled--and he knows it. I cross my arms over my chest, defending myself from the charm I can sense oozing just below the surface of that smile.

"Abril, right?" He offers a hand, the smile faltering after a moment when I refuse to take his hand. "I'm Jake Travis."

"Why am I here? And why are you holding my friend?"

Jake gestures to the small table behind him. "Why don't we take a seat and I'll explain everything."

"Why don't you just explain it now?"

He lowers his head slightly, his eyes moving to the one-way mirror I'd just been studying. He makes a small gesture. "That's your friend, Amanda, right?"

"You know it is."

"Do you recognize any of the other girls?"

I turn, reluctantly, and let my eyes move slowly over the other frightened faces of the blondes in the next room. I hadn't really paid much attention to them before, but now that he asked, I found myself picking out a few faces that were vaguely familiar. Girls I'd seen in photographs Amanda shared with me, a couple of girls who visited Amanda's apartment on nights she had a date to help her get ready.

"A couple."

"They all work for Janelle," he tells me, a fact I was already putting together. "You know Janelle, right?"

I refuse to answer, but I know the hot blush that is spreading over my cheeks gives me away.

"We ran a raid on the offices of Janelle's Escort Service this morning. Found a lot of interesting things in her files, such as the names and addresses of each girl who's ever taken a job for her."

My blush deepens, but I don't speak.

"Turns out, Janelle keeps great records. Every penny each girl has made. Every man she's ever gone out with. Hell, the client list alone was worth every obstacle we had to navigate to get our warrant."

"I'm sure it was a big coup for you and your cop buddies."

He nodded slowly. "Yeah, but I'm not a cop. I'm FBI."

I tilt my head slightly. I lived on the street for a few years. I knew quite a few prostitutes, and they knew more about the law than most cops probably do. "Since when is prostitution a federal offense?"

He shrugs. "Oh, I don't really care about the girls. That's up to the local police department. We're after bigger fish."

"What does that have to do with Amanda?"

"Not a thing." He turns toward me, leaning against the glass as he studies my face. That smile comes back, all the charm oozing out even as his eyes remain cold and calculated. "But it has everything to do with you, Ms. Martinez."

"Me?"

He pushes away from the glass and strolls to the table, once again gesturing for me to take a seat. I do, slowly, weary of everything this man says and does. He pulls a picture out of the inner pocket of his blazer and sits it on the table in front of me, pushing it toward me until it is touching my forearm where it is resting on the sticky tabletop.

"Do you recognize that man?"

I don't want to look at it. I study his face instead, experienced enough to know when a man thinks he has me caught in a trap. I know everything--my fate, Amanda's fate--rests on my response to this question.

"What happens to Amanda if I refuse to help you?"

I can see my question both impresses and surprises him. He crosses his arms as he settles into a chair directly across from me. "I think they've got enough to put her in prison for a few years. Maybe longer."

"And if I help you?"

"I'll make sure the arrest report disappears."

I nod slowly, chewing on the inside of my cheek as I consider these options. Amanda has always been aware that this might be a consequence of her choices, and she's assured me over and over that she could handle prison if it became necessary. She would never want me to get involved, made me swear several times over the years that I wouldn't put myself into debt or endanger my future just to help her. I swore. I take that very seriously.

But this is Amanda. She's all the family I have.

"What would I have to do?"

Again, that smile. I'm beginning to hate it.

"First, you need to tell me if you know this man." He taps a finger against the picture I've managed to ignore up until now. "And then you need to get close to him, help me get the evidence I need to put him, his father, and anyone else we can catch in our trap in prison for a very long time."

Tears burn in my throat. I know who I'll see in the picture before I lift it up, before I set eyes on it. I know the green eyes that will be looking back at me, the dark cascade of curls that will be falling around a face that is beyond handsome, beyond this man's pedestrian charm. I know who it will be.

"His name is Maverick Steele. He's son of Micah Steele, the head of the Steele cartel--the biggest organized crime syndicate in this country." Jake flicks his nail against the picture I am now studying. "He is my ticket to cementing my name in history as the FBI agent who took down the Steele Cartel."

Of course he is.