Traitor, The by Jo Robertson

number."
    "You dick, you didn't get it last night?"
    "What I got, Maxwell, was a frantic phone call from
Mrs. Roberts about you in my office early this morning."
    Max grinned liked an idiot while Mrs. Roberts appeared from
nowhere and stood beside him, her eagle eye piercing him. Max jumped up,
snapping his jaw shut.
    Giving him a scathing look, she spoke to Rafe. "Agent
Hashemi, excuse me, but your eleven o'clock appointment has been waiting quite
a while. Assistant District Attorney Torres," she added, clearly believing
he'd forgotten.
    A short, middle-aged woman with a no-nonsense attitude,
Marilyn Roberts put everyone from the governor to the custodian in his place.
She always called Rafe by his title, expected him to address her as Mrs.
Roberts, and reminded him of his sixth grade teacher who'd scared the hell out
of him. Privately, he called her The Little General.
    Rafe looked at Max and shrugged. "Sorry, this guy's
been deflecting my emails for over a week. He has case files he doesn't want to
hand over."
    "Oh?" Max peeked his head out the door at the lone
figure fidgeting in the waiting room.
    "Send him in, Mrs. Roberts." Rafe moved behind his
desk and pulled out a folder that contained ADA Torres' emails.
    If not the smirk on Max's face, then at least the puzzled
expression of Marilyn Roberts should've warned Rafe.
    She never lost her composure, never missed a beat even in
the worst situations, and absolutely never seemed confounded. "Him?"
she questioned, raising both penciled brows until they seemed to disappear into
her very black hairline. "I don't think so, Agent Hashemi."

 
     
    Chapter Nine
     
    Seven muchachas jóvenes lined up along the corridor
of the tavern, youngest girl to oldest, although most of them looked to be the
same age, around eleven or twelve. Perhaps the one at the end was thirteen, but
none older than that. He could tell by their flat chests and straight hips as
well as the baby-soft skin on their cheeks.
    Santos crossed his arms over his chest and stared at the
dirty faces and ragged clothes.
    "Una cosecha fina de muchachas, a very fine
crop this time. You agree?" The proprietor of La Taberna Afortunada – The Lucky Tavern – smiled broadly at Diego Vargas and chucked the first girl
under the chin.
    A fine crop, as if he were speaking of corn or coffee bean
harvest, Santos thought.
    "Dé vuelta alrededor," the tavern owner
ordered the girl, making a circular motion with his hand. Thin and brown,
barefoot and dressed in a dirty white chemise, she turned slowly around at the
command.
    Santos peered into the girl's eyes, listless and dilated,
like a cat's in the dark. She'd most certainly been drugged. Probably one of
the benzodiazepines, but he couldn't be certain.
    El Vaquero wanted the girls mildly sedated for
transport, but not completely wasted. It was much safer that way to make the
nearly fifteen-hour van drive north through California until they crossed the
California-Nevada border.
    "See, I told you," the fat proprietor said. "¿Muchachas
finas, eh? And I can get you plenty more."
    "Shut up, old man," Santos growled.
    He watched lust play across the face of Diego Vargas. Santos
knew his boss was calculating the price of having his way with one or two of
the girls first and thereby lowering their value.
    Lust and greed always battled inside Diego. Usually, his
love for money won out, but sometimes the power of his lust overcame him and he
succumbed. Often with tragic consequences. Although El Vaquero usually preferred
his women large and lusty, he occasionally liked to sample the wares he
purchased before he turned them over to the women in charge of his two legal,
and one not-so-legal brothels.
    Yes, Santos thought for the thousandth time, Diego Vargas
was a fucking pig, un cerdo de mierdo. However, he allowed none
of these thoughts or emotions to register on his face or in his stance. After
all, he was El Vaquero's lawyer, as well as his bodyguard, and he was
wise enough not to