the job that Isabel had started. “What kind of man does that?”
What kind of well-trained marshal?
“It was a reflex. An accident.” Prindle tried to wrestle free of Dutch’s grasp. “She was kicking my butt. Broke my nose. Or did you miss how I’m profusely bleeding?”
A toilet flushed and water ran in the bathroom, then Will Draper joined the party. He was the US marshal in charge of the San Diego field office and acting liaison with their LA counterparts.
“Haas,” Draper said, hurrying up to them. “Let the man go. Now!”
Dutch was barely able to keep it together, but he shoved Prindle against the wall and released him.
“That wasn’t the plan we discussed.” Dutch stalked away and paced. The floor of the makeshift command center was spacious and open, but he felt contained, crowded. Caged.
Prindle dropped into a chair and put the compress back to his nose.
“Listen,” Draper said, “the LA office is in charge of their own guys and made some last-minute changes that I approved of.”
“You thought it was a good idea for this idiot to put a knife to her throat and hit her?”
Dutch had watched the fake attack transpire from the window in the command center. When Prindle had pulled the knife and pressed it to her jugular, Dutch shot out of there like a bullet, hightailing it across the street.
After reading the file on Isabel and staring at her picture for hours, he’d expected her to be a spoiled princess, too pampered to handle a broken nail. But beneath her refined beauty was a solid core of pure strength.
She had serious grit and impressive self-defense skills. He had genuine admiration for her that had turned to something more as he carried her back to the gallery and took care of the cut on her foot.
Attraction, sure, but something else, too, something intangible.
Draper shoved his hands in his pockets. “Hitting the asset was an accident.”
“I want him written up for inappropriate and excessive use of force. It needs to be documented in his file.” Dutch wanted it taken into consideration on Prindle’s next review.
“Okay.” Draper raised his palms. “Calm down.”
Prindle got up, kicking back the chair and flounced out into the front room.
“Was a knife necessary?” Dutch asked.
“The knife increased the intimidation factor and the perceived threat to a necessary level. It helped you initiate contact in an impactful way.”
“I didn’t agree to this,” Dutch snapped, shaking his head.
“You don’t have to agree with or like any of this. Just do your job and follow orders. Understand, Haas? Don’t forget the gravity of this situation.”
How could he? The WITSEC database for the Pacific Coast region had been compromised. A crooked marshal out of the San Diego office was responsible for the breach, but sensitive data—the new identities of all the witnesses and the personal information of the marshals and their families throughout California—had fallen into the hands of Dante Emilio Vargas. The ruthless leader of the West Coast branch of the Los Chacales cartel. The Jackals.
As powerful and brutal as Los Chacales had become in recent years, they were considered the largest-growing threat to national security. To make matters worse, Vargas planned to auction the information to the highest bidder.
Now, here was Dutch, brought in to cozy up to Isabel in order to get close to her uncle and retrieve the compromised data before it was sold.
“I know what’s at stake,” Dutch said. “But I’m questioning the means by which we get it done.”
The use of violence against her, heck, simply using her to get in with her uncle, struck him as wrong.
“The asset is our only way in.” Draper threw his hands up in exasperation. “The one connection we have to exploit.”
“She has a name,” Dutch said through gritted teeth, hating how they kept throwing around the word asset like she wasn’t a person.
His temporary boss sighed. “Do you have a better plan? One that’s foolproof? And will work in the short amount of time we have?”
No, he didn’t.
“Think of all the men, women and children counting on us,” Draper said. “On you.”
A lot of lives were on the line if Dutch failed. Those of witnesses, good marshals and their families. He despised the method of achieving the goal, but he’d handled more challenging assignments in Special Forces, and he’d toed the mission line.
So why did it leave a bitter taste in his mouth and have his stomach turning?
Isabel. She had money and the unfortunate luck of being related to Dante Emilio Vargas, but there was