Texas Hold 'Em (Smokin' ACES) - By Kay David Page 0,2

Brujo. Santos had been chasing the brutal cartel leader, whose real name was Pablo Ortega, for two years from behind a desk when he’d learned some of the west Texas motorcycle gangs, including the one they had tangled with tonight, provided muscle for Ortega. Convincing the powers-that-be to let him take the investigation undercover, he’d handpicked a group of agents and formed ACES, the Ammunition, Contraband, and Explosive Suppression team. In the field, they’d become Smokin’ Aces, a renegade biker gang.

Three months into the operation, the shit had hit the fan. His deepest-placed informant had gone silent.

They called her “Lilith.” Only Santos knew her true identity. He’d tried so hard to forget who she really was that he never thought of her real name. In every way that counted, she’d become Lilith to him. But since he’d arrived in Rio County, her real identity had become a lot harder to ignore.

Ortega was behind her silence. He had to be. She’d pushed the situation to the edge just like she’d told Santos she would, and she’d fallen over. If she’d been lucky, Ortega had killed her. He didn’t want to think about the other possibilities.

His main goal now was to recover her. He would have done the same for any member of his team, because no one got left behind on his watch. No one. He would find her or die trying.

He didn’t notice the blood trickling down his arm until the wetness reached his fingers.

Jessie Delacourt, the only woman on the team, muttered, “Good grief…” then she turned and stomped toward the kitchen where her own first aid kit was kept. A former medic in Iraq, she hadn’t been at the bar tonight, because Santos had sent her and one of the others to Presidio the day before. They’d gone to investigate a tip that had, unfortunately, turned out false. The whole team was frustrated and angry.

When Jessie returned and saw Raymond Bentley’s face, she motioned him over to the couch as well. Why the hell couldn’t they do their jobs without getting beat-up? her disgusted expression said. If she’d been there, she could have put Nasty down for good and not even broken a sweat.

Bentley shuffled over and sat down beside Santos. The agent’s ginger hair was spiked with dirt, and since he’d started the brawl tonight, his face was almost as bloody as Santos’s. Bent’s job for the team was to handle the biker angle and keep their cover intact. Jessica cleaned him up first, ignoring his protestations that she was hurting him as she swiped his face with alcohol.

“Grow up,” she said, slapping a bandage on his temple. “You sound like a little girl. What’s wrong with you people?”

Santos kept his silence when she turned to him and finished what the other women had started, cleaning his wound then wrapping it again, this time with a sterile bandage. “You should go get some stitches.” Her voice was gruff.

“Yeah, I should. I should do a lot of things, but I don’t.”

“Well, what about a tetanus shot? When was the last time you got—”

He dismissed her and glanced around the room. “Nothing counts right now except getting our source out, safe and sound. We know we’re here to do a helluva lot more than rescue her. But we have to find her before our real work can even begin. She’s in too deep with the bad guys, and until we figure out what’s happening, we won’t know how to proceed. Her disappearance may have blown our whole operation.”

The others murmured their agreement as Bentley bumped Santos’s knuckles with his fist. He winced and held back a groan. Picking up the first aid supplies, Jessica headed for the kitchen with Austin Wills, another agent, following close behind. The smell of coffee wafted out a few minutes later, and when they reappeared, they carried a full pot and five mugs.

Jessica passed out the cups and Austin filled them. Bentley sipped the coffee, then set the mug down and scrubbed his face with both hands, his beard rasping in the silence.

“What a night. We ought to get a medal for putting up with this kind of crap.”

Sitting at the other end of the couch from Santos was Joachim Guillermo. At Bentley’s words, Santos felt Joachim go still. A crack sniper and the man in charge of their drug investigations, the black-garbed agent saw everything and spoke rarely, his glittering eyes hooded with secrecy. He was deadly and efficient, and Santos was half