Chapter 1
Today was a good day for a haircut, unless you happened to get your hair styled at the salon the FBI and DEA planned to raid.
A line of black SUVs were parked on the busy main street of Bistro Road.
A tide of warm air and the brilliant yellow sunshine greeted him as FBI Supervisory Special Agent Rafael Jones Rodriguez opened the door of his vehicle.
Miami in October was ripe with car exhaust, rapid Spanish in several dialects, people living their lives in a tropical paradise.
Movers and shakers, hot celebrities, bikini-clad models.
Drug dealers hiding their stash and laundering money through shell companies.
The Eleganza Salon was sandwiched between an insurance storefront (empty) and a small hardware store (closed). Glock in hand, Rafe opened the door. The pungent stench of ammonia, nail polish and hair products hit his nostrils, despite the N95 respirator mask he wore.
“FBI. Everyone remain where you are. No one move. We have a warrant to search the premises,” he barked out in Spanish and English.
Five women, some under hair dryers, some seated in chairs before large mirrors, turned and stared at him, eyes wide like frightened deer. Rafe’s expert gaze took in each one.
Agents in white biohazard suits streamed past him, several heading to the back rooms before employees had a chance to dispose of incriminating evidence.
Rafe holstered his weapon. “Who’s in charge?”
A thin middle-aged woman, graying hair cut short, expression sour, left her station. “I’m Catrina, the manager. Where’s your warrant?”
He showed her the federal warrant obtained in court. The woman examined it, then glared at Rafe. She tossed the paper aside, but not before spitting at Rafe’s feet and calling him foul names in Spanish.
Ignoring her, Rafe instructed the agents to search thoroughly.
Bottles of shampoo, conditioner, everything.
As lead on this joint task force between the DEA, FBI and local law enforcement, he wasn’t letting anything slip by.
This salon, owned by a dummy corporation Rafe suspected was connected to Hector Hernandez, had been under surveillance for a while.
Anything they could use to nail Hernandez, head of a Miami cartel, was useful.
For more than three years he’d hunted the man to put him away on federal RICO charges. Hernandez had shot him and killed two of his men last year. Nailing the bastard was his main focus.
And it was personal.
Taking scum like Hernandez off the streets would make the city he loved safer for law-abiding citizens.
“Yo, Mr. FBI man, can Yolanda rinse off her hair coloring before she turns from platinum to white?”
Rafe set down the shampoo bottle he’d examined and confronted the one woman he never thought he’d see again.
Dark brown hair spilled past her slender shoulders. She wore a black T-shirt, black jeans, yellow Dr. Marten boots and a scowl. More striking than beautiful, she didn’t put up with any crap.
Allison Lexington. His confidential informant for the Devil’s Patrol case a few months ago. Allison, the nurse and motorcyclist who made his blood heat and frustrated the hell out of him with never following directions. Endangering her life instead of obeying his orders.
He looked at the frightened hairstylist standing by a sink and nodded. The woman began washing her client’s hair.
“What are you doing here?” he demanded.
“I didn’t know it was a crime to get my hair styled.” Allison made her way toward him. “You going to shoot me for having a blowout?”
“Rafe, you need to see this.” Agent Juarez called out to him.
Bypassing Allison (why did she have to show up at this hair salon today of all days?) he headed toward the back. Tom had opened a case of shampoo still bearing the shipping label.
“I opened one bottle and got this.”
Tom showed him the white test strip. Rafe’s fury boiled up in a volcanic rush.
One pink line. Positive for fentanyl.
Rafe handed back the strip. Mere granules of dust could prove deadly. “Bag it for evidence and seal off the area.”
In the back room, five cardboard containers were stacked against the wall by shelves of hair and nail products. Rafe squatted down to read the label.
“John Brown,” he read aloud and photographed the label.
John Brown. Might as well call him John Doe.
An agent opened another box. Bags of rainbow-colored circles were inside. The bags were labeled Fun Times Candy. With extreme care, Rafe lifted one out of the box.
The test kit proved it was fentanyl, not candy. He heaved out a breath.
“There’s enough of this here to kill dozens.”
The team began the tedious process of logging everything and carrying it out back to waiting vehicles for transport back to FBI headquarters.
Rafe glanced at the clock on the wall and bit back a groan.
He hadn’t been able to get a judge to sign off on the warrant until after noon.
This was going to be a long day, and an equally long night.
And he had no way to find out John Brown’s identity. But he would. Soon.
So much for making his niece’s quinceanera on time. He sighed. Sofia would understand. She always did. But his Cuban family? Nope.
Everyone in the hair salon had been detained by the local police, who stood guard over them. Absorbed in her phone, Allison hovered near a hair station. Another problem. What the hell was Allison doing here and why this particular hair salon??
* * *
Life wasn’t fair, but she’d never whined about it. Wrong place, wrong time. But one of Diana’s model friends had recommended this hair salon to try out styles before Di’s wedding and Allison agreed to meet her here.
After texting her sis (stay away Diana, feds here) she pocketed her cell. Allison grabbed her motorcycle helmet, waved at the still-stunned women and headed for the exit.
She wasn’t staying here for Rafael’s shakedown.
Barely had she taken three steps when Rafe grabbed her arm. “Where do you think you’re going?”
He removed the mask. Allison gritted her teeth and looked up at him. She hated how he towered over her by a good five inches. His dark gaze raked over her, cold, intense, searching.
This was Rafael the FBI agent on assignment.
Not the Rafe who’d charmed and coaxed her into spying on a dangerous biker gang months ago.
Awareness shot through her. Try as she might, it was hard to ignore how powerful he looked.
The faint spicy scent of his aftershave shot through the stench of ammonia and chemicals.
Why did he have to be so sexy? She hated feeling like this.
Attraction to a guy like Rafael was complicated, something best left for daydreams.
Not now, not when all her focus needed to remain on her little sister.
“I’m headed to work.” She narrowed her eyes. “Unless you want to call the ER charge nurse and tell her why you’ve detained me, and you’d better have a damn good reason for doing so, I’m out of here.”
For a moment he studied her as if she were the suspect. Neither moved. Sweat trickled down Allison’s back, plastering her black T-shirt to her back. This felt like a showdown, a power play.
She hated that. Hated not being in control.
“Let go of me,” she muttered.
Knowing better than to touch him because he could arrest her for assault, she waited. Not caring if she made Rafael look bad in front of his team.
Her gaze flicked over the uniformed police, who seemed suddenly more interested in her and this standoff than gathering evidence. Suddenly she got it. It was all about who was in charge. Not showing weakness.
Yeah, she understood that.
Allison gave the men closest to her a pointed look.
“I’d hate for any of you to get injured or, God forbid, shot on the job, and I’m not there to treat you. I’m one of the best trauma nurses in Miami, and while you’re staring at me, I could be saving lives.”
Her gaze flicked back to Rafael. “We’re on the same team.”
Jaw tight beneath his well-trimmed black beard, he narrowed his eyes. “I’ll be in touch about why the hell you happened to be here at this salon, this particular day. In the meantime, stay out of my investigation.”
He released her and stepped aside. Made a mock sweeping gesture. But his dark gaze never left her, and she saw his pupils dilate.
Feeling as if the electricity between them could light up half of South Florida, she gripped her motorcycle helmet and slipped outside.
Allison grit her teeth. So what if he was cute and sexy and she couldn’t forget him? Rafael Rodriguez was bad news. Her sister mattered more.
Her stomach trembled as she ran for her motorcycle. Allison bit her lip. Diana wasn’t at the shop, thank the good Lord.
But having the hair salon raided gave her bad vibes. The kind of vibes she’d gotten while working as a confidential informant for Rafael when he gathered evidence of criminal activity in the biker gang he eventually took down.
Instincts always served her well in the past. She had to use them to investigate her sister’s future family.
She’d do anything to keep her little sister safe.
Not even mighty FBI SSA Rafael Rodriguez would stand in her way.