Wings of Love

Chapter 1-3

When Manuel entered Sergeant Wallace’s office the next day, he’d fought the internal butterflies to an uneasy standstill. He managed to hold his head high and keep his face impassive. Whatever happened, he’d deal with it.

He skidded to a stop when he saw two other men were already there. He wasn’t sure what rank the one man held, but he knew the face. Clayton Chiles was the director of the whole Southwest Sector. For him to be here, something major must be going down. Manuel’s stomach dropped to the level of his shiny black boot toes. Oh, s**t, oh, mother-loving s**t…

The other man was no one he knew. If he’d ever seen the guy before he’d remember, no question. The second man must be at least six-foot-four or five, very lean, but with a wiry toughness about him and a posture that spoke of power and confidence. Still his eyes were the thing that stopped Manuel in his tracks. They were a raptor’s eyes—gray instead of the gold you might expect in a hawk or an eagle, but the same keen, emotionless and unswerving gaze, a look that went through you like a fine, sharp blade—a killing thrust without a drop of blood, almost without pain.

Santa Madre and all the spirits. Who is this man?

Sergeant Wallace turned toward Manuel and smiled. It was a sickly smile, one Manuel did not trust.

“Good morning, Patrolman Ortega. It seems like Commander Chiles heard about your work last month in breaking up that wolf pack. He’s very interested in your—um, your varied skills.”

Manuel glanced quickly from the sergeant to the director and back. “Wolf pack? There are no wolves here, not in the desert. That’s a bad joke.”

“The drug runners, Manny. I meant the drug runners. Anyway, the director wants to offer you a new post with a special unit he has operating on some unusual cases. You speak both Spanish and the Tohono language plus English and have a good knowledge of the terrain in this part of the desert.”

Still more than a bit confused, Manuel glanced quickly from one man to another, skating by the third one without making eye contact. He had a feeling he was really not going to like what he was about to hear.

“Apparently,” Sergeant Wallace continued, “there are rumors of some heightened activity we want to squash before it gets out of hand. You’ll be working with Agent Macalister for now, starting your new duty tomorrow.”

The fierce-eyed man had to be Macalister. He stood and extended a hand. Manuel almost crossed himself and then made a traditional warding sign used by his tribe against “evil eye” and other malevolent magic. Gotta cover all the bases in events like this. What in hell have I done to deserve such an honor?

He wanted to wipe his sweaty palms down his trousers before he accepted the hand Macalister extended, but he didn’t.

“My pleasure, Patrolman Ortega. I’m supposed to brief you on our assignment, but we can handle that tomorrow before we get started. Although I’ve worked this area some, it’s not totally familiar to me yet. Since this is your territory, your home, I hope you’re willing to take the role of navigator for the time being.”

The tall man’s voice was low, uninflected, as lacking in emotion as his pale gaze. When their hands met, a jolt of energy seared along Manuel’s nerves as if he had touched a live wire. He wasn’t sure whether he was terrified, aroused, dismayed, or simply shocked.

Whatever he’d anticipated from his meeting with the boss today, this was about as far from his expectations as anything could be. An ass chewing, a strongly worded “suggestion” about some of the tasks where he was less than enthusiastic, a change of duty station or assignment maybe, but to another division like Texas or the west coast, not to a whole new special unit he’d hardly even known existed. Some of the other patrolmen had mentioned a special agent passing through, a cold fish kind of guy they were not comfortable with, but Manuel had paid little heed. It hadn’t affected him at all—until now.