Riled (The Invincibles 4)

Teagon shrugged.

“I’m going to change,” I said a few minutes later, standing and grabbing my bikini top and cover-up.

“Liar. You’re going to spy.”

Without answering, I rushed over to the lift and took it to the fourth floor. From there, I could see Cortez clearly as he knelt by a gravestone in the small cemetery.

I gave up watching after a while, only getting up every so often to see if he was still there. He was, long after the sun went down, long after Marta made dinner for Teagon and me.

“Is he okay?” I asked, thinking it was my friend standing behind me.

“Sí,” said Marta, startling me when she put her hand on my shoulder. “He goes to talk to her every night when he is here.”

“Who was she?”

“Celestina. His wife. Beside her, rests their unborn child.”

I gasped and covered my mouth; I wrapped my other arm around my stomach.

I thought about how Cortez had come to comfort me the night he and Grinder saved me from Konstantine, and again on the plane when I couldn’t sleep. I wished I could go to him, ease his sorrow the way he had my fear. I knew better than to try. While I welcomed him in my life, he pushed me out of his.

It wasn’t until the next night at dinner that Marta reported Cortez had left before sunrise.

“Where did he go?” I asked.

“To spend Christmas in Madrid with his family.”

“What the hell?” I mouthed to Teagon, who shrugged and pulled out her mobile when it vibrated.

“There’s another person from his team arriving in the morning. She’ll be staying on here as well.”

“She? Who is she?”

“Casper.”

I raised a brow.

“I haven’t worked with her, but I know of her. She was a really good agent.”

“Was?”

“She still is, but retired from the CIA. Quit is more accurate.”

“Do you know why?”

Teagon nodded. “Her husband was killed in an op. Rumor is the agency covered up his cause of death.”

“Why is she staying on?”

“Added layer of protection.”

Because Cortez wasn’t here and wouldn’t be. Gone were his promises of taking us into town to see the Christmas lights or visit the markets. Without a word, he’d fled to Madrid, solely to get away from me.

The next morning, I took the lift down one level, wondering if there were stairs somewhere. Surely there had to be. What if the lift broke?

“Oh! Good morning,” I said to a woman standing in the kitchen who, even from the back, looked nothing like Marta.

“Good morning,” she responded, turning around to look me up and down. “Kensington?”