Agave Ridge

By Kailee Saunders

She was kidnapped last night.

The man responsible for her abduction?

Her "dead" fiancé.

 

Lucia Gallardo has spent the last decade hungry for revenge. The cartel killed her fiancé, and she won't rest until justice is served. Her plans derail, however, when she's captured by a group of merciless drug runners, and leading them is a man Lucia never thought she'd see again.

 

Ramiro Alvarez sacrificed everything to infiltrate the cartel, and he doesn't want a reunion with the woman he abandoned ten years ago. But when his team catches Lucia investigating their smuggling route, he's forced to take her hostage. The organization wants her dead, and now Ramiro must find a way to keep Lucia alive, keep his identity intact—and keep from falling in love with her all over again.

 

Agave Ridge is a medium-heat romantic suspense novel. If you enjoy second-chance romances, on-the-run adventures, and open-door intimate scenes, purchase today!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Kailee Saunders
• Release date: Aug 12, 2022
• ISBN: 9781778192821

Book preview

one

Sunshine and birdsong drifted into the room where a man was planning his own funeral. Swallowing the last bite of his protein bar, Ramiro Alvarez padded across the hardwood floor and rested his elbows on the windowsill. Scents of barbecue sauce and charred meat hung heavy in the air, swirling alongside the shrieks of neighborhood children. It was a fine evening to gather.

It was a fine evening to die.

Ramiro closed the drapes and returned to his desk. Dust covered his keyboard and coated every pen. Probably should’ve put them away before starting this project, but it was too late now. He donned his face mask and positioned his tools above the headstone. Swung the mallet, tapped the chisel. With his surname engraved, he eased back to admire his handiwork—but there was nothing admirable about this. The letters were crooked, the surface gritty and unpolished.

Fuck. Ramiro kicked the desk and shoved his fingers through his hair. He shouldn’t care if his gravestone was ugly—he’d be dead when it debuted—but he couldn’t step away. This was the slab of rock that his family would shed tears over, the place where they’d congregate when they wanted to grieve. And it needed to be perfect.

Ramiro snatched his tools and returned to work refining the curves and straightening the lines. Better, but not finished; he still had to engrave his life roles.

Son, brother, friend: a fitting summary for his twenty-seven years. Only one thing missing.

Fiancé.

Though every brain cell screamed not to, Ramiro looked at the framed picture on his desk. Lucia stared back at him with paint speckling her cheeks and a smile that made his heart flutter. He would’ve married her had circumstances been different, would’ve embraced his vows and earned two more titles on his gravestone: doting husband and loving father.

An ache blossomed in his chest as he picked up the photograph. She’d find love again, would get married and have children, enjoy a long, healthy life. His death wouldn’t destroy her. He had to believe that; it was the only way he could go through with this.

The chime of the clock wrenched him from his fanciful reverie, and Ramiro stuffed the frame into a drawer. He couldn’t risk any distractions, not anymore. He’d made his choice, dug his grave. Now, to lie in it.

After finishing the headstone, he called several funeral homes. Burial or cremation? There was no telling which his family would prefer, so he gathered enough money to cover the most expensive service and placed it in an envelope. Sunset burned behind the drapes which meant it was almost time to leave. He hurried into the bathroom for a quick shower then eyed his dripping reflection. Crooked nose and determined chin: it was the face of a federal agent who’d served his country well and today, would give his life for the cause.

A knock sounded on the front door as Ramiro was toweling off. He crossed the living room and found his boss scowling on the porch steps.

At six-foot-four, Kenneth Ward was a mountain of hard muscle with a square-shaped head he kept harshly buzzed. A scar contorted his upper lip, cementing his mouth in a permanent snarl. Am I interrupting your beauty routine?

At least I have a beauty routine, old man. Ramiro ushered him inside. Want anything? Coffee? Water?

I’m good. He strode into the kitchen, setting his military duffel on the counter. You almost ready?

Yeah. I’ve got a favor to ask before we head out.

Kenneth rocked on his heels, his thumbs hooked in the armpits of his Kevlar vest. What kind of favor?

I’ll show you. He preceded Kenneth down the hallway and opened his office door.

His boss headed straight for the gravestone—the thing was hard to miss—and ran his finger along the cobbled edge. This your work? At Ramiro’s nod, he added, It’s good. You should’ve been a stone mason.

Don’t think I’d survive in a regular job. He picked up the envelope and handed it over. Here.

Kenneth’s eyes widened. What’s this for?

The funeral. I don’t want my family paying for anything.

He thumbed through the bills. Anyone gonna notice this is missing?

No. I’ve been stashing money the last few months. Small withdrawals. Give it to Lucia once the dust settles. Should be enough there to cover everything she needs.

Sure. Kenneth pocketed the cash and gestured to the headstone. She could’ve bought this too.

I know, but I had to leave her something even if she’ll never realize it’s from me. Ramiro spent the next few minutes cleaning up. He dusted his keyboard, but didn’t wipe it down; discarded his chip bag, but didn’t vacuum the crumbs; organized the shelves, but didn’t align the book spines. Scouring the room might rouse suspicion, and he couldn’t afford anyone asking questions. There was too much at stake.

Kenneth glanced at the clock. We should get moving.

Let’s load this first. Are you parked outside?

Yeah.

Ramiro gave him the house keys. Pull into the garage. I don’t want my neighbors seeing us with this thing.

Once Kenneth’s cargo van was concealed in the garage, they loaded the gravestone.

I’ll go lock up, Ramiro said.

Grab my duffel while you’re in there.

Ramiro hurried back inside and glued his gaze to the floor. This house was an obstacle course of distracting memories, and he needed to stay focused on what was ahead. His shoulders settled as he entered the kitchen. Phew, halfway there. Just grab the duffel and get gone. He grasped the handles, wrenched away from the counter—and the cupboard caught his belt loop.

Stupid thing. Ramiro untethered from the knob and swung his head around. A fatal error.

His eyes shot to the grease stain on the hood fan. It was a souvenir from when Lucia had taught him to fry chilaquiles, or attempted to teach him—she’d shooed him out halfway through the lesson. And that dent on the microwave was from when she’d dropped it on the driveway while unloading the moving van a few years ago. Lucia was such a big part of this house—such a big part of him—and he could see her everywhere. She was eating breakfast at the table and cooking dinner on the stove, planting flowers in the garden and sunbathing on the back patio. Even now, he could hear her laughter echoing through the trees and damn, if the sound wasn’t hypnotizing. The memories of Lucia surrounded him like an exquisite tornado, and he was seconds away from giving into them when his father’s voice broke the trance. You want to make a difference, Ramiro? Won’t happen if you’re sitting behind a desk every day. You need to fight for it because change doesn’t come easy.

With Pop’s words spurring him forward, Ramiro exited the house, locking away his possessions, his memories, and his emotions. He wouldn’t need them where he was going.

The duffel vibrated on the metal floor as Kenneth revved the engine and zoomed past miles of sprawling prairie. Dried grasses swayed in the breeze, and crickets chattered a warning to their fellow night creatures: hunters would take flight soon. Ramiro leaned forward, eager to witness the swoop of a nightjar or the screech of a barn owl. But only clouds soared in the pinkening sky.

He settled back and scowled at the sweat beading on his forearms. Strange—he’d lived in Texas most of his life and should be used to the heat by now.

Kenneth glanced at him. Are those nervous sweats?

They’re ‘my boss forgot to turn on the fucking AC’ sweats.

Temper, temper. The corner of his lip lifted as he fiddled with the dashboard buttons. How’re you feeling?

Fine. Cold air blasted through the vents, and Ramiro mopped his face with his T-shirt. What happens next?

Don’t worry about that. Not yet.

Will it hurt?

You won’t feel anything. It’ll be a quick and painless escape.

I’m ready. Ramiro stiffened his spine. No second thoughts, no regrets.

Glad to hear it. He gestured toward the cargo area. There’s some supplies in my pack. You’d better get prepared.

Ramiro scuttled over the console, unzipped Kenneth’s bag, and examined the contents: shaver, zip-top bags, sweatpants, and a small black pistol.

Glock 19. Unregistered, Kenneth said.

Now what would a federal agent want with an unregistered weapon? Ramiro gripped the handgun, feeling its weight.

You’ll need protection where you’re headed. Bullets are in the side pocket.

Those will help. He placed the box aside and grabbed the shaver. What’s this for?

Chopping off that mane. Put your hair in one of the baggies, and make sure to toss in a few bulbs for DNA.

Get rid of my hair? You’re breaking my heart, Ken. Ramiro turned on the shaver and sneezed as his curly locks helicoptered into his lap. He angled, catching his reflection in the rearview mirror. His head shone like a Twix wrapper. Well, there was no backing out now. He gathered the hair and stuffed it into the baggy. Next, he grabbed his new clothes.

He was just finishing tying his sweatpants when Kenneth asked, You going to miss it? Texas, I mean.

No.

I don’t blame you. Might be nice to escape the mosquitoes, the traffic. He tapped the steering wheel. But Lucia, you’ll miss her.

She’s not mine to miss anymore.

You’ve hardened quick.

Ramiro glanced out the window. She’ll be better off without me.

I admire what you’re doing. It’s a hell of a sacrifice.

Better be worth it.

He veered off the main road. We’ll be there soon. You should get some shut-eye. Long night ahead.

Ramiro set his head down, his arm scratching against the rough headstone. The ensemble of country music and vehicle backfire made one piss-poor lullaby, but he managed to clear his mind before finally falling asleep.

image-placeholder

Wake up, kid, Kenneth said, jostling him. We’re here.

Yawning, Ramiro crawled toward the door. The grass rustled in the breeze, and tree branches creaked against the navy sky. He hopped out of the van and his legs almost folded. Jesus, he felt weak. Pre-mission jitters—had to be. He touched his toes and did some high knees, priming his body, pumping his blood.

All set. Kenneth locked the van and gripped Ramiro’s shoulder. You ready for this? You feeling good?

Better than good. Let’s get this done.

Great. Follow me. I’ll fill you in on the way.

Gravel turned to spongy earth as they weaved through tree trunks. Kenneth explained the strategy, and Ramiro chewed on the details, familiarizing, memorizing. They entered a clearing and hustled up the hill to where several agents lay bellied on the ridge, their rifles trained on a shack below.

Kenneth knelt beside a woman. Movement?

Been no signs of anyone coming or going, she said.

Good. Hold for orders.

Yes, sir.

Ramiro tipped his head up and glanced at the faces manifesting in the stars. Lucia blew kisses. Mama and his sister waved goodbye while Pop nodded slightly. He’d make them proud, make everybody proud.

Kenneth barked into his walkie-talkie and handed a vest to Ramiro. The team is ready. Let’s get you suited up.

Ramiro secured the garment around his chest and removed the pistol from his waistband. Loaded it. How should I approach?

I’d come in from the west, hunker beneath the windows.

Frontal assault’s risky but could be effective. They might expect a sneak attack and be guarding the back.

My thoughts exactly. Kenneth bent his elbow as if preparing for an arm wrestle. Ready?

Ramiro squeezed his hand. Ready.

When his boss gave the signal, Ramiro charged down the slope. Darkness had descended.

Time to die.

Splinters scraped his vest as he skirted the wall, inching toward the front door. The air hummed with chorusing cicadas, and Ramiro latched onto the sound, using it to relax his body and tame his wild heart.

Lifting the radio to his lips, he said, Breaching.

The doorknob squeaked and he hurried inside, passing a pair of floral couches so shredded they mirrored scratching posts. In the kitchen, his eyes darted to where a corpse lay crumpled on the floor.

Minutes. He had only minutes before his team infiltrated and spoiled everything. Ramiro walked over the tile, breathing through his mouth to avoid the scent—even after years in law enforcement, he still couldn’t handle the stench of rotting flesh. He yanked the plastic bag from his pocket and sprinkled his hair around the deceased man. His teeth had been removed, and his fingerprints filed off, meaning there was nothing identifiable on his body. Until now.

Ramiro backtracked to the living room, flipped the rug over, and with a deep breath, slithered into the crawl space. Tight fit. Good thing he wasn’t claustrophobic. He rotated his head to keep the dirt out of his nostrils and shimmied forward, using his key chain to light the path. The space widened, and he squinted at the pyramid of explosives in the corner. Sparks of excitement looped through him as he scooped up the detonator and hurried down the corridor.

By the time he reached his destination, his shoelaces were coated in mud and his ankles were covered in scrapes. Ramiro blinked away the sweat, his thumb hovering on the detonator. This was it. No turning back now.

Click.

Redness beamed on the horizon, and Ramiro pictured the scene: the shack exploding like a microwaved grape, fire shattering the windows and waves of heat shooting up the hillside. Agents would fly toward the blaze, but they wouldn’t get far; the combustion’s breath would singe anyone brave enough to approach. Sirens would slice through the loud crackling, and his team would watch helplessly as the inferno raged.

Once the flames died down, crews would trudge through the smoking rubble and search for an accelerant. But the only thing they’d find would be a charred body in the kitchen, and the news would break the next day.

Ramiro Alvarez was dead.

two

Ten Years Later

Lucia Gallardo hadn’t been a child prodigy. She’d used chewing gum as hair barrettes and struggled to sort blocks, two facts the other kids had loved to ridicule. But Lucia had exacted revenge. She’d studied hard and achieved top grades because there was one thing she’d known better than any of her childhood peers: the type of career she wanted to pursue.

It was an inherited trait, really. While other grandfathers had told stories of frogs and princesses, Tito had detailed his police antics. Lucia had listened to his tales with stars in her eyes and hope in her heart, longing for the day she’d join law enforcement.

Had that girl realized her dream involved showering in blood on a Monday afternoon, she might’ve reconsidered.

Fuck off, pigs! A teenager oinked from the fourth-story window, clutching an empty bucket.

Get down here, you little shit! Her partner leaped onto the fire escape and raced up the stairs.

Blood dripped over Lucia’s lips, and she fought the urge to gag—opening her mouth would be a grave mistake. She shook like a wet dog, peppering the sidewalk with crimson.

You okay? Gage called from above.

Yeah. Her hair slithered down her back as she glanced up. You get him?

Sure did. He grinned and turned inside. You assaulted a federal agent, numbskull. Of course you’re going to jail!

The summer sunshine was blistering the streets of Houston. Lucia usually despised the heat, but today, she stretched out her arms and soaked up the rays, her skin tightening as the blood dried. Scratching her forearm, she met Gage near the corner of the building.

Pigs! The teen struggled against the handcuffs and spat in her direction. The phlegm shot across the pavement, landing inches from Lucia’s left shoe.

Let’s go. She gripped his bicep—harder than required—and dragged him toward the car. Are your parents home?

Fuck you.

She looked at Gage. You see anyone else?

No. They’re probably working.

Let’s send someone out later. Lucia shifted focus to the kid. And if we can’t find anyone, guess where you’ll be spending the night?

The boy glared at her. He couldn’t be more than fifteen years old. Tall for his age—her crown stopped just short of his nose, so he had to be pushing six feet—but he must have parents around somewhere. Working the streets, maybe? Drug dealers and prostitutes were common in this area.

She’d worked this beat as a rookie, and had dealt with the biohazards that came along with patrolling a slummy section of the city. Used needles, dirty condoms, feces and urine. She’d kept her head down, done the work. And when the opportunity arose to join the Drug Enforcement Administration, she’d pounced.

Lucia tucked the teenager into the Tahoe and opened the passenger door. Sitting in the driver’s seat, Gage grimaced.

What? she asked.

It’s just, this is a new car and you—his finger bobbed, gesturing to the length of her—are covered in blood.

I’ll get the stains out afterward.

With what? Fire?

Her eyes narrowed. You got a towel?

No.

Then shut up. She climbed in and clipped the seatbelt.

If they ask about the stains, you’re on your own.

Thanks for the support, partner.

His mouth ticked up. You’re welcome.

Lucia slumped her shoulders and rotated the radio knob. Nothing cured her woes like blaring classic rock. Distorted heat waves radiated from the asphalt as they merged onto the interstate and joined the bumper-kissing traffic. For heaven’s sake, it was one in the afternoon on a Tuesday. Did nobody work anymore?

Gage volleyed looks at her. You wanna talk about it?

Not really.

Shame. I might have some valuable insight on the topic.

Lucia glared at the dashboard. Why didn’t we find anything at that warehouse?

Must’ve been a fake tip.

Another one? Why does this keep happening?

There’s a reason El Rey’s never been arrested. He’s a smart son of a bitch.

Ain’t that the truth.

They’d been tracking the cartel boss for years with lackluster results. Small drug shipments, tiny weapon caches. Breadcrumbs—and she wanted the loaf. But El Rey was a slippery bastard; he was constantly changing routes, assassinating witnesses, torching evidence. For him, smuggling narcotics over the border was like playing Red Rover against a group of armless scarecrows. It was baffling how his drug runners infiltrated the country so easily.

Lucia rolled her lips together. What if El Rey has a mole in our unit?

Are you serious? Gage frowned. We’re not about to accuse our team of cozying up to the cartel. Every one of them would give their lives for you—myself included.

I know, I know. She shoved her hair back, wincing as her fingers tangled in the sticky knots. I’m just sick of chasing our tails.

The tide will change eventually.

She wasn’t in the mood for her partner’s positivity. Side-eying him, she asked, You can’t let a woman sulk, can you?

No, ma’am. I grew up with three sisters, so keeping women happy was a skill I mastered early on.

And it was a skill he still possessed. Lucia had witnessed his handiwork on multiple occasions—the man could charm the shag off a rug. Pair that with his auburn hair and soccer-player thighs, it was no wonder his roster of girlfriends rivaled that of a football team. Lucia had never crossed that line with him, never even entertained the idea. Gage Russo was her partner but more than that, he was her friend. About the only one she had left.

Her fingers twisting in her lap, she said, Thanks for coming with me.

Of course. I watch your back and you watch mine, remember?

That doesn’t apply. She looked out the window. Not with this.

Baloney.

I’m serious. This little field trip wasn’t assigned to us. You could get in trouble.

Trouble? He wrinkled his nose. You going soft on me, Gallardo?

Like hell, Russo. They shared a smile. I’m glad you’re here. That’s all.

Nowhere else I’d rather be.

They passed a parade of orange traffic cones. Drivers leaned out their windows, cursing and honking as they inched toward their destinations. Road rage always worsened when temperatures soared.

She used to love this time of year. Sipping drinks on the patio, eating watermelon on the beach, watching the leaves turn crisp and colorful. Nowadays, the drinks tasted sour and the watermelons bland. The other seasons weren’t much better. Spring brought pollen, fall emptied the trees, and winter was all barren and sad—that was the only season she could relate to anymore.

You wanna grab a beer tonight? Gage asked.

No. Think I’ll just head home.

You sure? It might be good for you to be among friends, what with the anniversary coming up.

It was yesterday.

The song quieted, and the congestion thinned. Behind her, the kid drew his finger along the window bars.

Shit. I’m sorry, Lucia. Gage shook his head. Why didn’t you say anything?

Because I want to forget.

Except she couldn’t, not with Ramiro’s killer still roaming free. She’d spent the last decade seeking justice for her fiancé, pressuring contacts and exhausting clues, trying to pinpoint El Rey’s location. The cartel boss had executed a federal agent on American soil, and he needed to burn. Only then could Ramiro rest in peace. Only then could she move on.

Have you talked to David about this? he asked.

She looked at her shoes. We don’t talk about Ramiro.

Why not?

It’s a heavy subject, and our relationship was built on keeping things light.

Talking to someone could help your healing process.

The only thing that’ll help my healing process is seeing El Rey behind bars. Better yet, six feet under.

We’ll get him.

Sighing, she rested her cheek on the seatbelt. When?

Gage exited the highway and looped under the overpass to the DEA building. She marched the teenager through the doors and handed him to another agent. Lucia usually processed her own arrests, but today she smelled like a slaughterhouse and didn’t want to make a spectacle out of herself. Ducking her head, she walked toward the elevators. Gage jabbed the call button, using his body to shield her from the bystanders’ curious glances.

"You’d think they’d