Blurring The Line. Kierney Scott

kicked off her shoes and sat back down on the bed beside Torres. God she was tired, and not just from today. She had not slept properly for over a week. Most nights she had been up until two looking up her mom’s symptoms and trying to decide which disease she was going to pray it was. None of them were great options, and they were past the point of being able to ignore it. Beth sighed. So much for alcohol helping her forget about her mom.

      She closed her eyes and began to rub her temples. She had been awake too long and her head was paying the price for it now. She had ten minutes left and then she would call a cab and go home to her lovely comfy bed. No looking up symptoms tonight, just sleep.

      “Beth?” Torres whispered just to make sure, but there wasn’t any need, it was fairly obvious she was sleeping. The first clue was that she had stopped talking; the second was the soft snoring. She looked slightly less agitated in her sleep, but she still had the deep furrow between her brows, which made her look like she was concentrating even in her sleep. She was always so serious, no laughs or jokes with her, always working, and frowning.

      He should wake her up and take her home.

      He should…but he didn’t. He could not remember the last time he had been in the company of someone he did not detest. And he didn’t hate Beth. He couldn’t quite stretch to liking her but he did not loathe her. He actually kind of enjoyed spending time with her, but to be fair he would have enjoyed any company at this point. It felt normal. Bizarrely he looked forward to their meetings. He could always depend on her for a dose of normality, a small reminder of how people were supposed to behave.

      The last two years had been spent on autopilot, trying to tune out everything but finding Moses’ killer. He was no closer now than he was a year ago but every day he sank to new lows, witnessing acts of depravity he could have only imagined before. The one perk of being in charge was he rarely had to pull the trigger. It was a small consolation, but he would take it. It wasn’t like he minded killing people, but he minded that he didn’t care.

      Torres studied her features and wondered how old she was. His guess would be thirty. She wasn’t a beauty by any stretch but she was pretty enough. She had dark blonde hair that fell just past her shoulders. Usually she wore it tied back in a ponytail, but today it was down. Her hair smelled of apples, which suited her: sweet and wholesome but also a little bit tart. She had just enough of an edge to her to make her interesting, but at her core she seemed like a nice person. Whenever she heard the details of a crime, she flinched a little. She always tried to cover it up, but he saw it. Even though she tried not to react, her body would betray her, if only for an instant. There was something nice about that, not that he could ever hope to explain it.

      He didn’t know many nice people any more. Selfishly he wanted to be around it for a few minutes longer, it was a nice reminder that not everyone was a pathetic piece of shit out to take as much as they possibly could. He was already looking forward to their next meeting; eight weeks, that was the schedule; they met face to face every eight weeks, he called every two, never to talk, just to say he was alive.

      Torres shook his head. How fucking pathetic had his life become, that he enjoyed sitting in silence with someone just because he knew she would not enjoy shooting someone in the gut and watching them bleed to death? Christ, he needed this to be done.

Chapter Two

       Beth wiped her sweat-slicked hands on her jeans. Should she have worn a suit? She was here in a professional capacity representing the DEA; maybe she should have dressed more formally. Too late now, she was here.

       Her phone rang. Beth fished it out of her bag and rejected the call when she saw it was her partner, presumably calling to check up on her or to gloat. Patterson thought she was wasting her time; there was no way Torres would come on board. She knew it was a long shot; she didn’t need to be reminded of that fact. And she didn’t need Patterson getting in her head. He didn’t think she could land Torres.

       Absently her hand patted the file she had put together about Torres. No one could accuse her of not being prepared. She took a deep breath before she rang the doorbell. She had practised her speech with Dr. Frazer, the Administration psychologist. He had given her pointers on how to sound more genuine and, more importantly, he had taught her how to be more convincing. There was a science to manipulation, and lucky for her she was a quick study.

       Beth rang the doorbell again and followed it up with a knock but still no answer. She was about to give up when she heard the screech of a power saw coming from behind the ranch-style house. She followed the noise to the back yard where she found a man, presumably Torres, bent over a table saw, pushing through a piece of wood with his bare hands.

       He wore faded blue jeans, slung low over narrow hips and a T-shirt. His skin was a rich brown, the colour heightened by the contrast with his stark white shirt. She was surprised to see him working, he had only been released from the hospital 48 hours previously.

       She cleared her throat to get his attention but he did not hear her over the noise of the saw. She didn’t want to startle him by calling out so she watched him silently. The muscles in his arms and back contracted as he guided the wood beneath the rotating blade.

       “Mr. Torres,” Beth called when the saw went quiet.

       Torres looked up. He eyed her dubiously. For a painful moment he didn’t speak and once again self-doubt pounded at her. She could hear Patterson’s voice telling her it was a lost cause. Her partner preferred getting information the old-fashioned way, from snitches and prison informants, but their information was unreliable at best. Beth knew better than most to never trust a convict.

       The DEA needed someone on the inside. Someone they had trained. Someone loyal. Someone hard. Someone who could withstand the cesspool of a drug cartel and yet not be pulled under.

       They needed Torres. He was perfect…at least on paper. His military career was exemplary. He would probably still be serving today if it weren’t for the IED that decimated his platoon. The military’s loss was her gain. Once she trained him, he would be a perfect asset. He already had a vested interest in bringing Los Treintas to their knees and most importantly, no one would blink at him falling into drug culture. His best friend had been killed by gang violence, just like his two brothers. Torres could easily pass as one more marginalised soul sucked under.

       “I’d ask if you were lost but seeing as you know my name, I’d say you’re right where you want to be.”

       Beth cleared her throat again, this time just to give herself a chance to think. “Mr. Torres?” She needed to be certain she was dealing with the right person. He looked different to the photo in his file: harder, angrier. If she saw him walking down a dimly lit road, she would cross the street to avoid him. Actually she would probably turn in the opposite direction and run.

       His glance caught hers and with the small look the air deserted her lungs. She fought the urge to turn and walk away. She had not anticipated her own visceral reaction to him. In his military photo he was less frightening.

       Torres put down the piece of oak he was working with. “We established who I am. Who are you?”

       Beth forced her feet to stay firmly in place. She reached out her hand. “Sorry. I am Beth Thomson.”

       Torres took her hand. His palms were rough. His hard calluses scraped against her smooth skin. “Well Beth Thomson, what can I do for you?”

       Beth pulled her hand away and reached into her bag for her blue and gold shield.

       Immediately his body language changed, his back straightened, his eyes narrowed. He gave her a hard stare that left her cold before he turned his gaze away, staring off into the open horizon.

       “I saw nothing. I know