Under Fire by Rita Henuber

about anything. Surprise me,” she called out, stepping into what she assumed was the bathroom. Six nozzles protruded from the bare concrete at different heights and intervals. Nothing was close enough to get wet, so no need for a wall or curtain.
    “You did all of this?”
    “Yeah. In all my spare time.”
    Olivia looked at him as he selected CDs. Was he being sarcastic? Not being able to tell when he was lying or telling the truth made her uneasy.
    The sweet sound of an alto sax filled the room. The half a dozen speakers produced such a great sound it seemed as if the saxophonist stood in the room with them.
    “Frank Morgan.” She looked at him wide eyed. “You like Frank Morgan?”
    “Yeah.”
    “Art Pepper, Beegie Adair?” Anyone who liked Morgan had to like those two. She’d seen Beegie in Nashville once and the woman was phenomenal.
    “Yeah,” he said, followed with a smile.
    The uneasy feeling, fed by questions and contradictions, grew. Who was the real Rico? The good ole boy with the million dollar condo? Drug smuggler? Slick undercover agent? Or, she glanced around the room, a handyman extraordinaire, an art and music lover who cared about kids? She didn’t have anything except that one night to gage it against. She sure as hell hadn’t been taking notes on his baseline behavior.
    Rico opened one of the electrical boxes and punched the key pad inside. There was a whir, a little click then a compartment slid from the side of the box. He tossed her a worn black leather wallet. She looked up at him, causally leaning against the wall, arms folded, grinning. She opened the flap, revealing a heavy gold badge emblazoned with Drug Enforcement Administration Special Agent and a golden eagle. Olivia ran her finger over it. It felt real but…She flipped it over. “This is only the badge, no ID. You could have….”
    “Jee-sus, woman.” Rico pushed off the wall and snatched the wallet. “I am DEA.” He returned it to the compartment, banging it shut. “What more do you want?”
    “I want to be able to trust you. I want to know you are who you say you are.” Drug agent or a drug smuggler—either way, she had to know. Her life was based on trust. She trusted it to a dozen people every time she climbed into her helo. She was trusted to fly a craft worth fifteen million and bring it—and more importantly its crew—home safe. “If you are an agent, give me something. Prove it and I’ll help you.” Rico said nothing. “If you’re a smuggler, admit it. I’ll help you get Silva and the man who set you up. When we’re done I’ll go back to Jacksonville. I won’t turn you in.” She took a deep breath and let it go slowly. “Tell me and I’ll tell you why I want Silva.”
    Shit. She sounded desperate. Shit. She was desperate.

    Rico calculated how much truth he could tell her. She could have turned him over to the feds at her place and to the trooper on the interstate. She wanted Silva as much as he did. He owed her the truth. Involving her in an unauthorized action to find the fucker giving up UCs? That he didn’t owe her. It would push the limits, even for him. But…
    His hand went to one of the many sore places she gifted him with. She did know how to handle herself. “I know why you want Silva.”
    “How could you possibly know why I want Silva?” She took a step in his direction, giving him the same hard look she had a few hours ago. Right before she jumped him. He was in no mood to have her open a can of whoop-ass on him again.
    “Last time you were in Miami asking questions, you hit up a DEA undercover. He reported it. You were checked out.” He leaned against the wall. “It was my investigation. The info was passed to me.”
    “What was your investigation?” she asked, each word carefully enunciated. Brown eyes boring, mining for truth, she advanced another step.
    What the hell ? Might as well end this and tell her.
    “I was investigating the deaths of four undercovers. Your brother,