Enticed by the Operative (Doctors in Danger, Book 1) by Lara Lacombe Page A

seemed...
    Most of Carlos’s meetings with associates were quiet, low-key affairs. It wasn’t smart to draw the attention of prying eyes, and so everyone conducted themselves calmly and rationally—an outside observer would look at their group and see a handful of businessmen out for a working lunch. They always spoke in coded Spanish, which further helped to obscure their dealings. Washington, DC, was a cosmopolitan enough city that a table of Spanish-speaking men didn’t draw comment, but most of the Americans surrounding them were stubborn monoglots, and the few who did speak Spanish were far from fluent. It was the perfect cover.
    The meetings usually took place at an upscale restaurant, thanks to an ill-timed raid that had taken place two years before. The cartels had grown worried about increasing violence on American soil. It was one thing to kill indiscriminately in Colombia, but the United States authorities were not so forgiving when their citizens were targeted. In a rare show of solidarity, the cartels had agreed to a temporary truce to work out the details of turf distribution on US soil. If they could agree to terms, much of the violence in the US could be curtailed, which would take the spotlight off the cartels. The American police forces tended to focus only on immediate problems. If the cartels dropped off their radar again, things would be much easier.
    A hotel had been chosen as the site for negotiations, and on the appointed day two years ago, representatives from each of the major cartels had arrived. The meeting was disguised as a conference of Latin American pharmaceutical investors so as not to draw suspicion. But somehow, the DEA had gotten wind of the true nature of the meeting.
    Carlos had stepped out to relieve himself when the raid happened. He was still in the bathroom when the shouting began, and he hid in the stall until the initial burst of activity passed. Thinking quickly, he stripped off his suit jacket and tie, leaving him in dark pants and a white dress shirt—a close approximation of the hotel staff uniform. He slipped out of the bathroom and managed to snag a catering jacket off an abandoned cart. The employees were gathered at the end of the hall, gawking at the activity, so no one noticed him glide by.
    He walked right through a thicket of DEA agents and police, his head held high and his pace measured so as not to draw suspicion. He was almost out—he wouldn’t let a careless mistake cost him his freedom now.
    He glanced back as he rounded the corner, and his shoulder struck something hard. Turning, his stomach dropped as he found he had run into a DEA agent.
    “Excuse me,” he murmured, nodding politely.
    The other man nodded back. “My fault,” he said. He studied Carlos’s face for a second and his eyes narrowed, as if he was trying to recall something. Carlos felt his pulse spike—he had to get out of here before he was recognized. He offered a small smile and began walking away, feeling the weight of the other man’s eyes on his back. He knew with absolute certainty that if he turned around the agent would be watching him, but to do so would only confirm the other man’s suspicions.
    Footsteps sounded behind him, and he realized the agent had started to follow him. He took a deep breath and forced his feet to move at a normal pace, resisting the rising panic that demanded he run.
    “Logan!”
    The footsteps paused, and he heard the man’s voice behind him. “What?”
    “We need you in here.”
    There was a muttered curse, and Carlos imagined the man standing there, torn. He kept walking, putting more and more distance between them. Finally, he rounded another corner and risked a glance back.
    The man was gone.
    Sitting at his desk now, Carlos frowned. The DEA agent’s name was Logan. Not a very common moniker. He dove back into the memory and focused on the man’s face...
    Realization struck like a bolt of lightning and an electric tingle traveled from the