Free Club Alpha by Marata Eros Page B

full-sensory plug-in. Weightlifting is utterly flat.
    During a run, I puzzle through the myriad of different projects I have at coffee plants around the world: how to manage more effectively, troubleshoot problems, and come up with formulas for the future. I’m always thinking.
    The weightlifting provides physical results, but my mind shrivels.
    I sigh.
    “You speak so formally, it's a dead giveaway you're not American to your core.” He thumps his chest with a fist.
    I give him a sharp look. My hand falls from my face as I straighten in the plush airplane seat. “I am not. I'm Mexican.”
    “Well that dickhead, Manuel, seemed to think you were something else.”
    “We're a great mix of peoples in Mazatlán. Many of us are from different origins.”
    “Right,” he says in a slow drawl, “see my point?”
    Turbulence makes my whisky slop over the rim. I grit my teeth.
    I want to murder the pilot. It's not sane or rational, obviously—without him, who would fly the plane?
    Tallinn chuckles. “Love that you get all worked up with flying.”
    “Worked up?”
    “See?” Tallinn points to me as Tiffany wipes up the spill. “You need to pay attention to the way people talk.”
    “I pay attention to what warrants it.”
    “God!” He slaps his forehead. “You're a lost cause.”
    I glower at him.
    “Save the smolder for the ladies, Paco.”
    “I'm not smoldering.” Even I can hear the insult in my voice.
    Tiffany laughs.
    My face swivels in her direction.
    Light pink floods her cheekbones. She nods, her fingers covering her mouth. “Definitely smoldering.”
    “I might get a fat head with that kind of talk,” I joke softly.
    “Might? Ha! Have one …”
    “Quiet,” I warn Tallinn in a growl.
    “Uh-huh. You're dragging my butt to the Netherlands for what? To…” He flicks a glance at Tiffany.
    “That's all, thank you,” I say to her in a not-too-subtle dismissal.
    Tiffany knows better than to sulk over my need for privacy. How many on-call jobs pay a person eighty thousand dollars a year to fly two dozen times?
    None.
    She leaves without protest.
    Tallinn leans forward, letting his hands dangle between his muscular thighs. “Like I was saying”—he jerks his thumb in the direction of where Tiffany left—“before the hottie took off—you're supposed to kill this girl. And I know you're not going to do anything to her.”
    I nod. If Tallinn knows, the narco must suspect. Still, I've never displayed backbone in all the years I've worked with them. I was rich, and I paid. Period. It was traditional, and it kept my family safe.
    “They tapped you to kill her for what reason?” He frowns. “They're watching her. It's Club Alpha. I know it. It's too weird not to be.”
    “Perhaps.” My gaze prowls the clouds as they glide by. There is reason in the madness, and it's my job to think through each mystery to reach the prize at the end. The journey so intriguing.
    “What?”
    I turn back to Tallinn. “I'm not convinced of anything. Club Alpha does not have the means—I wouldn't think—to use high-ranking criminal entities to perpetuate a ruse of this scale.”
    “Oh, Paco.” Tallinn shakes his head, grinning.
    I don’t see the humor. “Hmm?”
    “It's the way you talk—you can't be American. It's a no. ”
    I sniff, grabbing his thigh in a pincer grip.
    He howls.
    “Believable now?”
    His hand covers mine, sliding up to my wrist. He circles it in a vise of steel. I release his thigh, twisting my wrist in a vicious circle against his dominant grip.
    “Hey!”
    He takes his hand back.
    Tallinn chuckles, sliding his palm down the thigh I clamped. “You're aggressive enough to be American.”
    I lean back. “I left Mazatlán when I was eight. I was boarded in a prestigious East Coast Ivy League preparatory school. I've the bearing of the highly educated; it's not a sin to speak formally.”
    “No, but it's not going to make anyone believe your cover, Paco. And while we're talking about it,