Mile High

by Ophelia Bell

  A shadow mercifully blocks the light just before a big hand grabs me by the upper arm, hauling me upright and half-dragging me toward the exit. The door swings open with a hydraulic hiss, a dark abyss gaping beyond.

  “Jesus, let me get my goddamn feet under me, asshole,” I mutter. “Where’d you bring me? Texas? New Mexico? A little communication never hurts.”

  “Bienvenido a California, cabrón,” is all the information I get before I’m literally thrown out the door into the night.

  Reflex takes over, and I find my arms are miraculously free of the zip tie when I reach to soften my fall. I hit the tarmac and roll, then look back at the plane in time to see a black duffel bag sailing through the air straight at my head. I catch it and jab my middle finger in the air at the two men in the plane.

  “¡Feliz Navidad!” one calls before they haul the door shut again with a thud, leaving me sprawled on the pavement, staring dazedly as the small plane trundles toward the runway again, bright floodlights casting a long shadow behind it.

  “Merry fucking Christmas to you too, assholes.”

  Cali-fucking-fornia.

  I guess César Zavala wasn’t joking when he said he wanted in on the deal to help take down Vicente Amador, because this is where the deal started. I just never expected this was how I’d wind up back in my home state, with the Sword of Damocles hanging over my head, ready to drop if I don’t get the monster what he asks for.

  Yet here I am, and I don’t even have the luxury of enjoying the moment. I get to my feet, wincing at the twinge in my back from an old injury and the ache in my shoulder from the most recent one. If someone had warned me this was what thirty-one would feel like, I probably wouldn’t have argued. I feel ancient after the meatgrinder of a life I’ve had, beginning under my own father’s fists.

  I stretch out my limbs, then check one pocket for the precious cargo Zavala entrusted to me and the other for my phone. I power it on and wait, then tap the “Maps” icon to see where the fuck I actually am.

  A slew of text alerts pop up the second I get a signal, all from the same number, with escalating urgency. The last one makes me chuckle.

  “You’d better be f-ing dead. If you’re not I’m going to wring your g-d neck when I find you.”

  Ah, Booth. I love you too.

  Swiping the message away reveals the map screen, which displays a whole lot of fuck-all around my location. I zoom out to discover I’m actually not that far from San Diego, but with no wheels it’ll be a hike to get anywhere useful. It’s just past 1AM, two days after Christmas, so very little is likely to be open, but a quick search reveals just what I need only a couple miles down the road. I sling my duffel across my back and start hoofing it, dialing Booth as I go.

  He picks up on the first ring. “Black? That had better be you.”

  “Nice to know you care,” I say with a smile.

  “Jesus fucking Christ, man! I was sure you were dead. I haven’t been able to get any intel out of the compound since Christmas Day. All I know is some shit went down at Rafael’s hacienda and you were planning to spend the day there with them. What the fuck happened? Where are you?”

  “They dumped me across the border. Somewhere near Otay, California.” I grit my teeth and keep my eyes on the horizon, blinking back all the rage and pain that I thought I’d managed to bury on the trip from Mexico City. I can’t look back, can’t dwell on what happened if I want to get this mission done. Moving forward is the only way to stay focused. Booth is my handler though, so he needs me to give him something. “Booth, it’s bad, really fucking bad.”

  When I don’t elaborate, he sighs. “All three of them?” he asks, and I know he means are all three of them dead.

  “Rafael and Emilia,” I manage to get out, risking the wrath bubbling over. I can already feel my fist tightening around the phone and force myself to relax. It’s the only phone I have, and there are other calls I need to make. I take a deep breath and add, “Amador found me. He knows I’m alive. His attack burned me to Zavala. He has her, Booth. He has Zoe. If I don’t . . . if I don’t . . .”

  I can’t finish the sentence, because the bastard’s promise is playing on repeat inside my brain: “I will kill her if you don’t get me what I want, Black. Or should I call you Santos?”

  “Fuck. Okay. Tell me what he wants. He wouldn’t hold that kind of leverage over you if he didn’t want something serious. The man is too smart to waste a chance like this. How much does he know?”

  “How much doesn’t he know at this point?” I can’t suppress a bitter laugh. I’ve endured torture before, but César Zavala broke me using the only ammunition he had, which just happened to be the one thing that would work.

  I spilled my goddamn heart, gave him everything. He now knows that the DEA sent me undercover to gain intel on Zavala’s favorite rival, the Amador Cartel, and that said cartel discovered my presence and attacked, hoping to finish the job they’d failed to do three years ago. That attack was what blew my cover, destroying more than two years of work I’d done in an effort to gain access to Zavala’s files on his enemy.

  I told him about the deal Arturo Flores struck with the US government to help take down the Amador Cartel. Naturally, Zavala saw that as an opportunity to get a piece of the pie. He has the intel the US government wants, and he won’t let it go without ample compensation. In his case, this means securing a deal similar to Arturo’s, as well as getting his older brother released from federal prison in Texas. I suppose I should be grateful that it gave him a reason to let me go, but it’s only a temporary reprieve. I need to deliver on our deal, or else.

  Booth sighs. “Maybe this can work to our advantage. Did you at least manage to get the intel before he sent you packing?”

  “Yeah,” I say. “But only the pieces he gave me himself. Not all of it. He knows why I was there, under whose orders, and who I’m working with. He knows about my connection to Flores and the DEA. He knows everything. I had no choice.”

  “I get it, man,” Booth says in an understanding voice. God, I love this guy. He’s had my back for more than two years while I worked my way into César Zavala’s good graces—not an easy feat, considering he’s the leader of the second-most profitable—not to mention deadly—cartel in Mexico. Booth knows my darkest secrets, so if anyone can guide me out of this shit, he can.

  “Zavala wants a piece of the deal,” I continue. “He wants some of what the US government has offered Flores for his help taking down Amador. Amador’s is the only cartel keeping him from being king of his little world, so he’ll play ball. He sent me off with what he calls a sample. Not enough to actually help, but enough to prove there’s more. All he wants is this deal and to get his brother released from custody and delivered to him. If we do that, he’ll give us everything. He said he’d even pull the goddamn trigger, if we let him.”

  Booth is silent. I can picture his light blue eyes staring out the window of the ratty apartment in Mexico City he’s been living out of for the past two years. He processes intel like a machine, piecing together a strategy. We’ve made a good team. The only other man I’ve considered as close a friend on this assignment was Rafael, but I never shared the truth with him. Rafael would have killed me if he knew I was a spy.

  “But if we don’t bring him in on the deal? What’s his counter?”

  “Fucking hell, Booth, does it even matter?”

  “We’re going to get Zoe back one way or the other, but we still need to know what the damage is going to be if we screw him.”

  I’m hesitant to share, but perhaps the downside is too damaging for the powers that be to say no to this deal once I bring it to them. “He has dirt on Arturo Flores that he’ll share with Amador if things don’t go his way. Enough to destroy Flores. And if Zavala allies with Amador . . .”

  Booth is quick to put the pieces together. “Together, they’d be unstoppable. Okay, here’s what you need to do . . .”

  Relief washes over me. I’m always more effective w
hen I have a plan, though I’m pretty agile when I need to adjust to circumstances on the fly. But that’s what backup plans are for. I firmly believe that you should always have a way out, a back door so you don’t get cornered. I wasn’t prepared for this assignment to go so far off the rails. I am worse than cornered now, but at least Booth has a cooler head than I do and can steer me in the right direction.

  The intel I was supposed to steal from the Zavala Cartel would have been funneled through Booth to the local authorities and the special DEA unit they’re collaborating with to combat drug cartel activity in the US and Mexico. From there, they’d analyze the intel and use what they learned to flesh out the off-books operation to gut the Amador Cartel once and for all.

  Arturo Flores, the Los Angeles kingpin whose cooperation helped get Operation Broken Heart rolling to begin with, just happens to be a close friend of my family. My own dealings with both Amador and Zavala, back when I made my money pursuing extra-legal activities as a gun runner, made me a perfect candidate to insert myself into Zavala’s organization.

  Zavala knows me as Mason Black. Three years ago, I was the handy go-between with a friend who had the real contacts for guns at the Naval Weapons Station. What he didn’t know was that “friend” was J.J. Santos, and that we were one and the same. J.J.’s original deal was with Amador, but that deal went bad. As a result, J.J. was killed when Amador’s lieutenant, a psychopath by the name of Gustavo Delgado, shot him point blank in the chest.

  Except I survived. But it gave Arturo a way in. And with his help and the help of the Feds, I faked my death and became Mason Black for real.

  Only my older brother Maddox and Arturo Flores know the truth, along with Arturo’s daughter and his lieutenant, who Maddox also happens to be fucking. Hell, by now they may be married, but I don’t know how that works in a three-way relationship.

  I expect to be sent to Arturo and let him be the go-between, but that’s not what Booth wants me to do.

  “You want me to go to Denver? In December? What the hell for?”

  “It’s my hometown. It’s a beautiful city in the winter. Don’t you ski?”

  “Dude, I’m from Los Angeles.”

  “They have ski resorts in SoCal.”

  “Ski resorts are for the rich. We barely made ends meet when I was growing up. I’ve never even seen snow.”

  “Well, it’s not like we’ll have time for skiing anyway. Denver also happens to be where Senator Katherine Longo lives. She chairs the committee in charge of this operation. She’s the one who can make this deal happen fastest.”

  “No shit, a US senator? I guess we aren’t fucking around.”

  “I want this to work as much as you do, buddy,” Booth says. “So get your ass to the airport, pronto. I’ll meet you in Denver.”

  I clear my throat, conflicted as hell over what I need to ask, but like the fucking oracle he is, Booth pre-empts me.

  “Not a fucking chance, Black. I can hear those gears turning. You’re in California, so you want to get in touch with your brother. I can’t let you do that. Stay on point so we can get this done.”

  “It’s just a fucking visit. I can catch a direct flight from LA and be there in a few hours. You’ve been like a brother to me these past two years, but you aren’t Maddox. I need to talk to him, and I can’t do it over the phone. After what happened, I need this. He’s always been able to set me straight.”

  “Not this time, buddy. Trust me.”

  “What the fuck are you keeping from me? You know there’s no way in hell I’m not following through on this assignment. I’d fucking die first.”

  “I don’t need you distracted right now. If I tell you, will you promise not to go to LA? To head straight to the San Diego airport and get on a goddamn flight ASAP?”

  Not liking the direction this conversation has headed, I say, “Spit it the fuck out or I’ll never make you another goddamn promise as long as I live.”

  Booth mutters a soft curse, but gives in anyway. “I spoke to your brother last night just before things went to shit. It’s your mom. She had a stroke.”

  My hearing goes fuzzy for the rest of our conversation. I vaguely catch his warning to stay on point and to get to the airport, but when he hangs up, I think he realizes that’s not fucking happening.

  I immediately call my brother, but get no answer. It’s just as well, because I’ve almost reached the street corner I was headed toward. I’ll stay on fucking point, but that point now includes getting my ass to LA before I do anything else.

  My ride is sitting pretty outside a dive bar, the security lights glinting off a pair of chrome tailpipes. The bar is still lit up with music pumping out of it, and whoever owns this bike is likely three sheets to the wind already. Not that I need to rationalize, but I’m about to save the asshole from a DUI.

  I pull my hood up and skirt the parking lot, scoping the spare, windowless cinderblock building for cameras. There’s one just above the door, but it’s aimed toward the driveway. It’ll probably catch me at the edge of the frame, but from this distance in the dark, my face is obscured.

  I slip up to the motorcycle like I belong there, then squat by the engine, reaching beneath for the wires. Within a breath the ignition turns over and I climb on, donning the helmet left behind and keeping the engine at an idle as I roll it to the street before kicking into gear and riding off.

  It’s fucking cold without proper attire, but my rage warms me from the inside out, and the beard I grew to enhance my new persona keeps my face toasty as I cruise toward the interstate.

  I’m about to hit the on-ramp when my phone buzzes in my pocket. I pull onto the shoulder and fish it out to look at the screen. It’s a text from Maddox.

  “Who is this?”

  “Who do you think, shitbird?” I tap back.

  Less than two seconds later, the screen lights up and the phone buzzes with a call.

  “Are you back? Please fucking tell me you’re back,” Maddox says before I can even say hello.

  “It’s complicated.”

  “Of course it is. It’s never fucking simple with you, is it?”

  I grit my teeth and sneer, “Oh hey, brother, it’s great to hear from you for the first time in three fucking years. Glad to know you’re alive!”

  Maddox sighs. “I love you, brother. You know this. But I don’t really have time to chat. Are you in town?”

  It’s 2AM on a Sunday night, so the fact that he sounds this agitated and impatient makes the back of my neck prickle with dread. My older brother is the rock of the family. Nothing fazes him, so Mom’s condition must be pretty bad.

  “Not quite. But Booth told me about Mom. I can be there in three hours. Two, if I haul ass. Just don’t tell him if he calls you.”

  “Please don’t come if it’s jeopardizing your assignment,” he says, though he isn’t that insistent about it. He wants me there.

  “Tell me what happened. Do I need to make a detour to pay Dad a visit?”

  “Jesus! No. You need to stay the fuck away from him if you don’t want to blow your cover. He isn’t worth it. She had a stroke during Christmas dinner. She’s stable but they had to do surgery to relieve swelling on her brain, and they put her into a medically induced coma. I’m at the hospital now. If she could hear your voice, know you’re alive, it might help.”

  I wince. “I’m not really alive, though. J.J. needs to stay dead for a while longer. My assignment isn’t over, and I only have a few hours before Booth shits himself because I’m not where I said I’d be.”

  “You just offered to pay Dad a visit, so it didn’t sound like you gave a shit.”

  A bitter laugh escapes my throat. “Trust me, if I get ahold of him, he won’t be in any shape to ID me to anyone. I don’t have a lot of time, either. Just today.”

  Maddox sighs. “Like I said, he isn’t fucking worth it. Mom is, but she’s not exactly lucid enough to know you’re here. Hearing your voice could make a difference, even if she thinks it’s a dream
. Help give her a reason to fight. Man, I just need you to try. For her.”

  I clench back the anger, wishing like hell I could have been there to run interference. “Sam and Elle? Are they okay?” I can’t risk running into any of my family. Dad’s in more danger from me than anyone else, but my younger brother and sister would be safer continuing to believe I’m dead for now.

  “They’re fine. Staying clear of the old man as much as possible. They aren’t staying at the house, at least. They’re at my apartment since I’m living at the Flores estate full-time.”

  As dangerous a man as Arturo Flores is, I’m grateful he treats my family like his own. “I’m on my way, but if I set eyes on Dad, it won’t be pretty. So if you care about helping me finish this goddamn assignment, keep him the fuck out of my way.”

  “You have my word, brother.”

  4

  Callie

  The rhythmic beep and hum of life-monitoring electronics in the ICU is the soundtrack to most of my days. It’s become a comfort when I swipe my badge and step through the door to the unit each morning, proof that what I do makes a difference, that the patients attached to the machines made it through another night.

  I know that isn’t always the case. Now in my fifth year as a neurosurgery resident, I’ve lost enough patients to have a full grasp of how precious a victory it is when they survive. Still, a surgeon never forgets her first, and mine is etched into my brain like the tattoo on that very patient’s back.

  I’ve carried that memory with me, despite its shroud of mystery and inexplicable conclusion. I think it was the mystery itself that pushed me to fight for answers ever since, to seek solutions that would save other lives, even though I never found the answers I craved for that death. I wouldn’t lose another patient without knowing why.

  Thankfully none of my patients are in grave danger today, though in the ICU they’re never far from the edge. I’m hoping for an uneventful day when I pick up the tablet from the charge nurse and check the schedule, then begin my rounds.