Mile High

by Ophelia Bell

  It’s hard not to laugh because all he needs is a beard and my baby brother will have gone full hipster. I hope I know him better than that.

  Frustrated footsteps approach and Elle whisper-yells, “What the hell, Sam? I don’t want to be here when he wakes up, but I’ll be damned if I let this place go to hell while Mom’s away. A little help, please?”

  “He’s not waking up,” Sam says dismissively at full volume. “But I’m good to go, let’s get this done.”

  They disappear again, but not before I get a glimpse of Elle’s reflection in the mirror, and my heart stops because she’s the spitting image of Mom when she was young. It’s surreal how little she resembles the tiny spitfire whose image will be fixed in my head forever when I think of my baby sister. She’s tall and slim, her straight black hair coiled up in a messy bun at the back of her head. She’s filled out too, and I remember how not much more than three years ago, Maddox and I worried that she was getting a little too close to the Quiñones twins and we might have to knock some sense into those two to keep their distance. But she lives in San Diego full-time now, with Sam not far away. They’ve always been close, so I’ll have to have faith that he has her back.

  She looks sad, her hazel eyes shadowed and her brow creased with worry. I’d give anything to be able step out and comfort her, but I can’t. So I just lean against the wall and wait, listening to the sounds they make as they clean.

  They aren’t particularly talkative, but we always kept quiet when Dad was home and drunk. Old habits die hard. Eventually I hear the back door open and the sound of the trash hitting the big bin in the alley outside. A few minutes later, two sets of footsteps head back through the house. The front door opens and shuts, and I finally have the opening I need to sneak out.

  The back door’s deadbolt is locked, so I open it and slip out, then fish under the flower pot next to the door for a key to lock up behind me. I ease around the side of the house and peek past the corner to the street. Sam and Elle are sitting in a beat-up Honda Accord with the engine running and Elle at the wheel. I can’t hear them, but Elle’s stricken look and Sam’s frown are enough for me to guess what’s on their minds.

  Elle wipes her eyes and shakes her head. When Sam speaks, she nods, then steps out of the car. He gets out too, and they meet at the front, where he envelops her in his arms and holds her through a wave of sobs.

  My throat closes up at the sound, the words audible now that she’s not inside the car. “What if she doesn’t wake up? What if…”

  “Shh. Don’t think like that, okay?” Sam says. “Remember what Dr. Nicolo said. It’s still early. She’s improving a little every day. We’ll get her back. I have to believe we’ll get her back.” His voice cracks, and he stops talking and they just stand there, holding each other.

  My nostrils flare and the tightness in my throat turns hot when fresh rage bubbles up inside me. I’m tempted to go back inside and finish doing the deed I came here to do in the first place. Seeing the pair of them falling apart is too much.

  But what good would it do them to come back to a crime scene on top of having to deal with Mom in the hospital? None. There’s a better alternative, and I know just who can help.

  7

  Mason

  Pulling through the gate of the Flores estate is like entering an alternate reality. I’ve been here before, just once after I recovered from my so-called “death” and had completed a few months of training with Arturo’s fixer. I stayed for a single night and spent most of it up talking with Maddox before I left for Mexico City.

  The comfortable, understated opulence of the Flores house and grounds still drives home what a different life this family leads compared to where I grew up less than five miles away. I feel like I’ve stepped onto the set of an old Hollywood movie.

  It’s hard to believe this is the place Mad comes home to at night now. The wide driveway curves down from the gate, shaded by palms and acacia that give way at the end to pale stucco walls and elegant Spanish Revival archways overlooking the city. A dark, heavy wooden front door is set back at the end of a stone path only a few yards from the curb, but I keep going until I find a larger parking area beside a garage door at the side of the house. I pull the bike to a stop against the wall and cut the engine.

  The sound of a car approaching makes me turn, and a black SUV coasts down the driveway. The garage door kicks into motion and a light comes on inside, illuminating a row of shining specimens of automotive glory.

  I’m enthralled by the array of chrome and steel—each one a vintage masterpiece—and it’s an effort to divert my attention from a sweet little ’57 Thunderbird back to the SUV when it stops before entering. Baz and Benny step out, followed by Arturo, then the driver pulls the rest of the way into the garage.

  “They are works of art, like everything in my collection,” Arturo says, following my gaze to the cars. “Your brother mentioned you have a passion for restoring them. Is that right?”

  I vividly recall the gallery of priceless paintings and sculptures and other artifacts in its own secure wing of the house, but I’ve never seen the cars before. “Mad’s not lying. But some dreams just aren’t in the cards for most people. Maybe someday I can reclaim that passion if I survive this assignment.”

  Arturo nods sagely. “You survive and I’ll give you one of these beauties. Your choice.”

  It’s an effort to school my features into neutrality, but I give the cars another scan and my dick gets a little hard. Shaking my head, I say, “I already told you I don’t need more incentive. I’d do this for free.”

  He shrugs. “I’d consider it a bonus, not incentive, but the offer stands. I expected you’d have been here and gone already. What kept you?”

  I cast a sidelong look at the twins, who diligently keep their eyes on me. At the slightest nod from Arturo, they both relax and turn to head inside, mirror images of each other as they yank off their silk ties and shed their tailored suit jackets. The boyish energy emerges from their pinned-down personas the second their leashes are off.

  Arturo calls after them, “Tell your mother we have another guest for dinner tonight.”

  “Aye, Papá,” one of the pair answers with a small salute before jogging to catch up with his brother.

  I know “Papá” is effectively a title for the old man, but I still ask under my breath, “Please tell me those two aren’t yours. If they are, Elle needs to know.”

  Arturo chuckles and claps me on the shoulder. “No, I’m just their mentor. You did see what was on that flash drive, didn’t you? I have only ever fathered daughters.” He steers me toward the front path into the house and I fall into step beside him.

  “That’s a relief. And thanks for the dinner invite, but I don’t think I can stay. I’m already disobeying orders by stopping in LA, and Zavala is not a patient man.”

  “No, he is not. But he is also not a stupid man. I don’t think you would have stopped if you believed he was truly a threat to the treasure you left in his care. I made a point to do some digging after we spoke. You can rest easy for now.” He pauses at the front door and pulls out his phone, swipes the screen, and shows it to me.

  The image allows me to relax for the first time since César Zavala forced me to my knees and tortured me into confessing my sins against him and his organization. Except he didn’t need to lay a finger on me personally to get me to talk, because he held in his arms one of a handful of people in the world I would die to protect. Like I told Arturo, I didn’t need any more incentive to finish this assignment.

  “She’s safe,” I breathe, taking the phone from him and swallowing hard as I blink back tears. I tilt my head back and stare up at the sky. “Oh God, you have no idea how much this means to me.”

  He takes his phone back and offers a grim smile. “On the contrary, I know very well how much it means. You shouldn’t waste time just because the threat seems diminished—it isn’t. One thing Vicente Amador and I have in common is that we have always res
pected and treasured the women in our lives, and to such a degree that we now find ourselves at war over the fate of one of them. César Zavala is not so sentimental. You spent more than two years working for the man, so I hope you understand this. He will kill her if you fail to deliver, but as long as you have something to offer him, he will keep her safe. I will send this to you so you remember what a precarious place she is in right now.”

  We enter the house and he closes the door behind us, gesturing to another room just off the foyer—his office, the last room I saw before leaving California three years ago. Once inside with the door closed behind us, he says, “Now, there seemed to be something pressing on your mind that you weren’t willing to speak of in front of the twins. I imagine it’s related to whatever it was that kept you busy for the past few hours, rather than your assignment. What is it?”

  I don’t see any point in beating around the bush, so I just come right out with it. “Julian Santos needs to die.”

  Arturo is mid-pour from the crystal decanter of single malt he keeps on a sidebar. He doesn’t even look at me, but keeps pouring a little longer until two glasses are half-full. He hands me one and takes a deep breath, his expression pinched. He doesn’t speak; instead he rounds his desk and sits in a supple leather chair with a slight groan.

  I get impatient and step to the edge of the desk, setting my glass down with a clank. “I know you fucking agree with me. I think you’ve wanted to do this for a long time; at least that’s what my brother suggested. Why the fuck isn’t that bastard in the goddamn ground already? Or fucking rotting out in the desert somewhere? Is it because of some useless promise you made to our mother? Jesus Christ, you saw her. He did that to her! What the fuck are you waiting for?”

  I point at a wall, not even sure whether I’m aiming in the direction of the hospital. Arturo’s gaze follows my finger and his face goes pale. He stares in that direction for several seconds, and I finally can’t help but look myself. I realize I pointed straight at the portrait of his dead wife, a brunette beauty in a red evening gown. I don’t know much about Lola Flores other than that her death was the catalyst for everything.

  I sit and grab my glass, taking a long swallow of the liquor. I only feel a little guilty about not savoring the stuff, but he can afford more. Arturo looks like he’s still trying to find the words, as if somehow Lola has the answers. I decide to goad him a little more.

  “You know, he didn’t start beating us until after Elle was born. That’s not to say he wasn’t still an abusive asshole, but it was never physical until then. My brothers and I were big for our age. We could take his punches, but Mom always, always took them for us if she was around. He never once laid a finger on Elle, though—at least not that I know of. I think he always knew she wasn’t his. I think he knew if he touched her, you’d rain down hell on him.”

  I take another sip, and a bitter laugh slips out after I swallow. “But you didn’t see her today, did you? You’ve never seen the burden she bears for our family. Mom might be our shield, but Elle is our fucking soul. If she breaks, we are all fucking broken. She’s always been a strong kid, smart as a fucking whip, but today . . . today I saw her close to breaking, and as far as I’m concerned, that’s on you, because—”

  “Enough!” Arturo bellows loud enough to make me jump. I glare at him and he shakes his head, glaring right back. “You’ve made your point. I’ve spent too long abiding by Marcella’s wishes. I respected your mother—I even loved her once. I still care deeply for her. So I believed I owed it to her to keep my distance even though every time I saw her, she seemed more and more fragile—a shell of the strong, beautiful woman she was when we were young. I will do this, but not for you. For Marcella and for Elle.”

  I sit back with a self-righteous smirk. “Right now’s a good goddamn time. He’s too wasted to put up a fight.”

  He shakes his head. “Now is not the time. He’ll be back on assignment soon. He could easily make arrangements to stay, but if he’s the same man I remember, he’ll run from his duties here like he always has.”

  “Mad would know. He said something about the old man only sticking around through New Year’s. But yeah, I wouldn’t put it past him to use the Marines as an excuse.” A bilious wave of hate rises up and I down the rest of my whiskey to quell it.

  Arturo nods. “Leave it to me. It will take time but it will be done. The right way.”

  “As far as I’m concerned, the right way is his head on a pike. You have no idea how close I came to doing it myself earlier.”

  He stands again and takes my empty glass, refilling it before handing it back and returning to his seat. “It’s fortunate you didn’t, if you care about your family. There would have been significant blowback on them, regardless of any evidence of his abuse. And as his widow, your mother will benefit more if he dies while in service.”

  I raise an eyebrow. “You’ve thought this through.”

  “I think everything through, Mason. I only waited because I knew your father had never laid a finger on Elle. But you’re right. I just hope I didn’t wait too long. Now, you should go prepare for your trip. I don’t want to risk the intel making it into Amador’s hands. He could easily destroy both our families, if he learns what Zavala has on us. I may have let down my guard with Lola, but I refuse to put my daughters’ lives at risk. I’m sure you understand.”

  As strange as it feels to find common ground with a man like Flores, it gives me hope that I have less of my father in me than I thought. I shouldn’t look up to the man who sits across that heavy wooden desk, but he’s the first role model in my life I truly respect, and some small part of me regrets not getting to know him a lot earlier in life.

  I finish my drink and stand, setting the empty tumbler on his desk. “I promise I won’t let you down, sir,” I say as if he’s my CO and I’m taking his orders, not Wyatt Booth’s, or whoever funnels the DEA’s instructions through him. Flores is the one whose opinion matters because he’s the one with the resources to keep my family safe. He’s the one who just looked into my eyes with the understanding of a man who shares my pain, and for that he has earned my respect and my trust.

  The second I step out of his office, Arturo’s housekeeper, Elena, appears from around a corner and gives me a warm, if pitying, smile. She’s a pretty, fifty-something woman with a gray streak through her wavy, shoulder-length black hair. During my brief stay before, she seemed to have a preternatural sense of the needs of the house’s occupants at any given moment.

  “Mr. Black, do you remember the guest room you stayed in last time you visited?”

  “Ah, I’m pretty sure I can find it again,” I say with a nod and a smile.

  “Good. I’ve set clean towels out and took the liberty of collecting a few of your brother’s things and packing them in a bag for you, along with toiletries. Take your time and find me when you’re ready. I’ll make sure you get something to eat before you leave.”

  My stomach practically vibrates at the suggestion of food, and Elena gives my arm a pat before turning to walk back to another part of the huge house. I’m tempted to follow her and eat first, but catch a glimpse of a ravaged, dirty man in a large mirror on the wall beneath the stairs. I decide I don’t want to sully any more of the house than necessary, so I head up the stairs and find the posh guest room overlooking the pool.

  The sun has finally emerged from beyond the clouds, turning the pool and gardens into a serene landscape that belies the war raging on another front between the man who owns this place and his rival in Mexico. My entire family is tangled up in it, whether we like it or not.

  I wonder if Mom had any inkling of how deep we were with Arturo before her stroke. I refuse to blame her, even though Mad told me the story he’d pieced together from what Mom and Celeste had shared with him about Mom’s history with Arturo. Our mother is at the core of this war too, every bit as much as Lola Flores.

  I begin to strip, taking a deep breath and letting myself relax just a little.
The white tile of the spacious bathroom is deceptively pristine for all the blood on the hands of the owner of this house. At least he’s on our side, which makes it easy to stomach. Though I doubt he’d have heeded my request if I hadn’t used Elle as ammunition.

  I’m not stupid enough to believe Flores is just a weapon I can point and shoot at whoever does my family wrong. I could just as easily have wound up on the wrong end of his wrath three years ago, and know I have my brother’s relationship with Arturo’s daughter to thank for my life right now, not to mention Arturo’s hatred of Amador.

  My life, such as it is.

  I pause before stepping into the shower and brace my hands on the counter, staring at myself in the mirror. Dark tattoos cover much of my torso, except for an enormous scar that makes a long, pale track down the center of my chest. There’s a smaller one on my back, right through my brother Sam’s very first masterpiece. They had to cut me open twice that day—once to repair a hole in my lung and again to pull the bullet out of my spine, slicing through the gorgeous koi fish tattoo Sam designed and inked for me against my better judgment, but to my extreme delight after it was done. My baby brother has some serious talent, and I hope like hell I live to let him touch it up and cover the scar.

  Staring at the scar that extends down my sternum, I picture the pretty blonde doctor from the hospital again. I remember her face clear as day from the first time I saw her three years ago. Her face was the last one I expected to see in the middle of all this, but she didn’t remember me when she caught me in Mom’s room this morning.

  But how could she? I don’t exactly resemble the same cocky ass who tried to pick her up three years ago, even though I was lying in a hospital bed, fresh out of surgery from being fucking tortured, and it still hurt to breathe from the bullet wound they’d just repaired. My face is a mess now just like then, but my hair has grown out and I’m sporting a beard to boot.