by Ophelia Bell
He lets out a low whistle. “Did you have fucking spinal surgery or something?” he asks.
I don’t want to share the full extent of my recent crisis, so I give him enough to hopefully mollify any suspicions. “This is just proof I’ve survived Delgado more than once. I don’t intend to let him finish the job. Can we get moving?”
With a tight-lipped nod, he stands and gestures for the other guy to pat down my brother, who endures the indignity with a stoic face, though his intense glare at the man makes him cut short his inspection. Then they usher us through the kitchen and out into the back alley where the acrid scent of restaurant refuse assaults my nose. From there, we’re unceremoniously shoved into the back of an SUV.
“I know where the compound is. If he wanted to meet there, he just had to say so,” I tell the man in the suit who sits in the passenger seat.
“You have a target on your back, hermano. He isn’t taking a chance that Delgado pinpoints your location and takes another shot. You die, Zavala’s deal with the DEA dies too.”
“We took precautions,” I say. In fact, the DEA went to great lengths to obscure my trip to Mexico, even going so far as to set up a decoy in Denver to keep Amador’s people chasing their tails. But we’ve had trouble keeping tabs on Gustavo Delgado’s movements. He was in Mexico City on Christmas Day, but was spotted back in Cancún near Amador’s estate a few days later. He hasn’t been seen since. He could have returned, though for what reason I can’t be sure, unless he has a source who knows I’m here.
The man tuts and shakes his head. “Zavala doesn’t take chances. You worked for him; you should know.”
“Are you his new head of security?”
He cranes his neck to look at me, narrowing his eyes as if assessing a threat, even though it’s a benign question. Finally he nods and says, “Rick Valdez. You left quite a mess behind.”
I grit my teeth. “It wasn’t my goddamn mess. The fact that you’ve taken these steps suggests you know as well as I do that I’m not the problem.” I wave at the car and the road ahead, which I realize doesn’t lead to the compound at all.
“You’re like a bad stink we can’t get rid of,” Rick says. “Your presence attracts flies. The sooner you’re gone, the better. My advice to Zavala was to kill you and wash his hands of it all, but he wants this deal too much, so I’ll see it through. But if any of my men die because you’re here, I’m taking it out of your flesh.”
He eyes me, then my brother, making it clear that he means my flesh and blood, not just me. But at least his presence explains why I don’t recognize the other guy. Valdez likely brought in a handful of his own trusted men to aid the transition, which is fine by me, since I’m sure there’s still some animosity for me among the men I used to work with.
After forty-five minutes of driving a winding route through the city’s streets to ensure we aren’t followed, we merge onto a four-lane road heading north.
My gut twists because I have no idea where they’re taking us. We’re clearly not headed toward to the hills west of the city where Zavala keeps his well-guarded estate. Maddox and I didn’t come armed, and now I’m worried that was a mistake. But with Zoe at the other end of this trip, I don’t want to take any chances provoking my adversaries, all of whom will have guns of their own. I just hope to hell I still have a signal at the other end so I can let Callie know we’re okay.
Assuming we will be okay.
I shoot Mad a glance, but he’s busy boring a hole with his eyes in the back of Rick’s headrest. My brother has chilled out since getting back together with Celeste, but I see the old Mad Dog in that look now. Even though that version of him is as close to channeling our dad as he ever gets, I’m comforted that I have him with me.
Half an hour later, the SUV slows as it navigates the narrow streets of a small town that shows its ties to the Spanish colonial era through its weathered stone walls and Mission-style architecture. We reach a baroque-looking cathedral with a weathered brown facade and turn, winding around to the rear where the driver pulls to a stop.
When we get out, Rick directs us to walk ahead. “This way,” he says, pointing to a set of carved wooden doors set in the hewn stone wall of the big church.
“What is this place?” I ask, not sure I want to know the answer. For all I know, Zavala’s been holding my daughter in a goddamn dungeon underneath this ancient structure.
“The safest place to stow a baby is in a convent,” Rick says, stepping forward to bang the heavy iron knocker shaped like a cross.
A moment later the door creaks open to reveal a plain-faced woman in a nun’s habit. She blinks once as she looks us over, then nods and murmurs a greeting in Spanish before waving us to follow her inside.
My skin goes clammy even though the inside of the convent is cool and dry. I’ve never been a religious man, but the clean plaster walls and white arches exude a kind of transcendent peace that begins to ease my mind. As we’re led down a narrow, barrel-ceilinged corridor, the sounds of a babbling, cooing baby echo through the air.
It’s all I can do to keep my legs from buckling in relief. Maddox must catch my slight falter because he grabs my elbow and squeezes. “Only a little farther,” he murmurs. “You got this, brother.”
“Thanks.”
The closer we get, the harder it is not to break into a run. But the last thing I want to do is barge into what might be a far less relaxed situation than my baby girl’s happy sounds suggest.
Rick slips ahead near the end of the corridor and knocks on a door. A deep, familiar voice answers, making my spine stiffen. The last time I spoke to César Zavala, he was not so subtly threatening the life of my infant daughter.
When the door opens, Rick and his partner shove Maddox and me through, then shut the door behind us. They remain outside as guards against our escape, though there’s no way I’m leaving until this deal is done.
There are several people in the room, but my gaze immediately lands on Zavala, who is seated at an ornate mahogany table with what appears to be a bowl of orange mush in front of him. Pumpkin was always Zoe’s favorite, so I have to give the man credit for figuring that out. Sunlight streams in through high windows behind him, casting him in an almost ethereal glow that is completely incongruous with the man I used to work for.
Everything about the scene is surreal, right down to the chubby-cheeked face beaming back at me amid a smear of orange-colored puree. Zavala holds a tiny spoonful of food in front of her, his big, tattooed hand monstrous in comparison to her tiny fist as she grabs for it, as if determined to feed herself. With his other hand, he cradles her lightly on his lap, head bent as he murmurs low words of encouragement.
He doesn’t look at us until Zoe accepts the bite of food, but her eyes are glued to me. I can’t tell if she recognizes me, though I haven’t had time to shave in three days, so I’m halfway back to the bearded version she knew before I left. As I rub my chin, recognition flickers in her eyes. Her expression brightens and she ignores the next bite of food he lifts before her. Instead she reaches out toward me with grasping fingers.
“Ahma,” she says, the pair of syllables causing a hard lump to form in my throat.
When Zavala doesn’t immediately obey her inarticulate command, she begins to bounce impatiently, her little hands twisting.
“Hi, baby girl,” I say, finally managing to get a few words out past the burning tightness in my chest.
Zavala turns his dark gaze to me, bending close to Zoe’s ear. “That’s not your mama, little one. Your mama’s dead, thanks to him.”
“Goddamn it, man—” I growl, then cut myself off from the slew of profanities itching to spew forth. “Zavala,” I try again, my tone as measured and reasoned as I can make it. “Let’s get this done so I can take my daughter home.”
“Just trying to explain what you are to her. I don’t think you should be confused, either.” He motions toward the only woman in the room, another nun in a more practical outfit of a knee-length skirt and
high-necked blouse, but still sporting the head covering. She murmurs sweet words to Zoe as she gently takes her from Zavala’s arms.
“I will get her cleaned up for you, señor,” she says to me before turning to head toward an open doorway in the corner of the room.
Zoe’s little face is turning red as she twists around in the woman’s arms, repeating her name for me over and over. “Ahma, ahma, ahma!” I have to tear my eyes away, keeping my fists clenched at my sides.
I shake my head. “She isn’t saying ‘mama.’ I was her Uncle Mason. Ahma’s as close as she’s ever gotten.” I stare after her, wanting nothing more than to grab her and run, but I also don’t want things to escalate and wind up traumatizing her any more than she’s already been traumatized. The sooner we can get this done, the better.
Zavala’s eyes drop to the chairs opposite him at the table and he shoves the bowl of baby food aside. “Have a seat. I take it this is the brother you said you would bring.”
“Maddox,” my brother offers, but he doesn’t extend a hand. Neither does he sit when I do. Instead he stands back, his piercing gaze sliding to the three men situated strategically around the room. One stands near a china cabinet, another by the window, and the third has moved to stand near the door, emphasizing how trapped we are.
Through the door to the other room, I’m acutely aware of Zoe’s crying, but the woman manages to calm her down within a few seconds by singing a sweet-sounding Spanish lullaby.
“You’re aware that if we don’t make it out of here alive and with my daughter and the intel you promised, your brother will be sent back to the dank little hole they’ve been keeping him all this time,” I tell him.
“Oh, you and your family will leave whole, I assure you. Let me see the documents.” Zavala nods to one of the men, who steps forward, sets a laptop onto the table, and opens it up, then holds out a hand to me.
I fish into my pocket for the thumb drive that’s been like a thorn in my side this entire time. He inserts it into the slot, then slides his finger across the touchpad to open the file folder before turning the screen so that both Zavala and I can view it. I take over, find the file he wants, and open up the series of scanned PDFs of the formal agreement between him and the US government.
“Hard copies are with your brother, who’s in the process of being delivered to your men as we arranged.” I switch windows to click on another file, then the link it contains, which redirects to a website showing a live stream of a camera attached to the dashboard of the vehicle currently transporting Antonio Zavala, César’s older brother. The camera’s view has been reversed to show the interior of the SUV and has a clear shot of an aging Mexican man with a pockmarked face made even more sinister by the gang tattoos covering his neck, jaw, and cheekbones.
Senator Longo and Special Agent Dawson took care of the arrangements to get him released from Federal custody in Beaumont, Texas. He was allowed to clean up and now wears a new suit, but there’s no mistaking the hard edge of a man who’s spent much of the last decade inside a maximum-security penitentiary, and who didn’t have a very peaceful life prior to that.
As we watch, the subtle shifts of the vehicle’s movements cease and light floods the interior. Antonio Zavala disappears for a moment, then the camera angle flips to show a view of the front of the vehicle. This view shows a second car, a luxury SUV with tinted windows and shining rims.
Antonio appears once again, striding toward the other car and whoever his brother sent to meet him. The two men embrace, then Antonio turns and flips the bird at the camera before climbing into the other car.
A few seconds later, Zavala’s phone rings and he answers in Spanish. The conversation is brief, and his eyes brighten as he watches me while he speaks to whoever is on the other end. When he hangs up, he says, “Our business is almost done.” He gestures again to one of the men, who comes to the table with a brightly colored quilted diaper bag.
I lift an eyebrow at the poofy thing with tiny plastic monkeys on the zipper pulls. “Surprised you went to such lengths, considering you were threatening to end my daughter’s life a little more than a week ago.”
His lips press together briefly and he chuckles. “The Mother Superior insisted. This is her doing, not mine.”
He reaches into the front pocket and pulls out a plastic case about the size of a credit card. He opens it to reveal a trio of tiny memory cards smaller than my thumbnail. “This is everything you asked for. Every scrap of information I’ve gathered over the years on both Vicente Amador and Arturo Flores. Feel free to check.” He retrieves a small card reader from the bag as well, and even goes so far as to attach it to the laptop for me.
Because I’m not taking any chances of fucking up this job, I diligently plug each card in and scan through the files. The original sample he sent me away with was only the tip of the iceberg. There’s easily multiple terabytes of data, including photos and hundreds of hours of video. The date stamps go back decades too.
Curious about the older intel, I dig a little deeper, and when the name “Lola Flores” catches my eye, I pull up a set of twenty-year-old digitized crime scene photos.
There isn’t much to see besides a woman’s corpse. Lola’s death was ruled a suicide—I know that much from hearing Flores recount the event. I also know he doesn’t believe his wife killed herself. He admitted to me that he had no solid proof, but was certain that Amador was somehow responsible.
Flores and Amador at one time were best friends and business partners, building up their organization over a decade of work on both sides of the border. But somewhere along the line, they got even closer. Close enough to share a woman, at any rate. But that friendship ended when Lola died.
Her suicide note is one of the pieces of evidence included in the files. It suggests she was torn between the two men and couldn’t go on with life that way. There’s something not quite right about it, though. Maybe because I don’t trust the fact that it’s typed rather than handwritten.
I can’t even begin to guess how Zavala wound up with all these files, but he’s clearly been painstakingly collecting them for a while. There’s definitely enough to make such an elaborate deal as the one he just struck. Is there enough to get me out of my own fucked up circumstance?
“You’re looking for something specific,” Zavala observes. “If you tell me what, I can throw you a bone.”
I shoot him a wary glance. “You’d seriously help me after everything?”
“You’ve given me something very valuable. Something I could not have acquired without your help. One more small favor would not be an imposition if it keeps you away for good. Tell me what you need.”
“A way to get Gustavo Delgado to lay off. I need the fucking target off my back. Is there anything in here I can use?”
A sly smile spreads across Zavala’s face. “Search for his name in the folder labeled March 15, 2000. There should be enough in there to serve your needs.”
As I’m typing in the search, the nun returns carrying an infant car seat with Zoe ensconced in it, sleeping soundly. She gives Zavala a questioning look and he nods to her. She rounds the table, then sets the car seat atop it a foot away from where I’m sitting. I pause to look in at the sleeping baby and wind up staring a few seconds longer than I mean to.
It hits me that this is almost over. My daughter is safe and whole, and we’re about to leave together in one piece. Zavala’s even being reasonable, which is far more than I expected after the rough treatment I received the last time I saw him.
I’ve watched this man torture enemies to death, yet he’s letting me go. The deal he made must have been worth a lot.
I force myself to focus on the files while I can, and the search results begin to appear on the screen. For a moment I don’t quite believe what I’m seeing in the thumbnails, but as more appear, the pieces start to come together.
Now I know exactly how to keep Gustavo off my back—for good.
38
Mason
There’s no answer, so I hang up, staring at the screen for a few seconds, then to the sleeping angel in the car seat beside me. Maddox meets my gaze across the top of Zoe’s seat.
“Everything okay?”
“I don’t know. She isn’t answering. I was hoping to take a detour, but wanted to let her know we were okay first so she doesn’t call in the cavalry. Thinking we ought to just go straight back to the hotel instead.”
The Zavala mercenary who delivered us is driving again, but with a different partner this time, since Rick had to stay behind with his boss. I direct the driver to the St. Regis and he gives a noncommittal nod before making a turn in that direction.
“What detour?” Maddox asks.
I take a steadying breath and glance down at Zoe again. I’ve been dreading this particular part of the trip since my decision to make it, and I’m a little grateful for the excuse to put it off. “To Rafael and Emilia’s house. The bag Zavala gave me doesn’t have enough supplies for Zoe. I wanted to pick up some of her things.”
“Isn’t that where they died?”
I only look at him, unable to respond with words, though the image of the carnage Zavala’s men tore me away from will be forever burned into my memories.
Maddox sighs. “You can buy her new things, brother.”
“There are things there that I can’t buy in a department store. Family heirlooms,” I say. “Rafael did well for himself, so she has a legacy. I want to be able to share it with her when she’s old enough. And Emilia was an artist. There are paintings. Sketchbooks. She’d have wanted Zoe to have them. I’m not just leaving them to rot, and I can’t trust Zavala won’t just burn everything. And . . . there’s a car.”
