The exercise had started three years before, when Viktor had been appointed to look over the North American operation. At the time he had been a twenty-nine-year-old kid, not yet quite ready for the post, and he knew it. His uncle had gone out on a limb for him in securing the position, a fact every person in the organization was aware of. The calls had served as a way for the old man to stay connected, to exert control, and to calm the other partners’ nervousness about the plan to expand.
Now, three years later, the calls seemed more like blind oppression, paying taxes to a king an ocean away.
Pushing an angry breath out through his nose, Viktor pressed a single button and the line began to ring. It chirped a full dozen times in his ear before it was picked up, knowing better than to disconnect before it was answered.
“You’re late,” the voice said, a scratchy tone that was the end result of decades of cigars and vodka.
Viktor slid back the cuff on his black silk shirt and checked his Patek Philippe watch, the illuminated face on it stating it was exactly eleven o’clock.
“My watch must be a minute or two behind. My apologies.”
A derisive sniff rolled out over the line. “Yeah, I’m sure that’s it.”
Viktor rolled his eyes, picturing the fat little man with his beady eyes and sun-spotted head, and bit back a retort.
He’d made that mistake before. No need to relive it.
“Where are we with things?” Sergey asked, moving straight to business, as he always did.
Viktor lowered himself into his padded leather desk chair and rested his elbows on the arms of it, his fingers steepled in front of him. “Things are progressing well. The takeover is near complete now, with only one last distributor still displaying any reluctance at all.”
“Which one?” Sergey snapped, ignoring the first part of the assessment.
“La Jolla, on the north side of San Diego.”
“That going to be a problem?”
“Not at all,” Viktor said, shaking his head. “It’s a wealthy community, the kind that thinks they can control things with a little bit of cash. Nothing we haven’t seen many times over, here and back home.”
Again a nasty chortle rolled out over the line, drawing another eye roll from Viktor. For the first two years the operation had felt like a partnership, a joint venture between two generations of Bloks, the older handing things down to the next.
In just the last twelve months that impression had begun to evaporate as Sergey took an increased interest in the business. It started with him sending Pavel stateside to look over Viktor’s shoulder, had continued with random phone calls at odd hours, an increased demand for access to the financials.
“When are you thinking this will be under control?” Sergey asked.
Viktor tapped the pads of his fingers together in front of him and said, “I sent up a small scouting party yesterday. They were going to dig around, determine how much it would take to make the problem go away quietly, how many men it would take to make it an example.”
“I don’t need to remind you that right now we would prefer the quiet option,” Sergey said, his voice taking on a stern tone.
“I’m aware,” Viktor said, moving his focus toward the ceiling, keeping his gaze aimed at the stucco surface above him. “How long before we’ll be ready to start importing our own product?”
“Just waiting on you,” Sergey replied, no small amount of condescension in his voice.
Viktor gritted his teeth and pushed a long breath out between them, animosity rising within him. “One week. Two at most.”
There was more he wanted to add, about the rumors of delays in production that were drifting across the Pacific, about the dissatisfaction with the organization, the mentioning of decreased sales. Still, he kept his tongue, careful not to draw any unnecessary heat. If things were wrapped up in a week and the shipments began arriving as planned, his upward mobility would be impossible to track.
He would be hailed as a wunderkind, the new blood that revived a dying system.
He only had to bide his time.
“Good,” Sergey said. “Is there anything else?”
Viktor glared at the phone a moment before shaking his head in disgust. The old man knew full well what was going on with Mateo Perez. He had insisted on using Lita, was no doubt being fed updates from Pavel. He was simply testing Viktor, wanting to see how much he would disclose, how honest he would be.
Across from him the door to his office opened, one half of the sliding doors parting, moving silently on its rollers. A gap no more than a foot wide appeared and a long leg slid through, followed by the lithe figure of a young girl, a satin black shift clinging to her.
She pushed the door shut behind her the moment her body passed through it, walking one hip at a time into the room.
“There has still been no word from Lita,” Viktor said, fighting to keep his voice neutral, to not let the old man hear his distaste. His gaze danced over the girl as she stood there, her long hair hanging down in dark waves, her nipples erect beneath the light material.
“And?” Sergey demanded.
“I sent Pavel up yesterday to deal with it. I have not yet heard from him, but—”
“Pavel will take care of it.”
The intent of the statement was clear, but Viktor let it slide, his mind preoccupied with the girl across from him. He watched as she pressed the back of her thighs into the armchair across from him and slid her body onto it, her skin standing in stark contrast against the dark material.
“You are right, Uncle,” Viktor said. “Pavel is a good man. I can trust him.”
If not for the preoccupation in front of him, the words would have tasted putrid on his tongue. He shook his head even as he said them, angry at what his position had been reduced to.
“Yes, he is,” Sergey said. “And you can.”
A moment of silence passed, Viktor staring at his prize, knowing she was just moments away.
“Is that it?” Sergey asked a second time.
“Yes, that is it,” Viktor said, leaning forward in the chair, smiling at the girl, a ravenous glint in his eye.
“Same time next week, then,” Sergey said. “And try not to be late.”
The call cut away to a dial tone as Viktor pressed his palms into the desk and rose to a standing position. He placed the phone back in its cradle, already forgetting the pointed barb his uncle threw at him to close the conversation, and peered down at the girl.
“Now who, might I ask, are you?”
Chapter Seventeen
Hutch got me on an Air Force flight out of Andrews at five o’clock in the morning, the last man on a bird packed tight with Navy grunts headed to San Diego. Most of them looked like they hadn’t been finished at Annapolis more than a day or two; their faces were still unlined, their hair still buzzed ridiculously short.
My title for making it onto the plane, and for the duration of my investigation, was as an official consultant to the DEA. I was given a badge identical to the one I’d carried five years before and told to wear a tie, shuffled right back into the rank and file like I had never left.
The only two differences were that I wasn’t being paid and I got to keep my hair. The first one I agreed to without a fight, the second one Hutch did the same.
Neither of us had the time or inclination to sweat the small stuff.
Given the three-hour time difference between the coasts, I landed in San Diego at eight a.m., six hours after takeoff. A sedan was waiting for me when I arrived, a perk of having one of the ranking officials in the administration calling in favors. A brand-new agent was waiting for me when I stepped off the plane, his black suit and sunglasses making him obvious amidst a sea of sailors in uniform.
A formal introduction and an exchange of handshakes was the sum total of our interaction as we piled into the
generic black car and drove away, each of us lost in our thoughts. Me, still trying to piece together everything that was happening, determine my next move. Him, no doubt pissed about pulling the grunt duty of having to go and pick me up.
With traffic, it took us a little over an hour to make the trip across the desert. The morning sun burned away the overnight dew and promised to bring another warm day with it, regardless of what the calendar said. In silence, we pulled up in front of the DEA Southwest headquarters and I climbed out, waving thanks to a car already pulling away from the curb.
Bag in hand, I took a quick look at the place. The image was exactly as I remembered it from five years before, down to the size and shape of the bushes lining the front.
Government spending at its finest.
A pretty young SoCal blonde smiled at me as I entered, giving me a quick up-and-down as she did so. I couldn’t help but notice the smile didn’t make it all the way to her eyes; apparently my shaggy hair and airplane rumpled clothes didn’t meet her approval.
“Good morning, how may I help you?”
“Yeah, my name is Jeremiah Tate. I’m here to see Mia Diaz,” I said, glancing past her to the corridor extending out through the middle of the building. Despite the hour, many of the offices stood dark, the home bases for agents out working in the field. A small handful of staff could be seen passing between the others, most staring down at papers while they walked, the mood somber.
From where I stood, I could not hear a single voice.
“One moment, please,” she said, lifting a phone from the desk and bringing it to her ear. She struck a sequence of keys and whispered into the receiver before nodding and returning it to its cradle.
“She’ll be out in just one second,” the girl said, the smile a little wider.
Keeping my bag in hand, I took a step back and waited. In most government buildings, a second meant I could be waiting upward of a half hour. From what little I knew about Mia Diaz, it was more likely to be a nanosecond.
She didn’t disappoint.
My gaze had not yet done a complete lap of the foyer before the determined click of heels against a tile floor echoed down the hall. I turned to face a tall, striking woman marching toward me in a gray pant suit with a blue V-neck T-shirt under it, her hair pulled back behind her. As she walked forward, she stuck a hand out toward me and said, “Hawk.”
“Diaz,” I replied, returning the shake.
“Please, right this way.”
She turned on a heel and led me back in the direction she’d come, a few faces appearing in doorways as we marched onward. I set my attention forward and ignored the stares as we went, careful not to let on that I even sensed their presence.
I wanted to believe there was no reason for anybody to be curious about my arrival, though I could imagine any number of stories had floated through the halls since my departure.
Diaz led me to a door standing open and slid to the side of it, motioning me onward. I passed through with a nod of thanks and waited as she shut the door behind us, then circled around me to her desk.
The last time I was in the office, it was occupied by Hutch, not long before our final meeting in the trailer a few miles east of where we now stood. The same blond wooden desk faced the room, dividing it in half, with the same dented metal shelves lining the wall above it. A steel filing cabinet stood in the corner, every item in the place replete with a metallic serial number sticker on it. The only things that had changed in the entire room were the knickknacks strewn about and the condition of the desk.
Hutch was a notorious slob, letting papers pile up for months. Diaz didn’t have a stray item anywhere.
“Please, have a seat,” she said, unbuttoning her jacket and dropping down into her chair.
I lowered my bag to the floor and did the same, settling into a plastic chair that was too narrow, pinching my hips and ribs. “Thank you for seeing me on such short notice.”
“Not at all,” she said, shaking her head. “As I’m sure you noticed on the way in, there’s been quite a bit of speculation about you around here for a long time. Seeing you walk through that door is like viewing Bigfoot in the wild.”
I smirked at the analogy, my head rocking back a few inches. “So you’re telling me most people here didn’t believe I existed?”
“Quite the contrary,” Diaz said. “I think most people were fearful that you really did, that it was all true.”
I nodded once in understanding. That explanation made a lot more sense.
“I apologize if Hutch strong-armed you into bringing me on,” I said. “I recognize this is your house now. I’m not here to get in your way, just maybe poke around at some things I’m sure you don’t have the staff or time for.”
Diaz pursed her lips in front of her and tilted her head to the side, considering the statement. “We’re overworked and undermanned, the standard government protocol, I won’t deny you that. Depending on what you’ve got, though, I might be inclined to jump in with you.”
My eyes narrowed a bit as I glanced over at her, the situation beginning to make sense. I had anticipated being met with open hostility, bringing with me a potential hornet’s nest that could consume an outpost of this size. To avoid all that, Hutch had simply not told her why I was en route.
Whether that was a gift or a death sentence, I was about to find out.
“So he didn’t tell you?”
“Just that it was very big, and that I would definitely be interested,” she said, lifting her palms toward the ceiling before dropping them just as fast.
My shoulders raised in a quick shrug and I said, “It’s big, all right, but whether you find it interesting or end up wishing we’d never met remains to be seen.”
Any sense of levity receded from Diaz’s features as she stared back at me. She raised her right hand and curled her fingers back toward herself, motioning for me to continue.
I had already given her fair warning, so I dove right in. I told her about Lita, about Mateo Perez, about a man currently in lockup in West Yellowstone and Hutch on his way to see him now. I told her everything, encapsulating the entire story in under three minutes, hitting every high point without going into excessive detail.
When I was done I fell silent, watching her digest the information, her face retreating into a stony mask. I waited a full two minutes for her to say anything, glancing up every so often as she set her gaze on the door behind me and put together everything I’d just said in her head.
When she finally spoke, her words surprised me. She didn’t lash out and demand answers. She didn’t challenge me on any points. She didn’t even ask me any immediate follow-up questions.
Instead she said, “Mateo Perez voluntarily walked out of witness protection two weeks ago. It was against our strong advice, but he did so anyway.”
“Any idea why?” I asked.
“Some guesses, nothing concrete.”
I nodded. “Any reason to believe his location had been compromised?”
“He seemed to think so.”
I arched an eyebrow at her, awaiting an explanation, but she waved a hand at me, letting me know we would get to it later. I could venture a pretty substantial hypothesis as to what she was thinking and why she refused to say it out loud, nodding my understanding.
“What kind of parameters did Hutch give you for my being here?”
“None,” Diaz said, shaking her head. “He said your official position was as a consultant. I could give you as much assistance as I wanted, but I wasn’t to obstruct you in any way.”
“Something tells me he didn’t put it quite so eloquently.”
“‘Either help him or stay the hell out of his way,’” Diaz replied, making air quotes with her fingers as she did so.
“Nice.”
“He also made some quote about hunting griz, but I didn’t quite c
atch that one,” she added with a shrug.
The corner of my mouth tracked up, though the smile didn’t make it all the way across. “Movie quote. Long story.”
“Ah,” Diaz said, nodding. “That makes two you’ll have to tell me, then.”
The corner retreated back down into place as I stared at her, knowing what she was alluding to. It was a story I replayed in my mind every night, but not one I was especially fond of retelling.
Had not done so once in five years, in fact.
“Oh, yeah?”
“Those are my terms,” Diaz said. “Truth is I don’t appreciate having the brass call in and dictate down to me, but in this case I could use the outside eyes. And the fact that I won’t have to babysit you, even if you are a few years out of the game, helps a lot.”
I nodded, rolling the proposal around in my head. Given the situation, my showing up at a moment’s notice, asking to parachute in with something that could be paradigm changing for the entire region, it was more than fair.
I knew for a fact Hutch wouldn’t have responded so well had the same thing been imposed on us. Damned sure knew I wouldn’t have, either.
“Done,” I said, nodding. “Not right now, but before it’s over.”
Diaz nodded in agreement, folding her hands together atop her stomach. “Okay then, where to start?”
“Hutch is in Yellowstone working on Lita and her mystery brother, so that leaves us with Mateo. I assume you’re still keeping tabs on the Juarezes?”
Chapter Eighteen
A hulking guard in a tan shirt and brown slacks led Carlos Juarez down a narrow corridor, his every breath sounding labored as he pushed it out through his nose. The equipment strapped to his belt jangled with each step he took, a cacophony that reminded Carlos exactly where he was, where he never wanted to be again.
The walk ended abruptly at the end of the hallway with a single inward-swinging door, the top half of it made from glass crisscrossed with chicken wire. On the opposite side of it Carlos could see a room split in two equal parts with a clear floor-to-ceiling Plexiglas divider between them. On one side sat two women, each perched on a stool several feet apart. They both held phones to their ears and peered across at young men in gray canvas pants and matching short-sleeved button-downs.
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