“Whatever.” I was starting to get irritated.
“We will stop soon.”
I was a goddamn prisoner to this woman. This resistance leader. This child.
Animosity flared between us. She acted like I was a burden. Most of the niceness I’d seen in Guatemala had disappeared. Instead, she drove concentrating on the road, not looking at me or speaking.
We pulled off the Palmetto Expressway into an area called Miami Lakes and checked into a motel.
It was across from a gas station with a convenience store. After parking, she headed toward the lobby of the motel telling me to wait in the car.
After a few moments, she came back with a key. Our room was on the second floor where the building curved.
Inside were two neatly made beds. I peeked into the bathroom.
“Oh my God, I can’t wait to take a shower,” I said, stretching. “I feel disgusting.”
She rolled her eyes and threw her bag on one bed. “Wait here. I will get us food.”
“I’m coming,” I said, keeping my foot in the door.
“I don’t think that is a good idea.”
“I don’t care.” I didn’t like her sudden change in attitude. And I didn’t understand what was going on. She obviously had wanted me to come to America, but now that we were here, she acted like she couldn’t stand me.
At the gas station convenience store, we wandered the aisles. She grabbed a bag of chips and a plastic-wrapped sub sandwich with wilted lettuce out of a refrigerated section.
“That looks disgusting.”
“Sorry, they’re fresh out of caviar, princess.”
I ignored her and grabbed some crackers and cheese slices.
I reached for the phone on the nightstand and dialed Donovan’s cell phone. A recorded voice said that number could not be completed as dialed. What the hell?
I hung up and punched in the DEA special number for emergencies. The phone rang. And then the man who answered connected me to someone else—a woman who said she could get a message to Donovan.
“Where is my husband? He’s not answering his phone. Do you have any information on him?” A little knot of anxiety was forming in my gut.
“I cannot provide you his location,” the woman said. “But I will can pass along your message.”
Relief filled me.
That had been part of our arrangement. They would tell me when I called in an emergency if Donovan were in danger or missing.
“Thank you.” I reeled off the name and number of our motel. “I’ll have another number soon. I’ll call back and give it to you if I haven’t heard from him by then.”
“Very well then,” the woman said. “Is there anything else?”
I paused. She couldn’t get me Donovan, which was the only thing I wanted. “No, thank you.”
Then I called The Saint’s special number for messages only and gave him the motel name and number as well.
If anything was going on with the kids, he would call.
I hated not having a cell phone.
Hanging up, I turned to Eva. “I need to get a burner cell phone. Now. Give me the keys to the Jeep.”
She was lying on her bed raptly watching some 1970s-cop show on TV.
“After my nap, I will get you one. You can stay here and wait for your calls to be returned.”
I didn’t necessarily like the plan, but she had a point. If Donovan or The Saint called back, I wanted to be here.
The phone on the nightstand remained silent. I tried to nap, but kept waking, caught up in nightmares that I couldn’t remember, breathing heavily. Something about being chased through the jungle holding onto my children’s hands. The sky glowed pink and orange when Eva finally woke from her nap, yawned and grabbed the keys to the Jeep.
“I’ll grab more food, too,” she said. She walked out, slamming the door behind her. I could see the doorknob turn as she checked to make sure she’d locked it behind her.
I counted to twenty and then dialed a number that belonged to a man I knew who might be able to help. Besides my brothers, who lived north of here in Ft. Lauderdale, he was the only person I knew in Florida.
Thinking of my brothers made me feel lonely. I missed them terribly. Later, when all this was over, maybe I could have a reunion with my children here, and they could spend time with their cousins and aunts and uncles.
But first I needed to make sure El Loro would never threaten my family again.
I punched in the number. It rang and rang.
I was about to give up when he picked up the phone.
“This is Pete.” He sounded out of breath.
Pete Fernandez. Private investigator. Former journalist. I hadn’t spoken to him in years. But he readily agreed to meet.
Shortly after I hung up, Eva walked in juggling bags. She set them on her bed and started unpacking food and water and clothes. She tossed some jeans and a shirt my way along with a small box.
“Your phone.”
I set up the phone, called the DEA back and left them the number, and then did the same for The Saint’s designated line.
Then I took a quick shower, changed into my new clean clothes and grabbed my bag. I stopped in front of Eva’s bed.
“I need the keys to the Jeep.”
She eyed me.
“What else are we doing? We’re just sitting around doing nothing while he’s probably in Canada by now.”
“We are working on it.”
Who was we? The one guy in the Honda Civic? I didn’t believe her anymore. There was obviously a lot she wasn’t telling me. She didn’t trust me. And I didn’t trust her. Fine.
I needed to do this on my own.
Acting as if it was a major pain, she stood and handed me the keys.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
The Tide Pool bar was less than five miles away. We’d passed it on the way to the motel, and the name had stuck with me.
There was only one customer inside, and the bartender was nowhere to be seen.
The man seated at the bar was about my age. Even though we’d met years ago, I didn’t recognize him. He had short, dark hair and stubble on his unshaven cheeks. He looked a little weary. As if he’d been beaten down by life but wasn’t quite ready to tap out yet. There was still a strength and kindness about him.
I pulled up the stool next to him. He took a long sip of his soda and gave me a smile.
"Thanks for meeting me here,” I said. “I know this isn’t your scene.”
"No problem.”
“I figured you’d know where people—bad people—might hide in your city.”
“I know things, sure. What do you need?”
“El Loro.”
He reached for a napkin and scribbled something on it. He looked around and then pushed it toward me. Taking his lead, I crumpled it into my pocket and winked at him.
“I don’t think I’m thirsty after all,” I said and walked out.
I PARKED IN FRONT OF my brother, Dante’s house. I knew that Marco and his family were in Toronto for his daughter’s hockey semi-finals that week.
For some reason, I found myself in Ft. Lauderdale in front of Dante’s house, hoping to catch glimpses of him or my nieces and nephews passing by the windows in the well-lit house. I was homesick and heartsick. As much as I wanted to see my family, I knew better than to knock on the door.
I’d have to make do with spying on them, seeing them from afar.
Because what would I say if I knocked on the door? I’m here hunting a powerful drug lord who put a bomb in my car and broke into my secure penthouse in an attempt to kill my family and me? No.
Years ago, a serial killer who preyed on children had kidnapped Dante’s daughter, Sofia, to get to me. Luckily, she’d escaped physically unharmed, but who knows how the experience had shaped her emotionally. It was one reason Dante moved to Florida. When Sofa began high school, another student outed her as the kidnapped girl from the news, and it was just too much for her. Dante packed up eve
ryone and headed to Florida. Soon, Marco and his family followed.
I’d contact them when El Loro was in jail. Or dead.
After a few moments, my sister-in-law Nina appeared in front of one large window. She looked out. I shrank in my seat. Could she see me? But then I saw her lips move as if she were talking to someone inside the house, and her arms drew the curtains closed. She moved from window to window in the house, drawing the curtains against the night.
I waited another few minutes and then started the car and headed back to the motel.
I WAS AWAKENED HOURS later by the phone on the nightstand ringing. Heart pounding, I fumbled in the dark for the receiver. I wasn’t sure who I wanted to hear from more—Donovan or The Saint who might actually put my children on the phone.
“Gabriella,” I said, voice shaking, sitting up in the dark.
“Ella?” It was my brother Dante. I was confused.
Then I heard another voice.
“We must speak.”
El Loro.
My face grew cold. I’d led them right to Dante and his family.
“Give me a cell number now,” El Loro’s voice was matter-of-fact. He even yawned.
I reeled off the number, my pulse pounding in my ear.
Eva switched on the light and looked at me, raising an eyebrow.
“You will be given instructions,” El Loro said. “Come alone. I see that puta Eva within two miles of me, I will slice your brother’s throat.”
He hung up.
I stared at Eva.
“Who was that?” She was already pulling on her jeans.
I shook my head.
She jumped up, knocking the chair over and peeked out the curtain.
“What did you do? They know you are here?”
“They have my brother.”
“Where? How is this possible?”
“He lives here. In Florida.”
Her eyes narrowed. “You are a fool. A spoiled princess with no common sense. You went to see him.”
“Not exactly.” I closed my eyes for a second. I had done this. This was all my fault.
“They followed you. And then they followed you back here. They are watching us. Any advantage we have is now gone. He has won.”
Shame filled me. But also anger. “He has not won. I’m still alive.” I pulled my shoulder’s back.
“We leave now. Grab your things. This place is not safe any longer.”
She tucked her gun into her waistband, picked up her bag, and walked out the door, not waiting to see if I followed.
In the Jeep, she was silent, her jaw working madly as she navigated the dark roads, skidding around corners.
“Do you even know where we are going?” I said, bracing myself with one palm on the dashboard.
She didn’t answer, only shook her head and mumbled something in Spanish under her breath. She was right. It was my fault. I’d blown it.
After ten minutes, Eva pulled over on a street in a residential neighborhood. Late model Fords and Chevys were parked in front of small houses with tidy yards.
“Get out.”
My face grew hot with anger. “You can’t just dump me off here.”
She raised an eyebrow.
“Okay,” I conceded. “You can. But I’m your bait, right? He wants me. He is going to call me.” I held up my phone. “When he comes after me, we’ll kill him.”
She rolled down her window enough to spit out of it before turning back to me. “We’ll kill him?”
The memory of freezing in the jungle came back sharply. If it wasn’t for her, I’d be dead.
“This time I can do it.” I met her eyes, not dropping my gaze.
“I don’t have time to babysit princesses,” she said, dismissing me.
“I don’t have time for little girls who think they know everything, either, but I guess we’re stuck with each other. For now.”
She didn’t answer, but pulled away from the curb.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
We were nearly to Miami Beach, and the sky was just beginning to glow orange when my phone rang. My heart jumped up into my throat when I saw the number was unknown.
“Giovanni.” I said, my voice cracking.
“7823 Old Green Road. You bring that puta, your brother dies.”
The line disconnected.
Before I could say anything, Eva spoke.
“It’s a trap.”
I wondered if she’d heard El Loro say the address. My blood raced with fear. Twice, he’d threatened to kill Dante if Eva came along.
“What?” I said, playing dumb.
“Whatever he said, it’s a trap. You don’t understand how dangerous these people are.”
Relief filled me. She hadn’t heard the address.
We were just pulling onto Ocean Drive, the main drag in Miami Beach. I’d have to get out and find a map and take a cab. I couldn’t risk Eva following me and El Loro making good on his promise to kill Dante in retaliation.
“I need to get out.”
“He gave you an address.” She pulled over and glared at me. “We go together.”
With my hand on the door handle, I shook my head.
“I go alone.”
“That’s not the way this works. I brought you here. You’d still be in the jungle lost or dead if it weren’t for me.”
“I go alone.” I repeated.
She didn’t answer, only stared at me.
“If you come, he’ll kill my brother.”
I was appealing to her as a sister. She’d just lost her brother. She had to understand.
But I was wrong.
“He will die for a greater cause. Many will live because of his sacrifice. With El Loro alive, hundreds of my people will die.”
I realized then that she was not just a stone-cold killer—she was ice-queen cold. Single-minded. All she cared about was her movement. She wasn’t merciful. She was merciless.
In one sense, I admired her. I could never in a million lifetimes fathom what it would be like to believe in an ideal more than you loved your family, your blood. Italians put famiglia above all else.
Her eyes narrowed. “You are weak.”
I glared at her. “You don’t know what family means.”
“My family is made up of my fighters.”
“They would turn on you in a second if they could.”
She looked away. She knew it was true. Otherwise, why hide behind a mask if she trusted her fighters in the jungle?
“You are weak. And you are naïve.” she said. “You will not sacrifice your brother? Yet you let me sacrifice mine?”
“Let you? I didn’t goddamn let you.” Fury rose inside me. “You came to me, remember? You had the plan to take me to him. Don’t put that on me.”
And then it hit me. Why did she come to me? I accepted it at the time, but now I wondered. And why did she tell me nobody knew who she was or her name when El Loro had just said her name? I didn’t like the conclusion I came to.
I got out of the Jeep and slammed the door. I glared at her. “Why don’t you tell me what you’re doing. Who are you working for, anyway?”
She stared at me, lips pressed tightly together.
It wasn’t my answer, but it was one answer. She’d never been on my side.
The Jeep’s tires squealed as she sped away.
I felt alone and scared and wanted to cry. But damn it, crying would prove that she was right. That I was weak. A spoiled princess. I was over-reacting.
At that moment, I realized that to save Dante I needed to be like Eva. I needed to be a warrior. Devoted to a single cause. Saving my loved ones—starting with Dante.
I wouldn’t sacrifice my brother. I wouldn’t stand by and let him die.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
The cab driver leaned forward and turned up his radio just as we were pulling off the narrow highway north of Miami.
I heard something about a large earthquake off of the Cuban coast that had triggered a landslide in the Bah
amas. A massive chunk of mud and sand that had broken off the Great Bahama Bank and displaced the ocean waters triggering a potential fifteen-foot-high tsunami. After scientists warned it could strike southern Florida within hours, the governor had ordered mandatory evacuations.
The driver said something I didn’t understand in Spanish as we pulled into an industrial park. He stopped in front of the address—a large warehouse with a row of small windows up high and a gray SUV parked out front.
I paid and the driver squealed away.
The surrounding buildings looked half abandoned. A swampy body of water ran the length of the road behind the worn-down warehouses. The rest of the street looked deserted. No cars parked out front. It was Sunday, so maybe that was why. Or maybe it was always like this here.
Either way it gave me the creeps.
There was only one door to the warehouse that I could see.
My Glock was tucked into the back of my pants, the butt covered by my light jacket, its weight reassuring.
I kicked the door open. The warehouse was partly dark. It took my eyes a minute to adjust.
“Come in.” The voice made my back stiffen.
It was El Loro. Until that moment, I’d doubted he would really be here.
I didn’t move. The light from outside streamed into the warehouse, illuminating a dirt floor dotted with grease stains. I stared into the dark, willing my eyes to adjust to the dim light.
“Where is my brother?”
“We wait. To make sure you were not followed.”
“Let me see him.”
“That is not possible.”
“Let me hear him.”
“Come in where we can talk privately,” he said.
“Let me see him first. You have my word. I am alone.”
“Please don’t be offended if I need to make sure of this myself. It’s not that I don’t believe you.” He broke off and stepped into the long strip of light from the open door.
El Loro. It was the first time I’d seen him outside of photographs, without his mask.
My first impression was that he looked old. His face was scarred, his eyes beady. He held up his hands. “I have no weapon.”
Blessed are the Merciful Page 6
