Chapter 29 Hawk
HAWK
The night air is heavy and warm the way it only is on a Texas night. My shirt clings between my shoulder blades, but I don’t break stride. I keep to the shadows along the edge of the street.
Reyes’s house stands at the end of the block.
The gated community was easy enough to get back into. Same trick as before—follow a resident in, look like I belong. I parked two streets over, tucked under a tree where the streetlight’s dead.
From here, it’s all muscle memory.
I skirt the back fence, sticking to the narrow strip where the neighbor’s hedges run high enough to hide me. The pool’s edge gleams faintly. I hear the faint hum of the filter, smell the chlorine.
The stairwell is exactly where Zillow said it would be—set into the concrete deck, the kind of thing a homeowner thinks is hidden because they never look at their own house from a predator’s point of view.
The camera above it is a fake. I knew it before, but I check again anyway—plastic housing, no wiring visible, lens too small to actually do the job.
One deep breath, and then I slip down the steps.
No alarm system other than the cameras and dummies. What a fool Reyes is, though this isn’t his main residence. He just happens to be in town. Lucky for me.
I pick the lock easily. The cool air inside hits me. Total darkness. Perfect.
I begin with the movie room. Rows of leather recliners, the faint smell of buttered popcorn. I stay quiet as I walk to the opposite door.
The house is quiet—no TV hum, no voices, just the faintest shuffle from somewhere above me.
I hit the garage next, letting my cellphone flashlight lead the way. Three bays, only one car. A late-model Mercedes coupe, dark gray, polished to a mirror shine. The other two bays are empty. If Reyes has company, they didn’t drive.
I head back inside, through a mudroom and into the kitchen. The kind of kitchen you see in magazines—marble counters, gleaming stainless appliances, not a single crumb or glass out of place. He probably has a housekeeper cleaning after his lazy ass. I pause, listening.
The shuffle again, overhead.
Upstairs, then.
I move through the living room, past a grand staircase. Every step on the carpeted stairs is deliberate, my weight balanced so the wood underneath doesn’t even think about creaking.
Halfway up, I hear it.
A faint exhale, the creak of leather.
At the top, the hall is dim. One door halfway down is open, light spilling into the corridor. I inch closer.
Until I peer in.
And my neck goes cold.
Hernando Reyes.
He’s wearing a silk bathrobe, navy with gold trim. He holds a big cigar in one hand, smoke curling toward the ceiling. He’s sitting in a wingback armchair, legs sprawled.
It’s not the master bedroom. This is a guest room, but he’s turned it into a smoking lounge. A humidor sits in the corner, a crystal decanter on a side table.
And on the wall—
I freeze.
The painting is small, but I’d know it anywhere. Juno’s work.
The brushstrokes, the way she plays with shadow and mimics movement, the muted palette that still somehow vibrates with color.
My jaw tightens.
How much of Juno’s art has been financed by whatever filth Reyes deals in? How much blood money has touched her canvas without her knowing? I glance back to the chair. He’s puffing away, oblivious to me standing in his doorway.
The Sound of Saturn hangs in my home.
Maybe it shouldn’t.
As much as I love it, I can’t look at it the same way now. Maybe I’ll donate it to a local museum.
I slip into the room, soundless.
He doesn’t see me until I’m behind him.
I snake my arm around his throat and shove his head forward with my other hand, dragging him out of the chair. The cigar falls, scattering ash onto a Turkish rug.
“What the—” He’s choking, flailing.
I slam him to the floor, plant a knee into his ribs, and catch his wrist before he can throw an elbow.
“Reyes,” I say, voice low but sharp enough to cut. “We’re going to talk.”
He grunts under my weight, thrashing. “Who the fuck are you?”
“The guy asking the questions.”
He tries to twist free. I shift, pinning him harder. “You’ve been sending Daniela gifts. Notes. Why?”
“Who the fuck is Daniela?”
“You know damned well who she is. Daniela Agudelo. Jacinto’s daughter.”
“Her?” His voice is raw, panicked. “I haven’t sent her anything! I didn’t even know she lived here!”
“But you knew her,” I say.
His lip curls. “We had some fun. A few times. So what?”
“Fun,” I repeat, the word sour on my tongue.
“Just oral stuff,” he says with a shrug. “Hardly rape. Not compared to what some of the other guys did to her.”
That’s it.
I crack my fist into his nose, and blood sprays across his cheek. He shouts, tries to shield his face. I hit him again.
“What about Ted Tucker?” I snarl. “Did you know him in Colombia?”
“Who the hell is Ted Tucker?” he spits, blood bubbling in his mouth. “Never heard of him!”
“You expect me to believe that?”
“I don’t care what you believe! I don’t know any Tucker, and I didn’t touch Daniela like that—”
I punch him again, harder. “You touched her. You forced yourself on her. She was a kid, Reyes.”
“She liked it,” he grits out.
I slam him down, grind my forearm into his windpipe. “Say that again. I fucking dare you.”
He’s coughing, eyes wild. “You’re insane—”
I see the move too late.
He shoots his hand to the side table, closes his fingers around the base of a heavy lamp. He swings it up, catching me at the temple.
White sparks explode behind my eyes. My grip loosens. He shoves me off and scrambles to his feet.
I stagger back, vision doubling for a second. Reyes makes it two steps before I grab his robe and haul him backward.
The ornate mirror above the dresser glitters in the lamplight. I ram his head into it. Glass shatters around us.
He slumps, blood running from a gash above his ear.
I crouch, breathing hard, pulse hammering in my skull. He’s out cold, but his chest still rises and falls.
He’ll live.
I want him to live. I’m no killer.
I’m not my father.
Besides, Reyes has information I want.
My phone buzzes in my pocket.
Vinnie.
I step back, keeping one eye on Reyes’s crumpled form as I answer. “Hey.”
“We got a hit on the DNA from the notes,” Vinnie says. “It matches someone on the Austin sex offender registry. Clifford Haynes. Not Reyes.”
I glance down at the unconscious man at my feet. “You’re kidding me.”
“No. Are you at his place right now?”
I rub at the back of my neck. “Something like that.”
“Hawk—”
“Fuck. I’ll be in touch.” I hang up.
So Reyes isn’t guilty of this particular thing. Doesn’t matter. He’s guilty of something. He was one of them—one of the men who used Daniela when she was just a girl. And he was involved with her father, so he wasn’t exactly a Boy Scout no matter how you slice it.
I scan the room. I can’t leave him here. He’ll wake up, call the cops, scream battery, and that’ll be that.
The camera outside his movie room is a dummy, but I haven’t been paying attention for any interior cameras.
If he doesn’t have any—and that’s a big fucking maybe—he might not have enough evidence to put me away, but he certainly has friends in the States who can take care of me the old-fashioned way.
I kneel and check his pulse. Strong enough.
I grab the silk belt of his robe and bind his wrists behind him.
Not perfect, but it’ll hold long enough to get him to the car.
It’s dark now. I leave him for a moment, hoping he doesn’t wake up in the time it takes for me to run the two blocks, retrieve my truck, and get him loaded.
He doesn’t. Thank God. I watch my back as I carry him—he fucking weighs a shit ton—into my truck.
I know where to go.
My nightmares began in my father’s office when he shot me and then Ted.
But they end in the abandoned barn on the border. Where Eagle shot Diego Vega—or at least a man he thought was Diego Vega. And then someone dug up the body.
Reyes is quiet on the drive except for an occasional groan. Two hours later, I arrive.
I drag him inside the barn, tie him to one of the support beams with a rope I keep stashed in the truck.
When he comes to, we’re going to have another conversation—one where he tells me everything about Colombia, about what he did to Daniela.
I’ll record the whole thing, and then maybe I’ll find a way to make sure it sticks in court.
Worst case, we’ll each have dirt on one another, and mutually assured destruction will keep us both safe.
I step back, running my hands through my hair.
First Jordan. Now Reyes. Both seemingly the wrong men.
Who’s next? Gordon Brown? Dani didn’t seem to recognize the name.
How many more names are tangled in this chaotic web? This chaotic curse?