Chapter Twenty-Two
The guys had left me with Shep’s intel in favor of maps.
Ryan and Aiden were planning the route we’d take to get to Juárez. Mason, Pete, and Jack were leaning over a large map of Juárez while at the same time using a tablet to enlarge areas of interest.
Fallon, Gavin, and Beck had been working with Pete and the guys, pinpointing possible places Carlos could be holding Calista, but they’d gone out when a box truck pulled up. Pete had been expecting the delivery—Tom’s ammo had arrived.
That left me to go over a very detailed report on Carlos Quintero and his operation, as well as his cousin Rafael. Between my stomach churning in disgust and my temper flaring with every sentence I read, I was having trouble seeing the bigger picture.
Jack had told us he’d spoken to Lincoln Parker, and he relayed Linc’s thoughts on Tom, his reasoning for conning me and cornering Pete and his guys, not to mention Berta.
I could have bought Tom’s reasoning if the Honduran president’s wife and kids had not been among the women and children smuggled out.
I could see Tom wanting to know the whereabouts of this woman in case he needed to use her location in the future.
Information was power. The whereabouts of a runaway wife could buy Tom the upper hand should he need to control the president.
I didn’t like it; the thought of using humans like disposable pieces on a game board made me sick, but that was the way of the world. Especially in the CIA.
There wasn’t much information on the men Calista had supposedly killed—I was reserving judgment until I met her.
It was easy to set someone up. There was even less information about Calista herself and her family.
Specifically her father, the man who Tom said had saved his life.
How did a man who owned three dry cleaners save a CIA officer’s life?
Unless that man was using his businesses to clean more than clothes.
Unless that was a cover for something else.
“Shepherd Drexel is supposed to be the best, right?” I asked the room.
“Can’t say I’ve worked with every hacker out there,” Pete said. “But he’s the best I’ve personally worked with.”
“Then why is my intel light on Calista and the assholes she supposedly killed?”
“What makes you think they’re assholes?” Aiden inquired.
“Typically, women don’t kill men for no reason. They’re emotionally driven to kill.”
“Puts a whole new spin on turning feelings into felonies,” Ryan muttered.
“You need a coffee mug with that on it,” I told him. “Instead of ‘fuck your feelings,’ you need one that says ‘don’t make me turn my feelings into felonies.’”
I heard some chuckles but didn’t look up to see who I’d amused.
“Where the hell did you find this chick?” Ryan went on.
I felt my shoulders stiffen.
“What?” Jack’s grunt was a warning.
“Where’d you find this chick?” Ryan repeated. “I need the coordinates, ASAP, so I can see if there are more of her there.”
Oh . . .
Well . . .
That was a nice thing to say.
“No dice, my good fellow. I am my own special brand. A one-off, never to be made again.”
“So what you’re saying is, I have to challenge Jack to a duel at dawn and hope I’m quicker on the draw so I can take you from him and not look over my shoulder every day for the rest of my life.”
Jack growled.
I smiled.
“You could hope you’re quicker than Jack, but I guarantee you I’m faster than the both of you, so you’d lose the duel and I’d ride off into the sunset with Jack.”
I dreamed of us horseback riding—and baby, I gotta admit, that one threw me. My ass has never been on the back of a horse, and I have no interest in ever riding.
My smile got bigger.
The laughter I heard that time was definitely Jack.
“You think you’re faster on the draw than me?”
“No doubt. When we get back from Mexico, I’ll prove it to you.”
“Ten bucks says I’ll smoke your ass.”
That made me crane my neck and look over at the makeshift workstation—a.k.a. two end tables pushed together so Ryan and Aiden could open two spiral-bound road atlases.
Ryan looked smug and sure of himself. Aiden was giving me a ‘you don’t wanna make this bet’ look. I glanced at Jack, and his features were neutral.
“Twenty bucks says I can draw from the hip and put a bullet downrange faster than you. Another twenty says I can clear a course faster than you. I’ll throw in another ten that I score higher on accuracy too.”
Suddenly, Ryan didn’t look so sure. “I feel a moral obligation to warn—”
“You’re not morally obligated to tell me anything,” I cut him off.
“Because you don’t want to have to reciprocate and tell me your quals.”
He was correct.
I shrugged.
“You’re on.”
I nodded and looked back at the tablet with Shep’s report. “Just don’t be a sore loser and bellyache when I take your fifty bucks.”
“I never lose.”
Famous last words.
“Oh, and I don’t take ones. My name’s not Candy, and I don’t wear glitter and clear platform heels.”
“Do strippers still accept dollar bills?” Mason joined, because of course he wouldn’t miss out on a stripper conversation. “I thought with inflation they were up to fives.”
“Like you don’t know,” Aiden threw in.
“Never been to a strip club. What, do they only accept Venmo and Cash App now?”
Mason had never been to a strip club? On one hand, the guy was extremely good looking. He wouldn’t need to buy a lap dance to see some action. But I knew plenty of good-looking men and women who’d visited strip clubs.
“You’ve never been to a gentlemen’s club?” Ryan asked.
Out of the corner of my eye, I caught Mason arrogantly waving a hand from his face down his body.
“Do I look like I need to visit a gentlemen’s club?” Mason voiced my thought.
I left them to the squabble I’d inadvertently started and tuned them out.
Carlos Quintero was your typical gangster—wannabe warlord, clawing his way up the criminal ladder.
He’d expanded his cousin’s prostitution ring and now controlled more than double the bars and hot spots than Rafael had.
He might’ve cut out the high-interest-loan portion of the old regime, but he’d expanded the gambling.
“Why hasn’t the cartel just gobbled up Carlos’s territory?” I again asked out loud but to no one in particular.
Pete again was the one to answer, or in this case, question. “What do you mean?”
“For that matter, why did they allow Rafael to operate? Juárez is a cartel stronghold. Big players. And here’s this small-time gangbanger.”
“They take their cut,” Pete told me.
“Think about it like this,” Aiden started. “The cartel is McDonald’s—it’s easier to franchise. They get to take their cut without the hassle of ownership.”
That analogy only sort of worked. But I caught his meaning.
“The cartel lets him rent space and do his business, and they collect a percentage of his earnings?”
“Yup.”
“So, if Carlos has this beautiful Russian woman—who, as Mason pointed out, would get top dollar—would he share the news of his good fortune with the cartel, or would he move her out of Juárez, sell her privately, and keep all the money for himself?”
“Fucking shit,” Pete growled.
“He’d move her before the cartel caught wind he had her,” Mason said. “Either to keep the money or to stop the cartel from coming and getting her so they could sell her to one of their contacts. We’re looking in the wrong spot.”
Well, damn.
I heard chairs scraping against the floor and paper rustling as the men moved from their positions to join me back in the living room. Not that the dining room and sitting area off to the side weren’t one big room, it was just that the furniture—and there was a lot of it—delineated the spaces.
The men immediately started brainstorming.
Aiden began. “He wouldn’t bring her into the US.”
Ryan then took over. “He’d take her out of Chihuahua, and the cartel has ties to Michoacán. Those two states are out.”
“The Sinaloa Cartel would eat him alive,” Jack put in. “That state’s out.”
How many states did Mexico have? Thirty-one? Thirty-two? At this rate, we’d be here all night.
“Tom’s source in Juárez said there was a Russian going up for auction. If that intel is out, there’s a good chance the cartel already knows,” I said, contradicting my own theory.
“Not if Tom’s source is inside Carlos’s organization,” Pete answered. “Cat, you call him and ask who his source is and if he has any idea where Carlos would take her.”
I fought back a salute as I stood to get my phone out of my backpack. I really needed to find the time to go back to Arizona and pack. “I know the timing sucks, but I only have two days’ worth of clothes with me. I left my suitcase back in the hotel in Honduras—”
“I asked—”
I interrupted Jack right back. “If I had anything important in my room. The answer is still no. I had clothes, nothing else. But we’re gonna have to stop at a mall or something on the way home.”
“I got a tee you can have, Kitty,” Mason goaded Jack.
“Yeah, yours would probably fit me better than Jack’s.” That was a lie. Mason was way broader than Jack. “I could also use some pants. What size shorts do you wear, extra-shlong-long?”
I was digging through my bag when my joke landed.
The room exploded in laughter. As any good teller of a joke that had landed perfectly, I did not laugh. I smugly found Tom’s number and put my phone to my ear. I was walking out of the room to get away from all the chortling when Tom answered.
“Catarina.”
I didn’t know what part of the world he was in, but it sounded like I’d woken him up.
“Is now a good time?”
“I’ll call you right back.”
The line disconnected, and a moment later, an unknown number called back.
“Are we secure?” I asked.
“Yes.”
“Is your source inside Carlos’s crew?”
“I can’t say. Why?”
Typical.
“If he’s not on the inside, then the cartel knows Carlos has the girl. If he’s on the inside and this information hasn’t been leaked, then Carlos has moved the girl.”
“Goddamnit. I didn’t think of that.”
“So? Is he in or out?”
“Inside.”