“Oh? That name is not familiar to me.” Perez narrowed his eyes at Guerrero. “Tell me. How do I know him?”
When Perez crooked his lip into a humorless sneer, Guerrero cleared his throat before he went on.
“He did not say, but I believe that if you see him for yourself, you can get him to admit what he’s up to.”
“So now, you want me to do your work for you?” The cartel boss cut a sideways glance at Rosas, who only shrugged with boredom.
“No, sir. That’s not what I’m saying, but someone of your reputation has no doubt made an impression on this man. You have said that you fear this American is probably CIA, and my sources back this up, too. This man has probably been sent to assassinate the heads of the drug cartels for the U.S. government.”
In an effort to make a big impression and beat out Rosas, Guerrero had blurted out a theory Rosas had told him about, something that had come from Perez himself, but his boss’s questions had rattled him. And now that his words hung in the air, without evidence to back him up, Guerrero had sounded like an idiot.
“Oh? How do you know all this?” Perez asked, setting down his empty glass. “What proof do you have?”
Before Guerrero could answer, Rosas interrupted with a smirk.
“He doesn’t have any. He is only trying to impress you. The American hasn’t confirmed any of this.”
“He carried a U.S. driver’s license with him. I’ve seen it and so have you. It confirms his name and an address of his home in New York,” Guerrero argued.
“Identification like that can be bought. It means nothing.” Rosas looked at his boss with a dismissive shrug. “And do you think if he is some big spy, that he would have his real information so easily obtained? Like I said, his ID means nothing.”
“Then you are also dismissing the messages I received from my contacts across the border? Wheeler was overheard, trying to buy information about the cartels . . . and you, in particular. He admitted who he was when he thought he was safe on the American side. And my sources in New York have confirmed that Wheeler is missing.”
“That’s the point. Only your sources say this, but I believe in other ways to arrive at the truth.” Rosas narrowed his eyes. “When a man knows he is about to die, he will bargain any way he can to save his miserable life. That is the only source worth believing, forcing a man to tell you everything he knows when he faces death.”
“Ramon, you told me that it was urgent I should be here. Is this all you have? That I should see this American for myself?” Perez shifted his glare toward Guerrero once again.
“I assure you, sir. I believe the man has vital information that you can help us get from him. I swear on my sainted mother’s head, it’s only a matter of time before we get him to talk.”
“So now you use the words ‘us’ and ‘we.’ ” Rosas chuckled under his breath and leaned against a wall with his arms crossed. “A minute ago, you were running this show, single-handedly. Which is it?”
Guerrero suddenly saw himself between two very dangerous men. He’d gone around Rosas’s back to have a face-to-face meeting with his boss, an encounter that had not gone as well as he had expected. If he didn’t play his cards right, he would end up the big loser.
“You have been extremely resourceful in dealing with the American,” Guerrero said to Rosas. “I’m sure he will tell us everything, in time. And my sources will be confirmed.”
“Very diplomatic, Ramon.” Perez grinned and stood. “Cowardly, but diplomatic nonetheless.”
Before Guerrero had a chance to redeem himself, Perez focused all his attention on Miguel Rosas, his trusted death dealer.
“What has the American admitted so far?”
“Nothing of consequence, but he has told both of us that he has come to kill a man,” Rosas admitted.
“Oh?” Perez smiled. “Depending on who his target is, perhaps we should help him. Eliminating the competition, is that such a bad thing?”
“My thoughts exactly.” Rosas glanced over his shoulder at Guerrero, rubbing in his advantage with the boss and taking credit where none was due.
“Take me to him then”—Perez smiled—“this man I know.”
Rosas escorted the cartel boss out of the study, toward the makeshift cells where the American was being held, with Guerrero following close behind. Without really trying, Rosas had made him look like a fool, but maybe he still had a way to redeem himself.
When Perez came face-to-face with the American, perhaps the truth would come out, and his boss would see who he had personally delivered to his door.
“I haven’t told you the truth, but it doesn’t matter now. It’s too late.”
He looked at Estella and saw the questioning look on her battered face. And before she opened her mouth to ask what he meant, he kept talking. He’d run out of time.
“My name is Jackson Kinkaid. I’m not Garrett Wheeler. That was a name I thought would get Perez here.”
“You mean . . . the man Ramon works for? He is coming here?”
Kinkaid didn’t have to see the fear in the girl’s eyes. He heard it in her voice.
“He’s already here. He came in that helicopter. And he’s probably on his way to this cell right now.”
“He’s a bad man,
“If I had known you’d be dragged into my fight, I wouldn’t have done this. I would’ve found another way, but now everything is in motion. I can’t stop it.”
“What’s in motion? What are you saying?”
From across the cell, Kinkaid saw Estella’s eyes glistening with fresh tears. If this girl died because of him, he was no better than Perez.
Grief and his urgency for revenge had blinded him. He had tunnel vision when it came to settling the score. There had to be a reckoning, where the dead got their due. That was all that had weighed on his mind and heart and soul since his family had been killed. The murder of his wife and his precious little girl had haunted him beyond reason.
Revenge was the air that he breathed.
Garrett Wheeler and his team were waiting for a signal—only it wouldn’t be what they were expecting. Kinkaid’s own men had confirmed that Perez had been inside the aircraft at takeoff. And now that the helicopter had touched down at the compound outside Guadalajara, it had tipped the first domino, which toppled the rest to the point of no return.
And Estella would pay a price for his indulgence. But there was nothing he could do about it.
“Open the door,” a man’s voice bellowed from the corridor.
After a key slid into the lock, the door creaked open. And a torch nearly blinded him. Kinkaid squinted and turned his head with a grimace. He braced himself for more abuse, his body taut and seething with adrenaline.
He had lived for this moment. Despite his regret for what this meant for Estella, he couldn’t do anything about that, not now. And his need to see this through to the end outweighed his good conscience.
Hidden behind the bright flame of the torch, the shadows of several men entered his cell, but the big man stood out. His face emerged from the dark, as in the many nightmares Kinkaid had had over the years. Manolo Quintanilla Perez stood in front of him with a despicable smirk on his face. After all these years, it was really him.
The man who had murdered his wife and child.
The man who had taken everything.
Chapter 12
Sweat trickled down Kinkaid’s face and stung his eyes. And it took all his determination to lift his head and stare down the man who had killed his family.
It had taken him years to uncover the truth. And he had worked with other despicable men to find out who
