Manny pulls to a stop alongside a black Mercedes. The doors open and Gustavo climbs out, along with Eddie Trujillo, one of the gang members Gustavo brought in for muscle. Gustavo waits as Manny lowers his window.
“Got a little business to take care of first. You guys are just here to stand lookout. This is an easy deal. Just handing off some goods to a buyer.”
“What goods and what buyer? Why aren’t we at our usual location?” Manny snaps, starting to open his door.
Gustavo leans in, holding the door shut. In the brief flash of the interior light, I see the pink line of the scar across his cheek from our fight a few weeks ago. There’s a wicked glint in his eyes as he bares his teeth. “I said it was need to know. Leo owes me a little trust. Just do your fucking jobs and all will be forgiven.” He shoots one last intense look at me before standing and striding around his car.
“Something’s not right about any of this,” Manny says. “How much do you want to bet Papá doesn’t know shit about what’s going down tonight?”
Off in the darkness, another pair of vehicles approaches, one a pickup truck, the other a black SUV. I tense. If Manny’s right, maybe Papá figured out what’s happening and has decided to come lay down the law, but the vehicles don’t look familiar once they’re close enough to identify.
“It isn’t Papá,” Manny murmurs, reading my mind. He opens his door and gets out, then bends to retrieve his gun from beneath the seat, stowing it in his waistband at his back. Benny and Baz follow suit, securing their own guns.
Headlights flash from the direction we arrived and I tense, but no one else seems alarmed by the approach of yet another vehicle. The boys and I watch as a black van descends into the river, cuts its lights, and comes to a stop a few yards away from us. The driver remains behind the wheel, waiting in shadow.
The whole event has betrayal written all over it, but Gustavo’s holding one over on me so I’m going along with it. I’d just as soon not get shot by the bastard, or let him hurt Manny or either of the Quiñones brothers. If it’s a simple handoff, then nobody else needs to know, and I’ll have the bastard off my back by the time we’re done. Manny and I can regroup afterward to decide how to tell Papá Flores.
I climb out and retrieve my gun, comforted by the weight of it in my palm as I round the car to stand by Manny’s side a few feet from the front of the car Gustavo arrived in. My gaze flits between the van, the unfamiliar caravan still approaching, and Gustavo’s car. There’s a shadow of another person sitting in the back seat of his car, but I can’t make out who it is in the darkness or why they’re waiting and haven’t gotten out to back Gustavo up.
The new vehicles come to a stop several yards away and a clean-cut, middle-aged Latino man in a suit every bit as sharply tailored as Gustavo’s gets out, followed by half a dozen thugs. There’s something familiar about him, but it’s tricky to make out details in the darkness. When he comes closer, Manny curses.
“Son of a bitch,” he mutters. “Eyes open, hermanos.”
“What is it?” I ask.
“Amador.”
Benny and Baz both emit soft expletives and pull their guns free of their waistbands.
The name itself sends a sharp chill down my spine. I fix my eyes on the man coming toward Gustavo. He makes a small motion with two fingers of his gloved hand, and two men split off toward the van. When he gets closer to us, Gustavo steps in to greet him with an outstretched hand.
Then it all clicks. The man’s face, the name, the sinking sense of dread. What the ever-loving fuck is Gustavo doing, making a deal with Papá Flores’ worst enemy?
Amador ignores him, tilts his chin to the car, and says something that sounds like, “Ella esta aqui?”
Is she here? Is who here?
I don’t know if I want to stick around to find out, and when I catch Manny’s eye, he nods. The twins are waiting to follow our lead, so when Manny gestures for them to get back in the car, we all start to move.
But I stop cold when the rear door of Gustavo’s car opens, and my heart stutters as Celeste Flores steps out.
12
Celeste
This meeting would destroy my father if he knew it was happening. I spent a week searching for answers, including confronting Papá with the scans of the checks. He brushed it off as “old business” and refused to discuss it further. He simply shut down when faced with the image of my mother’s signature. I finally reached the conclusion that only one man could answer the questions I have—the man who received those checks.
I tighten my belted jacket against the late-night autumn chill and step toward the man standing at the side of a large black SUV. He’s my father’s age and strikingly handsome. He’s clean-shaven, his thick, black hair combed back in a sleek wave, and he wears a dark gray wool overcoat and black leather gloves. Two armed men flank him, and at the smallest gesture from him, they retreat into the shadows. There are several cars surrounding us, one a black van where a transaction of some sort appears to be occurring.
Amador steps forward, removing his gloves and holding out a hand to greet me.
“Celeste. Do you remember me?”
“Should I? I know you by reputation, but that’s all.” I stare up into his eyes, heart beating hard and hoping that the darkness obscures the uncertainty I’m sure must be visible on my face. I grit my teeth and shove the feeling back down. I can’t let this man see fear if I’m going to get what I
