“He’s a slippery fucker, but yeah, he’s one of the usual suspects we’ve been tracking in connection with this operation. We’ve never officially been able to tie him to a cartel. Until now.”
“I could’ve done without the fucking reminder.”
“We’ll get Zavala’s deal so you can bring Zoe home,” he says, squeezing my shoulder. “For now, let’s just go take a load off.” He waves the paper sleeve with the keycards at me and heads toward the elevators.
“When do we meet with Longo? Soon, I hope,” I say as we step inside and Booth hits the button for the ninth floor.
“Friday night is the earliest we can get to her.”
“Fuck, why not sooner?” Friday is three days away, and every second I sit on my thumbs makes me more anxious, gives me more time to stew over what went down. And makes Zoe’s situation all the more precarious.
“This isn’t an easy ask,” Booth says. “We have to do things on her terms now if we want to ensure her support. She won’t be in town until her party, so we wait. Rest up. And maybe get a haircut while you’re at it.”
I shoot him a look and rake my hand through my shaggy mane. “You don’t think she likes the lumberjack look? We are in Colorado.”
“I think you need to look like you have your shit together. Which is why we’re taking full advantage of Flores’ generosity this week. Take a load off tomorrow. At least try to relax. Let me make some calls to ensure some of the parties involved will be on board when we meet the senator. Then we’re getting you a fucking makeover, because this hobo-chic look you’re sporting has got to go.”
12 Mason
In the three years Booth has been my handler, I never learned what a style whore he is. Browsing through tuxes at an upscale tailor shop, I’m tempted to disparage his sexuality, but I don’t because I can hear my older brother giving me shit about it.
But then he bombards me with a slew of questions, including whether I want a shawl collar or peak lapels; barrel cuffs or French cuffs; a pleated bib front or plain front shirt; and a cummerbund or vest. Finally overwhelmed by all the options he throws at me, I blurt out, “Buddy, I know it’s never come up between us, but are you even straight?”
“Man, I’ve been celibate for three years, thanks to you, so I don’t even remember. Why? Are you offering?” He lifts an eyebrow at me.
“Jesus, seriously? Why? And no. You’re handsome and all, but I’m not into men.”
“Because I’m a professional. Getting that close to anyone in Mexico City would’ve risked the op, and I don’t do prostitutes. You’re the only one of us who got lucky.”
I clench my teeth when I take the proffered collection of shirts, jackets, and pants he hands to me to try on. I wasn’t celibate during those years. Not by a longshot.
“You know I had to,” I say, hating the defensive note in my voice. I shouldn’t have to make excuses. I was the one with his ass on the line. I am the one with his ass on the line, and everyone close to me too.
“I’m not judging you, Mase. I know you could’ve said no when Rafael and Emilia asked for that favor, but I don’t blame you for agreeing. It was strategically a win for your position in the organization, even if it complicated things. Tell me this, though: If Amador hadn’t attacked, would you have left when the op was over?”
I’m stepping into the dressing room as he asks, and the barrier of the door clicking shut between us gives me a reprieve, but the answer is simple. The burning sensation in my chest at the memory of when I’d come to the conclusion that I planned to stay is far from simple, though. But Booth has been my confidante for years, so I’m used to unleashing raw honesty on him when he asks.
“No, man. I think you know I would’ve stayed. Not for Rafael and Emilia, but for Zoe, if only to make sure something like this never fucking happened to her.”
“Even though you know it was your presence that put her at risk to begin with? When are you going to face the facts, man? You wouldn’t have stayed for her. Not really.”
I know what he’s implying, and it hurts to admit it. I’d have stayed for me. To be close to her, to see if I could learn to become something I’m not sure I’m capable of becoming, not in any way that really counts.
“What I’m doing now is for her. I don’t have a choice. I have to be a . . .”
I pause, my mouth somehow unable to form the word. Instead I examine my reflection. I look like a fucking joke. I’m in black tailored pants, a fancy white shirt with a fucking bib, and a black jacket with a satin collar. The pants even have a matching satin stripe up the side. It’s more comfortable than my dress blues were, but it still feels strange to wear something other than jeans or fatigues and a T-shirt after so long. And it looks ridiculous, considering my hair and beard are almost a week past needing a trim.
But despite how unkempt I am, I can’t help but see him looking back at me through those steely eyes—the bastard who beat and belittled me and my brothers for the bulk of our teen years, who put his own wife into a coma. The very word feels like profanity to even think it.
Father.
Booth’s voice comes through the door again, lower this time. “You can’t even fucking say it, can you? Man, your dad really did a number on you. But you have to own it: You’re Zoe’s father. Your very blood ties you to that little girl. I know you only agreed to be a sperm donor
