I’ve been that man to a lot of people—the man who can get them anything, be it guns, drugs, women, anything short of an actual conscience for the soulless motherfuckers who pay me—but for the first time in my life, the thing I want is hanging in the balance.
The demented leader of a Mexican drug cartel stands between me and my redemption, holding collateral that I never believed I’d be forced to fight for, not in a million years, much less want to fight for.
I grunt when the plane shudders as its wheels hit the runway, the pain in my shoulder flaring. The jolt of the quick stop knocks me back against the bulkhead and my teeth clack together from the force. Fucking hell, these assholes could have at least strapped me down. Their boss needs me alive if he wants me to come through for him.
Footsteps clomp toward me, echoing through the metal floor, and a pair of legs approach in silhouette. The interior lights come on, flooding the cabin, and I flinch, unable to shade my eyes with my hands still bound behind my back.
A shadow mercifully blocks the light just before a big hand grabs me by the upper arm, hauling me upright and half-dragging me toward the exit. The door swings open with a hydraulic hiss, a dark abyss gaping beyond.
“Jesus, let me get my goddamn feet under me, asshole,” I mutter. “Where’d you bring me? Texas? New Mexico? A little communication never hurts.”
“Bienvenido a California, cabrón,” is all the information I get before I’m literally thrown out the door into the night.
Reflex takes over, and I find my arms are miraculously free of the zip tie when I reach to soften my fall. I hit the tarmac and roll, then look back at the plane in time to see a black duffel bag sailing through the air straight at my head. I catch it and jab my middle finger in the air at the two men in the plane.
“¡Feliz Navidad!” one calls before they haul the door shut again with a thud, leaving me sprawled on the pavement, staring dazedly as the small plane trundles toward the runway again, bright floodlights casting a long shadow behind it.
“Merry fucking Christmas to you too, assholes.”
Cali-fucking-fornia.
I guess César Zavala wasn’t joking when he said he wanted in on the deal to help take down Vicente Amador, because this is where the deal started. I just never expected this was how I’d wind up back in my home state, with the Sword of Damocles hanging over my head, ready to drop if I don’t get the monster what he asks for.
Yet here I am, and I don’t even have the luxury of enjoying the moment. I get to my feet, wincing at the twinge in my back from an old injury and the ache in my shoulder from the most recent one. If someone had warned me this was what thirty-one would feel like, I probably wouldn’t have argued. I feel ancient after the meatgrinder of a life I’ve had, beginning under my own father’s fists.
I stretch out my limbs, then check one pocket for the precious cargo Zavala entrusted to me and the other for my phone. I power it on and wait, then tap the “Maps” icon to see where the fuck I actually am.
A slew of text alerts pop up the second I get a signal, all from the same number, with escalating urgency. The last one makes me chuckle.
“You’d better be f-ing dead. If you’re not I’m going to wring your g-d neck when I find you.”
Ah, Booth. I love you too.
Swiping the message away reveals the map screen, which displays a whole lot of fuck-all around my location. I zoom out to discover I’m actually not that far from San Diego, but with no wheels it’ll be a hike to get anywhere useful. It’s just past 1AM, two days after Christmas, so very little is likely to be open, but a quick search reveals just what I need only a couple miles down the road. I sling my duffel across my back and start hoofing it, dialing Booth as I go.
He picks up on the first ring. “Black? That had better be you.”
“Nice to know you care,” I say with a smile.
“Jesus fucking Christ, man! I was sure you were dead. I haven’t been able to get any intel out of the compound since Christmas Day. All I know is some shit went down at Rafael’s hacienda and you were planning to spend the day there with them. What the fuck happened? Where are you?”
“They dumped me across the border. Somewhere near Otay, California.” I grit my teeth and keep my eyes on the horizon, blinking back all the rage and pain that I thought I’d managed to bury on the trip from Mexico City. I can’t look back, can’t dwell on what happened if I want to get this mission done. Moving forward is the only way to stay focused. Booth is my handler though, so he needs me to give him something. “Booth, it’s bad, really fucking bad.”
When I don’t elaborate, he sighs. “All three of them?” he asks, and I know he means are all three of them dead.
“Rafael and Emilia,” I manage to get out, risking the wrath bubbling over. I can already feel my fist tightening around the phone and force myself to relax. It’s the only phone I have, and there are other calls I need to make. I take a deep breath and add, “Amador found me. He knows I’m alive. His attack burned me to Zavala. He has her, Booth. He has Zoe. If I don’t . . . if I don’t . . .”
I can’t finish the sentence, because the bastard’s promise is playing on repeat inside my brain: “I will kill her if you don’t get me what I want, Black. Or should I call you Santos?”
“Fuck. Okay. Tell me what he
