It isn’t until I’m finalizing the purchase and staring at the little pastel bags full of baby things that it hits me how far gone I am over this guy and his daughter, and I haven’t even met the little girl yet. All I know is that I want to build something real with them both when we get back to Los Angeles.
“¿Estás bien?” the sales lady asks, giving me a concerned look when I just stare wide-eyed at everything after she returns my credit card.
“Sí, sí,” I manage to get out, giving her a shaky smile as I gather everything up to take back to the hotel.
On the way back down the street, I muse over the fact that neither Mom nor Nina had anything negative to say about my insistence on coming, or about the situation I’ve gotten myself into. Because when you strip away all the complications, what it comes down to is that I’ve chosen to date a single father.
That’s not to say they weren’t both worried about how this trip would go—Mason’s currently negotiating with a cartel leader to release a hostage, for fuck’s sake, and the intel he’s bringing home could determine whether my brother is alive or dead—but when it came to the suggestion of continuing my relationship with Mason, I only received hopeful encouragement. It’s almost as if they know me better than I know myself, when it comes to men. If only I’d listened to them five years ago.
I have to shake off the regret. The past isn’t important anymore; what matters is moving forward.
I have more than half an hour left before I need to start worrying. I haven’t received a text or anything from Mason, so I head back to the hotel, my collection of shopping bags clutched in both hands.
I’m swiping my keycard when I feel a prickly sensation on the back of my neck, the same instinctive feeling of dread I get at work when the day is about to get complicated. But a glance down the hallway in either direction doesn’t immediately reveal any threats, so I head into the room.
It’s quiet aside from the muffled sounds of the city drifting up from a dozen floors below. I set the bags on the king-sized bed and stare at them. I’m in danger of slipping into another spiral of self-doubt over my decision to buy things for a baby I’ve never met, whose father I’m falling for, when a soft whoosh from behind me makes my entire body go rigid.
Before I can turn, an arm clamps across my shoulders and a black-gloved hand holding a rag covers my mouth. Within a breath, the world fades to black.
37 Mason
I’m not exactly pleased my prediction about our meeting with Zavala turns out to be right. I was praying things would go quickly, but that doesn’t turn out to be the case.
When Mad and I make it to the restaurant Zavala directed us to, we’re greeted by two men I don’t recognize. Still, they have the distinct ex-military look of almost everyone Zavala hires, though one is in a suit while the other wears the plain black cargo pants and T-shirts that make up the uniforms of Zavala’s mercenary army.
“Which one of you is Mason Black?” the suited one asks when we slip into the booth. He’s the only one seated, while the other man stands against a wall nearby, watching us and the doors.
“That would be me,” I answer, sitting up a little too straight because it hurts if I lean back. I skipped the midday pain meds to keep a clear head. I can handle a little pain.
He narrows his eyes at my stiff posture, then shoots a look at Maddox. “This your brother?”
“This is Maddox. Zavala’s expecting us both. He’s got as big a stake in this deal as I do. You can trust him.”
“I’m just here to carry the baby,” Maddox says with a casual shrug. “My brother’s not allowed to lift anything heavier than ten pounds.”
Sighing, I nod my confirmation.
The man tilts his head toward the muscle standing guard, who motions for me to stand. I obey and endure a pat-down, then he yanks up the back of my shirt and urges me to turn my back to his boss.
He lets out a low whistle. “Did you have fucking spinal surgery or something?” he asks.
I don’t want to share the full extent of my recent crisis, so I give him enough to hopefully mollify any suspicions. “This is just proof I’ve survived Delgado more than once. I don’t intend to let him finish the job. Can we get moving?”
With a tight-lipped nod, he stands and gestures for the other guy to pat down my brother, who endures the indignity with a stoic face, though his intense glare at the man makes him cut short his inspection. Then they usher us through the kitchen and out into the back alley where the acrid scent of restaurant refuse assaults my nose. From there, we’re unceremoniously shoved into the back of an SUV.
“I know where the compound is. If he wanted to meet there, he just had to say so,” I tell the man in the suit who sits in the passenger seat.
“You have a target on your back, hermano. He isn’t taking a chance that Delgado pinpoints your location and takes another shot. You die, Zavala’s deal with the DEA dies too.”
“We took precautions,” I say. In fact, the DEA went to great lengths to obscure my trip to Mexico, even going so far as to set up a decoy in
