The man tuts and shakes his head. “Zavala doesn’t take chances. You worked for him; you should know.”
“Are you his new head of security?”
He cranes his neck to look at me, narrowing his eyes as if assessing a threat, even though it’s a benign question. Finally he nods and says, “Rick Valdez. You left quite a mess behind.”
I grit my teeth. “It wasn’t my goddamn mess. The fact that you’ve taken these steps suggests you know as well as I do that I’m not the problem.” I wave at the car and the road ahead, which I realize doesn’t lead to the compound at all.
“You’re like a bad stink we can’t get rid of,” Rick says. “Your presence attracts flies. The sooner you’re gone, the better. My advice to Zavala was to kill you and wash his hands of it all, but he wants this deal too much, so I’ll see it through. But if any of my men die because you’re here, I’m taking it out of your flesh.”
He eyes me, then my brother, making it clear that he means my flesh and blood, not just me. But at least his presence explains why I don’t recognize the other guy. Valdez likely brought in a handful of his own trusted men to aid the transition, which is fine by me, since I’m sure there’s still some animosity for me among the men I used to work with.
After forty-five minutes of driving a winding route through the city’s streets to ensure we aren’t followed, we merge onto a four-lane road heading north.
My gut twists because I have no idea where they’re taking us. We’re clearly not headed toward to the hills west of the city where Zavala keeps his well-guarded estate. Maddox and I didn’t come armed, and now I’m worried that was a mistake. But with Zoe at the other end of this trip, I don’t want to take any chances provoking my adversaries, all of whom will have guns of their own. I just hope to hell I still have a signal at the other end so I can let Callie know we’re okay.
Assuming we will be okay.
I shoot Mad a glance, but he’s busy boring a hole with his eyes in the back of Rick’s headrest. My brother has chilled out since getting back together with Celeste, but I see the old Mad Dog in that look now. Even though that version of him is as close to channeling our dad as he ever gets, I’m comforted that I have him with me.
Half an hour later, the SUV slows as it navigates the narrow streets of a small town that shows its ties to the Spanish colonial era through its weathered stone walls and Mission-style architecture. We reach a baroque-looking cathedral with a weathered brown facade and turn, winding around to the rear where the driver pulls to a stop.
When we get out, Rick directs us to walk ahead. “This way,” he says, pointing to a set of carved wooden doors set in the hewn stone wall of the big church.
“What is this place?” I ask, not sure I want to know the answer. For all I know, Zavala’s been holding my daughter in a goddamn dungeon underneath this ancient structure.
“The safest place to stow a baby is in a convent,” Rick says, stepping forward to bang the heavy iron knocker shaped like a cross.
A moment later the door creaks open to reveal a plain-faced woman in a nun’s habit. She blinks once as she looks us over, then nods and murmurs a greeting in Spanish before waving us to follow her inside.
My skin goes clammy even though the inside of the convent is cool and dry. I’ve never been a religious man, but the clean plaster walls and white arches exude a kind of transcendent peace that begins to ease my mind. As we’re led down a narrow, barrel-ceilinged corridor, the sounds of a babbling, cooing baby echo through the air.
It’s all I can do to keep my legs from buckling in relief. Maddox must catch my slight falter because he grabs my elbow and squeezes. “Only a little farther,” he murmurs. “You got this, brother.”
“Thanks.”
The closer we get, the harder it is not to break into a run. But the last thing I want to do is barge into what might be a far less relaxed situation than my baby girl’s happy sounds suggest.
Rick slips ahead near the end of the corridor and knocks on a door. A deep, familiar voice answers, making my spine stiffen. The last time I spoke to César Zavala, he was not so subtly threatening the life of my infant daughter.
When the door opens, Rick and his partner shove Maddox and me through, then shut the door behind us. They remain outside as guards against our escape, though there’s no way I’m leaving until this deal is done.
There are several people in the room, but my gaze immediately lands on Zavala, who is seated at an ornate mahogany table with what appears to be a bowl of orange mush in front of him. Pumpkin was always Zoe’s favorite, so I have to give the man credit for figuring that out. Sunlight streams in through high windows behind him, casting him in an almost ethereal glow that is completely incongruous with the man I used to work for.
Everything about the scene is surreal, right down to the chubby-cheeked face beaming back at me amid a smear of orange-colored puree. Zavala holds a tiny spoonful of food in front of her, his big, tattooed hand monstrous in comparison
