He doesn’t look at us until Zoe accepts the bite of food, but her eyes are glued to me. I can’t tell if she recognizes me, though I haven’t had time to shave in three days, so I’m halfway back to the bearded version she knew before I left. As I rub my chin, recognition flickers in her eyes. Her expression brightens and she ignores the next bite of food he lifts before her. Instead she reaches out toward me with grasping fingers.
“Ahma,” she says, the pair of syllables causing a hard lump to form in my throat.
When Zavala doesn’t immediately obey her inarticulate command, she begins to bounce impatiently, her little hands twisting.
“Hi, baby girl,” I say, finally managing to get a few words out past the burning tightness in my chest.
Zavala turns his dark gaze to me, bending close to Zoe’s ear. “That’s not your mama, little one. Your mama’s dead, thanks to him.”
“Goddamn it, man—” I growl, then cut myself off from the slew of profanities itching to spew forth. “Zavala,” I try again, my tone as measured and reasoned as I can make it. “Let’s get this done so I can take my daughter home.”
“Just trying to explain what you are to her. I don’t think you should be confused, either.” He motions toward the only woman in the room, another nun in a more practical outfit of a knee-length skirt and high-necked blouse, but still sporting the head covering. She murmurs sweet words to Zoe as she gently takes her from Zavala’s arms.
“I will get her cleaned up for you, señor,” she says to me before turning to head toward an open doorway in the corner of the room.
Zoe’s little face is turning red as she twists around in the woman’s arms, repeating her name for me over and over. “Ahma, ahma, ahma!” I have to tear my eyes away, keeping my fists clenched at my sides.
I shake my head. “She isn’t saying ‘mama.’ I was her Uncle Mason. Ahma’s as close as she’s ever gotten.” I stare after her, wanting nothing more than to grab her and run, but I also don’t want things to escalate and wind up traumatizing her any more than she’s already been traumatized. The sooner we can get this done, the better.
Zavala’s eyes drop to the chairs opposite him at the table and he shoves the bowl of baby food aside. “Have a seat. I take it this is the brother you said you would bring.”
“Maddox,” my brother offers, but he doesn’t extend a hand. Neither does he sit when I do. Instead he stands back, his piercing gaze sliding to the three men situated strategically around the room. One stands near a china cabinet, another by the window, and the third has moved to stand near the door, emphasizing how trapped we are.
Through the door to the other room, I’m acutely aware of Zoe’s crying, but the woman manages to calm her down within a few seconds by singing a sweet-sounding Spanish lullaby.
“You’re aware that if we don’t make it out of here alive and with my daughter and the intel you promised, your brother will be sent back to the dank little hole they’ve been keeping him all this time,” I tell him.
“Oh, you and your family will leave whole, I assure you. Let me see the documents.” Zavala nods to one of the men, who steps forward, sets a laptop onto the table, and opens it up, then holds out a hand to me.
I fish into my pocket for the thumb drive that’s been like a thorn in my side this entire time. He inserts it into the slot, then slides his finger across the touchpad to open the file folder before turning the screen so that both Zavala and I can view it. I take over, find the file he wants, and open up the series of scanned PDFs of the formal agreement between him and the US government.
“Hard copies are with your brother, who’s in the process of being delivered to your men as we arranged.” I switch windows to click on another file, then the link it contains, which redirects to a website showing a live stream of a camera attached to the dashboard of the vehicle currently transporting Antonio Zavala, César’s older brother. The camera’s view has been reversed to show the interior of the SUV and has a clear shot of an aging Mexican man with a pockmarked face made even more sinister by the gang tattoos covering his neck, jaw, and cheekbones.
Senator Longo and Special Agent Dawson took care of the arrangements to get him released from Federal custody in Beaumont, Texas. He was allowed to clean up and now wears a new suit, but there’s no mistaking the hard edge of a man who’s spent much of the last decade inside a maximum-security penitentiary, and who didn’t have a very peaceful life prior to that.
As we watch, the subtle shifts of the vehicle’s movements cease and light floods the interior. Antonio Zavala disappears for a moment, then the camera angle flips to show a view of the front of the vehicle. This view shows a second car, a luxury SUV with tinted windows and shining rims.
Antonio appears once again, striding toward the other car and whoever his brother sent to meet him. The two men embrace, then Antonio turns and flips the bird at the camera before climbing into the other car.
A few seconds later, Zavala’s phone rings and he answers in Spanish. The conversation is brief, and his eyes brighten as he watches me while he speaks to whoever is on the other end. When he hangs up, he says, “Our business is almost done.” He gestures again to one of the men, who
