I lift an eyebrow at the poofy thing with tiny plastic monkeys on the zipper pulls. “Surprised you went to such lengths, considering you were threatening to end my daughter’s life a little more than a week ago.”
His lips press together briefly and he chuckles. “The Mother Superior insisted. This is her doing, not mine.”
He reaches into the front pocket and pulls out a plastic case about the size of a credit card. He opens it to reveal a trio of tiny memory cards smaller than my thumbnail. “This is everything you asked for. Every scrap of information I’ve gathered over the years on both Vicente Amador and Arturo Flores. Feel free to check.” He retrieves a small card reader from the bag as well, and even goes so far as to attach it to the laptop for me.
Because I’m not taking any chances of fucking up this job, I diligently plug each card in and scan through the files. The original sample he sent me away with was only the tip of the iceberg. There’s easily multiple terabytes of data, including photos and hundreds of hours of video. The date stamps go back decades too.
Curious about the older intel, I dig a little deeper, and when the name “Lola Flores” catches my eye, I pull up a set of twenty-year-old digitized crime scene photos.
There isn’t much to see besides a woman’s corpse. Lola’s death was ruled a suicide—I know that much from hearing Flores recount the event. I also know he doesn’t believe his wife killed herself. He admitted to me that he had no solid proof, but was certain that Amador was somehow responsible.
Flores and Amador at one time were best friends and business partners, building up their organization over a decade of work on both sides of the border. But somewhere along the line, they got even closer. Close enough to share a woman, at any rate. But that friendship ended when Lola died.
Her suicide note is one of the pieces of evidence included in the files. It suggests she was torn between the two men and couldn’t go on with life that way. There’s something not quite right about it, though. Maybe because I don’t trust the fact that it’s typed rather than handwritten.
I can’t even begin to guess how Zavala wound up with all these files, but he’s clearly been painstakingly collecting them for a while. There’s definitely enough to make such an elaborate deal as the one he just struck. Is there enough to get me out of my own fucked up circumstance?
“You’re looking for something specific,” Zavala observes. “If you tell me what, I can throw you a bone.”
I shoot him a wary glance. “You’d seriously help me after everything?”
“You’ve given me something very valuable. Something I could not have acquired without your help. One more small favor would not be an imposition if it keeps you away for good. Tell me what you need.”
“A way to get Gustavo Delgado to lay off. I need the fucking target off my back. Is there anything in here I can use?”
A sly smile spreads across Zavala’s face. “Search for his name in the folder labeled March 15, 2000. There should be enough in there to serve your needs.”
As I’m typing in the search, the nun returns carrying an infant car seat with Zoe ensconced in it, sleeping soundly. She gives Zavala a questioning look and he nods to her. She rounds the table, then sets the car seat atop it a foot away from where I’m sitting. I pause to look in at the sleeping baby and wind up staring a few seconds longer than I mean to.
It hits me that this is almost over. My daughter is safe and whole, and we’re about to leave together in one piece. Zavala’s even being reasonable, which is far more than I expected after the rough treatment I received the last time I saw him.
I’ve watched this man torture enemies to death, yet he’s letting me go. The deal he made must have been worth a lot.
I force myself to focus on the files while I can, and the search results begin to appear on the screen. For a moment I don’t quite believe what I’m seeing in the thumbnails, but as more appear, the pieces start to come together.
Now I know exactly how to keep Gustavo off my back—for good.
38 Mason
Checking the time on the ride back into the city, I realize we’re cutting it close to the end of our two-hour window, but my cell signal is nonexistent. I type a text to Callie anyway, hoping it’ll go through when the signal strengthens, if only for a moment. It isn’t until we’re navigating the traffic-clogged streets within the city’s boundaries again that I finally have a strong enough signal to call.
There’s no answer, so I hang up, staring at the screen for a few seconds, then to the sleeping angel in the car seat beside me. Maddox meets my gaze across the top of Zoe’s seat.
“Everything okay?”
“I don’t know. She isn’t answering. I was hoping to take a detour, but wanted to let her know we were okay first so she doesn’t call in the cavalry. Thinking we ought to just go straight back to the hotel instead.”
The Zavala mercenary who delivered us is driving again, but with a different partner this time, since Rick had to stay behind with his boss. I direct the driver to the St. Regis and he gives a noncommittal nod before making a turn in that direction.
“What detour?” Maddox asks.
I take a steadying breath and glance down at Zoe again. I’ve been dreading this particular part of the trip since my decision to make it, and I’m a little grateful for the excuse to put it off. “To Rafael and Emilia’s house. The bag Zavala gave me doesn’t have enough supplies for Zoe. I wanted to
