not letting her anxiety-she refused to call her fear of dark, enclosed places a phobia-take control. The needles went away, but her eyesight and hearing still felt heightened and she was jittery, as if she’d had too much caffeine.
She blamed her father for this fear. After he had sold her she’d been stuck in the back of a dark truck for nearly two weeks, allowed out only under cover of night and then watched by heavily armed guards. And in the basement, where Izzy was murdered. She hated being underground. The dark, the bugs, the foul, moldy smell-she felt as if she were thirteen again. Trapped. The dugout had been dug into the ground and the fresh earth reminded her of a new grave. That was what was getting to her. Damn Charlie. But she couldn’t blame him completely; he didn’t know. She didn’t talk about it, she had never talked about it, hoping that by ignoring her reaction it would go away.
Another deep breath, and she grew calmer. She willed herself calm. She paced, unable to stay still, constantly checking each possible approach.
Twenty-two minutes had passed since Charlie called her. Where was he?
Movement on the field caught her sight, and she watched as a man in a blue shirt and cap crossed the field writing on a clipboard. It took her a couple seconds, but then she realized the man was Dean. She squinted and saw there were words in white printed on the back of the shirt. Resourceful. She had to admit to herself it relaxed her to have Dean in close proximity.
She sensed movement and turned, facing the far side of the long, narrow space. Charlie leaned against the wall, on the outside of the dugout, partly hidden in the shadows. When she saw him, he stepped inside and walked toward her.
“It’s good to see you,” he said.
Complex emotions battled. She did not like Charlie, but she couldn’t forget that her training under him had been stellar. He was a lying, gloryhound bastard, but he also knew what he was doing and had freely shared his skills with her. It was ironic that the self-defense moves he’d taught her had saved her life when he put it in danger.
“You should have given me that journal two days ago. Three of those women are dead.”
His expression hardened. Whether out of guilt or her refusal to pretend they were still friends and colleagues, she didn’t know. “You wanted me to look at a picture.”
She handed him the photo without comment.
He looked at it and she knew he saw something. “Where did you get this?”
“Through my investigation. It’s seven to ten years old. You recognize Xavier Jones, of course. And Thomas Daniels-he was killed four years ago during a police investigation.”
“The FBI. I remember hearing about it. It wasn’t related to trafficking.”
“Not directly, but he was a competitor of Jones,” she said. “As I’m sure you knew.”
“This looks like Mexico or Central America.”
“Analysts believe it was taken outside of Acapulco.”
He said, “Ashley was last seen near Acapulco.”
“And you said there was a link between her and Jones. I need to know who the other men are. We don’t have I.D.s on these three.” She pointed to her father, the man next to him, and a man in the back on the far right. “Or the woman.”
“I want this picture.”
“No.”
He stared at her.
“Why?” she prompted.
He didn’t answer.
“Damn you, Charlie!”
“I can I.D. two of those men for you. If you want their names, and additional information, then you’ll give me that picture.”
Though it wasn’t Dean’s original photo, only a copy, Sonia didn’t want to give it to Charlie. She didn’t want to help him in any of his vendettas. But he was stubborn. He wouldn’t talk without getting something in return.
She handed it to him. “Name them.”
“I don’t know the man on the far right. But these two in the middle-Jaime Huerrera on the left. He’s a drug dealer. Trafficking is a sideline, only when it furthers his goals. More money in drugs. But he provides routes. He was nobody ten years ago, a mid-level hack whose only claim to fame was he kept under the radar of law enforcement. He’s also a great master of disguise. You probably have photos of him and don’t know it. He’s from Colombia and never crosses into the United States. I suspect that your friend from the FBI, the one watching us while pretending to be a choir boy, might be able to prove Jones was laundering drug money for Huerrera, once you decipher the journal.”
“And the other man?” Sonia’s heart raced and she was dizzy, whether from the confines of the dugout or what she expected to hear.
“I don’t know his name. But I have seen him.”
“Where? With who?”
“He’s the man who killed Xavier Jones.”
Charlie pocketed the photo. “I hope you catch him.”
“Do you know who the woman is?” Sonia asked, her voice surprisingly calm. “She looks vaguely familiar, but I can’t place her.”
“You know who she is,” Charlie said.
“No, I don’t-” Dammit, she did. She’d only met Victoria Christopoulis once, over a year ago. And she looked much different now-older, with darker red hair. “Christopoulis.”
“Bingo.”
“I thought it was her son, not her-”
“He’s involved, but she’s in charge.” Charlie took a step toward her. “Sonia, this is too big, too deadly. That’s why you need people like me. I can go in and take care of-”
She put up her hand. Her voice was firm, though her insides burned. “Don’t say it. I don’t want to know what you’ve been up to, I don’t want to know who you’ve killed. I’m not a vigilante, Charlie. I’m a cop. And I can’t condone what you’ve done. This was your freebie. Now go. Before I arrest you.”
Dean walked along the base of the bleachers in the red clay gravel that separated the stands from the playing field. He’d seen Cammarata slip into the dugout, so Dean moved in closer. He heard voices but couldn’t make out the exact words. Then he heard Sonia distinctly say, “Go.”
He tensed, every instinct on alert. His phone didn’t vibrate, she wasn’t in trouble. Still … he didn’t like her tone. Practically hugging the wall, he ran to the edge of the dugout, then stood flush against the low wall.
Cammarata stepped from the dugout.
“Sonia-”
A flash of light in his periphery sent Dean back twenty years to his days in the Marines.
“Before I arrest you,” Sonia said.
Dean didn’t think; he acted solely on adrenaline and instinct.
“Down!” He rushed Cammarata who was in the line of fire and tackled him, pushing him down the short flight of stairs into the dugout.
Sonia hit the ground before they did, reacting on Dean’s command to get down while he was still moving.
The sniper’s bullet hit the wall where Sonia had been standing. It had been aimed at her chest, a perfect military sniper aim from more than three hundred yards. Which meant that the sniper was on the fence surrounding the stadium-the only buildings tall enough were across the river or not at the right angle to see into the dugout.
Dean crawled over to Sonia. “Are you hit?”
“No.”
“Stay down, in this corner. He can’t see you here. Flush against the wall. Do not move.”
“What the fuck?” Cammarata exclaimed.
Dean crawled over to him and grabbed him by the collar as they lay on the hard-packed dirt floor. “Did you
