SIGNAL FIRE

A Hawk Tate Novel

Book 10

DUSTIN STEVENS

Signal Fire

A Hawk Tate Novel

Copyright © 2024, Dustin Stevens

Warning: All rights reserved. The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work, in whole or part, in any form by any electronic, mechanical, or other means, is illegal and forbidden, without the written permission of the author.

This is a work of fiction. Characters, settings, names, and occurrences are a product of the author’s imagination and bear no resemblance to any actual person, living or dead, places or settings, and/or occurrences. Any incidences of resemblance are purely coincidental.

Cover Art and Design: Christian Bentulan

Formatting: Jamie E Davis

Alliance does not mean love,

any more than war means hate.

— Francis Parker Yockey

The arrival of the unforeseen

reveals the depths of one’s heart.

— William P. Young

Prologue

The cocksure grin on the man’s face didn’t concern me. The same look of conceit I’d seen on dozens of young punks over the years, none of them having near the capacity to back it up.

A default setting appearing the instant he regained his feet and turned to face me just a few yards away.

A smile splitting his features, revealing a gold tooth over his right incisor. A silver one on the left.

Some kind of statement, adding to his overall presentation. A cultivated look that to me just displayed a confusion of experience for skill. A misbelief that just because he had been around, had survived a war of attrition within the cartel, that somehow he was worthy of his rank.

Superior, even, to someone like me.

A guy the better part of a decade his senior, without the fancy tactical attire or the perfectly coiffed appearance. Jeans and boots and a beard that he saw and immediately wanted to write off.

Dismiss as someone beneath him.

A steppingstone to the greater prize tucked inside the holding cell at my back. The real target for him and his team currently laying siege to the building. An ongoing war just outside the metal double doors on the far wall, the continued pops of gunfire sounding out faintly from the opposite side.

Seeing and dismissing every last part of his outward presentation in an instant, what I did put my focus on was the pointed dagger clutched in his right hand. A weapon that had seemed to appear from nowhere, slipped from his sleeve to his palm with just the flick of a wrist.

His calling card, the full effects of which I had witnessed just a couple of hours before.

A macabre scene that flashed across my mind as I stood with weight balanced, watching as he inched forward. Body flexed into a low crouch, his shoulders were turned to the side, the blade extended before him.

“You should have stayed out of this, old man,” he hissed, his tongue flicking out between the metallic teeth as he continued my way.

Lowering myself into a crouch to match, I followed the path of the dagger, preparing to move and react wherever it went.

Two sides preparing for battle, both cut short by the thunderous echo of a gunshot ringing out behind us.

Part I

Chapter One

The weight stack in the prison yard was more than just a place to work out. It was a prime location. A chunk of ground in the exact center of the area carved out in the middle of the arms of the Victorville Federal Correctional Facility extended wide in either direction.

Matching wings that swept outward, curving in a wide arc and stopping just shy of meeting at the front gate behind multiple rows of razor wire.

A monolith of steel and stone, all beaten into a monochromatic color scheme by the high desert sun.

More times than he could count, Angel Abarca had seen rookies make the mistake of taking the collection of rusting steel at face value. Exercise equipment that was nothing more, there for any of the thousand inmates who called the place home to utilize.

Common ground, as innocuous as the library or the lunchroom.

All too often, first timers would arrive with inflated physiques. Guys used to their previous lives, when spending three hours a day at the gym and a couple of hundred dollars on anabolic enhancement was the norm.

People who liked to think that whatever they did on the outside to land them there somehow imbued them with a certain amount of cache. A preceding reputation that they could use to insert themselves directly into the pecking order.

If not in a top slot, then at least somewhere in the middle.

Somebody worthy of stepping right up to the squat rack or lat pulldown machine and taking a few sets for themselves.

One of a thousand different fallacies that so many who showed up to the facility known as Victimville carried.

Guys like the pair Angel could see posted up on the bench press in the corner of the rectangular structure erected for the purpose of housing the weightroom. Steel piping, to which sheets of chain-link fencing had been attached. Metal that had gleamed so bright it was almost blinding the day it was installed, slowly beaten into submission like so many other things inside the place.

A slow trod from a proud shine to a dull finish to, eventually, the dusty red of rust.

As apt a metaphor as anything Angel had seen or heard since he first arrived six years before.

A process that had broken down thousands of residents both man and machine, just as it would eventually do to the duo currently standing on either side of the bench. Young punks who couldn’t be much beyond their mid-twenties, their shirts stripped off to show the trappings of youth.

Lithe forms with veins running down the front of their biceps and the faint outlines of abdominal muscles just visible. Signs more of a lack of adipose tissue and the stronger-than-usual spring sunshine than any appreciable amount of musculature.

A difference that their young hubris had failed to yet recognize, though the reality of their new surroundings would soon impart on them.

An impending fate that Angel could already see starting to take shape in the form of the trio standing just outside of the weightroom walls. Men who had been there even longer than Angel, known to stop by each time there was a new infusion of inmates.

Scouting runs, to be acted upon in the days or weeks ahead, searching for targets of various forms.

New recruits or victims of theft or even pleasures of the flesh.

Harsh realities that these kids were about to learn in a very big way, putting themselves out in the open in such a manner bound to only accelerate the process. A progression Angel had seen more times than he could count, the realities of the prison ecosystem far beyond his concern.

What he did care about was the fact that these kids were already threatening to interrupt his workout. Opposition that would be easy enough to clear out, but would come with the aggravation of wasted time. Energy.

Headache.

Future annoyance that he was already envisioning playing out when an older man shuffled into view. Moving away from his usual spot along the dumbbell rack, he cut a straight path through the center of the weight room.

An unexpected arrival that caused both of the young men to bristle, their body language making it clear that they were bracing for some sort of altercation. Their chance to prove themselves on the aging inmate offering unwanted advice, lasting only until he mumbled a few words.

Extended a finger toward Angel passing through the opening in the steel cage serving as a gate.

A word of warning that caused both to turn in unison to inspect the impending threat.

The famed Angel of Death that they may not have known by sight, but damned sure were familiar with on reputation, both offering a small nod before ceding the machine without a word.

Chapter Two

Standing on the veranda extended from the backend of his third-floor bedroom in nothing more than a pair of silk boxers, Marco Gil planted both palms flat on the stone railing. Three-foot segments of granite that had been fitted together more than forty years ago, already starting to warm under the late morning sun.

A design choice that was but one of a thousand tiny decisions that his father had overseen personally when he first had the place built more than thirty years ago. An attention to detail befitting the site that would become the central hub of his empire in the years to come.

His own personal kingdom which, as of this morning, was now officially Marco’s to oversee.

A transition that had been discussed at length in the past, but that was always posited as something in the future. An eventuality that was supposed to still be decades in the offing, after a long and protracted battle with cancer or pneumonia or one of the other plights that came for the elderly.

Not now.

And sure as hell not like this.

Spread the same width as his hands, Marco’s feet were balanced several feet back from the railing. Space enough to allow him to lean forward, his gaze aimed down at the polished Spanish tile beneath him. Ceramic that had been glazed several times over with lacquer, reflecting the early morning light back up at him.

Sun that was working to draw away any lingering moisture from his shower just moments before.

The start of a day that promised to be warmer than usual, the calendar just a couple of days into March. The beginning of what would surely be an upward trajectory, culminating in another brutally hot summer.

The third or fourth consecutive year of record highs, holding the estate and the entirety of Northern Mexico in its clutches for months on end.

One more thing that Marco would have to deal with as the new head of the family. Another item, like so many, that would have to wait at least a bit longer, his schedule for the day already full.

His first official act as the new head of the organization, coinciding with his final task as his father’s son.

A tall order on its own, to say nothing of the other ongoing projects playing out in the area as well. Things he was forced to leave in the care of others for the time being, today about putting on a show.

Serving as the new figurehead for the business moving forward.

Lifting his focus from the tile at his feet, Marco raised his gaze to the spread around him. A sight that had been the first thing to greet him each morning for as long as he could remember, the two of them seeming to have grown up together.

Incremental changes, unnoticeable from one day to the next, now so glaringly obvious as he surveyed everything anew. A transition from humble beginnings, when the place was nothing more than the home he was standing in and a couple of outbuildings.

When he himself was just a young boy, with fleshy cheeks and wide eyes.

Naivete and wonder that he had slowly started to shed as his father built the second structure visible on the north end of the spread to serve as his office. Additional buildings were erected to house the various comings and goings of their burgeoning empire.

Rows of grapevines and plenty of tropical fauna were planted in between to help mask their true purpose.

New people and faces were brought in from faraway places to help run things both illicit and legit.

Even more came onboard to help secure them both.

Real-time exposures that had stripped away any false assumptions in Marco. Any mistaken beliefs about who they were or how they paid the bills.

Machinations that he had seen age at an accelerated pace, going from leading edge to commonplace to now woefully outdated in just a couple of decades. A cautionary tale about becoming too committed to one’s ways, especially in an industry that evolved as fast as theirs.

Market evolution that would be Marco’s primary focus, once these few lingering tasks were completed.

Exhaling loudly through his nostrils, Marco pushed himself upright. Turning away from the oasis of architecture and vegetation, he passed through the double doors standing open and went about dressing for the day.

Midnight hues that he adorned himself with one at a time, his work almost complete when a shadow passed his door. A figure as familiar as the view out back, dressed in all black to match him.

Eyes betraying the slightest hint of puffiness, she stopped just outside the threshold, having made it a point many times over the years to say she never entered the bedroom of a man who wasn’t her husband.

Even if it was her own son.

“Mama,” Marco said, catching her reflection in the mirror before him. Pausing the knotting of his tie, he turned her way and asked, “Are you ready?”

“As I ever will be,” she whispered, her voice betraying the pain Marco had been hearing for days on end. Cries of agony that passed from her room well after dark, carrying through the night air. “You?”

“Almost. Just have to make a couple quick calls, and then I’ll be down.”

Chapter Three

The suit jacket that Andres intended to wear in just over an hour was laid out on the backseat behind him. Black, double-breasted, and pinstriped, it was folded lengthwise, following the seam running down the back.

One of the few tips and tricks he picked up from his father before his untimely death more than fifteen years before.

An inevitable ending for a man trying to make it being honest in a place where corruption wasn’t just a suggestion, but a prerequisite.

Carefully placed to avoid getting wrinkled, balanced atop it was the cranberry dress shirt he planned to wear under it. Silver cufflinks already threaded onto the ends of either sleeve, they caught the occasional bit of sunshine each time he swept his gaze across the scene before him.

A flash of bright light in his periphery, serving to remind him of the schedule he was on.

Where he needed to be in the very near future, as soon as he was done here.

The vehicle Andres was currently seated in wasn’t what he would call a beater. There was no visible rust on the exterior. No rips or tears marred the cloth seats, nor were there any cracks or chips in the windshield.

Visible defects that wouldn’t be noticed in most parts of Mexico, but would stand out where he was currently parked. The kinds of things that would cause a second glance, which could only lead to any of a handful of things Andres wouldn’t want.

Various forms of scrutiny that could not be afforded, meaning that most of the fleet usually reserved for covert operations was left behind. All tucked away in the nondescript barn in the back corner of the Gil family compound, today he was in a basic Honda. Right at a decade old, the odometer still registered less than six digits in total mileage.

The paint job was solid gray.

Window dressing, making the vehicle virtually invisible as Andres sat beneath the shade of a jacaranda tree just down the street from the home of his intended target. A site that he had no intention of entering, instead waiting for them to exit.

A strategy that wasn’t nearly as proactive as Andres preferred, but that he understood.

On this day perhaps more than any other.

Tucked up tight to the curb, he had been in place since before the sun rose to ensure that nobody saw what he did on the corner behind him when he arrived. Same as they didn’t see him ease the vehicle forward a block and get into his current position.

Careful movement that had ceased in the time since, as not once in the ensuing hours had he opened the door to relieve himself or stretch his legs. Never had he even considered turning on the engine to run the air conditioner, letting the sound of six cylinders pierce the morning air.

Even the windows were rolled all the way up, allowing him to hide behind the tinted glass.

A lurking predator that none of the thin handful of people who had drifted by thus far – some on foot, others on bicycles or similar vehicles of their own – had even glanced at.

Knowing that he would be short on time later in the day, Andres was already wearing the matching slacks to the jacket resting in the back seat. On his feet were a pair of polished alligator-skin dress shoes.

Around his wrist was a silver Rolex to match the cufflinks on his shirt. A necklace of the same metal hung from his neck, culminating in a crucifix resting right at the top of the black ribbed tank top he was wearing.

Everything already in place, so that when the time came all he needed to do was shrug on his shirt and jacket.

Part two in a day that he had been waiting on for longer than he could remember. A farewell to some things, and a new beginning for many more.

The start of a new path that had him brimming with anticipation as he sat behind the wheel. Unable to step outside and move around, he was left instead to play with the dagger currently balanced atop his knuckles.

Passing it from one to the next the way some might a coin, he worked it back and forth across his right fist.

One time after another, fueled by nervous energy.

Anticipation.

Heightened internal factors, causing him to visibly react to the sound of his cellphone springing to life in the middle console. One half of a matching pair of devices, each tucked into one of the molded plastic cupholders.

An item emitting a faint buzzing that was still enough to make his entire upper body clench, the dagger ceasing its progress between his middle and ring fingers.

Sliding his gaze sideways, he needed only glance at the name splayed across the screen before snatching the knife away with his left hand. His right he used to grab up the phone and press it to his cheek.

“Status?” Marco Gil asked the instant it was connected.

“In position,” Andres replied. “No signs of movement yet.”

“Stay on it. Full green light,” Marco replied.

“Got it,” Andres replied. “Any word on the other one yet?”

Chapter Four

The usual buzz of morning activity was already underway as Mariana Abbott pulled her sedan into the parking lot of Longwood Elementary School. A semi-controlled state of chaos matching most mornings, especially now that the weather in the greater Los Angeles area had started to turn.

The end of a winter period that wasn’t nearly as long or as harsh as other parts of the country, though was still sufficient to leave the children who gathered there each day restless for the beginning of spring.

The long-awaited arrival of sun and warmth, bringing with it an uptick in energy levels.

Which, in turn, promised to make Mariana’s job overseeing one of two third-grade classes that much more difficult.

Making it no further than a couple of feet past the edge of the pavement lining the front of the complex, Mariana was forced to come to a stop. Part of her daily ritual, made to battle for entry with parents showing up early to drop off their children. The first of the district’s buses arriving to unload their passengers.

On occasion, even the stray police cruiser or two making the rounds.

A crowd that today looked to be a bit more robust than usual, putting her assigned parking spot along the edge of the building precariously out of reach. A destination she could see from her perch behind the wheel, though was powerless to reach.

Employee or not, left subject to the whims of the ebb and flow of morning traffic.

“Look, mom!” her daughter Lili snapped from the passenger seat beside her. Her first words since they left the house earlier, the ride over spent in icy silence over some perceived slight.

Another thing that was fast becoming a daily ritual, this one having something to do with the flavor of jelly in the sandwich Mariana had packed in their lunches.

Another microaggression on an ever-expanding list that she was already growing tired of trying to keep track of.

“There’s Tiff and Bea! Can I just get out here and go in with them?”

Sliding her gaze up from the tip of her daughter’s stubby index finger, Mariana took in the cluster of females marching down the sidewalk toward them. A group more than half a dozen strong, ranging from Lili’s first-grade classmates to the mother of one of the older girls along the outer edges.

Today’s assigned parent, walking along to ensure safe passage to and from school each day. A woman Mariana didn’t know by name, but had seen enough times to recognize.

Even more, she could identify the expression the woman was wearing. A mix of exhaustion and exasperation, almost looking relieved that they had finally made it.

And that she would soon be given a seven-hour break as a result.

“Puh-leeeeeze,” Lili pleaded, lifting herself from her seat so she could turn to stare at Mariana. “Don’t make me sit here in line as they all walk past. It’s so embarrassing.”

For just an instant, Mariana felt something flare up within. A remnant from their earlier back-and-forth, making her want to demand to know what was so wrong with being seen sitting in the car with her mother.

A thought soon followed in order by telling her daughter no, just to make her sit and suffer whatever indignation she thought was waiting for her.

Spitefulness that also fell away just as fast, replaced by the same concoction resting on the features of the woman coming their way.

“Okay,” Mariana sighed. “Just watch for cars.”

Acquiescence prompting her daughter to push open the passenger door without a word.

A hasty exit leaving Mariana to add, “And meet me at the car right after the last bell this afternoon!” as her daughter slammed it shut and scurried away.

Chapter Five

The effects of the morning sun had been even more pronounced than Angel Abarca anticipated. Just high enough to sit perched atop the eastern wall of the facility, it had been a veritable spotlight.

A heat lamp aimed directly at him, exacerbating the effects of the heavy push workout he was doing. Today’s split in the rotation, emphasizing the chest, triceps, and shoulders.

Muscle groups working in concert together, to be offset the next day by those of the back and biceps needed for pulling.

One of the more popular variations available, Angel having had years to experiment with different combinations before returning to the tried-and-true.

Just as he was sure he would do many more times in the decade-plus he had remaining on his sentence.

A lengthy stay that was still a mere pittance compared to what he would have been handed had those who put him away had any idea of the full litany of transgressions he had committed over the years. Tasks carried out both north and south of the border separating the United States from Mexico, beginning when he was still in his teenage years.

The start of an escalation pattern that continued for the better part of two decades thereafter, most of the associated stories having been scattered to the desert winds. Things that his employer neither wanted nor needed to be spoken of again.

What was known was by design. Pointed strikes meant to make a point.

Build the legend of both himself and the people he represented.

Public spectacles that - if the whisperings Angel occasionally heard through the bars of his cell, or even what happened in the weightroom earlier, were any indicator – were still serving their intended purpose.

Stripped bare except for the pair of rubber flip-flops covering his feet, Angel was bent forward at the waist. Hands pressed into the cool tile of the wall on either side of the stainless-steel shower handle before him, his chin was lowered, directing the stream onto the crown of his head.

Chilled water, matting his thick hair to his scalp. Spray that stripped away the sweat that had previously soaked it through, droplets running down through the short hairs along his neck and across his bare shoulders and chest.

Heavy perspiring that was just the first of the season, sure to be repeated too many times to count in the months ahead. Hours spent out in the makeshift weight room, the days all blending together.

Another hundred or so on a term already numbering well over a thousand, with many more yet to come. A tally he had stopped trying to keep track of, knowing that nothing good could come of it.

Too many times, he had seen fellow inmates go down a similar path, almost always ending with them falling prey to insanity. Depression. Desperation.

Or, worst of all, hope.

Emotions that would only get him killed in one way or another, cast aside long ago in the name of survival.

Eyes open, Angel kept his gaze aimed downward, letting the excess water run from his head. Twin rivulets, streaming to the floor on either side.

Thin waterfalls, through which he could see the series of shadows that appeared on the floor beneath him. Darkened streaks, standing out against the shiny backdrop of the wet tile.

Four in order, starting at the open mouth to the shower room and stretching his way.

Giving no indication of recognizing their presence, Angel slid his gaze to the side, watching as the inmate on his right switched off his water and started to back away.

Moving only his eyes, he shifted his focus to the left in time to see the man there do the same, casting Angel a sideways glance as he did so.

A knowing look that could mean any of a dozen different things. A nod of anticipation, knowing what was coming, or even a bit of a silent warning.

Myriad different possibilities that Angel didn’t give a shit about, his only care that the man turned and walked away. One less opponent for him to plan for.

A more imminent threat that he could cast aside, focusing on the group standing outside, already making the massive mistake of announcing themselves. Eliminating the element of surprise, and then giving him a few moments to prep himself.

Pressing his fingertips into the wall before him, Angel felt sensation dance the length of his limbs. The familiar feeling of adrenaline creeping into his system, his body preparing for battle.

Craving it even, a number of years having passed since anybody was stupid enough to come for him in such a way.

Eyes sliding upward, Angel glanced at the stainless-steel fixture in front of him. A quick check, ensuring that the contingency he had put in place when he first arrived years ago was still valid, the fixture not changed or updated in the time since, before dropping his focus back to the ground.

There he paused, completely oblivious to the water continuing to pour down on him. The sounds of the locker room beyond.

Mere background that he shoved aside, counting off seconds before seeing the shadows begin to shorten, coming his direction. A slow march that he continued to wait through, his fingernails whitening as he pressed them harder into the wall the sole sign that he even knew they were there.

Rooted in place, he made himself stay motionless, frozen until the instant he saw the middle two start to converge.

Shoving with both hands, Angel rotated out to his left. Grasping the steel handle of the shower fixture with his right hand, he jerked it outward, the lone small screw at the bottom no match for the concentrated wrath he was carrying.

Giving only nominal resistance, it sheared free as he swung the handle in a wide arc. His reach extended by several inches, he swiped it across the cheek of the closest man as he was still just halfway across the floor. Metal connecting with underlying bone, opening a gash that sent blood pouring to the wet tile.

A strike hard enough to cause the man to bend forward at the waist, exposing the bridge of his nose for Angel to drive his knee upward.

Solid contact, shattering the tensile strength of the man’s nose and dropping him back onto the feet of his cohort coming in behind him.

A pileup on a wet surface, effectively neutralizing one half for the time being and letting Angel turn his focus the opposite direction by dropping straight to a knee. A sudden loss of elevation that caused the second of the interior attackers to aim too high as he came swiping in with a looping right hand.

A knockout punch that drew nothing but air, his poor footing on the slick surface causing him to over rotate. Momentum that Angel let carry him in a half revolution before driving the stainless-steel handle straight out, using it as a bludgeon to the side of the man’s knee.

A force multiplier, enhancing the power of the strike, causing the joint to fold sideways on itself.

A blast evoking a loud cry from the man as gravity began to take over, his weight sagging toward the floor.

A downward descent that Angel wasn’t about to waste, exploding forward and driving both hands into the man’s back. A violent shove, flinging him into the fourth attacker, causing them to both go down in a pile.

A quick first round, ending with all four of his attackers either injured or flailing on the ground.

A dramatic swing of the odds in only a matter of moments, after which Angel really started to go to work.

Chapter Six

Seated on his right haunch in the driver’s seat, Andres’s opposite wrist was draped over the steering wheel. Abandoning the stoic stance of earlier, the dagger had been cast onto the passenger seat beside him.

Serving in its place as an outlet for nervous energy, his right knee was drawn up vertically, moving up and down at several beats a minute.

A human sewing machine, thrumming at a pace that was enough to make the entire Honda vibrate under him. A rate that kept ticking upward as the clock got closer to the top of the hour.

A tightening window that was more than enough to offset the state of half-dress he was in, causing sweat to begin soaking through the back of his undershirt. Same for his features, dotting his cheeks and the goatee framing his mouth.

Perspiration he had wiped away no less than a dozen times, using every spare napkin and scrap of cloth inside the vehicle.

“Come on,” he muttered, as he twisted his right hand up from his thigh. Checking the second cellphone tucked into his palm, he noted the timestamp on the screen. “Where the hell are they, dammit?”

Taken as a singular event, there was nothing particularly special about what Andres was here to do. The first time he had ever drawn blood from another living creature was just shy of twenty years ago, when he eliminated the feral neighborhood dog who had tried to steal a chicken from his mother.

What was supposed to be enough to feed the two of them for a couple of days, stretched to cover a whole week by the additional meat of the mutt.

Acting on nothing more than raw instinct, in the wake of it, Andres had stood cowering in front of his mother. Expecting another of her lectures or – even worse – one of her backhanded slaps to the ear, she had instead merely stared.

Silent assessment, ending with her nodding at him with a knowing expression.

Recognition that manifested in her making a couple of phone calls that very night, starting him on a direct path to where he was now. A circuitous route that saw him bear witness to his first act of physical violence barely a week later.

His first murder, just days thereafter.

Events that became just a regular part of his life working for the Gil cartel, to the point that he barely blinked when it was his turn to start carrying them out a couple of years later. Acts that he took to the same as he did that damned dog, performed without pause or forethought.

Sure as hell not a shred of guilt or remorse.

A level of detachment that had become as much his hallmark as the dagger beside him or the mismatched metal incisors visible whenever he smiled. A point of pride that was still present, the reason for his agitation this morning having nothing to do with what he’d been ordered to carry out. Same for the target he’d been sent to eliminate.

Rather, it was what it all symbolized.

The culmination of a journey that started that day with his mother, ultimately placing him now as the right-hand to Marco Gil, the ascending head of the family empire.

A coronation for them both, validating what they had put into motion long ago, and clearing the way for everything they intended to do looking ahead.

Stuff that all hinged on a couple of final tasks, what he was here to do now a big part of that.

Leaning forward behind the wheel, Andres glanced into the rearview mirror. Another check, to ensure that there wasn’t a second point of exit from the home before him. A back entrance into an alley or a side street that might have let them slip past.

One more look, revealing the same empty street as the previous couple of dozen.

A sight that caused him to slide his hand back atop the wheel, balancing it across his palm. Wrapping his fingers around it, he clenched tight, counting off the seconds silently in his mind.

A total making it no higher than five before the sight he’d been waiting on all morning finally appeared. A parting of the gates at the front of the home, starting as nothing more than a crack and steadily growing wider.

A flicker of movement that instantly drew Andres’s attention, his hand releasing as he pushed out the puff of air he didn’t realize he’d been holding.

“It is about damn time.”

Flicking his gaze down to the other cellphone in his hand, he thumbed it to life. The call log already up onscreen, he checked to ensure that the number he wanted was ready and waiting at the top before lifting his gaze back to the house ahead of him.

Forcing his leg to stop moving to ensure there was nothing to give away his position, he watched as the gates finished parting and the front bumper of some vintage automobile built decades before Andres was born appeared. What some would call a classic that he just viewed as old, with square windows on the sides and white walls for tires.

Yet another outdated thing that he and Marco would soon be working to modernize.

Slowly rolling forward, the car exited the driveway and turned toward Andres as the gate began to close in its wake. Sun reflecting from the windshield and glossy black paint, it made its way down the street, slipping by the Honda without the driver or the couple in the back so much as glancing over.

People all immersed in their own bullshit, too busy to be bothered with their surroundings.

One last fatal error that brought a smile to Andres’s face as he fixed his gaze again on the rearview mirror. Bringing the phone up before him, he waited, watching until the red flash of taillights appeared.

Twin flares that persisted as the car coasted to a stop at the corner sign, settling right over the sewer cover in the center of the street.

Needing only a single tap on the screen of the cellphone, Andres watched as the device attached to the underside of the metal disk exploded. Enough concentrated power to blow up the home he’d spent the entire morning staring at, all funneled upward at the vehicle.

An unfair fight that it didn’t stand a chance in, erupting into a fiery pyre of smoke and metal hurtling skyward.

Chapter Seven

It didn’t matter that the parking lot was already full by the time Marco Gil pulled up in front of the church.

He had no intention of pulling in there anyway.

Not on this day, or any other again moving forward.

Handling the driving duties himself today, Marco slid directly past the pair of entrances into the paved lot. Matching points of ingress, both with the backends of vehicles inched just off the curb. More attendees waiting for the traffic ahead of them to clear in hopes of finding space in the back themselves.

What was already clear at a glance to be a fool’s errand, there being no chance any of them was finding a spot unless they jumped the stanchions and started lining up in the grass behind the lot.

Something that might be an option for the plebeians here to pay their respects, but not for him and his.

He wasn’t the one there to kiss the ring.

From this day forward, Marco was the one wearing the damned thing.

“So many people,” his abuela gasped as they rolled past. Seated on the rear passenger side, she rotated her head as they passed the parking lot, taking in the gathered throng of people.

A crowd that looked to have already filled the interior of the cathedral, with many more clustered around the side and front entrances. People running the full gamut, ranging from those dressed in overalls and straw hats to others in suits and dresses.

Every slot on the socioeconomic scale, corresponding to all of the various pies that his father had a finger in.

Flicking his gaze to the rearview mirror, Marco watched as his mother reached across the backseat. Taking her mother-in-law’s hand in her own, she threaded her fingers with the old woman’s.

Clutched them tight.

“Our Lorenzo represented a lot of things to a lot of people,” she said.

Choosing to remain silent, to keep from voicing the concerns about how overstretched their business concerns had become yet again, Marco tapped on the gas once more. A gentle nudge, bringing the bumper of the Rolls-Royce past the front corner of the cathedral.

Lifting his foot, he let momentum carry them the rest of the way forward, angling the wheel toward the curb painted bright red. Parking restrictions that nobody dared to mention as they slid to a stop, those gathered on the sidewalk backing away to either side.

People with their features all drawn taut, their heads bowing forward as they recognized the vehicle before them. The same one his father had insisted on taking everywhere, no matter how many times Marco warned him against it.

A status symbol to match their home, essentially painting a target on him for all to see.

An act of defiance that had ultimately led to his demise, Marco’s plan the minute today’s proceedings were over being to park the damned thing in the garage for the foreseeable future. An extended stay under a heavy tarpaulin, until which time he could quietly get rid of it altogether.

One more item from the past. Another way of tying them to a time and means of operation he had no interest in seeing extended a minute longer.

Putting the car in park, Marco switched off the ignition and stepped out into the morning sun. His gaze hidden behind a pair of dark sunglasses, he flicked his focus to either side.

A quick scan, passing over the mourners with their features bunched tight and the gawkers straining to get a good look. Groups that would both have their chance in the hours ahead, of no consequence to Marco at the moment.

Pushing the door shut, he buttoned his suitcoat and started around the front, making it all the way to the passenger side headlight before spotting what he was looking for. A flash of burgundy-and-black sprinting in from the far side of the building and sliding to a stop just off the edge of the sidewalk.

Wearing a pair of sunglasses to match Marco’s, Andres lifted his chin.

A silent word not of greeting, but in letting him know that what he’d been sent to do was finished.

Only the one final task remained.

Information that nearly caused the corner of Marco’s mouth to flicker upward. The faintest hint of a smile that he managed to push away as he reached the rear door and opened it wide.

Extending a hand, he waited as his grandmother placed her withered digits in his. Stretched a leg out and began to climb from the car.

“Come on, abuela,” he whispered. “Let’s go say farewell to papa.”

Chapter Eight

The first chance Mariana Abbott had to look at her phone was during her lunch period. A few moments to fish it out of her purse and check the screen, not because today had been any busier than most, but because that was the only time each day when she allowed herself to do so.

A hard-fast rule she had imposed in hopes of setting a good example for her students. Showing them that if she, an adult, could go all day without needing to call or text or look at social media or whatever else they might be into, then they certainly could too.

Seemingly endless possibilities that didn’t even exist five years ago.

Certainly, weren’t an issue for kids so young as recently as two or three years ago.

Yet another constant headache for her and her colleagues to constantly maneuver. A problem in the form of both a distraction, and a means of access to ideas and images they had no business seeing at such an age.

Part of a recent proliferation of things trying hard to snuff out any notion of a traditional childhood.

Reclined in the rolling chair behind her desk, Mariana allowed the springs to rock her forward a couple of inches. Mechanical memory, offset by her using the heel of her left foot to push her back the other direction.

A back-and-forth motion, each successive pass causing a few groans to cry out from the seat. Sounds not of disrepair, but from going unused, her lunch period one of the only moments each day when she was able to take a seat.

On the desk beside her rested the remnants of the lunch she brought from home. The crusts from the diagonal-cut peanut butter and jelly sandwich, along with the last few slices of an apple in a miniature Ziploc bag.

Far from her preferred midday meal, forced down in an effort to match what she packed her daughter each morning. Another stab at setting a good example, developing habits that might keep her daughter from going down the same path she did later in life.

A battle with sweets and processed sugar that likely would have happened much earlier, had she been able to get her hands on them.

Or much of anything, for that matter.

Pulled up from the floor beside her, Mariana’s purse rested on her lap. A basic satchel with a flap draped over the top, she held it in place with her left hand. Her right she shoved deep inside, rummaging around through the assorted items that every mom was forced to carry before her fingertips grazed the solid edge of her phone.

A singular device of uniform dimensions that she immediately dove in deeper for, sliding her fingers around and drawing it out.

Keeping the bag in place, she thumbed the screen to life, seeing a pair of missed calls on the screen.

“760-area code,” she muttered, a cleft forming between her brows as she stared down at it. A single moment of confusion, dissipating just as fast as her eyes widened.

Her mouth dropped open in kind.

Looks of surprise, matched by her stomach clenching tight. A reflexive squeeze, threatening to force out every bit of food she’d just consumed.

“Angel,” she whispered, recognizing the three-digit prefix correlating to the part of southern California known as the Inland Empire. A sprawling stretch of land well beyond the eastern boundary of the greater Los Angeles area, known more for its agriculture than any sort of urban hub.

A place with just a few smaller towns, chief among them being Victorville.

The place where her older brother had been a resident for the last six years and counting.

Staring at the string of unsaved digits in her call log, Mariana couldn’t help but think of the fact that usually when her brother called, the caller ID informed her it was coming from the Victorville Federal Correctional Facility. A standing appointment on the first Sunday of every month, the fact that he was reaching out now, in the middle of the day from an unknown number, cause for concern.

Even greater, that he was doing so multiple times just minutes apart.

Casting her gaze to the door standing half open across the room and the row of windows cracked wide a few inches along the side, Mariana considered rising and closing each of them. A thought there and gone in a moment, followed in order by simply tucking her phone away and waiting until she got home.

Could lock herself in her bedroom, well away from the prying ears of any colleagues or students or even Lili.

A notion she let linger for a bit longer before nudging it aside as well, knowing that trying to ignore it would only eat at her for the remainder of the afternoon.

And likely make whatever he was trying to contact her about worse.

Pinpricks of sensation rising through her core, Mariana exhaled. Letting her shoulders sag as the air was expelled, she tapped on the screen, hearing only the first part of a single ringtone before it was snatched up.

“Mariana?” her brother asked. A voice she was familiar with, mixed with a handful of underlying emotions she wasn’t.

Not from him, anyway.

“Angel?” she asked, keeping her voice low. “Are you okay?”

Ignoring her question entirely, he hissed, “Listen to me, you need to get Lili, and you need to get out of there.”

“Get out of...” Mariana replied. The trepidation she was carrying just a moment before dissipating in the face of confusion, she asked, “What’s going on? Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” Angel snapped. “But you guys need to get out of there. At least for a while, until I can figure out what the heck is going on.”

“Until you...” Mariana began, letting her voice trail again. “So you have no idea what’s going on, but that it’s bad enough you expect us to jump in the car and go into hiding?”

“Yes! In the car, or even better, on a plane. Just, anything to get as far away from there as you can!”

Chapter Nine

“We good?” Angel Abarca asked. Just two short words pushed out through unmoving lips, his jaw locked into place.

A question posed without glancing over, his focus fixed on the small silver phone clamped tight in his right hand. A flip model that was about as high-tech as could be procured inside, more than half of the screen hidden behind his thumb and fingers wrapped around either side.

Digits all with nails flashing white under his grip.

A clench stemming from the conversation just had. The missed calls that preceded it.

And the sheer amount of adrenaline still pulsating through his system after the brawl earlier. A fight the likes of which hadn’t happened in years. Not since he was the newbie in the yard, looking to stake his claim.

Make it very clear who he was.

His spot in the pecking order.

Standing that might mean something on his side of the bars, but that the men watching over them wouldn’t give a damn about, sure to be showing up at any moment. An impending trip to solitary, meaning he needed to get things done as fast as possible.

Make all necessary arrangements before the blessed connection to the outside world seized in his hand was rendered out of reach.

“Clear,” Ronnie Harper, his cellmate for the last three years, muttered back from his spot along the front grate. Standing with wrists balanced on the horizontal slat bisecting the vertical bars, he peered in either direction, ensuring there were no guards in sight.

Nobody else coming to try and finish what was started in the showers.

Who the men were who came for him in the shower was easy enough to figure out. Around for as long as he had been, he’d seen every gang and all their subsets at one point or another. Guys who lived the life on the outside, and others who sold themselves the instant they arrived for the sake of protection.

Everything from MS-13 to the Aryan Nation, their numbers swelling and decreasing from one month to the next. A constant balancing act, each group always watching, waiting for the moment when they might be able to make a move.

For all the trouble the two largest groups liked to stir up with one another though, they weren’t stupid. They knew better than to go after Angel, just like they knew that no amount of promised money would do them a damn bit of good if they weren’t around to spend it.

Both either begging off or simply bypassed altogether, the job had fallen to a motorcycle outfit from Long Beach known as Los Costas Lobos. A group that usually numbered somewhere between five and ten in total, with matching tattoos on their forearms and not a whole lot else.

Guys who liked to stand on the sidelines and watch a good fight. Might even spread a few rumors to help push one along.

Rarely, though, were they the ones actually involved.

And not once in his years inside had Angel ever seen them acting as the instigators. A change of pace meaning either someone outside was leaning hard on the larger organization, or somebody had offered an obscene amount of money to make it happen.

Indicators of somebody who was either stupid or desperate, meaning they would not be above going after Angel’s family to get to him.

Especially once they heard that their initial attempt had fallen short.

Who the hell it could be that was so intent on going after him now, he had not a clue. Aside from those dustups a few years back, he hadn’t tangled with anybody on the inside in a while.

Anything stemming back from his previous life was even longer before that, carried out on behalf of his employer.

Insulation in the forms of time and degrees of separation that meant what happened didn’t make a damn bit of sense. A state of things that only added more anger and confusion to the host of things he was thinking as he dialed a second number into the flip phone.

Another string committed to memory, tapped out in order before hitting send.

A call that went directly to voicemail without answering, leading Angel to pull the phone back down and enter one last number. The last in the trio he made sure was memorized well before that last assignment that ultimately landed him inside.

His own personal hierarchy, ranked in order of importance.

Ringing four times in order, Angel was sure he was about to be sent to voicemail for the fourth time in the last half hour when the call was picked up. Without an immediate response, he could hear the muffled sounds of organ music in the background.

The low din of voices talking.

Sounds that lasted for more than thirty seconds before a heavily accented male voice answered in a hushed tone, “Si?”

“Miguel? It’s Angel.”

Of the many people Angel worked with during his time with the Gil cartel, Miguel Rojas was quite possibly the only one who was completely outside the business. A simple farmer who oversaw the vineyard, making him the person Angel always reached out to whenever he needed to get answers and couldn’t get his old boss on the phone.

Lorenzo Gil, the second of his unholy trinity.

Audibly exhaling, Miguel whispered, “I thought it would be you, señor. That’s the only reason I stepped out to answer.”

His brows coming together, his confusion heightening, Angel asked, “Stepped out? Where are you?”

“At the church for the...” Miguel began to respond. An answer that trailed away, replaced by him asking, “You haven’t heard?”

“Heard what?”

“Señor Lorenzo is dead.”

Snapping upright from his perch on the edge of the bottom bunk, Angel pressed the phone tighter to his cheek. His vision winnowed to the spot of bare concrete block directly in front of him as he drew in gulps of air.

Willed the world to keep from spinning as he tried to process what he was just told. The fact that his previous call went to voicemail without even ringing.

Quite possibly the sole possibility he hadn’t considered while stewing on things since the attack in the shower earlier.

“What happened?” Angel asked.

“The family is trying to tell everyone it was a heart attack, but I overheard some of the men saying he was shot by a long-range bullet.”

Taking a step forward, Angel kept his focus fixed on the wall before him. Bobbing his head no more than a few millimeters, he snapped a hand out, smacking his palm against the block.

In order, dozens of questions rifled across his mind.

Stuff that he pushed aside, needing only to get to the most important for the time being.

“When?”

“Four days ago,” Miguel replied. “It’s been chaos ever since.”

Continuing to bob his head, Angel asked, “Who’s in charge?”

“Marco.”

Again, Angel’s arm shot out a straight blow to the wall, the impact felt all the way to his shoulder. Leaving his hand in place, he pressed his fingers hard against it.

“Miguel, listen to me,” Angel said. “The minute the funeral is over, you and your wife get in your truck, and you get somewhere far away for a few days, okay?”

On the other end, there was no response save the background noise from before.

“Miguel? Okay?”

“Sí, señor.”

Knowing if the man said he would do it he would, Angel ended the call right there. Pulling the phone away, he did the only thing he could, having no idea how to reach the organization he planned to call next.

Even less, the person in particular he needed to speak to there.

Dialing the operator, he waited until the automated voice asked the name of the listing he was trying to reach before saying, “Drug Enforcement Administration, southwest headquarters, San Diego.”

Part II

Chapter Ten

My entire body from the neck down felt like I’d been leaning against a washing machine all day.

Or, maybe more accurately, like I’d been hugging it, absorbing every last vibration for the last ten hours.

Which, in a way, was exactly what I’d been doing. Steady-state, low-impact rumbling that had penetrated every joint and muscle in my body.

Accumulated absorption that made it feel like I was completely numb. Like my limbs were working through nothing but muscle memory as I plodded up the pair of steps onto the front porch of my shop and turned, raising a hand overhead.

“You folks have a good trip back!”

Despite however stiff or sore I might have felt, I could tell that the man who had spent most of the day riding on the snowmobile behind me felt infinitely worse.

Standing along the rear corner of his rented SUV, he was pitched forward at the waist. Not quite bent completely over, it looked like he was still fighting to unfold himself after hours of being seated on the vehicle.

One hand braced against the back window, his other was balanced in the small of his back. Twin points of support, leaving him with no choice but to lift his chin in farewell.

“Thanks, you too!” he managed to get out. A last gasp of cordiality, despite the fact that it made no sense.

I was already back at my shop, the furthest I intended to go for the rest of the day being to my apartment a couple of blocks away. My second home in West Yellowstone, maintained for those months when I was working as a wilderness guide through Yellowstone National Park.

My way of paying the bills that for the last six years had extended from late spring to early fall, recently expanded to include snowmobiling and snowshoe trips throughout the winter months. Additional services to meet demand that my business partner and I were still dabbling with, despite the massive incident that had taken place several months before.

A matter of kidnapping and forced guiding through the park to locate a plane loaded with rainbow fentanyl that had gone down in a rogue winter squall.

Saving the man the double indignity of any additional forced conversation or standing and watching him struggle his way to the front seat, I turned back toward the door. Boots thumping against chilled porch floorboards, I made my way inside, greeted by the first gust of warm air I’d felt since leaving that morning.

A sudden rush of heat that touched the exposed skin between the shaggy hair hanging across my brow and the four months of growth extended from my chin. Warmth to match the smell of coffee emanating from the ancient drip pot in the corner, drawing a smile to my features.

The air to exhale from my lungs as I slid my eyes shut.

Lifted my face toward the ceiling.

“Bless you, sweet woman.”

Off to my left, I heard the familiar chuckle of my friend and business partner Kaylan Quick. A sound followed an instant later by, “I didn’t know exactly when you’d be getting back, but I figured you’d need a jolt when you did.”

“If by jolt you mean a set of jumper cables to the ears or a defibrillator to the chest, then yes,” I replied. Letting the smile linger, I opened my eyes, head rotating to find my friend seated behind the counter splitting the front part of the building in two.

A partition behind which she spent her days greeting patrons and serving as the manager for Hawk’s Eye Tours. A play on my name that was put on the roughhewn sign above the door the day I opened, maintained even as Kaylan came onboard and later was elevated to a full partner.

“Was it the cold or the crowd?” Kaylan asked as I drifted sideways toward the small table with the coffee pot in the corner.

“Actually, neither. The family was great,” I replied, grabbing a Styrofoam cup from the stack and filling it. Knowing that a single cup would barely get me started, I kept the pot in hand while I drained it.

A jolt of hot and black that resembled jet fuel, barely reaching my stomach before I started to refill it.

“Kids were super into it, the mom was something of an amateur photographer,” I added.

“And the dad?” she asked, cocking an eyebrow.

“Well, there’s the problem,” I replied. Stepping back across the center of the room, I placed the cup down on the counter. Balancing my forearms beside it, I leaned forward, using the pose to stretch my back and shoulders. “Old Faithful and back in one day is a haul.”

On the heels of that same incident back in December, we had made the executive decision to keep all wintertime excursions to a single day. A means of prevention, along with thorough vetting and a clearly posted zero-walkup policy.

Things that had likely lost us a few clients, but had kept any other heinous events from occurring.

Of those who had hired us, most opted for Mammoth Hot Springs. A short jaunt to the east and north to see the geothermic activity and gaze at bull elk before heading back a couple of hours later.

A half day trip that was much easier than the eight-hour jaunt that was Old Faithful.

One I was damned sure to be feeling come morning as well.

A reality that my friend seemed acutely aware of, as gauged by the half smile she wore. A precursor to a smart remark that I stemmed by asking, “And things around here today? Didn’t think you were coming in?”

“Just came by to get a few things done,” Kaylan replied. Rising from her seat, she raised both hands high, lacing her fingers above the plume of curls held in place with a pencil jammed downward at an angle at the back her skull. “Which was tougher than it should have been, with Mr. Popularity’s phone blowing up in there all afternoon. Had to go silence the damn thing just so I could get some work done.”

“My phone?” I asked, my brows rising in kind. “Who the hell was calling me?”

Chapter Eleven

Years ago, before purchasing the building I was standing in, before even meeting Kaylan, I made my living on the government dime. Enlisting in the Navy right after finishing undergrad, I did a single hitch in uniform before transitioning over into the DEA.

A swap in just about every way possible from the attire I wore to the regions of the world I worked out of.

Even the view I enjoyed on my way to the job each morning, exchanging the deep blue of the Atlantic Ocean for the tan desertscape of the American Southwest.

A transition I never once questioned, joining up with the best foreign-deployed advisory and support team – or FAST, as it was often shorthanded – the DEA had, working across central and South America. Five years of flinging myself after every cartel working across two different continents, ending as abruptly as it started.

A sudden halt brought on by returning home late one night to discover that some of the people we had been hunting were doing the same in return. Folks who weren’t bound by laws or procedure, meaning there was nothing standing in their way from killing my wife and young daughter.

Turning them and my home all three into a bonfire lighting up the desert night sky.

A lingering image that stayed with me for months thereafter, causing me to leave my position with the team. The Administration as a whole.

Even the southwest quadrant of the country, heading north to Montana where I eventually opened up the shop I was standing in. A life shift in every way, wanting to put as much distance between myself and what happened as possible.

A retreat of more than a thousand miles that still proved to be insufficient, as one day those very same people walked through the front door and asked to hire me. The start of an international situation that ultimately finally granted me some tiny measure of absolution for what happened to my family.

And introduced me to Mia Diaz.

Otherwise known as the Special Agent in Charge of the southwest headquarters after my team and I rolled out.

In the first couple of years that followed, we worked together a handful of additional times. One-off situations that evolved into something of a working partnership before eventually giving way to genuine friendship.

Rarified air, her and Kaylan together comprising a decent chunk of the people in my life that such could be said about.

The last time I worked with Diaz was on that same incident back in December. Called up after Kaylan and I were able to make our escape from our abductors, she had wasted no time in coming north to our aid.

Spared no resources in helping to unravel and eliminate the ring bringing rainbow fentanyl from China by way of Seattle.

The last time I saw her was a few weeks later, when Kaylan and I took her up on her offer to head down to San Diego for New Year’s.

The most recent time we spoke, a month thereafter when I called to wish her a happy birthday.

Regular – if not a bit sporadic – contact much in line with adult friendships, making the fact that she called several times in one afternoon an obvious outlier.

Behavior well outside the norm, already starting to set off warning lights in the back of my mind as I retreated to my office comprising the back half of the building. One large room with a wooden desk serving as the centerpiece and bookshelves rising to window height lining the walls.

Space enough for most every book and map ever recorded about Yellowstone Park, matched by an equal number of posters and publications covering the top half of the walls.

Décor that I completely ignored as I grabbed up my cellphone from its resting place by the laptop on my desk. Remaining on my feet, I checked the log just long enough to see that she had called four times in a two hour stretch before hitting send and pressing the phone to my cheek.

A single ring later, she answered, “Hawk.”

“Diaz.”

“Thanks for getting back to me.”

“Sorry for the delay,” I replied. “I was on a day trip to Old Faithful and only had the sat phone with me.”

Pausing for just an instant, she asked, “Back to working the winter circuit?”

“Only day trips,” I replied. “And only those who book at least a week in advance so we know exactly who is showing up.”

The initial back-and-forth passed, I slid around the side of my desk. Dropping down into the padded leather seat, I asked, “What’s going on?”

“You remember Angel Abarca?”

Feeling my brows rise behind the curtain of curly hair hanging across my forehead, I asked, “The Angel of Death? Every time I look in the mirror. Why?”

“He called the office this afternoon and asked to speak to you.”

Delivered in Diaz’s usual straight-ahead style, she paused there, as if sensing the look of surprise on my features. The ensuing moment or two I spent searching through the recesses of my mind, calling back the exact details of what happened with Abarca.

The associated dates.

Anything that would explain why he had reached out.

Hasty rummaging that produced nothing.

“Me? Why?”

“Refused to say,” Diaz answered. “Just that it was vitally important, and that he would only talk to you. In person.”

My immediate response to snort and tell the man to go to Hell, I resisted the urge to say as much. Instead focusing on the unusual request – and the even more random timing – I asked, “Surely he’s not up for parole?”

“Not even close,” Diaz said.

“Does Lorenzo Gil have something going on?”

Sighing once, Diaz replied, “Well, that’s where things get interesting. We just found out last night that Lorenzo was shot and killed four days ago.”

Chapter Twelve

Ignacio Marin could see the square-shaped headlights appear on the edge of the parking lot from his perch on the second floor of the building. Reclined in a padded seat in his office, his feet were propped on the corner of the cherry desk before him.

The index finger of his left hand was wrapped around the thick shaft of a Cuban cigar. From the tip, a steady pillar of blue-gray smoke drifted upward, perfuming the air.

In his opposite hand was gripped a bottle of cerveza, the glass damp with condensation.

All the makings for a celebration of sorts. A day he had long dreamed about, working out far better than he could have ever imagined.

The enormous elimination of a lifelong problem, now substituted for its replacement coming to kiss his ass in person.

Making no effort to rise – or even to move – Ignacio raised the bottle to his lips. Taking a long pull, he watched as the headlights drew closer, eventually passing beyond sight of the window.

Swapping out the beer for the cigar, he drew in a deep breath, waiting as those inside the vehicle stepped out and made their way to the front door. Were undoubtedly stopped by his own people to ensure that everything was as it should be.

A coordinated sequence taking a couple of minutes before a knock sounded at his door. Two quick thuds in order, followed by a brief pause, and then a final tap.

Another in a long list of safety precautions, letting him know who was outside.

Still, Ignacio remained rooted in place.

“Come in!”

Exactly four minutes after the first bright glow of halogen bulbs appeared in his periphery, the door swung open to reveal a pair of men. Two guys who combined were barely a decade older than him, both still dressed from the day’s events.

Dark suits. Expensive jewelry.

Hair product. Cologne.

Matching scowls.

“Gentlemen,” Ignacio said. Tilting the top of the bottle in his hand forward, he motioned to the pair of leather visitor chairs across from his desk. Seats of a simple design, deliberately chosen because they were several inches shorter than the rolling chair he was perched on.

A subtle move he had picked up in some documentary years before, wherein a politician always forced his visitors to look up at him.

In their wake, the door swung shut seemingly on its own. Ignacio’s team, used to operating under a veil of invisibility.

His right hand Teo and at least three others, all waiting within inches of the door. Firepower in easy reach, kept just out of sight until the most opportune moment.

More window dressing, selling a particular image.

Now, more than ever.

Exchanging a glance, the two men hesitated for only a moment. Marco Gil on the left, the newly minted king of the family empire, dressed entirely in black.

The guy who, as far as Ignacio knew, went only by the single moniker of Andres by his side. A foolish title, in line with the same sort of posturing that he had been seeing from both for more than ten years.

Two kids hungry to sit at the grown-up table, no matter the cost.

Events both new and old proving just how far reaching that desperation was.

“Thanks for coming by,” Ignacio continued. “I would have been there today but, all things considered, didn’t quite seem right.”

Across from him, Marco managed to keep a poker face at the jab. Composure that his sidekick lacked, allowing the right hand resting on his thigh to curl up into a fist.

A response intentional or merely reflexive, Ignacio far from caring which.

“We came to discuss a timeline,” Marco said in reply. “How fast can you be ready to start working?”

Extending his hand to the side, sending a streak of smoke laterally before him, Ignacio answered, “I’m always working. I think the bigger question here is whether or not you’ve done everything you needed to for us to get started.”

Across from him, the two men shared a quick glance. Looks that seemed to contain no less than a handful of different things, from annoyance to hatred to uncertainty.

A pause lasting no more than a moment, still enough to tell Ignacio everything he needed to know.

“Part of it,” Marco replied.

“Do I need to ask which part?” Ignacio asked. “Because it seems to me anybody can take care of two old farts out for a drive. Getting to the Angel of Death inside a federal penitentiary, though...”

Again, he waved his hand.

A gesture that Marco followed with his eyes, his features clouding for an instant as he spat, “It will be done soon.”

Enjoying the fact that he was already under the young prick’s skin, Ignacio leaned forward. Balancing his forearms against the front edge of the desk, he smiled.

“How soon?”

Chapter Thirteen

For the first time in years, Angel Abarca found himself staring up at the underside of a mattress, rather than the polished concrete of the ceiling above. A swap of his usual spot on the top bunk for a post much closer to the ground.

A position with the additional benefits of the corner posts and bed frame above should anybody try to come after him at some point in the night.

Structural advantages, combined with the benefit of having direct access to the floor. Solid footing from which to launch an offensive, rather than floating five feet above the ground.

Preparation made for an attack he didn’t believe was coming, but he was not about to be caught unawares.

Not again.

Not after what happened in the showers earlier.

Any notion of sleep far removed, he lay with eyes wide, replaying exactly what went down one time after another in his mind. Detailed analysis, beginning not just as he stood with the chilled water pounding down on his head and neck, but long before that.

Hours earlier, when he first stepped out into the open lot for yard time. His trek across the barren earth, the few sparse sprigs of grass covering the sandy soil sure to be beaten into submission by the sun in the days ahead.

The young men who were chased off his equipment.

The crowd that came and went outside the cage.

Information he barely even registered in the moment. Details he was so used to consuming in this enclosed environment that they had become part of his subconscious. Muscle memory, constantly monitoring his surroundings.

Stored data that he now mined through, trying to track where the men had been throughout the day leading up to the attack. If there was anybody else who might have been showing too much interest.

Others with them who might try to take a swing in the days ahead.

Ongoing scrutiny, all with the disposable cellphone tucked tight under his ribs. Placement to ensure that he could feel any buzzing should Mariana call or text him again without drawing unnecessary attention to the light of the screen.

The last time he had heard from her was the better part of an hour earlier. A quick check-in at the foot of the mountain the old family cabin was perched on, serving as the last point with reliable reception before she and her daughter started to climb.

Lasting no longer than a minute or two, Angel could hear all of the familiar hallmarks in her voice.

Aggravation. Exasperation.

Concern.

Fear.

The same mix that was present each time they spoke for the first several years he was inside, slowly starting to wane over time before rushing back to the fore tonight. A return to stasis that would no doubt be there for months or years again into the future.

A step backward in many ways that Angel hated, but would gladly accept in the name of keeping the two of them safe.

Why he wasn’t yet in solitary confinement, Angel had no idea. Having spent most of the afternoon waiting for the inevitable arrival of the guards, he was surprised when dinner came and went without his being pulled out of line.

A way for them to make an example of him in front of a crowd, having the largest possible impact.

Even more so when the call for lights out sounded with him still being tucked away inside his cell.

What exactly it all meant, Angel also had not a clue. Another item on a list for the day that did not make a bit of sense, nothing since he first crossed the yard earlier conforming with the norm.

If left to his own devices, he would rise from his cot and make his way to the infirmary. Find the quartet of men who came for him in the showers and really go to work on them.

Take what he already started to the most extreme degree, extracting every bit of information he could from them before eventually finishing the job. A means both of releasing some of the aggression pulsating through him, and answering the multitude questions passing through his mind.

Inquiries that inevitably kept returning to one of two things.

First, the call he made to the southwest headquarters of the DEA that afternoon. A request for help from a man he hadn’t seen in years. Someone Angel had battled with, having no reason to believe the man would – or even could – help him.

But still, he had to try.

Another thing he was more than willing to do in the name of keeping his sister and his niece safe.

The second question was the same one he first had while sitting on the edge of his bed earlier, trying to figure out who had put Los Costas Lobos up to coming after him. What they possibly could have been offered to consider such a suicide mission.

If he had to guess, he would say that Marco Gil was behind this in some way. The heir apparent to Lorenzo’s empire. The prodigal son who was born into his position, having not done a damn thing before or since to earn it.

A smartass who Angel never cared for because he thought he was special. He always knew better, could do better, than his father.

A most extreme case of nepotism that Angel could only imagine had gotten infinitely worse in the years since he went away.

A time period Angel was still mulling over as he heard Ronnie’s breathing even out as he drifted off to sleep above him.

Same for the rest of the cell block as it quieted down for the night, leaving Angel staring up at the lined mattress above. Hands both curled into fists, he placed them flush against the rough material, envisioning everything that had played out that day.

All that he hoped would occur in the one to come.

Chapter Fourteen

The only direct flight from my home airport in Bozeman to southern California was into LAX. A route that would be both cheaper and faster on the front end of my journey, but would present other larger problems once I arrived.

Namely, being a hundred miles away from both Diaz in San Diego and Angel Abarca in Victorville. A distance that wouldn’t be more than an hour and a half with the cruise control set in Montana, but given the urban sprawl of greater Los Angeles, could easily turn into three or four hours.

A trip requiring patience I wasn’t sure I possessed, and time I damned sure knew I didn’t have.

Crossing that option off the list within seconds, the next in order would be to skip past LA and head on down the coast to San Diego. A destination requiring a quick stop in LA or Salt Lake City that wouldn’t be that lengthy in terms of air travel, but would set us back even further once I arrived, requiring a longer drive north once I got there.

Time that could be utilized by asking Diaz to pick me up and spending the hours en route discussing what was going on, dismissed even quicker for the same reasons.

Hours we didn’t have to burn.

Patience that I knew the two of us together wouldn’t be able to muster, our collective energy threatening to overtake us both before we made it as far as Escondido. Anticipation that it was apparent was already starting to build on the phone last night as we went through the unusual request from Angel Abarca. The demise of Lorenzo Gil.

The obvious connection there had to be between them, even if neither of us had the slightest clue what it might be. A litany of possibilities that we both dug at for the better part of an hour, neither having had any interaction with Abarca or Gil in several years.

Time during which a great deal had clearly changed, making the call from Abarca all the more curious.

Opting to go with the route that put me the closest to the man in the high desert northeast of greater Los Angeles, I purchased a ticket taking me from Bozeman to Phoenix at six a.m. An early start that was just fine by me, given that I had been awake for more than forty minutes by the time my alarm finally went off.

The final round of a night spent tossing and turning, unable to turn my brain off.

Thoughts mixed of what Diaz had called to share, along with recollections of tracking Abarca down years before. Vivid snapshots that kept popping into my mind, reaching into the state of semi-sleep I was drifting in and jerking me back to the surface.

A constant in-and-out pattern that I finally gave up on for good shortly before four. Rising in the darkness, I took a quick shower and grabbed my already-packed bag sitting by the door.

Four hours later, I was the lone person in the backend of a plane landing in the Arizona desert.

Two more beyond that, I dropped down into the Ontario International Airport on the eastern edge of the LA sprawl. Easily the smallest of the various airports servicing one of the largest cities in the country.

A total of six hours spent in transit, providing ample time for me to again go back through everything that took place with Abarca years ago. One final pass, mixing my initial thoughts from the night before with the nuggets mined by my subconscious throughout slumber.

Information from a different life, dredged up to the surface and put into something of a working framework by the time a black sedan sidled up on the far end of the curb outside the main terminal. Standard government fare, recognizable at a glance even long before it came to a stop and the driver’s door opened revealing a woman just a couple of inches short of six feet in height with ringlets of dark hair framing a heart-shaped face.

Swapping out the heavy winter attire she was donning the last time we worked together, she was wearing a black pantsuit with a dark green v-neck underneath. On her feet were flats with a square heel that I could hear clicking as she circled around the backend of the sedan, her arms outstretched before her.

“Hawk,” she opened, sliding her hands over my shoulders.

“Diaz,” I replied, doing the same around her waist. “Good to see you.”

“You too,” she replied. Releasing her embrace, she took a half step back, her gaze rising to my hair as she raised a hand, running it over my freshly shorn locks.

Hair I had buzzed down to a uniform half an inch in the bathroom of my apartment last night. Same for my beard, set just one notch shorter on the clippers.

Far from my best work, but good enough to pass muster with Diaz as she said, “Got to admit, I was expecting something a little fluffier this morning.”

“And fluffy it was, before you called,” I replied with a smile. “Somehow, this seemed a bit more appropriate.”

Chapter Fifteen

The drive from the Ontario International Airport to the federal prison on the northwest edge of Victorville took right at forty-five minutes. A trip moving in the opposite direction of traffic, the inbound lanes jammed with bleary-eyed drivers slugging coffee or putting on makeup while we zipped north.

Three-quarters of an hour, most of which was spent catching up on everything Diaz had culled together since we spoke last night. An overview of what they knew about the death of Lorenzo Gil, and the ensuing scramble that was already starting.

A power struggle to fill the void with no less than a dozen potential participants.

A list that had all already proven themselves willing and capable of bloodshed in pursuit of their goals.

According to the narrative Diaz had been able to put together, Lorenzo was the victim of a targeted attack less than a week before. A sniper shot from an unknown distance, right outside the Catholic church he always visited.

A safe space in every sense of the term.

Hallowed ground, believed to be blessed and beyond the veil of violence. A venerated building, right in the heart of the small village that Lorenzo had been propping up for years.

People who all respected and admired him for the handouts he provided. Food and supplies and monies that kept them all at a baseline standard of living.

Charity made possible by enterprises that he made a point of keeping far removed.

Standing between his wife and mother, he took the lone shot fired directly through the pocket square in his chest pocket. A large caliber round that cleaved through his upper torso at an angle, pulverizing his most vital organ on contact.

Instantaneous death, drawing his soul from his body before he even hit the pavement, speckling many of those nearby in his blood, up to and including the two women who were standing on either side.

According to the reports that Diaz was able to get her hands on, it was the lone shot fired. A single round, more than sufficient to start a stampede that made the ideal cover for escape.

A complete vanishing act, leaving the local authorities with a lengthy number of people who might have reason to go after him, but absolutely nothing in the way of concrete evidence.

Sure as hell not a suspect.

Leaving aside the obvious and glaring possibility of corruption and self-interest from whoever was looking into the matter, our attention then turned to that same list law enforcement south of the border was looking at. A litany of possibilities, ranging from competing cartels to new factions who might want to move in.

People Lorenzo might have crossed in the past.

Endless options that we chewed on for much of the drive, ending things with my giving Diaz a quick overview of the report she had already read about the tracking and apprehension of Abarca. One of the last cases I worked six years ago, acting on an anonymous tip that he would be in Tijuana at a particular date and time.

Solid information that still made for quite the difficult arrest, ending with Abarca and I squaring off with one another. Hand-to-hand fighting that left me with a scar right at my hairline above my left brow, as I referenced to Diaz last night when I told her I thought about Abarca every time I looked in the mirror.

One of the primary reasons I initially started growing my hair out, before realizing it was just much easier – and warmer – during Montana winters.

A daily reminder that I felt good in knowing Abarca shared, his in the form of a slice across his left chest plate. A strike made with an impromptu weapon picked up from the ground, ripping through the skin and a bit of the underlying tissue.

Return fire that left us both pissed and bleeding as the rest of my team arrived with guns drawn, effectively ending things right there.

A story that it was clear Diaz had more questions about, both of us agreeing to leave it as to be continued as we arrived at the Victorville Federal Correctional Facility. Parking in the visitor lot in front of the sprawling monolith, we went through a guard stand, a metal detector, and multiple rows of barbed wire before reaching a visitor’s desk.

Standard fare, made easier by her badge and the set of temporary credentials she’d brought along for me. The fact that I was completely unarmed, having carried nothing more than a small duffel bag onto the plane.

And most importantly, Diaz having called ahead the previous day to let them know when we would arrive and who we wished to speak to. Information that meant they had visitor badges waiting for us, shuffling us directly into the office of Warden Jim Newmark. A middle-aged man who looked like he could be a guard at the facility he was overseeing with a head shaved bald and a thick neck stuffed into a dress shirt and tie.

Too-tight attire that made his cheeks flush red as he spoke, the light from the bulbs in the ceiling above flashing off his shiny scalp.

“I have to say,” Newmark began once initial introductions were made. Sitting in a chair pushed tight to the edge of the desk before him, his fingers were laced atop it.

Thick sausages stacked one atop the other, interrupted only by a golden band on his left ring finger.

“I think I was more surprised about what happened with Abarca yesterday than I was you guys calling and asking to speak with him.”

Stopping there, he added nothing more until Diaz prompted, “Meaning?”

“Meaning, I’m sure you have both been in or around enough places like ours to know that they exist with a sort of understood hierarchy. Most of the guys who show up here already belong to one of the various groups, or they pretty quickly join one.

“Those who don’t either become instant targets, or they become, well...”

Motioning toward Abarca’s file on the desk between us, he said nothing more, letting us infer the rest.

“So he was untouchable?” Diaz asked.

“I wouldn’t say untouchable,” Newmark replied. “When he first got here, there were plenty of guys who wanted to make a name for themselves and tried to step up to the champ.

“Been years since anybody was that stupid, though.”

In line with the person we chased down years before, the same one I fought with in the streets of Tijuana, I nodded in understanding.

“What can you tell us about the men who attacked him?” I asked.

Flicking his gaze between us, Newmark replied, “All members of a clique known as Los Costas Lobos. Motorcycle crew based over near Long Beach.”

Giving her head a shake beside me, Diaz said, “Can’t say I’m familiar.”

“And I can’t say I’m surprised,” Newmark answered. “From what I understand, they’re pretty small-time on the outside. Even more so in here.”

“So no chance at this being some sort of power play?” I asked.

Snorting softly, Newmark responded, “None. These guys are so far down the list, they’re barely even on it.”

Pausing there, he raised his brows, tilting his head to the side. “Hell, by now, they probably aren’t after what happened yesterday. All four of those boys might still be alive, but they aren’t going to be any good in a fight for a long time to come.”

Chapter Sixteen

Of the dozen or so different factions that Diaz had mentioned on the drive up that might be vying to replace Lorenzo Gil’s enterprise south of the border, Los Costas Lobos was not among them. An omission that wasn’t surprising for a couple of reasons.

First, as Jim Newmark explained, they were small-time. A designation that extended well beyond the walls of the Victorville Federal Correctional Facility, encompassing their presence on the outside as well.

A crew that I would characterize more as a gang than a cartel, having run across them a time or two in my time with the DEA years ago.

Placement on the underworld hierarchy that Diaz’s lack of knowledge on them confirmed had not changed in my time away.

The occasional bit of hired muscle, but otherwise a nuisance more than a threat. The kinds of people who nobody wanted to see hanging out near a school, but that weren’t likely to clear out a restaurant or movie theater on sight.

Second – and equally, if not far more, important for our purposes – was they weren’t in Mexico. Relegated almost exclusively to the I-5 corridor through Long Beach and parts of Huntington Beach, their reach didn’t even make it as far as Carlsbad.

Much less San Diego.

Let alone the border.

“Sounds like a pretty clear hit job,” Diaz whispered to me as we stood inside the interview room two floors above Newmark’s office. Standing shoulder-to-shoulder in front of the lone window on the far end of the space, we peered out through the row of bars covering the glass.

A view facing out to the north, the world a monochromatic sandscape extended into the distance.

“Yep,” I agreed. “And they probably weren’t the first people approached about it, either.”

Grunting softly, Diaz added, “Like Newmark said, most people in here aren’t stupid enough to go after him. Must have been some price tag.”

“More than most people would drop over a grudge, meaning whoever was behind it likely has deep pockets and a direct connection to him or Lorenzo.”

Behind us, a single knock could be heard. One solid contact, followed by a key sliding into the lock.

Metal on metal, causing Diaz to flick her gaze my way as we each turned.

“And is either in a hurry, or desperate as hell.”

Remaining in front of the window, we rotated just as a guard was the first one to enter. A guy in a uniform of mismatched shades of brown, his shoulders and triceps both scraping the edges of the doorway as he passed.

Musculature that looked to have been a direct result of pharmaceutical enhancement, as evidenced by the pockets of acne dotting the cheeks and chin of his oversized head. Features swollen beyond their usual size and flushed a deep shade of red.

Taking no more than a step or two inside, he glanced in either direction. A performative search for a threat he knew didn’t exist before moving laterally to reveal Angel Abarca standing behind him.

The last time I saw Abarca was six years ago, inside a federal courtroom in San Diego. Not about to offer any kind of plea deal, the prosecutor had put me on the stand as the arresting officer to detail exactly what had happened in Tijuana.

The start of testimony that also included the numerous other acts we knew he was responsible for or connected to, occurring both north and south of the border.

A laundry list of crimes that his counsel had done his best to try and sidestep. Some slick solo practitioner who was known to represent people with cartel ties who, despite his best efforts, couldn’t get Abarca off with anything less than a sentence approaching twenty years.

The very definition of compromise, where both sides walked away pissed, feeling like they had been slighted.

In the years since, the expected physical changes had occurred. His hair was cropped close, revealing a bit of recession above either temple. Deep parentheses framed either side of his mouth.

He had put on at least ten pounds, every bit of it looking to be corded steel. Dense muscle that lined his bare forearms and widened his shoulders, giving the orange jumpsuit he wore a tapered look.

Slicing down from his left brow was a scar just over an inch in length.

Typical prison transition, the only thing missing being copious amounts of ink that may or may not have been hiding under his clothes.

True to form, the only thing that didn’t appear to have changed in the least was the amount of raw aggression he carried. His natural tendencies, as evidenced by the slight curl of his fists at the sight of us standing there.

The tiniest flinch, as if he might start our way.

Giveaways that he tried to pass off as he nodded at us and stepped inside the room. Telltale signs that the guard also noticed, making sure to lead Abarca straight to the lone table in the room and cuff him to the ring rising out of the center of it before exiting.

Banging the door shut in his wake, both Diaz and I waited until the reverberations died away until pulling out chairs across from Abarca.

Sliding down onto the plain hardwood, we sat in silence, both sides assessing the other for the better part of a minute, before Diaz said, “Mr. Abarca, my name is Mia Diaz, Special Agent in Charge of the southwest headquarters that you called yesterday.”

Motioning to me by her side, she continued, “And I’m sure you recognize my colleague here. You called and asked for this meeting, so I’ll just get straight to it and ask what this is about.”

Bypassing any mention of the brawl the previous day, or of Lorenzo Gil, or even what landed him here years before, she left it there. A deliberately vague opening, meant to put the full onus on him.

A crafted negotiator cutting right to the heart of the matter.

A ploy that Abarca too seemed to appreciate, dipping his head forward for an instant before replying, “I would like to make a deal.”

Resisting any urge to smirk, or snort, or to even outright laugh, Diaz kept her features even. Her voice managed to remain neutral as she replied, “You are years away from parole, with a list of convicted charges that is pages long.”

“It’s not for me,” Abarca replied, stopping her before she could continue the rest of her denial. A response he seemed to be expecting, jumping straight ahead with, “It’s for my sister and her daughter, my niece.”

Flicking his glance between us, he continued, “Their names are Mariana and Liliana Abbott, and they live in Norwalk.

“I’d like for them to be brought in, protected, and in return, I will give you everything I know about the Gil cartel.”

Chapter Seventeen

The number of nights Angel Abarca had spent on the top bunk staring up at the ceiling and replaying what happened six years ago were too many to count. Endless hours of relentless analysis, trying to determine how the DEA had known where he was going to be.

How the team had intercepted him and his crew as they made their way through Tijuana in search of their target.

How the hell the young agent had managed to get the best of him.

If forced to guess, Angel would ballpark it somewhere north of five hundred. The better part of two years spent picking apart every aspect of the night that had stripped away his freedom.

A number surpassed only by imagining what would happen if he ever found himself in front of Hawk Tate again.

Thousands of imaginings, not one playing out anywhere near what was currently going on.

The first instant Angel saw him standing on the opposite side of the room, he would be lying if he said a couple of those mental images didn’t spring to mind. A tiny subset of a much larger number, made to fit their surroundings and the other people present.

Obstacles that Angel would have to overcome, but as recently as a few years ago gladly would have in the name of getting his hands on Tate once more. A process much like what he had wanted to do with the four members of Los Costas Lobos, starting with an interrogation before really going to work on the man.

Punishing him for what he had done.

Releasing every bit of anger he carried.

Reminding them all again why his nickname was The Angel of Death.

An ingrained reaction that was there and gone in instant. His reptilian brain, operating on pure emotion, before logic kicked in.

The much larger reason for why he had called and asked for the meeting pushed its way to the fore.

Snuffed out as fast as it arrived, the flicker of violent thoughts was enough to put Tate on alert. His own reflexes and instincts rising to the surface.

A state of heightened awareness, existing even now as he sat directly across the table from Angel. Chair pushed back a couple of inches, he sat with his weight evenly balanced. His hands rested in loose fists on his thighs.

A classic defensive stance, making use of his situational advantages as he stared directly back across the table.

A pointed gaze that Angel had to remind himself wasn’t a challenge. The man was not a fellow inmate. Wasn’t trying to make a name for himself by going after the top of the internal pyramid.

Sitting in silence, he did just as the woman he arrived with had earlier, leaving the floor to Angel.

“I’m assuming you met with the warden before you came to see me,” Angel opened. “And he filled you in on what happened yesterday.”

In the years since their last interaction, Tate’s features had changed only nominally. His hair was shorter. His face wasn’t so dark, suntan replaced with a beard.

Otherwise, there was little noticeable difference beyond those to be expected with aging. A transition from late twenties to mid-thirties, stripping away any remaining baby fat, hardening his edges.

Changes that Angel had no doubt were much more pronounced for him, with more than a decade on the man across the table. Half of that spent in a state of high alert, forever watching for an attack like what happened in the showers.

“He did,” Tate replied, his first words since Angel had asked to speak to him alone, the female agent reluctantly rising and departing, no doubt standing just outside the door, listening to every word shared.

“Then I’m guessing he also told you it has been years since anybody was that dumb,” Angel said. “And even then, it was always someone a lot higher on the food chain than the Lobos.”

Pausing there, he could see the gears turning behind Tate’s stare. Thoughts he kept to himself, replying only with, “Your point?”

“My point is, they didn’t do this on their own. And if whoever was behind it was crazy enough to hire them to come for me, they will not be above going after my family to get to me too.”

Again, Tate’s immediate response was to remain quiet. His features stoic, he sat in silence, processing for a moment before saying, “You have any idea who it is?”

“Some,” Angel admitted. “That’s part of what I’m willing to trade. But before I do that, I need to know that my family is safe.

“That’s why I called the DEA office and asked to speak to you. We went toe-to-toe. Spilled each other’s blood. If you were good enough to matchup with me, then I know you’re good enough to protect them.”

For the first time since Angel stepped inside the room, Tate betrayed the slightest bit of a reaction. His brows rose just a fraction of an inch as he exhaled.

“If you called headquarters, then I’m sure they already told you I’m out. Turned in my badge not long after you and I tangled.”

Lowering his chin just slightly, Angel said, “They did, and I don’t care. If anything, it might even be better. Means you’re not tied down by their rules anymore.”

Pausing just long enough to ensure what he just said was heard, Angel continued, “I realize what a big ask this is, especially with me only promising information on the backend. But we’re talking about my family here, so to sweeten the pot, let me give you this.

“Mile marker 7, Highway 247, Joshua Tree.”

“Mile marker 7, Highway 247, Joshua Tree,” Tate replied. “What the hell is that?”

“That is the address to where you will find a rock formation on the right side of the road,” Angel said. “At the base of that formation, you will find the remains of Hector Martinez.”

For the second time, Angel saw as his information landed, Tate’s lips parting just slightly.

An opening that Angel pressed on, continuing, “It’ll be deep, because I had to make sure the coyotes didn’t dig him up. You’ll know it’s him though, because when I put him on his knees and shot him, the chickenshit turned his head at the last second.

“That will prove I’m telling the truth. He tried to move in on Lorenzo’s distribution network in Riverside County, so I was sent to take his ass out into the desert and make him disappear.”

Folding his right hand into a fist, Angel knocked on the metal table. Two quick hits, causing sound to echo through the room.

A noise sufficient to cause the same inflated guard who led him in to appear on the other side of the glass.

Lifting two fingers to signal they were almost done, Angel turned back to Tate. “That’s just one of a hundred different stories I’m glad to give up in exchange for you getting to my sister and niece and making sure they are safe.

“But you’ve got to hurry. If they’ve already come after me, it’s only a matter of time before they do the same to them.”

Chapter Eighteen

For the second consecutive day, Marco Gil found himself staring out from a balcony overlooking his family’s spread. Weight balanced on feet spread wide, he leaned forward at the waist, both palms planted atop the stone rail encasing more than thirty square feet of Spanish tile.

Stone and ceramic warmed by the sun.

Another day already bordering on hot, the temperature sure to climb exponentially in the months ahead.

Unlike the day before, the view in front of Marco wasn’t afforded from his third-floor bedroom. Wasn’t even courtesy of the enormous mansion that he could see in the distance. A gray smear resting in his periphery, appearing as a rocky outcropping behind the sea of green before him.

A tropical oasis, dropped right into the center of what was otherwise a dry and arid landscape.

Structures and vegetation both that were done with a great deal of care and cost at the hand of his father. Gifts both to his wife and mother, meant to make them feel at ease in their new home in Northern Mexico.

A relocation north of their native Oaxaca, done when the business his father was overseeing began to expand. A tactical choice, ensuring that his empire – and the life it would afford for them all – could grow as it needed to.

Foresight that Marco had to respect, even while also acknowledging that it had died out sometime the better part of a decade before. An infallible fact of aging, meaning that his father had gotten comfortable.

Lazy, even.

A mindset meaning he refused to take any new chances in the name of preserving what they had, even after it became clear that what they had was no longer enough. The world was changing, and they needed to along with it.

Constant evolution, which comprised numbers two-through-five on Marco’s current to-do list. A massive update of their entire system, dragging them forward with the rest of the market.

Pressing matters, to be addressed as soon as a final task was wiped away. An item going back to the meeting with Ignacio Marin, that alone keeping their partnership from moving forward, as well as being why Marco had already been in the office for several hours.

An early start to the day, spent hunting through every file and document in the place.

Hasty rummaging, looking to uncover what he knew had to exist.

Growing up just on the other side of the vineyard before him, Marco had gotten an up-close view of the bond that was shared between his father and Angel Abarca. A relationship that far surpassed a mere employer-employee.

Went beyond the usual types of loyalty that were often found in their particular line of work.

Bordering on something resembling brothers – if not father and son – more times than he could remember, Marco had found himself jealous of the role Abarca played. Not merely the particular tasks he was asked to carry out, but the way his counsel was sought.

The care that was put into looking out for him and his family.

A bond that had lingered even after Abarca was arrested and sent away to prison, the man never once saying a word against Marco’s father or their operation, just as his father never stopped watching over Abarca’s family.

Protection that meant there was no way he didn’t have the address of Abarca’s sister and niece tucked away somewhere. People Marco had heard about enough times to know that they were something that could be leveraged.

Pressure to far exceed any kind of personal threat that could ever be levied on the man.

A way to ensure that what happened the day before didn’t occur again.

Taking him the better part of two hours, Marco had finally been able to dig up what he had been seeking. A notation hidden in the back of a leather-bound volume on the bottom shelf of a bookcase in the corner of the room.

A deliberate hiding place for a book rife with contact information for people his father deemed important.

One more of the old man’s even older practices, continuing to bite him in the ass.

Yet another misstep that Marco planned to make use of, standing on the balcony until he heard a pair of knocks sound out on the door to his office. Two quick taps that caused him to push himself upright and head back inside to his desk just as Andres entered from the other direction.

Neither bothering to go for their respective seats, they remained standing as Marco asked, “Any word from Victorville?”

“I’ve been assured it will be done in the coming hours.”

Arching one eyebrow to signal his disbelief, similar promises having been made the day before as well, Marco reached into the chest pocket of his dress shirt. Extracting a small slip of paper with the address he spent all morning unearthing jotted across it, he extended it across the desk.

Reaching out, Andres accepted it and retreated back while unfolding the paper.

“Norwalk,” he recited. Lifting his gaze, he began to ask, “What’s in-”

“Abarca’s sister and niece. I want you to send a team there, just in case,” Marco replied. “He might be a big man fighting inside, but he won’t be nearly so formidable if he knows we have his family.”

Chapter Nineteen

The climb from the duplex Mariana Abbott shared with her daughter in Norwalk to the cabin deep in the San Gabriel Mountains measured more than six thousand feet. An elevation change of over a mile that was still nowhere near some of the highest points found in the range.

A shift that brought with it changes of every kind, from the dense pine forest pushed up tight to the cabin on all sides to the chill that was in the air as Mariana sat on the front porch swing.

Pristine scenery and brisk mountain air that she recognized was the sort of thing that many of her colleagues at Longwood Elementary often daydreamed about. Offhand comments made while eating lunch, or even wistful thinking as they stepped out onto a playground radiating the midday sun for recess.

A setting that Mariana could admit she would probably also find soothing, if not for the frightening circumstances that had brought them here.

The exact sort of thing she had been fearing for years, lingering in the back of her mind since well before her brother was arrested and sent to prison.

The first time Mariana had any idea about who her older brother really was happened when she was just in junior high. Walking home after school one day, a carload of guys who were seniors at the time had pulled up to the curb beside her.

Seeming to have been drinking despite the late afternoon hour, they offered to give her a ride home. When she declined, they said they were headed to get a bite to eat and asked if she wanted to come along.

When that too didn’t work, a couple even started to exit the vehicle, sending Mariana sprinting down the street, clutching her books to her chest. Screaming as loud as she could, she ran until her lungs felt as if they would burst, all the while hearing the sound of their laughter and the engine revving behind her.

A cat-and-mouse game lasting for several blocks that likely would have ended badly had a police cruiser not come into sight up ahead.

Blessed intervention, causing the boys to turn off the street, not to be seen again.

Arriving home distraught and in tears a short time later, their mother had sat Mariana down at the table and demanded to know what happened. A tale that Mariana was sure would be later relayed to the school principal or even the police, but that was instead passed along to her brother.

At least, that was what she came to understand, as a short time thereafter, both of the guys who tried to exit the car were spotted with casts extended from ankle to hip. The driver was in a sling for more than a month.

The boy riding shotgun needed a splint to keep his nose together, and multiple surgeries over the next year or so to mold it back into something resembling the original.

Injuries that were sustained in utter silence, none of them ever mentioning what happened. Not one single word, beyond the occasional sideways glance or hushed whisper.

And a lot of speculation from the rest of the student body that ensured nothing like that ever happened again.

In the years that followed, as she graduated high school and went off to college, she saw less and less of her brother. Always making a point to show up for birthdays and holidays, the rest of the time he was off somewhere, doing what he described only as “working.”

Employment that kept their mother with a roof over her head until the day she died, and then paid for her funeral. Helped to cover Mariana’s tuition, despite her many protestations.

Even paid for her wedding to Lili’s father before his untimely death due to a car accident.

Oversight from afar that Mariana never once questioned, not realizing until much later that it was because she didn’t want to. Plausible deniability that was just easier, maintained right up until the moment he was arrested and the full list of his crimes went public.

A spectacle that caused her to resign from her previous position and relocate north to the greater Los Angeles area.

Even change her name.

Curled up on the swing on the back porch of the cabin deep in the San Gabriel Mountains - another of the secrets she openly avoided, not wanting to recognize it as a safe house rather than a simple family getaway - Mariana stared out at the woods. A blanket flung across her legs, a cup of coffee was clutched in both her hands.

A position she’d been in for more than an hour now, letting Lili sleep as late as she wanted, using the time to think back on the conversation the day before. The years preceding it.

An entire lifetime spent in relation to a man she had come to realize she barely knew, the only thing she could be certain of that he would never hurt her or her daughter.

And that he would never allow them to be hurt either.

Chapter Twenty

In the immediate wake of Angel Abarca’s bombshell disclosure as to where the remains of Hector Martinez could be found, he added just one more thing. An address to a cabin in the San Gabriel Mountains where his sister and niece were hiding, along with a signal phrase needed to get them to open the door.

Information he pushed straight forth, his gaze boring into mine, imparting the importance of what he was sharing.

After that, he turned his chin toward the door beside us. Raising his voice above an urgent plea for the first time since arriving, he shouted a single word.

A call for the same steroid-infused guard who appeared the instant he was summoned, pushing open the door with his left hand, his right cocked back toward his hip.

A readied position that was proven unnecessary as Abarca rose, his body tilted forward as he waited for the guard to come forward and unclasp the handcuffs keeping him tethered to the table. Controlled movements that continued even once he was free and began to shuffle towards the door, pausing just long enough to add, “The sun always rises in the west.”

A repeat of the necessary signal, followed by stating but a single word.

“Hurry.”

Turning back to face forward, he resumed his previous pace. Passing through the door to the interview room, he was followed in order by the guard.

A procession exiting the space, replaced a moment later by Diaz returning. Eyes wide, she shoved the door closed behind her before sliding sideways into the same seat Abarca was just using.

“I assume you heard everything-” I began. A sentence I didn’t even get completely out before her chin rose and fell in an emphatic nod.

“Did he just confess to another murder?”

Still fighting to process the amount of information just shared – the unexpected nature of the encounter as a whole – I rotated my gaze toward the door. Staring at the place where Abarca was standing just a few seconds earlier, I matched Diaz’s nod.

“It sure sounded that way.”

Turning back, I watched as Diaz reclined in her seat. Bringing both hands together in front of her, she rubbed them up and down, the sound of her palms brushing together just barely audible.

“Wow,” she muttered, her gaze drifting to the side. “Just...wow.”

“Did not see that coming.”

“Uh-uh,” Diaz agreed. Letting her focus linger another couple of moments, she dropped her hands to her thighs. Flicked her attention back my way. “I called in and had my guys run a quick check on Mariana Abbott. Due to the name change and stuff, they couldn’t confirm immediately that she’s his sister, but she does exist.

“School teacher at Longwood Elementary, daughter Liliana is in first grade there.”

Based on the expression, the underlying urgency, permeating the man across from me, I had expected at least that much of what he said to be true. “You familiar with Martinez?”

“Before my time, but I’ve heard the name,” Diaz said. “You?”

“Oh, yeah,” I replied, “which I’m guessing is why he opted to go with that one out of who knows how many others. Was a major distributor of both people and product who was known to work for whoever the highest bidder was.

“We chased him for the better part of a year, my old boss hoping we could turn him, get him to rat out whoever he was working for.”

“But before it got that far...” Diaz said.

“Exactly. Disappeared, which we always assumed meant he crossed the wrong people, ended up in a hole in the desert somewhere.”

Snorting softly, Diaz said, “And it sounds like that is exactly what happened.”

Shaking her head slightly, Diaz turned her gaze toward the window. Letting the outside light illuminate her features, she stayed that way for several moments, ruminating on all that was just shared.

“You know this could be a setup,” she eventually said. “He heard about Lorenzo’s death, figured he could use it to lure you in, send you out to the desert and then up to a cabin in the mountains.”

“The thought definitely occurred to me,” I replied. “But at the same time...”

Rotating her gaze back to face me, Diaz said, “Who knows how many other Hector Martinez’s might be buried out there somewhere?”

“Yep,” I agreed. “Not to mention, I can’t imagine him involving his sister and niece if this really was just about getting back at me.”

Bobbing her chin a couple of times in order, Diaz returned her focus to the windows. Keeping it there, she continued chewing on things before eventually exhaling through her nostrils.

“What do you think?”

“I think it might at least be worth a trip out into the desert,” I replied. “See what we find, go from there.”

“I can’t ask you to do that.”

“You didn’t,” I replied.

Lifting her brows, she remained otherwise motionless for another minute before turning to look at me square.

“Take the car. You have your temporary credentials, and there’s a gun in a lockbox under the passenger seat. Combination 7-4-8.

“I’ll stay here, try to talk to the guys who jumped Abarca yesterday. Have my guys confirm that Abbott is his sister while they wait to see if anything new has come up about what happened to Lorenzo.”

Chapter Twenty-One

Luckily for me, the location that Angel Abarca had handed over in Joshua Tree was far enough north that I could get there by swinging east around the San Bernardino Mountains instead of having to go back south on the same freeway that Diaz and I had traveled a couple of hours earlier. A bypass of the entire East LA corridor, swapping out the city the mountains were named after, along with Riverside and Palm Springs, for what was essentially a backroad.

Two lanes moving in either direction, passing from high desert to thick forest before hitting a long stretch of lush farmland.

Three distinct topographies in order, finished by returning back to desert for the last couple dozen miles into Joshua Tree. Right at seventy miles in total, allowing me to set the cruise control and retreat into my thoughts.

Deep processing, trying to make sense of everything the last twenty-four hours had held. A whirlwind starting on a snowmobile in Yellowstone, now set to include a jaunt into the desert with the temperatures nudging the lower eighties.

A drastic shift in every way, bracketing a stretch that included a multi-state flight. An unexpected reunion with Diaz.

An even more unexpected meeting with Abarca, a name and face that I would have just as soon left buried far in the past. One of a thousand different memories I didn’t want or need.

Things all that I would swap out in an instant for the chance to see my wife and daughter again.

Perhaps even more than everything that the last day or so had held, I tried to make sense of what might rest in the future. What greater scheme the sudden rash of activity surrounding the Gil cartel might be hinting at.

What role I might play in all of it, if any.

Squirreled up behind the steering wheel, I let my gaze focus solely on the road. An asphalt river stretched out before me, all else drifting to the periphery as I mulled the massive information dump.

Tunnel vision that lingered until large green signage started to appear along the side of the road, alerting me to smaller towns up ahead. Satellite bergs on my way to the desert that I passed by, waiting until I was just a few miles from my destination before turning off in Yucca Valley.

Following the cluster of overhead billboards spotted from the freeway, I wound my way through a couple of smaller side streets, pulling into a Walmart an hour and a half after exiting the Victorville Federal Correctional Facility. A quick stop to grab a handful of needed supplies.

Things that I couldn’t find stowed under the seats of the borrowed sedan, and that Diaz would have had no reason to bring along.

No reason to even think she needed to.

Taking advantage of the light midday crowd, I parked in a diagonal space three back from the front door and made my way inside. Grabbing a cart, I moved fast, going straight for the Lawn and Garden Center in the back.

Starting with a matching pair of a shovel and a metal rake with rubber grips, I then tracked down a set of lawn stakes. A hundred feet of basic string wound into a tight ball.

A hand brush.

All the items needed to uncover what Abarca claimed was waiting under the desert sands.

Preserve what was found if need be.

A quick whirlwind, ending with picking up a hawksbill blade from the sporting goods department and some foodstuffs to help propel me through the long day since leaving Montana this morning.

The even longer night that may await.

Chapter Twenty-Two

While dinnertime in the chow hall could vary a fair amount depending on the time of year, lunch offerings were generally an exercise in monotony. The same handful of sandwiches rotated through every four days, the only slight variations being the side accompaniments offered.

Different fruits or vegetables doled out by the heaping spoonful.

Bagged no-name chips.

Bland cookies or pastries that expended more calories to chew than they actually provided.

The same shit Angel Abarca had seen no less than a thousand times, handed out by the same trio of cafeteria workers who had been on the job for more than a year. Guys who had seen every face in line often enough to know exactly what they wanted, able to communicate with nothing more than simple grunts or nods.

Non-verbal interaction, making it easy for Angel to keep his gaze fixed downward, ignoring the three oversized men wearing hairnets on the far side of the counter. Eyes focused just above the metal tray resting before him, he shuffled sideways a few inches at a time.

A zombie slog, looking without actually seeing, his mind still firmly entrenched in the interview room on the third floor.

The conversation that had taken place there.

Angel couldn’t say that it had gone as well as he wanted it to, but he did have to admit that it could have gone worse. The female DEA agent had been a bit aggressive, but she hadn’t tried to dominate the discussion.

Didn’t sling accusations when they spoke in the beginning.

Didn’t even come charging in the second he admitted to killing Hector Martinez and burying him in the desert.

Multiple wins that paled compared to the reaction he’d gotten from Hawk Tate. A man six years removed from their last interaction, and almost the same from being an active agent.

Someone who had absolutely zero reason to hear Angel out, though he had. Even appeared to have registered the urgency that was being imparted.

Not enough to commit to anything immediately, but enough to at least consider it.

How things would now play out moving forward, Angel couldn’t be certain. All he did know was that he had called and managed to get his family to safety. He’d brought in someone who would have no reason to harm them and was armed with the skills to see to their safety.

Beyond that, he would have to hope and pray.

Two things that he was admittedly shitty at, but given where he was standing, it was the best he could do.

Bouncing around such ideas in his head, Angel didn’t see the initial signal. A flash of movement behind the glass in front of him that he failed to register, his mind still working through things.

Not until he heard one of the men behind the counter hiss, “Psst,” did he blink himself back into the present.

A quick transition, drawing his active mind forward, allowing him to focus on the hand gesturing frantically before him. Five fingers splayed wide to get his attention, followed by jabbing the index finger forward and to the right.

A silent warning that Angel used to check the reflection in the glass, clocking two men moving directly for him. Heavy, muscled-up guys with bald heads and bare arms.

Snarls twisting their goatees to the side.

Three hands hanging loose by their hips, the fourth curled up tight. A fist with the thumb facing forward, serving as the universal grip for a shank of some sort.

The most imminent threat that Angel braced for, grasping either side of the tray as a palpable buzz rose in the air.

Just like in the shower earlier, the men on either side retreated a step. Same for those behind the counter, even though they were well beyond reach.

What some might see as a universal betrayal, leaving him on an island, exposed in the center of the serving line.

What for Angel was more of a blessing, giving him plenty of room. Extra space to maneuver himself as he jerked the tray up and rotated out on the ball of his right foot.

A move not for the man with the shank but his colleague, swinging the tray as hard as he could across his body. A steel disk turned flat on his side, leading with the curled edge.

Metal that was double thick, smashing against his right nostril. A side-to-side blow crushing the tensile strength of the underlying bone and mashing it flat to his opposite cheek.

A single strike working against the man’s basic anatomy, watering his eyes and turning his face into a sieve. An open spigot pouring dark blood down over his mouth and chin, causing him to stagger sideways into his partner.

A bump that was just enough to push the incoming strike with the shiv to the side. What looked like a toothbrush or other plastic item, filed down into a razor point.

A honed edge that swung sideways, redirected from Angel’s midsection to glancing toward his opposite ribcage. An errant shot, making it easy for Angel to drop the tray down and flip it upright, letting the steel absorb the tip of the homemade dagger.

Taking half a step back, he used the enormous man’s momentum against him, allowing his weight to come forward as he followed through on the blow. Two unexpected shifts in as many moments, leaving him off balance, his feet staggered beneath him.

Using one of the most basic tactics dating all the way to when he was a child fighting for supremacy on the school playground, Angel shoved his right foot straight up. Swinging it like a pendulum, he drove it into the man’s exposed groin, planting his toe directly into his crotch.

A shot to the second weakest point on the male body, causing the first one to clench shut as the man pitched forward, his teeth coming together in a wince as his grip on the shiv loosened, sending it to the floor.

A momentary system reset, leaving him unable to protect himself as Angel jerked the tray straight up. A second blow making use of the doubled edge, this time pounding it into the man’s larynx.

Contact that caused the man’s eyes to snap right back open, his hips pitching forward as he rose to full height and attempted to raise his hands to his throat.

Reinforcements that never arrived as Angel pulled the tray back. Cocking it to his shoulder, he snapped it straight ahead a second time, finishing whatever underlying damage had been done on the first strike.

A complete fracture of the windpipe, sending a plume of bloody spittle out across the metal tray.

The start of a long and slow death by suffocation that caused the man to stagger back as his friend regained his balance, attempting to make a second run at him. Arms flailing like oversized slabs of meat, he started to work up momentum, the entire front of his prison uniform striped with blood.

A crimson bib hanging down from his neck, working its way almost to his navel.

Same for the wet crimson painting the lower half of his face, highlighting the mask of rage he wore as he let out a guttural roar.

The beginnings of a forward assault that Angel was fully focused on, unaware that a third threat might exist behind him.

Even less, that they had managed to arm themselves with the shank that was just sent bouncing to the floor.

Chapter Twenty-Three

Angel Abarca was right about two things.

First, that the body had been buried extra deep. Not the full six feet that most proper burials in cemeteries employ, but certainly a fair bit lower than most unmarked desert graves ever went. Extra effort expended in the name of getting below where coyotes or other predators might sniff it out, for what I have to believe was for this very purpose.

Preservation of a bargaining chip, should it ever be needed later.

That being the second thing Abarca was right about, there being little question that the skeletal remains hidden at the bottom of the misshapen pit belonged to Hector Martinez. A man my team and I devoted a considerable amount of time trying to track down.

One that there was no doubt still an open file for on the shelves in Diaz’s office.

Just as I was about to tell Abarca while sitting in the interview room in Victorville, there were plenty of ways to stage remains to look like someone. The most obvious of those was to simply plant a wallet or other form of identification on the body.

A basic step that was certainly done here, the man’s billfold still tucked into the inside pocket of his suit coat. A garment that had held up far better than the rest of him, preserved by the desert sand even as the flesh melted away from his bones, leaving only his skeleton behind.

Another was for there to be some sort of distinguishing item. A gold grille covering their front teeth or a particular necklace around their neck.

Possibilities that in this instance consisted of a massive pinkie ring on Martinez’s left hand. A hunk of gold inset with more than a dozen diamonds arranged to form the man’s last initial.

Something that had to have been worth a considerable amount of money, left behind only because of the greater future value it held.

Even with both of those things present, there was still cause for some doubt, if not for the detail that Abarca had made a point to share. Final confirmation in the form of the way Martinez was executed, a small puncture through the left side of his skull plainly visible.

An entry wound, offset by a gaping and jagged exit on the far side.

Close-range and instantaneous, I had not a single doubt who was resting at the bottom of the deep grave as I hauled my ass up and out of there. Stripped bare to the waist, my entire body was awash in sweat. A base layer that sand had clung to, forming a paste on my skin.

Same for my neck and face, causing my eyes to burn.

The taste of brine and grit to fill my mouth.

Stuff that I would get to soon enough, my primary focus as I tracked my way back to the sedan and flung open the driver’s door being to grab the cellphone stowed in the middle console. Pulling back out, I thumbed it to life, needing only a couple of taps on the screen to find Diaz’s name still resting at the top of my recent call log.

A moment later, she was on the line, answering with her usual, “Hawk.”

“Diaz.”

“I was just about to call you.”

My mouth already open to launch forward with what I had, I paused. Feeling my brows come together, I asked, “What happened?”

“Go ahead,” she replied. “You first.”

“It’s definitely Martinez. Wallet in his pocket, personalized pinkie ring, matching holes on either side of his skull.”

Exhaling slowly, Diaz replied, “Abarca was telling the truth about that, too.”

“Almost certainly,” I replied. A response to the first part of the statement before the remainder set in. “Wait, what do you mean by that, too?”

“Abarca was attacked in the cafeteria a little while ago,” Diaz said. “Three-man team, one of them had a shiv.”

“Damn,” I whispered. “He make it?”

“He did,” Diaz answered. “One of them didn’t.”

“Los Costas Lobos again?”

“Nope,” Diaz replied. “He pretty much put them out of business yesterday. These guys were freelancers.”

Raising my free hand, I ran the back of my thumb across my brow, stripping away the beads of sweat before they too could reach my eyes.

Wiping the resulting moisture along the leg of my jeans, I considered what she just said. A second attack in as many days, this time using what was essentially a scab crew.

Guys willing to push aside their own best interests in the name of a pay day.

“Shit.”

“Yup,” Diaz agreed. “Like I said, he was right-”

“Someone is gunning for him,” I finished, picking up where she was taking it.

“And they’re getting desperate,” she added. “Enough so to definitely consider going after his family.”

Pausing again, I mulled over all she’d just shared, adding it to what I had quite literally just dug up.

The earlier conversation I had with Abarca.

A mass of information I managed to form into a loose framework before saying, “You tell me, how do you want to play this?”

“I’m officially putting Abarca into DEA custody,” she replied. “First thing in the morning, he’ll be relocated to the southwest headquarters until we can figure out what the hell is going on with all this.”

Piecing together what she was saying, I replied, “Does that mean you can catch a ride down with prison transport?”

“It does,” Diaz answered, “provided you’re up for a trip to the mountains.”

Part III

Chapter Twenty-Four

In the dozen or so years Andres had been affiliated with the Gil family, he had crossed over the border separating Mexico from the United States no less than a hundred times. Close to monthly trips, the first several years spent working almost exclusively on foot.

The lowest rung in the organization, helping to sneak poor and desperate people through mountain passes in the dead of night.

A rite of passage, after which he was able to work himself up to assisting with drug runs. More of the same slow ascension pattern, starting out as muscle in the passenger seat before being given his own truck to oversee.

Deliveries containing massive amounts of illicit drugs, followed by doing the same with people he’d been telling to keep their heads down as they jogged through the darkness. What some would call grunt work that Andres came to think of as on-the-job training.

Ways of learning the trade from the ground up.

Understanding exactly who they were looking to service, whether they be junkies needing their next fix or people desperate for a fresh start. People all addicted to one thing or another, able to be easily manipulated.

Controllable assets that Andres had used to hone a great many skills. A variety of different abilities, each containing their own tricks.

Subtle techniques or ideas that he would know nothing about if he had been given a free pass to the front of the line.

Hard years that he couldn’t help but be thankful for now that his journey was over. A long and circuitous path to where he always knew he would be, aided only by a slight nudge at the end.

A small shaving of some extraneous time to help get both him and Marco where they were ultimately supposed to be.

One of the very first things that was ever imparted into Andres when he started working with the family was the importance of moving without drawing suspicion. What some of the older guys used to call public invisibility.

A term that Andres originally thought was ridiculous, only coming to understand much later on what exactly that meant.

Anybody could be trained to move through the desert under cover of darkness without being seen. Thousands of square miles of barren desert, sprinkled liberally with canyons and arroyos bisected by waterways.

Endless places and ways to remain hidden.

The real trick was getting about in broad daylight. Acquiring supplies on short notice without tipping off a cashier. Tracking a target through a crowded marketplace without them ever knowing a threat was near.

Sitting outside of someone’s house all morning, waiting to blow their car to the heavens, with nary a sideways glance.

Or, in this instance, getting an entire team north into California without border patrol so much as batting an eye.

The key to the latter, Andres had come to understand, was always in group composition. A combination number and demographics game.

Four men piled into a sedan was always going to draw suspicion. Same for more than two people crowded into the front of a pickup truck.

Keep the numbers small though, and nobody thought twice. Make sure to mix up the male-to-female ratio, the ages of those present, and no one was the wiser.

When Marco told him that morning to send a team north to start looking into Angel Abarca’s sister and niece, Andres already had a crew put together in his mind. A team of six, equally made up of men and women.

Three each, to be split between a pair of vehicles.

One, a sedan with the ladies filling the front seat, the smallest guy in the group sitting in the back. A grouping inverted for the midsize SUV that would follow an hour later, putting a pair of men up front and a woman with youthful features in the back.

Groups meant to look like friends returning from a weekend south of the border or siblings making a run up north. Teams that didn’t draw a bit of scrutiny, making it across and up through San Diego within a couple of hours.

Another ninety minutes after that, they had reached their destination in Norwalk, as reported by the voice on the other end of the line. The man who was behind the wheel of the SUV and the longest tenured of the bunch, serving as team leader.

The lone person inside, the remainder watching from the curb out front.

“You say the place is empty?” Andres asked. Phone pressed to his face, he sat in the backseat of a Range Rover bouncing over an uneven road fifty miles east of the Gil compound.

Positioned behind the driver of the vehicle, Marco was visible in his periphery riding shotgun. His focus turned outward, he sat in silence, no doubt listening to every word shared.

“Not empty,” the man replied, “but they’re gone. Looks like they packed up, headed out fast.”

His grip tightening on the phone, Andres wanted nothing more than to tell them to tear the place apart. Rip everything down to the studs until they found out where the woman and her daughter were headed.

Instructions he refrained from stating for the same reason he didn’t send all six people north in the same vehicle, not wanting to draw undue attention.

“Get out and drive away,” Andres instructed. “Send Val and Daniela back in twenty minutes. Make it look like a cleaning crew. Tell them to go through everything until they have an address, a telephone number, something.

“Just find that damn woman and her kid.”

Chapter Twenty-Five

To the untrained eye, the field stretched out for what seemed like miles in front of Marco Gil and looked like something from a painting. A landscape created long ago, with mountains serving as the backdrop in the distance and a thin trickle of a creek knifing through the center.

Baseline features, upon which the artist had decided to fill in the remaining space with splashes of orange and gold. Vibrant color piled thick onto itself, reflecting the late afternoon sun.

Millions of individual poppy flowers coming together to create a scene that in other places would draw in visitors from all over. Tourists looking to marvel over their beauty or capture the latest selfie to be splashed up on social media.

Hikers seeking out nature’s beauty.

Even professional photographers or local chambers of commerce looking to score on a precisely timed image.

Possibilities that didn’t exist tucked away in the northern part of Mexico, where fields such as these represented something far greater. Monetary value that was at one time almost incalculable, kept as hidden as possible and protected at whatever cost.

Oversight that was still visible in the form of trucks sitting along either side of the dirt lane the SUV Marco was riding in traveled on. Massive pickups with winches welded to the front and men posted in the back, automatic weapons at the ready.

An initial line of defense, matched by more stationed on rocky outcroppings visible in the distance.

Sharpshooters, paid handsomely to watch over the most valuable cash crop in the country.

Or so Marco’s father had always thought.

One more aspect of a woefully outdated business model, today the first of many stops Marco intended to make in the name of dragging it forward into the 21st century.

“Everything alright?” Marco asked without glancing at Andres behind him.

A question he already knew the answer to, merely wanting to test how the man would respond. Someone who he had known for his entire life. Considered a friend.

But now that their respective positions had both changed considerably, he needed to hold to a different standard.

Grunting softly, Andres replied, “The woman and her daughter are on the move. Abarca must have gotten word to them.”

Shifting his gaze out the opposite side window, he added, “They’ll find them.”

Choosing to remain silent, Marco responded with nothing more than a nod.

Shifting his focus back to the fields around him, he stared out at the puffs of orange and gold extended in undulating waves before him. Millions of poppies, deliberately planted and tended under the careful supervision of his father.

One of just many sites throughout the area, many even larger than this. Fields in full bloom, a month or two away from perishing and beginning the long process of drying out under the summer sun.

A natural life process, after which they would intervene, harvesting the dried pods for the production of heroin.

An antiquated practice, used to make an antiquated product. A relic to be pushed aside in the name of modernization, the same as his father was.

A sight alone that drove home how important it was that they finish things with Angel Abarca and his family so they could start moving forward with Ignacio Marin.

Return to being players in a modern game, rather than clinging to the belief that it was still the 1980’s.

Or even worse, that the fabled good old days would at some point come back around again.

Smirking softly at the kind of outmoded thinking he’d been forced to listen to too many times to count, Marco watched as a trio of buildings came into view. Three in a matching style, with metal exteriors painted dull brown to match the surrounding landscape, their fronts equipped with sliding doors of the same material.

Points of access that were standing wide, revealing farm equipment of various forms. Everything to plant and harvest the flowers covering the surrounding hillsides before transporting them to a different location for processing.

Compartmentalization that his father always insisted on, wanting to give such locations the appearance of being nothing more than an agricultural site.

As if anyone believed that farmers planted only flowers and were overseen by men with automatic weapons.

“Middle one,” Marco instructed. Two words that the driver accepted with only a grunt, hugging the right side of the lane they were on as it began to widen.

Staying there even as it opened out into a circular clearing, he pushed the SUV in a loose arc, ultimately coming to a stop directly in front of the largest structure of the three. Kicking up a cloud of dust as it slid to a halt, it came to rest perpendicular to the main door, drawing over the attention of everybody inside.

A handful of men in boots and flannel, several with thick mustaches that drooped over either end of their mouths.

Guys who cast sideways glances to one another as Marco and Andres exited the vehicle, a lone figure breaking away from the pack and coming their way. Long and lean, he peeled his hat away from his head as he approached, waiting until he was just a few feet away before extending a hand before him.

“Señor Gil,” he said. Shaking Marco’s hand, he moved to Andres in order. “Señor.”

Greetings that neither matched, staying silent as he drew back a step and asked, “What a pleasant surprise. What brings you-”

“We’re shutting this shit down,” Marco inserted, not wanting to draw things out a second longer than he had to. Not the interaction, or being forced to inhale the dusty air, or smell pesticide and fertilizer and whatever else clung to every surface around them.

Hell, even the men themselves.

Eyes widening, the man gasped in surprise. “You’re shutting us-”

“No,” Marco said, cutting him off a second time, “we’re shutting them all down. You have until Sunday to get all this shit out of here.”

Eyes wide, the man’s mouth worked up and down a time or two. False starts, attempting to find the words to reply, before finally he managed to get out, “Your father...you can’t just...”

Turning his chin a few inches to the side, Marco nodded just once. A single gesture that was all Andres needed, sliding forward in one fluid movement.

Flicking his right hand outward, he snapped the dagger he was never without into his palm and thrust it up under the man’s chin.

A single strike that opened the entire underside of his jaw. A gaping maw that sent a curtain of blood down the front of his plaid shirt, spattering the bare concrete beneath him as he swayed in place, pressing a hand to his throat.

A losing battle lasting but a few moments before his legs buckled.

Death throes that Marco left him to as he lifted his gaze to the collection of workers watching in stunned silence.

“My father is dead. Anybody else want to tell me what I can or can’t do?”

Chapter Twenty-Six

It was far from the first time that Angel Abarca had encountered the older Hispanic woman before him. A nurse in the Victorville Federal Correctional Center he encountered within weeks of initially arriving, it wasn’t until his second year that they actually said a word to one another that wasn’t strictly about whatever newest injury he had sustained.

His third before that managed to grow beyond a sentence or two about the heat outside or the Rams winning the Superbowl.

A slow evolution that neither side would call a friendship, but more like a working relationship.

Silent understanding that meant when she held up the syringe still encased in plastic before him, he already knew exactly what she was asking. A silent question as to whether or not he wanted anything for the pain that he answered in the negative with a simple shake of his head.

The same response he usually gave, this time given for the express reason that he couldn’t afford to have anything foreign in his system. Chemical narcotics that might lull him into sluggishness or slow his response time by even a millisecond.

Nothing to compound the idiocy that he displayed in the lunchroom earlier, the signal from the man behind the counter being the only reason he even made it through.

A favor that he would undoubtedly one day be expected to repay.

Another item on the list of things thoroughly pissing him off, none more than the feeling of helplessness permeating him. The frustration of knowing that if they were coming after him on the inside, they were undoubtedly going after his sister and niece on the outside.

All while he was stuck sitting on his ass, doing nothing to help them.

“Stitches or staples?” the nurse asked.

Flicking his gaze toward the sound of her voice, Angel lowered his gaze to the slash striped vertically along his ribs. A cut stretched three or four inches in length, long enough to span an equal number of bones.

A wound in line with a top-to-bottom strike, starting shallow and getting deeper as it moved down, the widest part of the flaps gaping more than half an inch.

“Which is stronger?” Angel asked. A question the nurse seemed to grasp, understanding that he fully expected the incident to be just the second of many.

And he needed to prepare accordingly.

“The healing time will be a little longer, and the scar a lot worse, but staples.”

Angel knew she had to share the first two points, just like he suspected she knew that they would mean nothing to him.

“Staples it is.”

Grunting softly, the nurse turned away from him. Moving to a metal table along the side of the room, she picked up a white plastic staple gun and began to load it.

Movement that Angel largely ignored, his attention turning to the person visible through the windows lined up above the table where the nurse was working. Four matching panels, all inset with thin metal fibers.

Extra protection woven into the panes to make them shatterproof while still affording a clear view of the female agent he had spoken with earlier.

Her features drawn taut, she moved fast, crossing the length of the room and swinging in through the door standing open. A sudden arrival that caused the nurse to jerk her attention up as Diaz took three steps inside and came to a halt.

Crossing her arms over her torso, she took in the scene before her, gaze sweeping over the wound on Angel’s side and the resulting blood crusted to the waistband of his pants.

“You alright?” she asked.

A question Angel completely ignored, firing back one of his own.

“Did Tate find Hector Martinez?”

Her turn to do the same, Diaz replied, “This is two attacks in as many days. First thing in the morning, we’ll be remanding you into DEA custody until we can determine what exactly is going on.”

Taking another step forward, she added, “Do you know who the men were who attacked you? Any preexisting bad blood with them?”

Opening his mouth to again reiterate his previous question, Angel stopped himself. Forced to swallow down the heaping amount of frustration bubbling within, he exhaled slowly.

“I’m fine,” he said. “The guys that came for me were nobodies. Freelance muscle. Seen them plenty, but never crossed them before.”

“Any idea who might have hired them?”

“Someone rich and desperate, same as yesterday,” Angel replied, stopping himself short of stating what seemed to be more obvious with each passing moment.

A culmination of recent events, leaving only one real possibility.

Widening his eyes to make a point that he had answered her questions, ceding the higher ground, he again asked, “Did Tate find the body?”

Her gaze continuing to trace over him, she stayed silent another moment before responding, “He did. He also said that the address you gave him in the mountains was no good.”

Feeling the tiniest bit of relief, Angel exhaled slowly.

“Trust me, it’s good. It just doesn’t come up on any GPS.”

Chapter Twenty-Seven

My first call after unearthing the remains of Hector Martinez was to Mia Diaz. Sweaty and caked in dust, I went straight for the phone before bothering to wipe down or even rinse my mouth.

A recognition of the truncated timeframe we were under. A quick contact to let her know that Angel Abarca’s story checked out, meaning there was work to be done on both ends.

To say nothing of the reason we had been given the tip in the first place.

An intended summation of what happened here, interrupted by what took place in Victorville. A quick exchange of information followed by parsing out what it meant, each of us falling straight to enumerating the list of tasks within minutes of getting on the line.

A short conversation stripping away any sort of pleasantries or small talk. Terse interaction having nothing to do with annoyance or personal distaste, but rather two friends and semi-colleagues with very similar working styles.

Especially after so many interactions over the last couple of years.

The instant we had both imparted whatever new and relevant data we had and arranged a loose working order of things moving forward, my second call went to the Riverside Sheriff’s Department. Still without bothering to clean myself up or take down any liquid relief, I phoned the local dispatch and said I needed a patrol unit to come and secure a crime scene.

A tech team whenever they had one available, though there was no rush.

Two requests that seemed decidedly at odds with one another, forcing me to identify myself and explain the scene before me.

A process I was hoping to avoid until the responding deputies arrived, though it did serve the purpose of expediting their response time. A cut from who knows how long down to a mere fifteen minutes, giving me just long enough to take down one of the Gatorades I purchased at Walmart earlier.

Cool liquid that helped to lower my body temperature from within, the desert breeze and finally being up out of that hole enough to do the job on the outside.

A removal of any perspiration on my skin, allowing me to brush away the sand that had collected there and redress just before a pair of young deputies arrived. One male and one female, both looking to be somewhere in their late twenties.

Newish hires, likely paired together after completing their training rotations a couple of years before.

“You the guy who called in with a crime scene?” the male asked. A guy with pale skin and blonde hair buzzed short, the front of his Kevlar vest brandished with the words Property of Riverside S.D.

Reaching to my back pocket, I extracted the temporary credentials Diaz had brought for me.

“Tate, DEA,” I said. Returning them to my pocket, I stepped forward and extended my hand. “Thanks for coming.”

Accepting my grip, he said, “Burkhardt.”

“Melendez,” his partner added, stepping forward and offering her hand as well.

A name to match her appearance, with tan skin and dark hair and eyes. Features that passed over me for an instant before moving to the recently excavated pit nearby.

Lowering her chin, she asked, “That it?”

“That it is,” I replied, turning and leading them to the hole I’d just spent the better part of the last ninety minutes digging. Along the way, I shared how I’d come to be there, highlighting the call from Victorville and the tip that was provided.

The fact that the person doing it was looking to score a deal in exchange.

A retelling that was a bit more fleshed out than what I gave the dispatcher earlier, but was still light a few key details. Pieces like the fact that the man who called and asked to see me was The Angel of Death, or that it could be connected to a sudden turf war just south of the border.

My own tenuous standing at the moment.

Things I would leave Diaz’s office to handle if need be, my purpose only in making sure that everything was done properly. A clear chain of custody was established and all forensics were handled correctly, should it ever need to go before a court of law.

Procedures I left the two of them to handle, growing increasingly antsy as the sun finished its trek across the sky and started to dip toward the horizon. Signs of time passing that I didn’t have, spent playing and replaying everything Abarca had shared with me earlier.

The imminent danger his sister and niece might be in somewhere in the mountains to the north.

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Ahost of things were working against me by the time I finished with the Riverside County Sheriff’s deputies and piled back into the loaner sedan. Considerations that I had been lucky enough to avoid earlier, skirting east around the San Bernardino Mountains during the middle of the day.

A route and timing that both meant I was able to move unobstructed, reaching my destination within a reasonable amount of time.

Factors no longer playing in my favor as I sat behind the steering wheel, staring out at a sea of red taillights in front of me. Glowing orbs that were lined nose-to-tail, the creeping pace keeping the speedometer from ever climbing much above thirty miles an hour.

A start-and-stop slog that had those same two feelings that were already setting in by the time I left the desert steadily inching upward.

Frustration and anticipation, each fighting for the upper hand in a battle that seemed to be escalating quickly.

On the seat beside me sat a sack from McDonald’s. Far from my favorite grab-and-go food source, but easily the one with the shortest lines and the largest coffee, able to be hit quickly as I made my way north.

A quick exit from the freeway, jumping into line just before the heaviest of the post-work crowd hit. A short detour, loading up on a handful of burgers, apple pies, and two gigantic coffees.

Enough food to last me through the night and well into tomorrow if need be, there no way of knowing what the hours ahead might hold. Protein and sugar and liquid caffeine meant to replenish my stores, the Gatorade and protein bars from earlier the sole forms of sustenance I had taken in since leaving Montana very early this morning.

Possibly even last night, depending on how one wanted to look at it.

Two burgers already pulled from the sack and taken down, their wrappers rested in the passenger footwell. Also gone was the first of the coffees, the hot swill not quite as good as what Kaylan put together just yesterday, but enough to provide the boost I was looking for.

A concentrated jolt that I immediately started to second guess as I sat behind the wheel, practically thrumming in place. Ongoing movement as I scanned the three mirrors around me, constantly looking for the slightest gap in traffic.

Any small opening to let me push ahead.

Get past the thickest of the crowd.

A fight that had persisted for the better part of an hour before the faceplate on my cellphone beside me lit up. A bright orb slicing through the growing darkness inside the vehicle, followed by the rattle of the device buzzing against the hard plastic of the console.

Twin things that jerked my attention over, needing just a glance at the screen before reaching out and snatching it up.

Accepting the call, I flipped it directly to speakerphone, holding it just inches beneath my chin.

“Diaz.”

“Hawk,” she replied. “That doesn’t sound good.”

“Not bad,” I answered. “Just...missing that Montana traffic right about now.”

“You mean the complete lack thereof?”

“Exactly.”

“Where are you?” Diaz asked.

“San Bernardino. Had to stick around at the site until Riverside SD could get there and get it secured. Took a while, meaning...”

“Now you’re stuck in a parking lot,” Diaz finished.

“Pretty much,” I replied. “How about you?”

“Currently sitting about forty-five minutes north of you,” Diaz said. “Prison transport couldn’t get Abarca moved until morning, so I’m staying nearby until then.

“In the meantime, I was able to circle back with Los Costas Lobos, none of which were saying a word. Same for two of the three who jumped him today, who will never talk again.

“The third was able to give me only nominally more. Some big money offer from the outside that was passed on to him. No clue who was holding the purse strings.”

Pushing out a sigh through my nostrils, I shook my head in the growing darkness of the vehicle. “Abarca have any ideas?”

“He does, but they’re just that,” Diaz said. “I get the impression he is leaning toward Marco, but he hasn’t come out and said as much.”

My brows climbing, I responded, “Meaning, what? His first act overseeing the cartel is to go after their former enforcer? Or does he think Marco offed his old man?”

“Beats the hell out of me,” Diaz deadpanned. “But I intend to ask him both of those questions and about a hundred more once we get back to HQ tomorrow.”

Opening my mouth to respond with a couple more, I paused. Realizing they were probably already on Diaz’s list – and that there wasn’t a damn thing either one of us could do to answer them right now anyway – I instead asked, “Did he at least tell you how to find this damn cabin of his?”

Chapter Twenty-Nine

The interior of the cabin deep in the San Gabriel Mountains smelled like a combination of coffee and chicken nuggets. The former, brewed in a drip maker resting on the counter with a stained pot that was manufactured at some point in the eighties.

One of a hundred different items that Mariana Abbott’s brother had arranged long ago. A snapshot in time, everything having visibly aged, despite being barely used.

The latter was courtesy of a bag of frozen nuggets that Mariana had grabbed on their way north the previous afternoon. A quick stop by a Safeway in Azusa before starting the climb up into the mountains, knowing it would likely be at least through the weekend before they made their way back down.

A few days cut off from making impromptu food runs, meaning she had to grab items that were guaranteed to pass Lili’s very particular culinary tastes.

A battle she was willing to have over school lunches, but not with so much else already on her mind. An endless loop of things that had started the moment she saw the area code for Victorville first pop up on the screen of her cellphone, continuing to spiral as she sat in an armchair in the living room of the cabin.

One piece of a matching set, with log framing and cushioned seats and backrests covered with a southwestern print. Seating that, like everything else in the place, was designed more for function than style.

A plate of nuggets and tater tots resting on her lap, she stared straight ahead. Oblivious to the chatter of the Disney DVD playing on the TV beside her or Lili’s accompanying laughter from the couch, occasionally she would reach down and snatch up an item from her plate.

Indiscriminate selection, taking whatever was closest.

Mindless consumption, meant solely to serve as fuel. Help her get through the next couple of days.

An unknown gauntlet that she was mulling over when a small hand shot out in front of her. A single digit extended, it sliced through the air, crossing her field of vision.

An unexpected cue, followed by her daughter exclaiming, “Look!”

A directive Mariana was still in the act of following as Lili added, “Someone’s coming!”

Despite the thin curtains hanging over the windows lining the living room, there was no mistaking the flash of light cutting through the trees. Twin headlights that were square in shape, rising and falling in unison as a vehicle made its way up the drive.

A sight that caused Mariana’s entire core to seize, threatening to force up every bit of food she just ate.

All of the air from her lungs.

A moment of temporary paralysis as her mouth dropped open, lingering just until Lili asked, “Who is it?”

The instant the question registered in Mariana’s brain, the clutch of shock passed. Replacing it was a bolt of adrenaline, spurring her into movement.

Snap action, lifting her from her seat, sending her plate to the floor with a clatter as nuggets and tots splayed across the hardwood.

A reflexive response, causing Lili to freeze on the sofa, her mouth and eyes all three open wide.

“I need you to go upstairs right now,” Mariana said, doing her best to avoid letting the panic show in her voice. Shuffling her weight from side to side, she began to cast her gaze around the interior of the cabin.

A search for weapons she should have considered sooner, knowing her brother had to have some stowed just out of sight.

“Come on,” she said. Bringing her focus back to Lili, she clapped her hands in front of her. “Upstairs, let’s go!”

Pushing her plate to the side, Lili slid down off the front edge of the sofa. Moving her gaze from Mariana to the windows, she started to voice an objection or another question.

Words that never got out as Mariana grabbed ahold of her hand and started to tug her across the combination living room and kitchen comprising the first floor. Heart thudding in her chest, she practically carried her daughter to the stairwell in the back corner and began to climb, keeping Lili’s tiny hand clasped in her own.

“Mommy, what’s wrong?”

“Nothing’s wrong, baby,” Mariana managed to push out. Stopping on the landing at the top of the stairs, she nudged her daughter toward the door on the right.

One of a matching pair, each leading to a bedroom and a bathroom.

“Just, I want you to go into the bedroom and get in the closet or under the bed. Right now.”

“Like hide-and-seek?”

“Yes! Exactly like hide-and-seek!” Using both hands, she gently helped her daughter along another step. “But you have to hurry!”

Shedding a tiny bit of the trepidation, Lili did as her mother instructed. Turning away from her, she disappeared through the opening, allowing Mariana to pull the door shut behind her.

Taking a single step away, she paused just long enough to ensure her daughter wasn’t going to follow her before turning and heading back down the stairs. Touching with only the balls of her feet, she prayed that the wooden steps wouldn’t give her away as she descended the first short flight and made the turn, returning to the kitchen just moments after leaving.

Crouching low, she shot across the walkway cutting straight through the heart of the cabin and stopped behind the counter jutting out from the wall. An impromptu divider, separating the living room and kitchen from one another.

A makeshift barrier that she used for cover, rising to peek across the top at the curtains pulled shut. Light gossamer that was just enough to block any clear details, letting her see only a trio of silhouettes framed in the headlights still blazing bright out front.

Figures of varying sizes that grew steadily closer, those on either side stopping well short while the third stepped up onto the floorboards of the porch.

Heavy footfalls that caused the clutching sensation in Mariana’s chest to grow more pronounced.

Her hand to reach out for the butcher block on the backend of the counter and extract a chef’s knife from the largest slot available.

“The sun rises in the west,” she whispered, repeating back the signal her brother had given her earlier. “The sun rises in the west.”

Reciting it one time after another, the words just barely audible in her own ears, Mariana dropped down a bit lower. Completely obscured from sight, she inched sideways, grasping the knife in both hands before her.

A point of reference that she clung to as she peeked around the edge of the counter, her progress stopped by someone knocking at the solid door.

Heavy pounding that caused her entire body to flinch as she jerked back behind the counter.

“Mariana? You in there?” a deep male voice called. “You don’t have to be afraid. Your brother Angel sent us.”

Turning her head to the side, Mariana waited for the signal. Her grip on the knife grew tighter as she chanced leaning out again, peeking toward the curtains just in time to see a second set of headlights appear through the trees.

Chapter Thirty

The directions Angel Abarca passed to me through Mia Diaz were nothing short of precise. Exact measurements and instructions that would have otherwise made finding my way through the thick forest in the darkness impossible.

Exact specifications that were either the sign of a well-hidden safe house, or the site of my impending execution.

A setup from which I wouldn’t be able to escape, cut off from the outside world.

The endpoint of an elaborate ruse involving his family and a former murder and even getting attacked twice himself, waiting years before finally making his move.

With each mile that passed under my tires, the thought of the latter became a bit more pronounced in my mind. A notion that I couldn’t shake, watching the trees pushing in tighter from either side. Heavy boughs of pine and thick branches of assorted hardwoods, working to narrow my field of vision and choke out the sky above.

A complete extinguishing of ambient light, culminating as I made the final turn that Abarca had outlined. A shift from the narrow single paved lane I had been traversing to an even smaller dirt lane.

Essentially twin tracks carved into the mountain, bisected by a couple of inches of weeds and grass.

A cross between a driveway and tunnel, burrowing through the thick forest.

A path that would be concerning enough on its own, magnified by the dust dancing across my high beams. Signs of recent passage, showing that somebody had just been by, and likely moving fast.

Someone either familiar with the place or needing to get in or out in a hurry.

Easing the sedan to a stop just a few feet off the edge of the road, I cut the headlights. Plunging the forest back into almost blackout conditions, I shoved the gearshift into park just long enough to reach across the middle console into the opposite footwell.

Reaching past the collection of McDonald’s wrappers dotting the floor, I fished the gun safe out and dropped it onto the seat beside me. Tapping the screen of my cellphone to give me a bit of light, I thumbed in the combination Diaz gave me earlier and flipped the top open to reveal a Glock 34.

The most recent edition of the standard DEA carry, along with a pair of full magazines.

Thirty-four total rounds.

Jamming the first of the two into place, I racked back on the slide, inserting the first bullet into the chamber. Resting the gun back into place in the safe, I left the top on it open and shifted around to the backseat.

Rummaging through the handful of items still stowed inside the Walmart sack, I found the folding hawksbill knife I picked up earlier and brought it up onto the seat as well.

Far from an arsenal, but enough that I could at least defend myself if need be.

Letting the light from the phone fade out, I remained in place for another couple of moments. Just long enough to let my eyes adjust, my night vision slowly returning, before putting the sedan back into gear.

Tapping on the accelerator, I began to roll forward. Wheel gripped tight in either hand, I leaned out over it, peering into the darkness.

Straining to view what was ahead, I used the faint outline of the twin tracks to guide me, following a serpentine path that snaked back through the forest. A slow roll lasting well over a hundred yards before finally a faint glow appeared in the distance ahead.

A beacon that I put my focus on, pushing my way toward it. A solid structure of some sort, enabling me to put a bit more pressure on the gas. A touch of added speed, cutting the distance to my destination by half.

And then half again.

To either side, the trees started to recede. The night sky started to peek back through.

Signs of a clearing that I arrived at just a few seconds later, every question that had passed through my mind in the last five minutes answered in an instant.

What the source of the light was.

Who was responsible for the dust hanging over the driveway.

If a single bit of what Abarca had shared was true, or just a ploy to get me up here.

A whole host of asks, extinguished by the sight of the cabin standing on the opposite side of the clearing. A small, two-story structure with a porch resting right at ground level.

A building with two vehicles sitting alongside it, one an older model sedan, the other a much newer BMW SUV parked directly behind it. Headlights on, it was positioned to block any chance of an escape, the ambient glow outlining three people fanned across the front of the cabin.

One standing right in front of the door, the other two spread wide to either side behind them.

An attack party of some sort, preparing for a breach.

A trio who all seemed to realize in unison they weren’t alone, each pausing what they were doing and turning my direction as the front bumper of my vehicle broke the edge of the woods. Synchronized movement, lasting only a moment as recognition set in.

In unison, the two furthest away from the door both started to move. Rotating my direction, they began to raise their weapons, moving at a diagonal across the clearing.

A heading meant to cut off any forward path I might take, while behind them the third member went straight down the porch, headed for their vehicle.

Coordinated movements that I offset by doing the last things they would expect, flipping on my headlights and mashing my right foot down on the accelerator. A sudden surge of fuel into the V8 engine that caused the backend to fishtail, the tires slinging gravel into the trees behind me.

A fight for purchase that lasted only a couple of seconds before the treads found the underlying dirt, hurtling me forward. A rocket start from a dead stop, propelling me across the clearing.

Twisting the steering wheel an inch to the side, I aimed the bumper for the closest of the two incoming attackers. A meeting of flesh and metal in the exact center of the clearing that flipped them up and over the hood of the vehicle as beside me the second figure began to open fire.

Muzzle flashes burst in my periphery as rounds thudded against the side of the sedan. Dull thumps that I steered away from, angling the front end around the side of the BMW as I switched my foot from the gas to the brake.

Pressing my shoulders back into the seat behind me, I shoved the brake down as hard as I could, willing the vehicle to a halting stop along the edge of the driveway.

Chapter Thirty-One

Two things happened simultaneously the instant the sedan slid to a stop. A merciful halt after fishtailing across the loose ground, slinging gravel out behind me.

An endpoint just inches from going too far and leaving me fully exposed beyond the BMW resting in the center of the drive.

The first was that I pushed open the driver’s side door and slid out sideways. Folding myself in half at the waist, I didn’t even bother twisting off the ignition, knowing that every last second was precious.

A bare minimum of time to get out and on the move while the two partners of whoever I just mowed down converged on the vehicle.

Instinctive movement as the second thing happened, which was the driver’s window exploding above me. An eruption of jagged shards, pelting my back and scraping across my neck.

The first rounds to strike, followed by a handful more pinging against the body of the sedan. Shots arriving in rapid succession, fired off from automatic weapons.

One after another, pelting opposite ends of the vehicle.

An onslaught filling the air, echoing from the side of the cabin and the trees pressed close around me. A sound chamber, blotting out all else as I hit a knee.

Glock held in a combat stance, I glanced in either direction. Quick looks past the sparks of bullets skipping across the glossy paint of the sedan before careening off into the darkness.

Incoming fire from either direction, pinning me into position.

A bracketed approach, seemingly leaving me with only the choice of going forward or back.

What they believed to be a situational advantage that I had every intention of leveraging for myself.

Body still folded forward over my left foot planted flat on the ground, I slid a few inches forward. Just far enough that I could release my left hand from the base of the weapon and snake it forward, grasping the handle on the rear passenger door of the BMW.

Tugging it outward, I felt the latch release, the door thankfully unlocked.

Just the distraction I was hoping for, I jerked the door open, using the momentum to drop flat on my back. Movements made in concert, the first one drawing the attention of my two unknown attackers.

With it came a renewed wave of bullets, responding to the overhead light in the vehicle.

A second massive push on their part, drawing them closer on the opposite side of the vehicle. A measured approach that I watched from my spot on the ground, my right hand extended beneath the chassis of the BMW.

Finger resting inside the trigger guard, I watched as a pair of feet appeared on the front end, waiting until both boots were plainly visible before pulling back on the Glock’s trigger three times in order.

Shots that tore into the thick leather, chewing through feet and ankles, causing the man to cry out.

His limbs to give way beneath him, dropping him flat onto his stomach.

Landing hard, his eyes were wide as he stared over at me, the last thing he ever saw being the second trio of muzzle flashes I rattled off in short order. Three more shots, making sure to strike both head and center mass, in case his tactical gear included body armor of any kind.

The instant I saw the third bullet strike, snapping his head back and dotting his features with crimson spatter, I rotated my right arm down to my side. Knowing that the shots would give away my position to the final member of their party, I swung it downward to clear the undercarriage of the BMW and rolled to the left.

Half a rotation over onto my stomach before pressing my free hand into the driveway as more bullets pounded into the side of my sedan. Grabbing up a handful of rocks and soil, I pulled my knees up under me, digging my toes into the soft ground. Scrambling forward, I went no further than a couple of steps before sliding to a stop, making sure to stay back from the direct light of the two sets of headlamps blazing bright.

Tucked down into the small gap between the two vehicles, I flung my arm out wide, releasing the handful of dirt and rocks I’d collected.

Natural shrapnel that pelted the leaves and boughs bunched up along the tree line, drawing the attention of the third attacker. Sound and movement that he reacted to instinctively, pushing his aim that way for only a moment.

A small gap that was more than enough for me to rise to full height and let loose one last trio of shots. Rounds clustered exactly as his friend on the far side of the BMW, aiming for the head and torso.

Shots that I didn’t have to worry about being stopped by any sort of protective gear, their impact causing his limbs to jerk in a spastic pattern.

His gun to fly from his hand as he was lifted into the air and deposited flat on his back.

In the wake of the sudden burst of movement, I stood perfectly still, framed by the pockmarked vehicles on either side. Glock held at full extension, I peered outward, using the glow of the headlights behind me to watch for anybody who might be lurking.

A fourth attacker who failed to show as I inched forward and inspected each of the bodies in order.

A quick check to ensure loss of life before turning my attention to the front of the cabin. Lowering the Glock to my side, I stepped up onto the floorboards extended from the structure and tapped the back of my fist twice against the door.

Knocks hard enough to be heard without seeming imposing in any way.

Pausing there, I waited a full moment before adding, “The sun rises in the west.”

Saying nothing more than the backward expression, no doubt picked to ensure that it could never be guessed at random, I took a single step back. Turning my body perpendicular to the door, I rotated my gaze, watching the main drive as the faint sound of footsteps could be heard from within.

Signs of approach that grew steadily louder, ending with the click of a deadbolt being turned.

The moan of hinges swinging open as bright light spilled across the porch and out into the clearing.

“Mariana?” I asked of the figure silhouetted in the doorway. A woman who looked to be no more than her early thirties, with dark eyes and hair pulled back tight.

“My name’s Hawk. I’m here to help.”

Most of the color drained from her features, she looked from me to the scene beyond.

Her lips parted as if she was about to speak, stopped short by her brows rising up her forehead. A look of surprise that caused me to turn in kind, following her gaze to the thin glow of light working its way through the trees.

Matching spotlights, without question belonging to a backup team, there to finish whatever the first couldn’t.

A second wave, likely responsible for the momentary pause when I first arrived.

“Where’s your daughter?” I asked without taking my focus away from the vehicle.

Drawing the Glock up in front of me, I hit the magazine release, shucking the half-empty for the spare stowed in my back pocket.

“Um...she’s...upstairs,” Mariana managed.

Flicking my gaze toward the ceiling of the porch overhead, I turned my attention back to the driveway, watching the new intruders get steadily closer.

“Is there a bathtub up there?”

Chapter Thirty-Two

Ignacio Marin knew the answer to the question he was about to ask even before picking up the phone.

If there was any way that Marco Gil and his lackey and whatever other minions he might have inherited from his father had actually taken out Angel Abarca, the kid would have already called to let him know.

Hell, based on what Ignacio saw last night, there’s a decent chance he would have run right over to tell him. Like a damned puppy dog wanting a pat on the head, he would have presented himself on the front step and proudly told him that the man who was once within an eyelash of ending Ignacio’s life was now dead himself.

An effective end to two men who had both been enormous pains in his ass for too damn long to remember.

A wonderful surprise for sure, but not something he was actually counting on.

Still, he was not about to spare himself the joy of asking the question, just the same as he would never spare Marco the embarrassment of having to answer it. Another pointed statement, just like last night when he refused to put down his beer or cigar – much less rise from his chair – when they arrived.

A way of letting the kid know exactly what he was dealing with and where he was on the totem pole.

A game that no amount of nepotism could help him in, all anybody saw when they stared his direction being fresh meat. A kid sitting on a pile of assets they all wanted.

And would stop at nothing to get.

Back in the same exact spot that he was exactly one day before, Ignacio lifted the receiver of his phone from its cradle. Not caring enough to have Marco’s number committed to memory, he rotated and glanced at the screen of his computer, dialing off of the list pulled up there.

Various contacts that he occasionally needed to speak to, but nothing more.

The also-rans in a market that either made stars or broke them.

Nothing in between.

Finishing the sequence of digits, Ignacio lowered the receiver onto the desk. Pressing a button to flip the call over to the speaker, he returned to facing forward.

Brought the cigar to his lips and took a deep drag as the first ringtone sounded out.

And then the second.

A handful in order, each successive one causing the amused grin he wore to grow broader. Sure signs that he was being avoided.

That the kid didn’t have the fuzz on his peaches to just answer and state the obvious head on.

Just shy of being kicked over to voicemail, an audible click could be heard. A moment of white background noise followed.

Performative measures, ending with Marco answering, “Yeah?”

Another attempt at sounding tough, just like him and his sidekick the night before. Posturing, with deep voices and fancy attire, not yet realizing that nobody in their line of work gave a damn.

The ultimate pass-fail test, with infinitely more falling under the latter than the former.

“Status update,” Ignacio replied, doing the same as Marco and avoiding any kind of salutations.

And also just like him, he did nothing to hide the underlying emotion he was feeling, his of a decidedly more amused nature than his counterpart on the other end of the line.

“Things are in progress,” Marco replied. “Just like I told you yesterday.”

Raising an eyebrow, Ignacio lifted his gaze to Teo on the far side of the desk. The sleeves on his t-shirt removed per usual, he stood with hands balled, every striation and vein the length of his arms bulging.

Limbs that were carved from calisthenics rather than developed in a weight room somewhere, matching his stature that stopped halfway between five and six feet.

What many saw and dismissed in an instant, often at their own peril.

“No, what you said yesterday was it would be done today,” Ignacio corrected. “Which is why I’m calling, because I heard what happened in the lunchroom up there this afternoon.”

For several moments, there was no response. Lingering dead air that Ignacio imagined being filled on the other end by Marco covering the mouthpiece as he cussed into the night.

Maybe even motioning to Andres, signaling for him to get moving on something else.

Frantic activity, ending with his voice finally returning to state, “I assure you, we are looking at alternate means.”

“You better be,” Ignacio replied. “Because if Angel Abarca isn’t dead by tomorrow at midnight, any chance of us working together will be.”

Leaning forward, he picked up the receiver from the desk, preparing to slam it home.

“And I assure you, if that happens, a wasted business opportunity will be the least of your concerns.”

Chapter Thirty-Three

There was no way I could hide the trio of bodies out front. Or the equal number of vehicles pockmarked with bullet holes, their windows shattered.

Telltale markers of everything that just took place, completely eliminating any chance of getting the second crew to walk up to the door the way the first one did.

But that didn’t mean I was still without the element of surprise.

The moment I heard the lock on the bathroom door click with Mariana and her daughter inside, I ran downstairs and hit the light switch on the wall in the kitchen. Dousing the trio of lights embedded in the ceiling above, I swung out around the bar cutting the room in half and did the same with the lone lamp in the living room.

A quick extinguishment of all interior light, doing exactly as they would expect.

Plunge the room into darkness, and then hide and wait for them to enter. Post up behind the couch or the bar. Throw the lights on to blind them as I did out on the driveway earlier, or simply start firing as they were silhouetted in the front door.

Expectations that I intended to use against them, turning away from the lamp and heading straight back through the heart of the cabin. Cutting past the bar, I slid on by the kitchen.

Through the mud room on the back end.

A quick exit from the rear of the structure, coming out into dense trees pushing up within just a couple of feet. Thick forestation, reminding me of the place I was just the day before. Where I spent most of my waking hours, whether it be during the work season or when I retreated up north for the harshest months of winter.

A place where I felt most alive.

Where my advantage over others was the greatest.

Inhaling the deep scent of pine emanating from the trees around me, I stepped down off the single step leading away from the door. A drop to the forest floor, any noise blotted out by a bed of moss and pine needles.

Soundproofing that I used to mask my steps as I swung around the back corner of the house. The Glock extended at an angle before me, I slowed my pace and inched forward along the side of the structure, using the sound of the tires crunching into gravel and the cone of light from their front lamps to inform me of their movement.

A steady approach that I braced for, slowing to a stop just short of the front porch. A place only a few feet back from the corner, using the wreckage of the vehicles and the overlapping fingers of the logs comprising the front and side for cover.

A narrow gap in which I had to think I was all but invisible, their attention pulled in any of a dozen different directions.

Lowering myself to a knee, I grabbed up a rock braced against the side of the cabin. A stone roughly the size of a baseball that I intended to use for a bit of misdirection.

A noisemaker that I could cast up onto the metal roof, using the distraction the same way I did the rear door on the BMW earlier.

Glock clutched in my dominant hand, I squeezed the stone tight with my left. Fingers curled around it like talons, I pulled in shallow breaths, watching as the vehicle pulled past the last of the trees and entered the small clearing out front.

A sudden loss of obstruction, causing the glare of its headlamps to show even brighter.

Aimed directly at the house, it made no attempt to move for several seconds. No doubt time spent scanning and assessing what was before them, trying to determine what had already taken place.

The best way for them to react accordingly.

An internal planning session involving at least the pair of silhouettes visible during a couple of quick peeks around the corner of the structure, with as many as two or three more in the back.

A force whose size remained a mystery until I heard the clear sound of metal latches releasing. Hinges whining as a pair of car doors were opened.

Chancing one more quick glance, I watched as an equal number of people exited the vehicle. One on either side, stepping out from the shotgun position and the seat behind the driver.

Dressed to match their dead colleagues strewn about, they set up in a similar fashion, each swinging wide.

Overlook positions on either end of the porch, the driver still at the wheel in the center.

Feeling my grip on the gun and the rock both tighten, I retreated back into hiding. Pulse thrumming through my temples, I drew in shallow breaths, trying to imagine how the next couple of minutes were going to play out.

What sort of plan they had just put together.

Handfuls of different options that flitted by one at a time, none of them coming close to what they ultimately decided to do.

In the complete quiet of the clearing, the sound of the engine roaring resembled a thunderclap. An angry wail of belts and gears that pulsated against the wall of trees pushed up tight, bouncing back and forth before being funneled upwards into the darkness.

Mechanical horsepower that thundered for several moments as the driver pushed hard on the gas, revving the engine, before putting it into gear and sending the frontend hurtling straight at the cabin. An impromptu wrecking ball, bypassing any need to approach the door or risk repeating what happened to those who came before.

Doing just as my own sedan had earlier, it took the vehicle a couple of seconds to find traction. Spinning tires, it spit gravel out behind and a plume of dust skyward before finally they bit into the hardpack underneath, propelling it forward.

A drive of no more than thirty or forty yards, ending with it vaulting the small lip on the front edge of the porch.

Shearing off one of the support poles holding up the awning, the bumper tore right through the front wall. A collision of steel with wood and glass that the latter didn’t stand a chance on, the impact enough for me to feel through the outer wall a few feet away.

Reverberations that I absorbed in silence, praying that the driver intended to go no further. That it was just a way of breaching the front and not taking out the entire structure, sending Mariana and her daughter plummeting from their spot on the second floor.

Weight still balanced on my right knee, I clutched the pair of weapons until I could feel lactic acid starting to course the length of my arms. Sweat beaded on my brow, streaming down into my beard, as I stayed tucked in the shadows by the corner, watching as the pair who had already exited swung wider.

Weapons extended before them, they came in from the side, poised to get a clear view of the interior of the place.

Focus so attuned to whatever threats might lurk inside, they didn’t think to worry about what might be waiting just out of sight.

Switching the gun to my left hand, I took the rock in my right. Counting their steps in silence, I waited until the person closest to me was just off the edge of the porch before bursting forward.

One foot raised in the air, they were about to make the transition from dirt and gravel to wooden floorboards when I sprung forward. Drawing the stone back to my shoulder, I thrust it straight ahead just as they started to turn my way, revealing a woman’s features.

Recognition and rotation that was just an instant too late, allowing me to drive the bludgeon into the gap between her ear and temple.

Firm impact that caused the underlying bone to disintegrate, caving in the entire side of her face.

Releasing my grip on the rock as she melted to the ground in front of me, I shoved the Glock back into my right hand. Jerking it up to shoulder height, I pulled back on the trigger twice in order.

Blind shots to buy myself an instant of time before I was able to sight in on the intruder coming from the opposite direction. A man who had made it a step or two further than the woman I just killed, framing him on the opposite side of the vehicle.

Possible cover that he didn’t even try to go for, instead jerking his own weapon back my way.

An ingrained response that, just like his cohort, was seconds too late. Time enough for me to rattle off another pair of rounds, these two striking him square.

Absorbed energy enough to shove him off the far end of the porch as I dropped my aim by just a couple of feet. Barrel pointed at the passenger window in front of me, I continued tugging back on the trigger, the first round passing through, leaving a spiderweb pattern across the glass.

A crystalline design that lasted just long enough for the second round to slam into it, reducing the window to tiny shards as the driver shoved the gear shift into reverse. Gunning the engine once more, she reversed out a few feet, throwing shards of wood as the vehicle bucked up and down.

Backward movement that I matched, stepping across the porch with gun extended, continuing to pockmark the front windshield with one round after another.

Shots that I could see penetrating the glass and striking flesh, causing her to spasm as she jerked on the gear shift one last time.

A final gasp, putting it into drive and hurling the vehicle forward. A desperation ploy that sent me diving out of the way, hitting the ground and rolling sideways over the dirt and gravel as she tore through the corner post on the porch.

Sending the entire south end of the awning crashing down atop the vehicle, she slammed broadside into the remains of the BMW parked just a few feet beyond. The first in a chain reaction, shoving it sideways into my own sedan behind it.

A three-car pileup that I watched from the ground, managing to roll over onto my stomach.

The Glock outstretched before me, there I remained for a full minute, waiting for any sign of further attack that never came.

Chapter Thirty-Four

Despite the sheer volume of adrenaline pulsating through my system as I rested flat on my stomach in the dirt just off the edge of the porch, I had to force myself to think. Push through the massive chemical surge hurtling through me, instructing my every cell into either fight or flight.

Two ingrained responses, the latter of which was never once a serious consideration.

A natural predilection for engagement that rested at the front of my mind, even as I remained sprawled atop the ground. Gulping in air, I flicked my gaze around the small clearing immediately surrounding the cabin, scanning for any signs of movement.

Any last opposition who might have slipped past.

Final gasps from somebody I might have already battled.

A preliminary check, followed by pushing myself upright. Bringing the gun around in both hands before me, I made a single pass through the clearing.

A counterclockwise loop, checking over five of the bodies sprawled on the ground or behind the wheel of a vehicle. One final look to ensure that a threat wasn’t still lurking, able to snap off an unexpected round, skipping only the woman I hit with the rock earlier.

Unless she somehow figured out a way to live with the side of her skull caved in, I knew there was no further worry from her.

Acutely aware of the ticking clock that was still hanging over me and the possibility of a third set of headlights coming up the driveway, the instant I confirmed death on each of them, I tucked the Glock into the small of my back and went to work checking over each of the vehicles. A second quick pass, this time to determine if any of them were operational.

A means of getting down the mountain as fast as possible, after which we could disappear into the greater Los Angeles sprawl.

Get on the phone with Diaz and determine how to best proceed.

A working plan that made it only so far as seeing that the frantic surge of my last victim had created a cascading effect. The final mad dash of a desperate woman, hurtling her vehicle into both the BMW and the sedan I drove up.

A chain of demolition, rendering all three inoperable.

The end result of our truncated battle, compounded by what I had to think was done to the last vehicle present before I arrived. An aging Honda that no doubt belonged to Mariana, resting on four flat tires.

Wicked slashes made by the first crew when they initially arrived to ensure that even if she got past them, she wasn’t going far.

A predicament that now included myself as well, my mind shifting onto next steps.

The constant ongoing passage of time.

Resisting any urge to pick my way through the vehicles, salvaging what I could, I went only so far as grabbing my cellphone from the middle console. A quick check to ensure what I already suspected, which was that there was zero reception up that high in the mountains.

A dead zone that was surely a key reason why Angel Abarca had picked the place as a safehouse.

Tucking it away, I grabbed the temporary credentials Diaz had given me and my final Gatorade from the sack in the backseat before heading inside. Passing through the gaping maw that was previously the living room, I kicked my way through the wreckage, casting chunks of furniture and shards of wood in either direction.

A bulldozer coming through, getting to the staircase in the back as fast as I could.

Taking the stairs two and three at a time, I made my way up, stopping just outside the bathroom door I left only a handful of minutes before. Tapping twice against the door with the back of my knuckles, I said, “The sun rises in the west.”

Taking two steps back, I stood in the center of the second-floor landing, peering through the open bedroom door to the window on the far wall. A portal to the outside that I used to watch for any additional headlamps as the sounds of Mariana climbing from the tub could be heard.

Slow, plodding movements, mixed with the low din of voices.

A quick back-and-forth between mother and daughter, culminating in the door swinging open to reveal an expression similar to the one Mariana was wearing when we first met. Eyes wide, she asked, “What happened?”

“It’s easier to show you,” I replied. Giving the window one final glance, I turned back and mouthed, “Just you.”

A silent missive she agreed to with a nod, pulling the door shut behind her and following me down the stairs.

Saying nothing more, I waited until we were in the kitchen, the sight of the front wall caved in and a couple of additional bodies sprawled about causing the look of shock she wore to become even more exaggerated.

Any color there might have been in her features to drain away.

Expected responses that I could appreciate, even if right now we didn’t have the time needed to deal with them.

“We don’t know if more are coming, and we don’t have reception,” I said. “They wrecked all the cars, so we’ll have to move out on foot.

“Collect whatever you can. We leave in three minutes.”

Chapter Thirty-Five

For all of the drawbacks of residing in a cramped cube in the middle of Cell Block D, Angel Abarca had to concede that it was at least quiet. With the exception of morning roll call and a few other isolated times throughout the day, most of the time there was a relative level of silence that settled in.

Guys keeping to themselves, reading or doing endless pushups or whatever else they chose to help wile away the hours.

An endless battle against insanity that most filled with sleep, those who didn’t work sometimes banking as much as sixteen hours a day.

Ways of passing the time that Angel didn’t much give a shit about, so long as they didn’t bother him. Three hundred lives all carried out in silence.

Quiet that Angel sorely missed as he was forced to remain in the infirmary for the night, listening to the bevy of activity going on around him. Doctors and nurses coming and going right outside his door, pushing carts and having open conversations about whoever was in the adjoining spaces.

Medical attention, compounded by the handful of guards needed to watch over the men who were there for the night.

A growing crowd, most of it largely courtesy of Angel’s own hand.

Men who had forgotten their respective places in the internal hierarchy, deciding that a few dollars from somebody on the outside was worth whatever hell they were now enduring.

Misery that had extended to him as well in audible form, made worse by the bevy of machines attached to his bed. A heart rate monitor and a screen checking his blood oxygen level and a host of other things that he didn’t want or need.

Unnecessary attention, the slash across his ribs not even cracking the top ten of injuries he had received before. A wound that had already receded into more of an annoying pang in his side than anything that would need overnight supervision.

If given his preference, Angel would be back in his own cell. Cage door locked for the night, he would be on the bottom bunk, his gaze aimed up at the underside of the mattress above.

In his hand would be the flip phone, using it to reach out to Mariana and see if she was safe. If Hawk Tate had found her.

If anybody else had been by.

An initial call that wouldn’t have a chance of getting reception up so high in the mountains, but at least he would feel like he was doing something. Same for when he then called Miguel back for an additional update, followed by asking him for the contact information for anybody else who might have even a shred of loyalty to him.

Hell, just someone that still owed him a favor.

Markers he would gladly cash in for more information about what happened to Lorenzo Gil. How Marco was now handling it.

How Angel played into all of it, given the recent rash of attacks.

Unable to do any of that, his second preference would be to somehow get word to Ronnie. Pass along a slip of paper or a whispered request, asking him to grab the cellphone and dial the next-to-last number in the call log.

Keep trying, no matter how many times it took, until somebody answered.

That too not being possible, his final request would be to just somehow turn off all the damned noise that was going on outside.

Give him a few minutes of quiet so he could think.

A task that he knew would also become infinitely harder once he was moved in the morning.

Chapter Thirty-Six

For years, Marco had been forced to ride in the backseat whenever he was going out for any business purposes. Given his father’s insistence on sitting in the rear passenger seat as if he was some kind of foreign dignitary, that meant Marco was tucked up behind the driver.

The absolute worst spot in any vehicle in terms of both space and visibility.

Effectively, a child’s seat, subjecting him to cramped discomfort as he was forced to listen to his father prattle on about whatever they were up against at any particular time. An endless litany of outdated viewpoints and reactions that Marco was made to endure, the entire time nodding along and feigning interest.

All while hiding the enormous amounts of competing frustration that was bubbling within.

A situation that he no longer had to deal with, leaving him free to choose where to sit. Spur-of-the-moment choices depending on where they were going and the message that was to be imparted.

How he was feeling.

On trips such as this afternoon, when heading out to a field to tell an ignorant rube that his days of farming on the company dime– and, ultimately, his life – were over, the passenger seat was the best. A position of superiority, sitting right alongside his driver.

For times like this, he went straight for the wheel himself. Jerking open the driver’s door, he piled inside, making no effort to hide the hostility roiling across his features.

A mask practically daring someone to say something, whether it be the old man who usually drove, or Andres behind him.

Starting with the unnecessary argument that took place at the farm earlier, the day had been nothing short of a shitshow. A mess in every way, culminating with the call from Ignacio Marin a short time earlier.

Contact that was clearly meant to goad him. Try to make him rise to the bait.

A lesson in condescension that had Marco simmering, already rethinking their entire arrangement.

Everything that had been put into motion in service of it.

For as frustrating as it had been though, it still paled next to the news that had been passed along from their contact at Victorville Federal Correctional Facility a short time earlier. Confirmation of what he already suspected, relaying that their second attempt on Angel Abarca had failed.

A pain in Marco’s ass that he thought had been eliminated years before, only to spring back up now.

A problem that had grown even worse with the information that the DEA had now inserted themselves and would be moving him in the morning. Increased difficulty for them to get another chance at him, along with the potential for increased scrutiny moving forward.

More bullshit Marco could do without, wanting nothing more than to put his focus on things going forward.

The massive amount of work that was needed to shed his father’s outmoded style and take advantage of the unique opportunities that were now available. Products that required far less manpower, and presented much greater financial upside.

Avenues he had presented many times, only for each to be shot down without a second thought.

An adherence to the old ways – and the people responsible for it – that kept them from reaching their full potential.

Heights that were now within reach, provided they could get rid of a last pain in the ass. A remnant from those same days who refused to die, keeping everything else stuck in neutral in the process.

“Any word from the mountains?” Marco asked as he turned over the engine and put the Range Rover into gear. Mashing his foot down on the accelerator, he shot forward into the night, off to visit another facility such as the farm this afternoon.

A site used for storage and distribution, about to be nothing more than another empty warehouse.

Quite possibly littered with a couple of dead bodies, just like that damned barn earlier in the day.

“Not yet,” Andres replied, the front of the SUV lighting up with the glow of his cellphone as he checked the screen for no less than the hundredth time.

Another negative response on a two-day stretch that was full of them.

Their first forty-eight hours at the helm, damned near everything in that timeframe having gone to total shit.

Chapter Thirty-Seven

True to her word, Mariana Abbott had herself and her daughter both ready to go within three minutes. Taking off from a dead stop beside me in the kitchen, looking over the carnage that was the front end of the cabin, she shrugged off the initial veneer of shock she wore and went straight into a sprint.

A combination of a buzzing bee and the Tasmanian Devil, snatching up a handful of necessary items and stuffing them into a bag.

Preparation that I left her to while retreating out over the remains of the front wall to stand watch. A constant vigil, rechecking each of the bodies strewn about while returning frequently to the driveway for any signs of movement.

The faint flicker of incoming headlights. The sound of tires biting into gravel from somebody approaching dark, just as I did.

The snap of a tree in the woods.

The bark of a gun or even the whizzing of a stray bullet passing by.

Anything to let me know if a seventh attacker was near. A third wave that seemed unlikely, but I couldn’t take that risk, the lack of a front wall leaving the cabin completely exposed as Mariana prepared, working through the upstairs before coming down. A flurry of activity that, to her credit, was done largely in silence, the only sounds being the occasional drawer or cabinet door opening or closing and a bit of residual shifting from the front wreckage.

The expected noises of a frantic gathering of items, ending with her announcing that she was ready and going upstairs to get her daughter.

“Take her out the back,” I replied. “She doesn’t need to see this. I’ll meet you there.”

Maintaining my post on the front porch, I waited as more sounds of movement rang out. Footsteps going back and forth before starting to venture down the rear stairs.

Telltale noises, culminating with Mariana appearing on the far end of the small structure. By her side was a figure less than half her size, her top half covered with a towel like a ghost on Halloween.

Additional means of shielding her that I took as a signal it was time for me to tuck away the Glock. Stowing it in the rear waistband of my jeans, I took one last look at the clearing out front before moving across the porch.

Stepping down off the edge, I jogged around the side of the cabin, making a point to ask, “All set?” as I rounded the corner to keep from startling them.

A simple question that drew a nod from Mariana as by her side Lili pushed back the towel from her head. Letting it bunch up behind her neck, she stared up at me with the same dark eyes as her mother.

One of many commonalities, not the least of which was the look of fear gripping her features.

“I can’t hear anything,” I replied, “but if my bearings are right, we should be pretty close to the river. Do you know-”

“We are,” Mariana answered. Tilting her head forward, she added, “It’s a couple of hundred yards that way.”

Flicking my gaze in the direction she just motioned, I asked, “You know the way?”

Again, she nodded. “We were just there this afternoon. There’s a small path that will take us right to it.”

My turn to nod, I shifted my focus back to her. “You lead, I’ll bring up the rear.”

Much more I wanted to add, from my making sure we weren’t followed to her keeping an eye out for anybody approaching from the water, I left it at that.

Addendums she seemed to grasp just the same, her chin rising and falling a couple of centimeters. “Sure.”

Sliding my gaze to the side, I smiled at the child pressed tight to her side. Bending forward, I rested my palms on my knees and asked, “What’s your name?”

Saying nothing for a moment, she simply stared at me. Internal debate, for sure covering scads of different topics.

Questions that played across her young features until her mother nudged her and said, “The nice man asked you a question.”

Swinging her gaze upward for a moment, she brought it back to me and said, “Lili.”

“Lili, that’s a pretty name,” I replied. “And it kind of reminds me of one of my favorite movies. I wonder, have you ever seen The Princess and the Frog?”

In spite of whatever else she was feeling, I saw the left corner of her mouth flicker upward. A hint of a smile as she nodded in the affirmative.

“You have?” I asked, lifting my brows on my forehead. “That’s great, because that’s pretty much exactly what we’re going to do. We’re about to go on a little trip down the river.

“You will be Princess Tiana, your mom will be Ray the lightning bug leading the way, and well, I guess that makes me...”

Rising to full height, I spread my hands wide. An open invitation that made her giggle as she said, “The big, fat alligator.”

Matching the laugh, I answered, “Exactly. You can call me Louis, just like the big, fat alligator.”

Chapter Thirty-Eight

The San Gabriel River was exactly where Mariana said it would be. Less than two minutes after slipping out around the back of the cabin, I could start to pick up the sound of it in the distance.

Rushing water much like I’d been listening to barely thirty-six hours earlier, standing along the Gibbons River in Yellowstone Park, allowing that poor dad to rest while his wife snapped pictures.

A familiar din that had become the soundtrack to my career since leaving the DEA, growing stronger with each step taken.

Another three minutes after, we reached the river’s bank. What would effectively be our guide through the darkness, allowing us to turn west. Putting the water on our right, we began to walk, Mariana and her daughter out front, the former with her head on a swivel, constantly scanning the woods while occasionally flashing her gaze back my direction.

The latter having quickly recovered from whatever fright or confusion she was harboring after hiding in a bathtub and being taken out the back of the cabin with a towel over her head. A quick thawing process leaving her largely oblivious as she skipped along with the towel still draped over her shoulders, making up songs and clapping her hands.

Homemade tunes that started out as something I vaguely remembered from watching The Princess and the Frog in a different life before morphing into a running stream of consciousness. Random words and phrases that drifted out, quickly swallowed up by the sound of the water running over rocks beside us.

The early throes of spring runoff, carrying melted snow from the higher peaks at our backs. The start of a long and gradual descent, eventually ending in the Pacific Ocean a hundred miles away.

Careful to remain a few yards behind – close enough to jump in if a threat emerged, but far enough back so as to not create an easy firing cluster – I matched Mariana’s movement. A constant rotation, watching over the woods to the south and the path we’d just traveled.

Constant motion, aided by the occasional pause to step behind a tree. Motionless concealment, waiting for someone to reveal themselves.

A hunt for an enemy that I no longer believed was imminent, but I had to be sure.

Settling in, we continued working our way west, letting the river lead the way. A path with a slight meander to it, always pushing us toward the larger lake of the same name in the distance I had seen on the map.

Quick glances that I wished had been more exhaustive, my concern at the time only with finding the remote cabin. A focus that had now shifted, following one of the most basic tenets of woodland travel.

Namely, that water almost always led to civilization.

Especially in a place like this, resting just beyond the northern boundary of one of the largest metropolitan areas in the world.

An hour after we set off, I could see Lili began to fade. The previous energy she’d exuded dropped. The singing fell off.

A resumption of what was probably her baseline state that lasted another thirty minutes before obvious fatigue began to set in.

Her feet no longer rose from the forest floor, kicking up dust and pine needles. Her gait included a bit of a stagger, falling against her mother’s side.

Impending exhaustion that her mother did her best to offset by snaking an arm around her daughter’s shoulder, helping her along. A makeshift three-legged race that I allowed to continue for another fifteen minutes or so before I was forced to accept reality.

For as much as I would want to keep going, it simply wasn’t feasible. A child at her age wasn’t used to being up so late. Probably wasn’t accustomed to such strenuous physical activity.

Sure as hell had never encountered anything like what happened at the cabin earlier, no matter how shielded she might have been in the upstairs bathroom.

A host of things that would be overwhelming her young system, meaning the only option for her to keep going was if one of us carried her. A choice that was equally unappealing, her size meaning that Mariana would soon start to tire as well.

Mass that wouldn’t be a problem for me, but would severely inhibit my ability to keep watch or – if a threat emerged – act to protect them.

“We should turn into the woods a bit up ahead,” I said, the sound of my voice causing them both to slow as Mariana turned to look at me.

A silent question that I replied to with, “Find somewhere hidden to bed down until morning.”

Chapter Thirty-Nine

Mariana Abbott could tell that Hawk was not crazy about the idea of starting a fire. Having not once stopped surveying the forest around them since leaving the cabin earlier, his full focus was on ensuring that they weren’t being followed.

That the half dozen people who had already showed up trying to kill them was all that existed for the time being.

Dedication to keeping them safe that Mariana could appreciate, though unlike him, it wasn’t her sole point of concern.

Together, the two of them had been able to do a pretty good job of shielding Lili from what happened. Draping a towel over her head and taking her straight down the stairs and out the back of the cabin, they had been able to ensure she didn’t see anything she wasn’t supposed to.

A fate Mariana almost wished she could share, the vivid snapshots springing back to the front of her mind with each small sound or flicker of movement around her.

Evoked images that caused her entire body to tense.

Her core to clutch tight, seizing on the remainder of the chicken nuggets and tater tots still working their way through her system.

Reflexive reactions, each one causing her mind to work a bit faster. Constant processing, trying to determine exactly who the people were. How they were connected to her brother. What had happened to bring about such a thing after so long.

How in the hell she or her daughter were tied to any of it.

A thousand different questions all fighting for the top spot in her mind, occupying her focus until she started to notice her daughter bumping into her. Sideways listing that was a sure sign she was beginning to lose her strength.

Her age and the sheer amount they had been through over the last couple of days finally catching up with her, threatening to draw her under.

A finish line that Mariana could see getting closer with each step, prompting her to even try picking up her daughter for the first time in years.

A piggyback ride that would have likely drained the last of her energy as well, serving as enough for Hawk to capitulate to them stopping for the night. A victory that Mariana hadn’t wanted to press any further, waiting until she could feel her daughter shivering under the towel acting as a makeshift blanket as she tried to fall asleep before even voicing the request.

An ask that likely would have drawn pushback in most every other situation. Objections it was obvious he had, even going so far as to open his mouth to voice them a time or two, before his gaze landed on Lili.

Seemed to understand what she was going through.

Saying not a word, he had risen and disappeared into the forest. A short trip, returning just minutes later with a handful of twigs and sticks.

Fuel for a fire that he didn’t set about immediately building, instead following it up with a second trip to the water’s edge, where he collected a pile of loose stone. Rocks of varying sizes that he used to build a small enclosure to house the flames that now licked at the bottom of Mariana’s feet.

A blaze of no more than six inches, using the stones to block most of its light while reflecting the heat their direction.

Warmth that he took no part in, sitting several feet away, his back to the fire as he leaned against a neighboring tree, continuing to monitor the forest around them.

“Who were they?” Mariana said. Her voice barely more than a whisper, it was still loud enough to cause him to snap his chin her way.

A half turn in response to the unexpected sound before stopping himself, careful to protect his night vision from the flames as he stared out.

“I don’t know,” he replied. “I, uh, have a few ideas, but...”

Recognizing what he was trying to do, Mariana said, “I know about my brother’s dealings. Maybe not exactly what he did or who he did it for, but I’m aware of the life he was in.”

Studying him for any sign of a response, she added, “I’m guessing the fact that you’re here now means you’re a friend of his?”

Remaining stolid for several moments, Hawk eventually snorted. A single sniff, followed by, “Not exactly.”

Waiting to see if there was anything else that he might add, Mariana watched as he shifted his focus the other direction. Fixing his stare on something, he remained turned away for the better part of a minute before slowly returning to face forward.

A check for a perceived threat, or merely a signal that he wasn’t up for further discussion on the topic.

A message, intentional or not, that Mariana accepted, asking instead, “Is your name really Hawk? Because I know it isn’t Louis.”

Again, he pushed air through his nostrils, this time more of a smirk than a sound of derision. Turning his chin an inch her direction, he replied, “Middle name. Jeremiah Hawkens Tate, after an old movie my Pop used to love.

“Got shortened to a nickname that just kind of stuck.”

Nodding her understanding, Mariana’s attention was drawn to her daughter shifting between her legs. Starting to unfurl, she extended her legs a couple of inches. The death grip she had on the towel between her hands began to loosen.

Signs that no longer was she racked by the cold, their combined body heat and the warmth of the fire finally allowing her to rest comfortably.

Slumber she would surely need, tomorrow’s walk almost certain to be even longer.

“Thank you for being kind to Lili,” Mariana said. “For shielding her from everything back there”

Lifting her focus, she studied the side of his profile, watching as for the first time he turned to face her. Meeting her gaze, he nodded once.

“Princess and the Frog,” she added. “I’m guessing for you to have resorted to that, you must have one of your own?”

Saying nothing, Hawk rotated back, again showing her only his profile as he turned to face forward.

“You should probably try to get some rest.”

Chapter Forty

Andres had been given the heads up when everything was put into motion months before that once Lorenzo Gil was gone, he would need to start spending a lot more time at the Gil family estate. A relocation that wouldn’t be one hundred percent of the time, but would definitely be the vast majority of it.

A swap of his own two-bedroom villa in town a few miles away for a spare bedroom tucked away directly beneath the office now being occupied by Marco. A place much closer to the epicenter of what Marco was intent on building, ensuring he was accessible during moments of extreme need.

Times like this one, when several plates were spinning, all on the verge of coming crashing to the ground.

Even having such a long lead time to prepare himself for his new living arrangement, never had Andres taken into full account exactly what that would mean.

Pacing back and forth across the breadth of his room, Andres wanted nothing more than to throw open the set of double doors on the backend of the room. Step out into the moonlight.

Toss his face towards the heavens and let loose the mixture of vitriol and anticipation he was feeling. Bellow at the sky, unleashing one angry cry after another until the air was pushed from his lungs.

Until his throat was stripped raw, his voice threatening to give out.

Short of having that as an option, his second choice was to go after the punching bag he had hanging in the spare bedroom in his own villa. Windows blacked out, he would attack it with fists and feet.

Knees and elbows.

Even the occasional headbutt.

A full-body onslaught, going until lactic acid filled his muscle bellies. Sweat traced down over his features, burning his eyes and tasting salty on his lips.

An impromptu workout envisioning whatever or whoever had angered him.

A list that tonight was fast growing toward double digits, some of whom were known, the remainder nothing more than titles. People holding particular positions or working for certain agencies that he couldn’t clearly identify, but still knew that he hated them.

Wanted nothing more than to put them in his crosshairs.

Perhaps even sit outside wherever they were parked and wait for them to leave so he could press a button, sending them skyward, just as he had done only the day before.

Eventualities that all seemed so far out of reach, made to feel more so by the fact that he couldn’t even release the burgeoning anger within. Simmering rage that pushed him from one end of the space to the other, every last item inside starting to look like a target.

Something to go after, reducing it to splinters in the name of making himself feel a tiny bit better.

At the very least, clearing his damn head so he could think on the best way to proceed.

Like anyone else who had been around the Gil organization for the last decade, Andres was familiar with Angel Abarca.

Starting with stories when he was just a teenager, he had been one of the few who got to see the man operate in person. The famed Angel of Death, some of what Andres saw matching the legend.

Even more, far surpassing it.

Not quite in the shotgun position, Andres had still been close enough to get a good idea of his style. His methods. Capabilities.

Prior experience that meant reaching out to Los Costas Lobos should have worked. Four men with no known ties to the Gils, making it impossible for anybody who looked into the matter after the fact to draw a connection.

Same for the trio of muscleheads who were recommended to Andres afterward.

More than half a dozen people who Abarca had bested.

Enough on its own to piss him off, made worse by the fact that now his sister and niece seemed to have disappeared as well. Somehow, between bouts of kicking the shit out of their hired guns, Abarca had managed to get word to his family, sending them into hiding.

A mad dash before any of Andres’s people could get there, followed by hiding so well that now he hadn’t heard back from a single one of them. Radio silence that had continued despite his numerous attempts to get them on the phone, the device not leaving his hand except for the short time he and Marco were at the warehouse earlier.

A visit that also didn’t go to plan, the men who were there having seemed to be expecting their arrival, accepting their fates with a nod and a handshake.

An opportunity for Andres to release a bit of his festering rage that was also wasted, leaving him with no outlet beyond constant movement. Lengthened strides across the enclosed space, checking the screen of his phone every few seconds.

Quick glances in the event that he missed his screen lighting up.

Didn’t feel it vibrating against his palm.

Total focus on the device, meaning he didn’t see the door on the far end of the room open. Didn’t hear the hinges on it letting out their telltale cry.

Didn’t even feel the accompanying gust of cooled air touching the perspiration on his skin.

Not until Marco took several steps into the room did he even sense his presence, the movement in his periphery causing him to snap that direction. Flicking his right hand, he passed the dagger into his palm, his fingers wrapped tight around the base.

Knees flexed, he stood poised, needing no more than a moment for recognition to set in.

His hands to lower, extending wide to the side.

“My apologies,” he said. “Wasn’t expecting anybody.”

Saying nothing, Marco flicked his gaze between Andres and the phone in his hand. A knowing glance, followed by bringing it back up to look at him square.

“No word, I take it?”

Sliding his gaze down to the phone as well, Andres shook his head. “Nothing.”

“If you haven’t heard anything by morning, I want you on the road at first light.”

Chapter Forty-One

The total amount of sleep Angel Abarca got last night was no more than an hour. A cumulative amount snatched in small bursts and snippets. Moments when his eyes would close and his mind would drift, his head lulling to the side for a handful of minutes before snapping himself alert again.

A constant battle between fatigue, injury, and the number of things working through his brain. Everything from the pair of attempts on his own life the last couple of days to whatever was happening with his sister in the mountains.

Hundreds of questions that kept piling up, all set to the tune of the damned machines and their incessant beeping going on around him.

An ongoing process that continued until the first faint streak of dawn became visible through the caged windows set high on the wall above him. The start of a new day, at which point he pushed aside any grog he might have felt, steeling himself for whatever lay ahead.

The start of a waiting game he expected to last well into the morning, cut short just thirty minutes later. An abrupt halt occurring as a repeat of the previous afternoon with the same woman who arrived with Hawk Tate appearing outside his window.

Agent Mia Diaz moving fast, her brow furrowed, her jaw set.

A carbon copy of the prior visit, the lone exceptions were the blazer she wore and the company she kept. A swap on the front end of black for charcoal gray.

As for the rest, the pair of men accompanying her weren’t medical staff in lab coats or scrubs, but rather a pair of guards. Men who Angel had never seen inside before, dressed in black tactical attire.

“What’s going on?” Angel asked as the monitors beside him grew louder. A real-time soundtrack of the uptick in his heartrate, as once again every bad image that had drifted through his mind the previous night rushed forward. “Mariana?”

Ignoring the questions entirely, Diaz stepped to the side as the first of the guards took up a post at the foot of his bed. Right hand cocked toward his waist, he stood over Angel, his chiseled features implacable.

Behind him, his partner entered carrying a stack of clothes. An exchange of the usual orange prison togs he’d been donning every day for years for a pair of khaki pants and matching short-sleeve button down.

Generic clothes that were usually reserved for travel.

A way to make inmates being moved seem less imposing to anybody they may encounter while out in public.

“Get dressed,” the man said, dropping them down onto the bed beside Angel. Taking a step back, he assumed the same stance as his partner.

Men it was almost impossible to tell apart, only their heads visible for the matching black gear they wore.

“We move in three.”

“Three minutes...” Angel began to say, his voice trailing off as he shifted his focus back to Diaz.

Beside him, the monitors continued to beep faster, his pulse climbing.

“What happened?”

Next in through the door were a pair of nurses. Early morning staff who were different than the aging Latina the previous afternoon. Different still from any others he had encountered over the years.

Women in their early thirties, their faces free of makeup, their hair in simple ponytails.

New hires, abiding by the general rule of trying to make themselves appear as unappealing as possible.

“We need him changed and ready for transport in three minutes,” Diaz said. Words that the first of the two simply shrugged off, nodding once as she went straight for the monitor beside his bed.

Decorum that her partner didn’t quite share, her ponytail swinging behind her head as she turned to look at Diaz.

“Three minutes?” she asked. “It will take us at least-”

“What happened?!” Angel yelled, the sound of his voice eliciting responses from four of the five people in front of them.

The nurses both flinched.

The guards each brought their palms to their weapons, inching a bit closer.

Reflexive reactions that Diaz alone refrained from, simply staring at him.

A stare Angel held for a moment before adding, “Please. I’ll get dressed, I’ll let them pull all this stuff off me, just tell me what happened.”

For another moment, there was no response. In the wake of their simultaneous reaction, the four people between the two of them stood rooted in place.

The only sounds were those damned monitors, slowing just slightly after his outburst.

“We don’t know yet,” Diaz finally replied. “Which is why we’re moving you early. If we haven’t heard from Hawk by mid-morning, we’ll be sending up additional agents to check.”

Chapter Forty-Two

If it was up to me, there would have been no stopping last night. After what happened at the cabin, I would have hiked straight through until morning. Using the same road I had driven in on as a guide, I would have kept to the woods and pushed until I found civilization or cellphone reception.

Whichever came first.

An approach I’m fairly certain that Diaz, or Angel Abarca, or even Mariana Abbott would have gladly shared in. The quickest and most direct route, getting us away from whoever was stalking us and in touch with authorities who could help.

Given the addition of a young child, though, taking such an approach wasn’t an option. Same for asking her to walk through the night, or even letting a complete stranger carry her.

Barely older than my own daughter was when she passed, I knew all-too-well what her limitations were. We had been fortunate to get a burst of energy in the wake of the events at the house, the sound of the front wall being destroyed by the attackers driving through it, and anything she might have seen as she was hustled outside likely injecting a bit of adrenaline into her system.

Chemical energy her mother and I had done our best to maximize by trying to make it all seem like a game. Invoking The Princess and the Frog and letting her sing and play her way along the river for a couple of hours.

Borrowed time that we had made the best of before even that started to give out, leaving us with no option but to stop for the night.

A pause that I wouldn’t exactly call camping, but was the best we could do under the circumstances. Restrictions that her mother seemed to grasp during our brief conversation, just as she understood that in that moment, I couldn’t provide a lot of the answers she was seeking.

Some, because I simply didn’t know.

Others, because I hadn’t fully made sense of the situation myself. Wasn’t certain as to how much I should share. If it was even my place to.

A bevy of things that made for stilted interaction, leading her to eventually stop trying.

A short time later, to drift off to sleep herself, leaving me alone to sit vigil. Overnight watch for an enemy that never materialized, leaving me with those same questions Mariana had been asking, and no less than a hundred others.

Scads of different things, most of them centered on how the woman and her young child fit in with whatever was going on involving Abarca and whoever was after him, whether it be his former employer or someone else entirely. Entities that it seemed Mariana was several degrees and even more years removed from, though still they had sent a hit squad deep into the mountains to try and find them.

Half a dozen people, to take out one unarmed woman and a child.

For hours on end, I sat and mulled over the various things, eventually nudging them to the side sometime between three and four. Dropping into a low-energy state, I leaned my head back against the tree behind me and stared out, watching and listening for any sign of human activity, not to move again until the first streaks of dawn started to break through the canopy above.

The most likely time when an attack would show, if it was coming at all.

Abandoning my post at the base of the tree, I had risen to my feet. Finding a larger one a little bit further away, I pressed my shoulder tight into the bark and checked the phone once more.

Another failed attempt that came as no surprise, tucking the device away just as fast and swapping it for the Glock.

A weapon I kept tucked tight to my side, giving Mariana and her daughter another thirty minutes for daybreak to officially hit, starting to illuminate the forest around us, before returning and nudging the former’s foot.

A gentle waking that caused her eyes to snap open, asking, “Something wrong?”

“No, but we should get moving.”

Saying nothing more, she took to waking Lili and collecting their few things while I disassembled the small fire pit I had put together. Complete dismantling, eliminating any trace that we had been through beyond the faint smell of smoke in the air.

A lingering scent that I trusted the forest to take care of soon enough as I asked Lili if Princess Tiana would like to continue.

A question she answered with a mix of sleepiness and cheer, returning to the same state she was in when we first departed last night.

Youthful joy that her mother did her best to keep from becoming too loud as we moved for more than an hour. Still using the river as a guide, we pushed west, assuming the same three-person arrangement as last night.

Assumed roles with me bringing up the rear, doing my best to monitor everything around us. A task that was at the same time easier and much more difficult than under full darkness, illuminating infinitely more around me.

Hundreds of different pockets of shadow and signs of movement stirred up by the slightest gusts of breeze.

Constant monitoring that kept my head rotating in every direction, meaning I didn’t catch the hard outline up ahead the first or even second time I glanced over it. Firm edges unlike anything found in the natural world that should have jumped out at me immediately.

Not until my third pass, the gap between us barely more than eighty yards, did I see it looming before us.

“Stop,” I hissed, the lone word enough to halt Mariana where she stood, Lili falling silent by her side.

Both fixed in place, they turned my way, open questions on their faces.

Inquiries that I didn’t bother addressing directly, instead replying, “Stay right here. Get low, do not move.”

Adding nothing more, I heard Mariana whisper something to her daughter as I passed. Some kind of hushed directive as they both did as I said, melting to the forest floor.

Leaving them there, I moved off at a diagonal. Using the assorted trees for cover, I worked my way from one to the next, careful to utilize their thick bases and the accompanying shadows.

Drawing the Glock from my rear waistband, I pushed forward as a small structure took shape ahead. Little more than a shed, constructed in a basic square design with a pitched metal roof overhead.

A simple make and model thrown together on the cheap, likely by the Forest Service or the Department of Fish and Wildlife. A stopover for wardens patrolling for poachers on public lands or agency scientists conducting research in the area.

The smaller, less sturdy version of what dotted large parts of Yellowstone as well.

Exact purpose that didn’t concern me so much as what might be stowed away inside. A manual radio or satellite phone I could use to contact Diaz. Canned goods or bottled water that may be stockpiled.

The prospect of additional supplies that pulled me in a bit faster, making it no further than halfway before a sight stopped me where I stood. Strapped to the side of the cabin, I couldn’t help but smile, turning back to Mariana and her daughter in my wake.

“Hey Princess Tiana, you ever been in a canoe before?”

Chapter Forty-Three

It took a few minutes for Lili to get the hang of being on the water. Her first time in such a craft, she had the expected amount of youthful excitement about being in the canoe. Shock and joy, mixed with the energy of starting a new day and feeling the morning sun on her skin.

Exuberance that had her leaning out over the side in either direction, trying to reach down and touch the water as we skimmed across it. Sudden shifts in weight that caused us to rock back and forth, leaving me to do my best to offset her as I paddled from the back.

A makeshift rudder in more ways than one, lasting for a solid thirty or forty minutes before Mariana was finally able to calm her down. Abandoning paddling herself, she pulled her daughter up onto the bow with her, cradling her in her arms as we pushed forward.

A better offset of my weight in the rear, along with neutral balance.

Together, those two things combined with the current in the center of the river. Steady flow, courtesy of the runoff that we heard rushing over submerged boulders late last night.

Shallower conditions at higher altitude that gave way to deeper water as we made our way down, offering a much calmer surface.

Also working to our advantage was the fact that we were going downhill. A gradual descent, reversing the climb that I made in the sedan last night.

Natural factors that were in our favor, buttressed by the sheer amount of anticipation I could feel pushing through me. A continuation of everything in the last eight hours, from the battle at the cabin to the night spent waiting for more threats to emerge.

The desire to get Mariana and her daughter away from the forest and back into the city, where they would be much easier to hide.

To reach cellphone reception so I could contact Diaz and see if she had any luck in determining what the hell was going on. How she would like us to proceed.

Even just the thought of finding something to eat for all of us after the small outpost up high on the mountain proved to be empty, scraped clean of anything useful beyond the craft we were currently in.

Such thoughts resting at the front of my mind, I paddled steadily through the morning. Long strokes to either side, alternating three to five on the left before doing the same on the right.

Bursts lasting until my shoulders and lats began to burn, beads of sweat from the early morning sun dotting my forehead, before I would pause just long enough to return to stasis.

Brief breaks, allowing momentum and the current to carry us on before pushing ahead again.

A back-and-forth pattern lasting the better part of two hours before Mariana shot a hand out in front of her. A flash of movement that drew my attention up in time to see her turn, chin pressed into her shoulder as she peered my way.

“I think we’re there.”

“Yeah?”

Pausing mid-stroke, I balanced the paddle on either edge of the canoe. Craning my neck, I peered past her, seeing the shoreline pull back on either side.

A widening pattern, leading out to a much larger body of water beyond.

“I think so,” Mariana replied. “Looks like it’s about to really open up.”

Grasping the paddle in both hands, I was able to lift it no more than an inch from the metal rim on either side when a sound pierced the air. An unexpected noise that sent sensation through my core, my chin snapping an inch to the side at the familiar note.

One that I heard often on excursions just as such this, signaling that we had at last reached the outer edge of civilization.

“What was that?” Lili asked.

A question her mother seconded by lifting her brows as she continued to stare back over her shoulder.

Twin asks that I ignored for a moment as I slapped the paddle back down. Reaching to my rear pocket, I fished my phone out and checked the screen to see a pair of bars appear in the top corner.

Not ideal, but more than enough for what we needed.

“That,” I began. Searching for some sort of Princess and the Frog allusion, I found nothing coming to mind, my thoughts already consumed with what happened next. “Was good news.”

Saying nothing more, I went straight into the recent call log. Needing to only go as far as the first entry, I hit send.

Midway through the first ring, it was snatched up.

“Hawk,” Diaz said, the word spat out quickly.

A mix of underlying emotions that I understood entirely, able to hear some variation of the same as I replied, “Diaz.”

“Where are you? Are you okay?”

Glancing to either side, I said, “We are currently in a canoe on the San Gabriel River, about to enter the eastern edge of the San Gabriel Reservoir.”

Knowing full well how that sounded, the litany of questions it must have spurred, and the fact that Mariana and Lili were both listening to every word, I stopped there, allowing Diaz to choose where to start.

Infinite possibilities that she processed in real time, spitting out a couple of false starts before saying, “We? I take it...”

“All safe and accounted for,” I replied. “Not so much our vehicles or the cabin, which is why we’re traveling by boat.”

Picking up on my coded speak, she asked, “Trespassers?”

“Two by three,” I responded, outlining the groupings they’d arrived in. “Things on your end?”

“Abarca and I are in transit now, en route to headquarters,” she said, the faintest bit of the highway audible in the background. “Figured any longer there, and eventually they were going to find a way to get to him, especially when we didn’t hear back from you.”

“Agreed,” I said, adding nothing more as I flicked my gaze to his sister and niece ahead of me. “Speaking of which...”

Chapter Forty-Four

“Will there be anything else, Señor Gil?”

Asked in the same manner as Marco had heard it every morning for much of his adult life, it took a moment for him to realize that the question was aimed at him and not his father.

Another of an endless list of old habits and practices that needed to be weeded out.

One more item on a to-do list, this one not rising high enough for him to bother with just yet.

“Not for me, thank you,” Marco replied. Glancing across the polished mahogany table to his mother working on her customary grapefruit and Splenda or his abuela with her pair of soft-boiled eggs, he asked, “Would anybody else like anything?”

Lips pressed tight together, his grandmother gave a silent shake of the head. Beside her, his mother glanced to the woman who fell somewhere between the two of them in age. Waving a hand across her body, she added, “No, we’re good, Lupita. Thank you.”

A curt exchange that made it clear to Marco that he was not the only one with a to-do list now that his father was gone.

And that he no longer needed to worry about that last item, his mother sure to eliminate it long before he had to bother.

Returning her focus to carefully slicing out the wedges of citrus fruit from its casing, his mother waited until Lupita was gone before placing her fork and knife down on either side of the bowl. Reclining in her chair, she turned her attention to the windows beside them, her gaze landing on the family office in the distance.

“How’s it going over there?”

Abandoning the ham steak he was working on, Marco placed his utensils down as well. Resting them on the side of the plate, he sat back, matching his mother’s pose.

“Some hiccups,” he replied, choosing his words carefully.

Tiptoeing not for the sake of his mother, who was fully versed in the family business, but for the older woman beside them. Somebody who Marco always got the impression knew far more than she let on, though his father insisted on treating as if she were oblivious.

A facade that Marco would just as soon add to the list as well.

Though, just like Lupita, it wasn’t quite something he had the energy to attack anytime soon.

“But nothing unexpected. Met with a couple of the farmers yesterday. Swung by the warehouse last night.”

“How are they all doing with it?” his mother asked, rotating her gaze back to look his way.

A stare he met for just an instant, debating how to best answer, when his phone began to buzz beside him. An unexpected sound in the quiet of the dining room, drawing the attention of all three toward it.

A look taking only an instant for Marco to see the name flashing on the screen.

“I need to take this,” he said. Snatching it up, he squeezed the buttons on either side, silencing the buzzing as he pushed his chair back and stood. “Please excuse me.”

Saying nothing more, he strode from the room and out into the hall. Moving quick, he accepted the incoming call, answering with a simple, “Andres.”

“Sir.”

“One minute.”

Dropping the phone to his side, he continued on his route, making his way toward the center of the house and out through the front door before returning it to his cheek. Stepping barefoot onto the cool paver stone in front of the mansion, he asked, “What’s going on?”

“I’m almost to LA and just got a call from our contact at Victorville,” Andres replied, his voice elevated to be heard over the hum of the road in the background. “The DEA has taken over and is moving Abarca as we speak.”

Both nostrils rising in muted obscenity, Marco gave his head an angry shake. “Where?”

“Southwest headquarters, east of San Diego,” Andres said.

“Dammit.”

“Pretty much,” Andres agreed. “You want me to head that way, or continue on up to the mountains?”

Raising his free hand, Marco ran it back over his scalp. Contemplating what was just posed for several moments, he asked, “Have you heard from your team yet?”

“Nothing,” Andres answered. “Been trying all morning, keeps going straight to voicemail.”

Again, a string of profanity came to Marco’s mind. Words he had to consciously bite back, not wanting any of the house staff – or his mother or abuela – to overhear.

“How far are you from the mountains?” he asked instead.

“Depending on traffic? Less than an hour.”

“Do that first,” Marco replied. “Find them, see what the hell happened.

“We know where Abarca’s going. We’ll figure out how to deal with him later.”

Chapter Forty-Five

The man known simply as Doc was around long before Ignacio Marin ascended to the head of the organization that he now oversaw. A fixture that Ignacio never once considered getting rid of, even as he stripped the rest of the roster down to the studs around them.

A prerequisite, without which there was no organization.

What the man was a doctor of, Ignacio had not a clue. If the nickname was a reference to some degree he earned long ago, a tongue-in-cheek nickname, or even a shortening of his actual surname, brought down over the border more than a decade before.

All Ignacio knew was the man was damn good at what he did.

The very best at creating synthetic drugs, his product of choice now being fentanyl, which was filling the coffers faster than all others combined. The leading cause of a revolution in the drug game, making the old standbys like heroin and cocaine quickly become obsolete.

Same for the people peddling them, which was how Ignacio now found himself in such a favorable position over the once-mighty Gil family.

The first time Ignacio ever heard the name, he allowed himself to play into stereotype. A combination of evoked mental images going back to cartoons when he was just a child, leading him to envision an older man with stooped shoulders shrouded in a lab coat.

Pop-bottle glasses resting on a pointed nose.

A bald head and wheezing voice.

All of the classic tropes that turned out to be a harsh contrast to the man who looked like he could just as easily be a part of Ignacio’s security staff as the one overseeing his most profitable venture.

Roughly the same age as Ignacio now when they first met, Doc was just past his fiftieth birthday. A number visible only in the gray that had threaded through his thick hair and trimmed beard. Steel-colored bristles, offset by the deep tan of his skin.

A russet hue, perpetually visible on his cheeks and on the arms that were always bare. Sculpted muscles traversed by veins starting at the hem of the sleeveless t-shirts he donned daily.

Rock and roll paraphernalia, supporting everybody from the Eagles to Guns n Roses.

The classics, as opposed to most of the bands he saw young people going on about these days.

Several inches taller than Ignacio’s six-feet, his presence within the lab was instantly recognizable as Ignacio stepped inside the facility a few blocks over from his own headquarters. Separation that was by design, ensuring that both sides were given plausible deniability should the need ever arise.

Not that he expected it to, his largest expenditure each month being to ensure that nobody ever came within a hundred feet of either.

Bribes to local politicians and law enforcement alike, all happy to accept his checks and keep right on going.

Making his way down the set of metal stairs descending into the basement of the facility, Ignacio waved a hand at the wall of glass enclosing the private lab. A greeting that the mountainous Doc matched, his stature made to appear even more imposing by the team surrounding him.

Middle-aged Chinese men who barely came to his shoulder, their narrow builds enrobed in oversized lab coats.

What looked like children playing dress up, each glancing toward Ignacio for only an instant before returning to whatever they were doing just moments before. Work that Doc left them to as he peeled himself away from the group and exited the lab, meeting Ignacio just outside the door with a massive hand extended.

A shake that Ignacio reciprocated, his own hand swallowed by that of his employee.

“Doc.”

“Ignacio,” Doc replied, one of the few in the entire organization allowed to use his first name. “Almost didn’t recognize you without your shadow.”

Knowing who he was referring to – and the joke underscoring it – Ignacio smirked, allowing his head to rock back an inch.

“Teo’s upstairs on the door,” Ignacio said. “You know how he is about enclosed spaces.”

Cracking a grin, Doc answered, “Do I ever.”

“Besides, I told him we wouldn’t be here long. Just wanted to pop in, see how production is going.”

Hooking a thumb out to the side, Doc rotated a couple inches at the waist, gesturing to the group clustered together behind them.

“Just running some purity tests when you walked in,” he replied. Bringing back the grin he wore just a minute before, he added, “Stuff is as clean as anything coming off the boats from the People’s Republic.”

His turn to smile, Ignacio leaned out to the side, peering around the man toward the team all stooped over a series of Petrie dishes, miniature pipettes in hand.

Work he didn’t pretend to understand, only that he was far ahead of anybody else in the country.

“How fast do you think we’ll be ready to start producing?”

“Assuming the rest of this stays the course?” Doc asked. “We’ll be ready within the week.”

“Excellent,” Ignacio said. Slapping the man on his bare shoulder, he drifted a step to the side, already heading for the stairs.

A quick exit, just like he promised Teo.

Rotating in place to follow his progress, Doc asked, “Any word on this new partnership project that’s supposed to be underway?”

“You mean Gil?” Ignacio replied, his eyes widening slightly as he turned all the way to face Doc, walking backward up the stairs.

“Ha!” he spat, the single crack of laughter causing a couple of men inside the lab to again lift their gaze his way. “That was never really a partnership. That was just an excuse for me to settle some old scores without anybody being the wiser.”

Chapter Forty-Six

The faded boards on the dock extended out from the shore of the San Gabriel Reservoir thumped audibly with each of our steps. Three people of varying sizes moving at varying speeds, the combination sounding out over the water a couple of feet below.

Solid footing for the first time in a few hours, our lengthy journey down out of the mountains finally at an end. Twelve hours by foot and boat, about to give way to several more by vehicle.

A mad dash that had seen the amount of concentrated urgency I was carrying shift in the wake of speaking to Diaz, but certainly had done nothing to tamp it down.

A trade of one task for another, replete with its own set of obstacles to overcome.

It had also not managed to keep the soreness I felt from settling into my back and shoulders. A continuation of what I was carrying just a couple of days before after the marathon snowmobiling session, now compounded by the lengthy paddle down the San Gabriel River.

Activity that by the end of summer I wouldn’t even notice, but so early in the year I wasn’t quite ready for.

Physical exertion that I attempted to work out as we made our way forward, rolling either shoulder and tilting my head back and forth. Light stretching that continued as we reached the end of the dock and stepped off, pausing at the head of the gravel path extended before us.

A walkway forking outward in multiple directions, splicing through the thick green lawn along the shore. Grass that was manicured in a way that hinted at watering and fertilizer, liberally sprinkled with pine trees and hardwoods just starting to bud.

All the makings of a mountain resort. A water oasis for those in the area who couldn’t or didn’t want to go all the way to the ocean.

A scene that was probably already busy on the weekends and would be a madhouse by May, mercifully quiet for the time being.

“Where to?” Mariana asked.

Considering the question for a moment, I scanned the various outbuildings around us. Multiple offerings, all of them already open for the season despite the nonexistent crowd.

A stark contrast to the lakes I was used to working around, still iced over and closed for at least another couple of months.

Tilting my chin toward a small cluster to the right, I asked, “You guys need to use the restroom? Maybe get washed up?”

Following my nod, Mariana did the same in agreement. “That would be great.”

“Okay. I’ll head on up to the marina shop to start keeping an eye out. Just come on up whenever you’re done.”

Nodding once more, Mariana extended a hand by her side. Taking her daughter’s tiny paw in her own, she said, “Come on, baby.”

Together, they set off for the restrooms, each footfall sounding out in the loose gravel. A trek I watched for the better part of a minute, making sure there were no visible threats nearby, nobody taking a bit too much interest in them.

Seeing nothing, I continued on straight ahead, making sure the tail of my shirt covered the Glock in my waistband as I climbed more than fifteen feet in elevation over a stretch of roughly fifty yards to a clapboard building painted white. Across the front were a handful of large square windows, providing a view inside to rows of fishing tackle and life preservers.

A classic marina shop look and feel, matched by the assorted scents that greeted me as I stepped inside.

Everything from live bait to breakfast sandwiches, made to seem more pronounced by the low ceilings overhead. White Styrofoam panels with tube lighting, the bulbs reflected from the tile floor underfoot.

The last question I had posed to Diaz over the phone earlier caused her to pause. A few moments to consider everything I had shared, coupled with what she was currently doing.

Active processing that resulted in her firing a question back my way.

A response that normally would rankle me, but given both the source and the situation, I understood entirely. that being to see if she had the local DEA office send a car up to retrieve us and then go over to dig around the cabin, if I could drive Mariana and Lili down to the southwest headquarters as well.

A journey of a few hours that would make a long stretch even longer, but would get everybody at least in the same location. Easier protection for all three, while we sat with Angel Abarca and determined what to do with whatever he had to share.

Information that, given everything that transpired last night, had definitely been kicked up to top priority status.

Saying I would be glad to do so, Diaz had ended the call just a minute or two later. Off to begin making preparations, she’d left me to paddle on for another fifteen minutes, traveling along a decent chunk of the shoreline before tying off at the dock outside.

“Morning,” an older gentleman behind the counter said as the door swung shut behind me. A guy I’d peg at somewhere in his sixties, with a thatch of white-blonde hair and a bushy white moustache.

Pale adornment, offset by deeply tanned skin that had been aged by years of exposure.

A lifetime outdoorsman of some sort, either now manning the same post he had for decades, or seeking it out as a retirement gig.

“Morning.”

Leaning forward with flannel-clad elbows resting on the counter, the man asked, “What can I do for you?”

“Well, couple of things,” I said. Reaching to the rear pocket of my jeans, I extracted the temporary credentials Diaz had given me and continued, “Tied up out there is a canoe that we needed to borrow from a small cabin outpost up the river this morning. Looked like it might have been Forest Service or-”

“FWP,” the man said. “Whole area is covered with them.”

“Right,” I said, tucking the bifold away. A move I hated pulling, but knew was the easiest way to ask what I needed to without raising suspicion. “Is there any way you can reach out and let them know it’s here, maybe keep an eye on it until they can retrieve it?”

Pushing himself upright, he leaned back from the counter. A quick glance at the dock, interrupted by the door opening as Mariana and Lili both stepped inside.

Each with hands and faces scrubbed clean, they smiled at the man and took a few steps forward, pausing just shy of the counter.

A sudden gathering that the man looked at in order, his gaze eventually drifting back out to the dock again before finally shifting back to me.

A visible connecting of the dots, ending with him nodding.

“Shouldn’t be a problem,” he said. “They usually come through every couple of days doing something or the other.”

“Appreciate it.”

“And the other thing you said you might need help with?” he asked.

“Yeah,” I said, my voice rising a bit now that the more difficult of the two questions was out of the way. “What time does lunch service start?”

Rotating my gaze over to Mariana and Lili, I added, “You guys are hungry, right?”

Chapter Forty-Seven

Mariana and her daughter were still working on their hotdogs by the time I finished with both of my burgers. A return to what my wife used to call practiced inhalation, dating back to my time in the Navy.

A force of habit whenever I was faced with combat or impending action, taking down what I could as fast as I could, so as to be ready for whatever came next. A reflexive response that I didn’t even realize was happening until the same old guy from behind the counter came to see if we needed anything else and raised his brows at the empty plate before me.

Even more so as he refilled the pair of empty paper cups of coffee on either side of it.

A performance earning chuckles from Mariana and Lili, and perhaps more importantly leaving me ready when the polished black sedan first appeared on the far end of the parking lot. A carbon copy of the one Diaz picked me up in yesterday that was now sitting in a busted heap atop the mountain.

The latest make and model off the standard government vehicle production line, standing out amid the smattering of rusted pickups and mid-size SUVs dotting the parking lot.

Sunlight glinting off the tinted front windshield, I kept my gaze fixed on it as I slid sideways out of my seat.

“You two stay here.” Flicking my gaze to Mariana, I added, “Take your time, finish your lunch, I just need to talk to these guys for a few minutes.”

Having overheard the conversation with Diaz in the canoe, Mariana nodded her understanding. Saying nothing, she went back to her hot dog, urging her daughter to do the same as I stepped away from the row of booths along the back wall and out through the front door of the shop.

Exiting onto a concrete patio under an awning held up by standard square posts painted white to match the rest of the building, I paused as a second vehicle came into view. An exact replica of the first one, it moved a bit quicker to catch up, cutting straight across the empty rows.

A direct path, allowing them both to pull up one row back from where I was standing. Coming to a stop in adjacent stalls, the drivers each cut their engines and stepped out.

“Tate?” the man driving the first vehicle asked. A thirty-something with strawberry blonde hair that was already climbing up his scalp and a complexion to match.

Dressed in a blue suit with a silver tie, he extended a hand before him.

“That’s right,” I replied. Meeting his grasp, I added, “Call me Hawk.”

“Marcum,” he said, offering nothing more as I released and moved on to the second driver. A woman with raven hair pulled back tight and a pant suit of the same color.

“Kirby,” she said, her gaze flitting across me to the marina shop and back.

“Thanks for coming.”

“Of course,” Kirby replied. “Agent Diaz said you used to be one of us, still help out from time to time.”

“And that this involved Angel Abarca,” Marcum added.

Rotating in place, I checked to ensure that the windows along the front of the place were all closed. Barriers to keep Mariana and her daughter from hearing what I was about to share before turning back.

“Sort of,” I began, running them through everything that had happened in the last day and a half. A truncated overview, omitting nonessentials like the first attack on Abarca or me digging up Hector Martinez out in the desert.

Focusing just on the high points, I shared who Abarca was and used to work for. The unusual request he had made.

The fact that on the same day, somebody had stabbed him in the lunchroom and sent a hit team up to the safe house in the mountains for his family.

A list of events that they both listened to in silence, their expressions growing tighter with each word shared.

When I was finished, they both stood quiet for several moments. Each with arms folded, they turned to face one another, Marcum the first to speak, asking simply, “What do you think?”

“Agent Diaz asked us to go over and take a look once we were done here,” Kirby replied. “What else can you tell us about what happened at the cabin?”

“Six-man team, that I know of,” I replied. “Luckily, they arrived in two waves of three, spaced about five or ten minutes apart.

“If there was a point in doing that or if we just got lucky, I don’t know. Same for if anybody came after. We got out of there pretty quick.”

“You happen to catch any of them say anything?” Marcum asked. “Maybe take something off of them after the fact?”

“No, and no,” I replied. “Like I said, I told those two in there to be ready in three minutes, grabbed a Gatorade and my phone out of the busted car I drove up, and we took off on foot.”

Once more, the two exchanged a glance. A quick look, as if asking if there was anything else the other wanted to ask, before Marcum dug into his pants pocket.

Pulling out a set of car keys, he extended them my way, adding, “Any chance we can get you to show us exactly where on the map this place is before you go?”

Chapter Forty-Eight

Whatever burst of energy Liliana might have had after reaching the marina lasted about an hour. Long enough for her to thoroughly scour the marina shop, eat her hot dog, and pick out a handful of drinks and snacks for the road.

A concentrated jolt that had already started to wane by the time they reached the northern edge of the greater Los Angeles sprawl.

Was completely gone by the time they made it south out of Covina and started to cut a diagonal path across the region, making their way toward a destination Mariana Abbott was already starting to put together in her mind, even if their driver had not yet said as much.

Planted in the front passenger seat, Mariana occasionally cast glances over her shoulder to her daughter in the middle of the bench seat, watching the progression in real time. A gradual descent, taking her daughter from sitting up to leaning sideways to curling up in the sunbeam streaming in through the side window.

Her right arm tucked up under her head and her left pulled tight to her chest, her eyes were closed tight. Her lips quivered slightly with each puff of air that escaped her.

Deep breathing, signaling that she had fallen fast asleep.

Just as Mariana was hoping.

It wasn’t until the call in the canoe earlier that Mariana really started to put things together. An unexpected ring from the phone Hawk was carrying, followed by a conversation that was clearly in code, but offered her a few useful nuggets.

Snippets and phrases that she was able to add to the extremely stilted conversation they had by the fire last night.

A talk that, if she wasn’t so tired, would have left her frustrated as hell. Partial and evasive answers to a handful of basic questions, ending with him basically just shutting things down.

What she had taken as him being cagey or just a prick, neither of which made a lot of sense given how well he had handled Lili.

Sidestepping that now made infinitely more sense – especially given the car that had just been delivered to them by a pair of people in suits - his reluctance more a result of his hands being tied than anything else.

“You’re him, aren’t you?” Mariana opened. A jump straight to the top, hoping to confirm her supposition.

Use that as a framework moving forward.

The first thing either had said since they left the mountains, she could tell it caught him by surprise. Both the sound of her voice and the question itself, drawing his attention over.

“Who?”

Having expected the reply, Mariana smirked softly. “When you said you weren’t exactly a friend, I wasn’t quite sure what you meant, but...”

Letting her voice drift off, she pulled her focus away from the freeway ahead. Four lanes of traffic that were just starting to bear the earliest hints of thickening for the afternoon.

An impending parking lot that Mariana had fought more times than she cared to remember over the years.

Glancing at his profile beside her, she added, “You’re the one who caught him, aren’t you?”

Exhaling slowly, he answered, “I am. At least, I was.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means your brother was one of the last cases I ever worked before officially retiring,” he replied.

Feeling her brows rise up her forehead, Mariana asked, “Retired? As in, not actually an agent anymore?”

“Not in about six years now.”

Eyes wide, Mariana turned back to face forward, putting that new information with what she’d seen in the last day.

Scenes taken directly from a movie, with a former government operative suddenly activating skills long left dormant.

“Is this what you do now? Rescue-and-recovery type stuff?”

Snorting loudly, Hawk said, “Hardly.” Letting the mirth play across his face, he glanced over and added, “I’m actually a wilderness guide in Yellowstone Park.”

Unable to help herself, Mariana let a single laugh escape. A lone sound that was louder than intended, causing her to glance back over her shoulder to ensure Lili was still asleep.

“You’re kidding me.”

“Nope,” he said. The same smile growing a bit wider, he added, “Hawk’s Eye Tours, best guided tours in the park.”

Unable to contain the small chuckle that escaped her, Mariana replied, “Wow. So that’s where the fire building and canoeing and all that came from?”

Again, he smirked, rotating his focus back to the road ahead. Traffic that was already growing noticeably thicker, despite the official end of the workday still being hours off.

“Yeah, I guess you could say that.”

Shaking her head slowly to either side, Mariana fell silent, attempting to push the new information into place in her mind. A working format that was just starting to make sense, now at least partially busted up by discovering who the man sitting beside her was.

Where he’d been, both six years and just six days ago.

Drastic offsets that she chewed on for a few moments before deciding to nudge it aside for the time being.

“Can I ask where we’re headed?” she said instead.

A question again evoking a long exhalation, this time followed by him saying, “The southwest headquarters of the DEA, outside of San Diego.”

Nodding once, she asked, “Will my brother be there?”

Chapter Forty-Nine

Andres had lost cellphone reception shortly after starting his climb into the San Gabriel Mountains. No more than a few miles north of Azusa, around the time he started to notice an increase in elevation, the number of available bars on the top of his screen reduced from five to one.

Another mile or two thereafter, as the forest started to thicken on either side, coverage had disappeared altogether. An end to outside communication that gave him the momentary thought that perhaps that was why he had failed to hear from his team yet.

A pipe dream notion that was there and gone in an instant as Andres realized that there was no way all six would have been out of range for that period of time, regardless of what they encountered atop the mountains.

A realization that became proven fact as he made one last turn, following the directions his team leader had sent over as their last point of contact the night before. A detailed list that Val and Daniela had been able to pull off Mariana Abott’s laptop after more than thirty minutes of scouring the previous afternoon.

A rare mistake on the woman’s part that was the sole reason any of them had been able to unearth her location.

Thirty minutes after leaving the valley floor below, Andres exited from a one-lane paved road onto a lane of dirt and gravel. A tunnel carved through thick forestation, almost blotting the sunlight from overhead.

A passage from one world to the next, the prior a basic mountain road, the new one a macabre scene straight out of a low-budget horror movie. The kind of film that would have frightened him as a nine-year-old, before he learned that such things weren’t real.

And even if they were, they paled next to some of the stuff he would see in the years to come.

Pulling forward just far enough to clear the tight confines of the lane he’d driven in on, Andres had chosen to park and walk the rest of the way on foot. An additional thirty yards or so, letting him make a complete revolution of the grounds.

Get a full look at what was on display, framed by the lone burst of sun making it through. A spotlight filling the clearing, highlighting the quartet of vehicles smashed up along the side of the cabin.

Two belonging to his team. A third piece of shit that he had to believe belonged to Mariana Abbott.

A fourth that had all the earmarks of a government vehicle, falling in line with what they had heard from their contact at Victorville about the DEA being involved.

Transportation for his six people, along with enough space for an equal amount on the opposite side.

People who all seemed to have escaped, while the remains of his team were strewn about the grounds. Lawn ornaments resulting from an extended fight that included one of them ramming their way through the front of the cabin.

Another with the entire side of their skull bashed in.

The handiwork of what he would guess was at least multiple agents, meaning that whatever Angel Abarca had told the DEA, it had gotten their attention.

“Shit.”

Reaching to his rear pocket, Andres slid his cellphone free. A move of pure habit, making it as far as seeing that he still had no signal before shoving it back into place.

His features screwed up into a scowl, he was on the cusp of unleashing a longer string of expletives when a sound found his ears. The familiar din of an engine running, underscored by tires digging into gravel.

Noises that could only be caused by something coming down the same driveway he just traveled.

Incoming traffic that also couldn’t be by mistake, the closest other structure he’d seen more than five miles earlier.

“Shit,” Andres muttered again, his gaze darting about the clearing as his first inclination was to go sprinting back to his car. Reaching through the open driver’s side window, he would grab up his gun from where he left it on the passenger seat.

Retreat to the woods and try to catch them unawares.

A plan that wouldn’t work for multiple reasons, most notably that there wasn’t enough time to get to the car and get hidden before they showed up, and even if he could, he still couldn’t hide his vehicle sitting right out in the open.

An outlier both in position and damage sustained, forcing him to consider a second option.

Moving laterally to one of the many bodies sprawled about and grabbing up their weapon. Unloading on the vehicle the instant it appeared, or tucking himself behind the pulverized front walls of the cabin.

Another choice that he pushed aside, instead opting to go with a third avenue.

A bait-and-switch, as he pulled his phone from his pocket, remaining exactly where he stood as the sound grew steadily closer. A harbinger for an arrival that came less than a minute later in the form of another government vehicle to match the battered one on the outer edge of the clearing.

Moving slow, shadows scrolled up over the hood and windshield, revealing a pair of people in the front seats.

A woman behind the wheel and a man riding shotgun, both of whom stared directly at him as they pulled past his vehicle into the center of the clearing and started to climb out.

“Oh, thank God!” Andres exclaimed the moment their feet first touched the ground. Wagging his phone at them, he added, “I’ve been trying to call, but couldn’t get a signal!”

Each with bodies twisted a bit to the side, the pair both inched forward, their right hands already reaching for their weapons.

“Sir, drop whatever you’re holding!” the man barked. A faux tone made much deeper than his appearance or build would indicate.

Posturing that Andres was in no mood for, pushing right past the order and replying, “You are the police, right?”

“Sir,” the woman snapped this time, moving to within ten feet before stopping. “Your hands, please.”

Jerking his head to the side, Andres flinched at the sight of the phone he was holding. Making a show of opening his fingers, he let it slide from his grip, raising both hands out by his side.

“Sorry, sorry,” he pushed out. “It’s just, my friend Mariana told me she was coming up here this weekend, so I thought I would surprise her.”

Rotating a few inches, he motioned to the house and added, “And when I got here...”

“Sir,” the woman snapped a second time, pulling Andres’s attention back. “What is your name?”

“My name?” Andres repeated, still going through the motions of pretending to be frazzled. A common civilian who walked into a warzone they weren’t expecting. “My name is Andre Estrada.”

“Do you have some identification on you?” the man asked.

“Yes, sure, of course,” Andres answered. Keeping his right hand out to the side, he used his left to slide his wallet from his back pocket. Bringing it out in front of him, he started to open it as the woman took a step closer.

And then another.

Moving in one swift motion, Andres snapped the dagger that was stowed under the cuff of his shirt free. Pushing sideways off the side of his left foot, he leapt across the short gap between them and jammed it up under the woman’s throat, pushing it into the soft tissue and severing her windpipe.

An unexpected attack that caused her entire body to seize, her eyes widening as she rose onto her toes, a choking sound passing through her gaping mouth.

Without slowing his forward momentum, Andres let the wallet fall to the ground. Sliding in behind her, he snaked his left arm around her waist, using her body as a shield.

With his right arm, he reached for her hip, pulling the gun she herself was just going for free.

Body bent at the waist, he snapped it up just as the male agent wrestled his weapon out and started to fire. Two rounds in order, the first whining past while the second struck his fellow agent in the abdomen.

Impact that Andres could feel as she rocked back against his shoulder.

Extra weight that he had to account for as he sighted in on her partner and began to pull the trigger one time after another.

Chapter Fifty

None of the questions Mariana Abbott asked me were unexpected. Once she overheard the conversation with Mia Diaz and saw the agents arriving at the marina, it was only a matter of time before she started putting things together.

It wasn’t like it was a secret what had happened all those years ago. As much as the DEA tried to shield all of us from media attention for the purpose of protecting our identities and families, it bore to reason that her brother had shared what happened at some point.

The agency that had tracked him down just outside of Tijuana.

The agent who had been the one to ultimately put the handcuffs on him, both of us cut and bleeding from the fracas that had played out between our respective sides.

Once that detail was out of the way, interaction became a bit easier. Knowing that I was at least somewhat bound in what I could share, she didn’t pry too hard into the particulars of what was happening.

The incidents with her brother at Victorville.

What had happened to Lorenzo Gil or how they tied to them.

In kind, I was able to simply tell her what I didn’t know or wasn’t at liberty to share something.

All the makings of a civil conversation that carried us down through the heart of the greater Los Angeles spread and a decent piece of the way across Riverside County before she too went the way of her daughter. Turning her focus back to the passenger window, she watched the urban sprawl pass by for no more than a couple of minutes before her eyelids started to droop.

A few more after that, her head was tilted back, her mouth sagging as she fell into slumber.

A protracted reaction to the same combination that had been pulling at her younger self in the backseat. Adrenaline and a lack of rest that she was unused to, going as long as she could before eventually crashing.

A state of sleep that I would love to join them in, forced to rely in the meantime on the three cups of coffee I was able to get down at the marina shop before Agents Marcum and Kirby arrived.

The fourth that Mariana had brought out and handed over as we piled in to begin our journey south, the dregs of which still rested in the middle console by my side.

The vents pushing out air with a slight chill and the radio off, I skirted the eastern edge of the dense corridor running along the southern part of the state. More than ten million people crammed into a hundred-mile stretch, most of which we avoided as I worked in a south/southwest heading.

Forced to slow just briefly in Temecula and Escondido, by the time afternoon traffic was really starting to pick up, we were already pushing a little further east away from San Diego. Turning away from the last of the dense cityscape in the area, I headed out into the desert just as the sun began to slip toward the horizon.

Only a few days before the annual time change, I was forced to flip on the headlamps as I made a final turn.

One last left onto a road I hadn’t driven in years, though still was plenty familiar with. A path imprinted in my mind, traversed no less than a thousand times before, leading me to the southwest headquarters of the Drug Enforcement Administration.

A place much different from the sprawling office complex that was the actual headquarters in Washington, D.C., or even the satellite office located in a suburb on the northern side of San Diego. Administrative pieces in high rises, where analysts spent their days staring at computer screens and bureaucrats debated whatever those results were.

Government red tape that was decidedly lacking at the low-slung building rising directly up out of the desert. A single structure that was only one story in height, though roughly the size of a city block in expanse.

A site designed to serve as a tactical outpost for international FAST teams just like the one I worked with for years.

Units sent all over Central and South America, going after people just like the Gil cartel.

“Hey,” I said. Extending my right hand, I needed to only touch Mariana’s arm for her eyes to pop open. “We’re here.”

Shifting her gaze to our destination ahead, an oasis of lights already blazing in a vast desert of darkness, she nodded. Drawing in a deep breath, she pressed her palms into the sockets of her eyes, attempting to force away slumber as I slowed and hooked a right.

A turn from the road onto a serpentine drive, purposely designed to make anyone who approached take a circuitous path, rather than giving them direct access to the front, the interior of each switchback filled with rocks of varying sizes.

One of a hundred tiny different defense mechanisms, all hiding in plain sight.

Dropping our speed down to just twenty miles an hour, I wound our way through the circuit, dropping more than twenty feet in elevation before reaching the parking lot as beside me, Mariana turned in her seat and began to roust her daughter.

A task that she was still working on as I parked and exited the vehicle to find Diaz already stepping out through the trio of double doors across the front. Solid glass panes that rose to twice the usual height, providing a clear view into the lobby beyond.

A backdrop largely barren of life, save the lone agent manning the front desk at her back.

Mouth drawn into a tight line, she said nothing as she approached, merely giving me a quick shake of the head. A silent signal letting me know something was wrong.

She would get to it once we were alone and could speak freely.

Information I accepted with a nod as I gestured to Mariana and Lili both piling out of the sedan behind me.

“Agent, this is Mariana and Lili Abbott.” Swinging my hand back the opposite direction, I added, “Ladies, this is Special Agent in Charge Mia Diaz.”

Chapter Fifty-One

The first time Mia Diaz and I ever met was a handful of years ago not fifty feet from where we were now standing. An initial interaction that was marked by some understandable trepidation as myself and my former boss – her predecessor – both presented ourselves in her office in regards to a faux client who had showed up at my guide shop. Posing as a concerned family member, the woman had asked me to help her find her alleged brother deep in the Yellowstone backcountry, only to then shoot the man and attempt to do the same to me.

A sudden reinsertion of my past into my life, causing my old boss and I to do the same here at the office.

An unexpected encounter years after I had last set foot in the place, thrusting me back into a life that I no longer wanted any part of.

A viewpoint it was clear Diaz shared as she was forced to try and bridge the gap between the old guard and new.

Starting every bit as wary as one might anticipate, whatever trepidation she might have had fell backseat to professionalism. Doing all she could, she helped track down the people who had killed my wife and daughter, and then showed up in the park years later to try and do the same to me.

She also helped me ferret out that it was my former boss who had set me and my family up to begin with.

Help that she didn’t have to provide.

Respect that I had no reason to deserve.

Acts that earned her a massive marker that I was glad to repay the following summer when a young photographer witnessed a human trafficking exchange deep in the desert one night and needed to disappear for a while. The start of a back-and-forth pattern between the two of us, soon bypassing any kind of scoreboard and blossoming into a genuine friendship.

The kind of thing that meant when she called a couple of days ago and said something was up, I didn’t hesitate to come down. Same as when I phoned her from a ranger station in Yellowstone four months ago and said I needed her help, she didn’t pause in offering it.

In total, a good handful of incidents providing me with plenty of insight into how she worked. Her mannerisms.

What she was trying to say, even when she said nothing at all.

Years of interaction, meaning that the instant we got Mariana and Lili squared away in a conference room with snacks, drinks, and the same Disney DVD she was apparently watching at the cabin the night before when everything blew up, I asked, “What happened?”

Flicking her gaze to the side, she muttered only, “Office.”

A single word that was the last thing either of us said until we were safely behind the door of the space set aside for the acting special agent in charge of the building. A prime location in the exact center of the building, directly off of the main corridor bisecting the place down the center.

A room that my former boss had once occupied, the faint scent of his omnipresent lavender tea no doubt still baked into the cabinets and carpet.

“Agents Marcum and Kirby have gone missing,” she opened. A jump straight to it, throwing the words out the instant the door was closed behind me.

“Shit,” I muttered, remaining on my feet as she circled around her desk, both of us dropping into our seats at the same time. “How long?”

“One o’clock or so,” Diaz said.

“So right after they dropped the car off for us.”

Dipping her chin, she said, “Looks that way.”

“What time is it now?” I asked.

“Almost six.”

Running the math in my head, I replied, “When I last saw them, they were headed up to the cabin to look around, see what they could find out. There’s no reception up there, and a lot for them to sift through, but I still can’t imagine it taking five hours.”

“Same,” Diaz said. “The local office has dispatched additional agents to look for them, but that was only about thirty minutes ago. Will be a while before we hear anything.

“You think maybe Gil or whoever sent someone else up there? Told them to wait in case Mariana and her daughter circled back?”

“It’s certainly possible,” I replied. “I mean, they sent two teams last night, the second of which put their car through the damn front wall.”

Grunting softly in agreement, Diaz said, “Definitely reeks of desperation.”

“Any headway on what’s going on there yet?”

“Scattered,” Diaz replied. “You know how working with the Mexican locals can be. We have some people down there now looking around, but there’s a lot of players looking to fill that vacuum...”

“None of which want to take the chance of being seen talking to us,” I finished.

“Exactly.”

Both falling silent, we each retreated into our thoughts for a couple of minutes. Time to add what was just shared to our respective frameworks, processing where things now stood.

Where they reasoned to go.

What could be done about both in the meantime.

“What’s your plan?” I eventually asked. A question drawing her attention over, though still she remained quiet for several moments.

A completion of whatever thought she was having before answering, “I’m going to need to debrief you and Mariana both soon, but it might be a little while yet. Right now, priority is our agents on the ground.

“Determining what happened to Marcum and Kirby, and if we need to put out an alert to our guys across the border.”

“Right,” I agreed, running the list of moving parts through my mind once more. A handful of things occurring in just as many locations, all seeming to swirl simultaneously.

Items that we had mostly touched on, leaving just one glaring omission.

“What about Abarca?”

Chapter Fifty-Two

The holding cell deep inside the southwest headquarters for the Drug Enforcement Administration was an upgrade in pretty much every way from the one that had been Angel Abarca’s home for the last six years.

Gone were the block walls on either side, replaced with open bars to match those across the front. Three sides extended out from a wall with windows up high on either side. Portals letting in natural light, casting a sunbeam across the smooth concrete floor in the center for much of the afternoon before finally starting to wane about an hour ago.

Missing too was the bunkbed shared by him and Ronnie. A rickety steel frame replaced with a single-level platform atop which rested a double-thick mattress and pillow. Items wrapped in fresh sheets that were gleaming white, appearing to have never been used before.

Same for the toilet and sink extended from the back wall. Stainless-steel so new, Angel could still smell the cool metal, as opposed to whatever had come out of untold inmates before him.

Everything part of a matching set, identically mirroring the second stall sprouted from the adjacent wall.

Room enough for just two prisoners at any given time, in a space that would hold at least ten times as many at Victorville. A massive reduction in population density that meant he was afforded a tremendous upgrade in floor space. Square footage that was more than double what he was used to, enabling him to shove the bed back into the corner and pace across the width of the cell.

Room for more than a dozen strides in either direction. Twelve steps before he was forced to turn, tapping on the bars with either hand balled into a fist by his sides.

Starting with an even gait when the sun was still splashed across the floor, he had slowly worked his way up over the course of the afternoon. Unintentional acceleration, fueled by the various things playing through his mind.

Images and possibilities that had been quelled just slightly by the call received from Hawk Tate in the van earlier informing them that he had gotten his sister and niece out. A brief pause, allowing him to gather a bit of rest on the remainder of their journey, before starting over again.

Renewed worries and concerns as the hours ticked by, waiting for them to arrive.

A lengthy spell with no updates, any of a hundred different possibilities crashing through his head. Envisioned ambushes or roadside attacks that he couldn’t keep from playing out.

Everything that he had been a part of once upon a time.

He knew for a fact that Marco Gil would not hesitate to strike back at him, every passing moment only hammering home the belief that the kid was behind this.

At the very least, was prominently involved.

Falling just shy of a jog, Angel could feel the khaki uniform the guards had handed him that morning sticking to his back. Wet spots dampened either sleeve from where he’d swiped them across his forehead, wiping away sweat.

With each successive trip, the prod of the wound on his side became more pronounced. The barbs on his staples seemed to dig a bit deeper into his flesh.

Underlying annoyances that he was able to ignore, continuing on until he heard the turn of the metal handle on the door to the room housing his cell. Essentially one large cube, with a brushed concrete floor and an outer wall made of rough block.

An echo chamber painted with glossy gray paint, causing the sound of metal rubbing against metal to reverberate through the space as the door swung open, revealing the man he’d spent much of the last few days thinking about.

An amount somehow even greater than the years before.

Pointed focus of two decidedly different types, both falling away as Angel ceased his movement. Positioning himself in the center of the front bars, he stood back a couple of feet, his hands open by his side.

A pose as non-threatening as could be mustered, held until Tate was halfway across the floor before he could wait no longer, asking, “Are they here? Mariana and Lili?”

Saying nothing, Tate continued moving forward. Progress making apparent the visible changes in the man just since the last time they spoke.

Superficial stuff, such as the smears of mud and soot on his clothes. Deeper indicators of what he’d been through as well, including dark circles under his eyes and the set of his jaw.

Things harkening back to the man Angel last saw years before.

“They are,” Tate replied, coming to a stop matching Angel’s pose on the outside of the bars.

Sliding his gaze just a few inches to the side to peek at the door behind Tate, Angel asked, “Are they okay?”

“They are,” Tate said, “but it wouldn’t have taken much for that not to be the case.”

Starting right there, he launched forth with a retelling of the night before. A tale starting the moment he pulled off the paved road onto the gravel lane that Angel hadn’t driven in years, but knew extremely well.

A landmark that he used to orient himself as Tate described encountering three people already circled up on the front door. Wiping them out, only to have a second wave come in minutes later.

The way they went through the front wall of the house.

Wrecked four vehicles in a span of ten minutes.

With each word spoken, Angel could feel the same assortment of things that had been hurtling through him just moments before becoming more pronounced. Frustration and confusion and a host of other responses causing his hands to curl up into fists tight enough that he could feel his fingernails pressing into his palms.

Tension traveled the lengths of his arms, up through his traps and into his neck.

His jaw clamped tight.

Natural responses that Tate picked up on, ending his narrative by stating, “I didn’t tell you to piss you off, get you all fired up in here. I told you so you could use it, think about it.

“We’ll be back in a few hours so you can make good on your end of our agreement.”

Shoving out a breath through his nostrils, Angel nodded. Peeling his hands open, he splayed his fingers wide.

Lifted his chin to stare directly at Tate.

“Thank you,” he said. “For getting there in time, and for keeping them safe.”

Meeting his stare, Tate said nothing, responding with merely a nod of his own. A silent response, followed by taking a step in retreat.

And then another.

The beginning of an exit that Angel cut short by asking one final question.

“Can I see them?”

Chapter Fifty-Three

Much like the woman serving breakfast this morning, the man sitting across from Marco Gil was one he had known most of his life.

All of his adult life.

Someone who had always seemed a kindly sort, offering up pieces of hard candy and the occasional bad joke. The sort of thing that Marco had found endearing, and then corny, and then outright annoying as he grew older.

Yet another out-of-touch old man who had managed to evoke a great many various responses from Marco, though never before had it been anger.

Before today.

Even if he couldn’t say that he was outright pissed at the man sitting across the desk himself, damned near every word he had said in the last twenty minutes had managed to get under Marco’s skin. Compounding infractions that had his agitation threatening to force him up out of the chair at any moment.

One quick movement, reaching for the phone receiver on his desk. The letter opener in his drawer. Even a book from the shelf behind him.

Anything to go after the old man with, bludgeoning him until he stopped spewing such drivel.

At the very least, something that he could snatch up and break over his knee. Slide sideways to the double doors standing open behind him and fling out into the thick vegetation beyond the veranda outside his office.

A whole list of poor substitutes for what he would really like to do, which was have his father back for an hour or two or so he could tear into him about the state of affairs. Go item by item down the list, just like the accountant currently was, and point out how this was all his fault.

His refusal to ever listen.

His insistence that the old ways were the best, and that the market for them would always exist.

The latest round of bullshit Marco was left to deal with, compounded by stuff that should have been taken care of years before. Problems like Angel Abarca, who refused to go away.

“As of these calculations, which were run just yesterday-” Roberto Salazar began. A name befitting his features and accent, though for some reason he always insisted on being addressed as Bob.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” Marco inserted, cutting him off. “Production is down, I know that. I’m the one who started going out to the farms to tell them to pack it in.”

Seeing Bob open his mouth, about to reply, Marco raised a hand and continued, “The costs are just too high. I know that the poppies were my father’s baby, but they just aren’t feasible anymore. Especially with the other more lucrative avenues that are available.”

Pausing to ensure that Marco was done, that he didn’t interrupt, Bob waited until Marco lowered his hand before saying, “I get that, and I agree. I’ve been telling your father – God rest his soul – for years now that our overhead was too high.

“The problem is, he was using the promise of this year’s crop to cover recent renovations.” Gesturing past Marco, he added, “This place, the warehouse across the way, additional equipment for the farms themselves.”

“Meaning what?” Marco snapped.

“Meaning we’re overleveraged,” Bob answered. “Upside down. And if we don’t do something fast-”

“I’m working on that!” Marco roared. Extending a hand, he slapped his open palm down on the desk, the sound causing Bob to visibly flinch on the other side.

A reaction that only served to piss Marco off more, causing him to swat the polished wood a second time.

And then a third.

Blows hard enough to cause his fingers to sting, further heightening the animosity within him. An assault that he was set to continue, stopped short only by his phone coming to life beside him.

Audible buzzing between shots to the desktop, causing him to pause with his hand only inches from delivering a fourth blow. Flicking his gaze to the side, he spotted the name splayed across the screen, his lips pulling back over gritted teeth as he stared at it.

“You know what? That’s what this is,” he said. Sliding his focus upward, he added, “You need to get out.”

Using the same hand to snatch up the phone, his thumb hovering above accepting the incoming call, he stared across at Bob continuing to sit motionless, frozen in place after his outburst.

“Now.”

The phone still buzzing in his hand, Marco waited as Bob blinked himself out of his stupor. Nodding his head, the soft flesh on the underside of his neck folding and unfurling, he managed to push himself upright.

Leaving the stack of papers and folders he’d been going over just moments before spread across Marco’s desk, he scampered across the room, practically running for the door.

An exit that Marco didn’t even wait to see completed before reaching out and swiping his arm across the desktop, sending every last item onto the floor. A blizzard of loose papers slowly drifting downward as Marco accepted the incoming call.

“This better be good news.”

“It’s not,” Andres answered. “All six of our guys are dead.”

“Dammit,” Marco muttered. Rising to his feet, he ran his free hand over his scalp, making a point of stomping on the slew of pages scattered across the floor.

Black and white proof that they needed this to go away so they could start their work with Ignacio Marin. A combination of his product and their routes and expertise that would maximize profit in record time.

Provided they could eliminate this giant pain in the ass in time for that to happen.

“DEA?” he asked.

“Based on the mangled black sedan and the two agents I just killed,” Andres said, “That would be my guess.”

Pulling his hand away from his scalp, Marco stopped moving, his features scrunched.

A look hinting at a dozen different things all swirling through his mind at once.

Stuff he was still considering as Andres asked, “What do you want me to do?”

Part IV

Chapter Fifty-Four

Unlike the vast majority of the players in northern Mexico, Ignacio Marin didn’t consider his organization a cartel.

Likewise, never once had he thought of himself as a kingpin.

Those were the sorts of terms that were concocted by the media decades before and glommed onto by those who came after. Young punks like Marco Gil, dying to give themselves a label. A buzzword or catchphrase that would somehow legitimize who they were and what they did.

Errors of hubris that Ignacio learned long ago were nothing short of stupid.

Same for attaching one of the catchy titles that came with their particular line of work, the only thing they were likely to accomplish being bringing down a lot of unwanted attention and placing a bullseye squarely on their back.

Outcomes that, at best, put them out of business early.

At worst, resulted in a fate similar to Lorenzo Gil.

Back in his office after an afternoon of checking in on his various facilities throughout the area, Ignacio dropped down into the chair behind his desk. Sliding his phone from his hip, he checked the screen, his features bunching into a smirk as he noticed there had been no new contact during the time he was gone.

Not from one of his employees in need of anything.

And sure as hell not from Marco calling to tell him that what he’d demanded was done, despite the timeframe on it ticking steadily downward.

From the very beginning long ago, Ignacio had always believed that if he had to give himself a title, it would be a producer. A changing of emphasis, putting the onus not on the organization itself, but on the product they created.

A shifting mindset that allowed them to move as times and the markets demanded.

A cartel was always worried about status. Trying to hold everything and everyone around them in place.

A static entity that was forever fighting against the onward march of time. The constant skew of demand.

A producer was smart enough to realize that whatever they were supplying was their lifeblood. They didn’t attach themselves too strongly to any one thing, knowing that it could disappear as fast as it arrived.

A change in regulations. The creation of a new drug.

A new party in power, putting special scrutiny on certain lines of transportation or communication or any of a thousand different things. Endless possibilities that Ignacio knew better than to try and fight against, instead leaning into the concept of evolution.

A man – and an organization – with a finger always on the pulse of what was coming next.

A business approach that allowed him both to always have Doc and his team out in front of the next fad, and to play the long game with the more archaic competition around him. People like the Gils, who Ignacio knew from the moment he first crossed paths with them more than a decade before did not have the stamina for the long haul.

Lorenzo, with his strict adherence to the way things had always been done. Performative measures, trying to impress an audience that no longer existed.

Appease a crowd that was dwindling at best.

Indifferent at worst.

A flawed first generation that meant the second didn’t stand a chance. A son in Marco who knew there were issues with the way things were being done, but didn’t have the first idea how to fix them.

Even less, the best way to rebuild the business in a way that benefitted them moving forward.

A situation ripe for Ignacio’s influence, needing to only wait for the opportune moment to insert himself.

After that, all he had to do was impose an artificial timeline and sit back, waiting for midnight to arrive.

And with it, the entire Gil cartel.

One more archaic operation, unwilling to adapt and thrive as he had.

Chapter Fifty-Five

Based on the sun already starting to slip beneath the western horizon, Andres knew that about fifteen miles from where he was standing, there was a gorgeous sunset playing out. One of the famed San Diego finishes to another perfect day, resplendent with purple and orange dancing across the Pacific in a kaleidoscope of color.

The kind of thing people had probably flown in from all over the country to see. Droves of folks lining the shores with cameras extended before them or a hand raised to their brow.

Attention fully focused across the water, meaning nobody was paying a damned bit of attention to the clandestine gathering going on in the desert just beyond the eastern suburbs of town.

Forced to guess, Andres would say that the motel was built probably at some point in the fifties or sixties. One of an untold number of structures that were thrown up on the cheap in the mid-century as part of western expansion.

A weigh station for weary travelers, wanting to pull over after hours spent driving across nothing but sand and scrubland.

A final resting point so they could wake up refreshed for their triumphant arrival to the ocean in the morning.

None of that did Andres give a shit about, his real interest in the place being that the last guest had checked out more than three decades before. Thirty years without anybody so much as setting foot on the property, much less doing any sort of upgrades.

Time during which the ravages of the desert had taken over, sandblasting the original colors into muted tones. Any flecks of water in the pool out front were long dried up, replaced by weeds of uneven height that had died and resprouted a hundred times over the years.

The chain-link fence around it had rusted to the point that it had crumbled in places.

An ideal location for a meeting just such as this.

A place that Andres had used before, though never with a group so large.

Or with stakes nearly so high.

The radio inside his vehicle turned off and the windows rolled down, Andres could hear the crunching of his tires as he pulled to a stop. Treads digging into the inch or more of sand that had settled over the asphalt underneath.

An overlay clearly displaying the half dozen sets of tracks of those already assembled.

Two belonging to a pair of oversized trucks. Rigs with roll bars across the top and winches welded to the front. Steel-belt radials supporting chassis that were raised an extra twelve inches or so.

Easily the two most noticeable of the group. The ones sure to draw the eye, present for the very specific purpose they would soon serve.

The needed supplies that were stowed away in the metal lockers in the back.

Fanned out around them in an uneven line was a collection of sedans and midsize SUVs. Nondescript rides, just like the mangled pair that were still sitting outside of the cabin in the San Gabriel Mountains.

Vehicles used to transport every person that Marco Gil could spare north over the border. A collection even larger than the bunch that was sent to the mountains the day before, culled together from a host of different Gil empire outposts.

Men like the gunners who were overseeing the poppy fields just yesterday.

The security at the warehouse they visited last night.

An extra body or two from around the family compound.

Even the guy who usually ran the IT for the outfit.

Ten people who had filled the smaller automobiles, added to by a pair from each of the trucks carrying their needed gear. Stuff that was stowed away in various storage lockers and underground bunkers throughout the area, all collected and stashed away in anticipation of tonight’s events.

More than enough weaponry to carry out what Andres had in mind.

A strike that would swap out surprise or misdirection in the name of overwhelming firepower.

The last thing he asked Marco when they spoke earlier was what he should do. A simple question that was answered in an equally simply way, his boss telling him to do whatever he needed to.

Just make sure that Angel Abarca absolutely did not see the start of a new day.

A straightforward directive that Andres took to immediately, ending the conversation and immediately starting to make phone calls to the various people gathered before him. Individuals who all jumped at what he was describing, agreeing to meet at the motel at dusk.

Standing in loose clusters of two and threes as Andres put his sedan in park, they each turned his way as he stepped out. A group that was tilted more toward male than female, their ages ranging from late twenties to mid-forties.

People still dressed in street clothes, their styles running the full gamut.

Whatever conversation there had been among the motley crew died away, every last person turning in silence, watching as he strode forward a few steps.

Anticipatory energy that he could see in their drawn expressions.

The fact that many couldn’t remain still, shifting their weight from side to side.

“What we’re doing tonight has a hard deadline of midnight,” Andres said, his voice carrying through the dry desert air. “That means we will hit our target at ten.”

Casting a look around the group, he added, “And that means I want everybody back here by nine. That’s two hours from now, so go eat, take a shit, do whatever you need to do, then get your asses back to gear up.

“After that, we’ll caravan out together.”

In response, a few people nodded. Others remained perfectly still, their expressions stoic.

All but one remained silent, a lone voice calling, “Out where?”

Chapter Fifty-Six

Under most circumstances, Mariana Abbott would be unable to resist even an offer for carnitas. A predilection going back to her childhood, when her mother would make it fresh every Sunday for dinner after church.

A dish wrapped up with a thousand good memories, evoking a psychosomatic response each and every time. Attached happiness that resurfaced whenever it was presented before her, regardless of the fact that she had spent most of her adult life searching for anything coming close to her mother’s recipe.

The vast majority failing by a considerable margin.

For the first time in quite possibly her entire life, though, the sight of fresh shredded pork did nothing to activate her saliva glands. The smell of roasted meat barely even penetrated her nostrils.

The thought of trying to pick up one of the soft tacos before her made her entire core seize tight, as if warning her to not even try.

Good things could not come from it.

Instead, Mariana had resorted to one of the tricks she’d seen her daughter use numerous times before. Fork in hand, she pushed the food back and forth, repeatedly deconstructing and then reconstituting the tacos on her plate.

Endless shoving, finding new ways to make things smaller each time, even if she was really only taking small bites every few minutes. Little bits of rice or refried beans. Easily the most bland items available, with the added benefit of maybe providing a bit of carbs and protein.

Energy sources she was sure she would need later, though right now she couldn’t bother to focus on.

Couldn’t really think about anything moving forward, her attention consumed with everything that had happened in the last thirty hours.

The six years before that too, if she was really being honest about it.

Starting with that incident with the senior boys when she was just a child, Mariana had known what her brother was capable of. But she hadn’t wanted to believe it.

In her mind, he was always the sweet boy who sat beside her at church and then across the table from her at every one of those Sunday lunches. The one who would take small bites out of a tortilla, shaping it into a face, and then lay it over his own and pretend to talk to her, just to make her laugh.

The one who always made a point to ask how her day was. If she had enough lunch money.

What she later came to understand was him stepping in for the father who was never there, but at the time, she thought was just him being a good big brother.

The best big brother in fact, ensuring that she and their mother were always taken care of.

A guardian angel, rather than the other, far more dubious moniker she saw in the paper for weeks after he was arrested. An initial rash of reports that started up again a few months later when he went to trial.

And then a third time when he was ultimately sentenced.

Accounts detailing exactly what he had been charged with. The many more items he was believed to be connected to. Shocking tales that she could barely sit and read about, much less align with the person she had grown up with.

Stories that were so bad that she changed her name to put some distance between them. Quit her job and took a position with a district that didn’t pay nearly so well to add some actual space as well.

Forced life changes that she knew should have made her hate him, though deep down, she still couldn’t forget the person who did so much when she was young. The one who made a point to be around when her husband, Lili’s father, passed in a car accident before she was even born.

A host of mixed emotions that she had managed to keep buried for the last several years, forced back to the surface when he called and told her to get to the cabin.

Even more so when she walked through those metal doors not a hundred yards from where she was sitting and saw him for the first time since before he was arrested so long ago.

The enormous amount that was packed between those two events, endangering both her and her daughter.

Stuff she still didn’t have the slightest handle on as she sat in the break room of a DEA facility, not really a prisoner, but definitely not free to go either. A state of limbo with no clear timeframe on when or even if they might be able to return home.

Scads of things still working through her mind when a flash of movement in her periphery caught her attention. Entry through the main door to the room, snapping her back into the present.

Drawing in a deep breath, she shifted her gaze, needing just an instant to register the figure before her.

Recognition arriving only a moment before Lili announced, “Louis!” by her side.

Chapter Fifty-Seven

It was difficult to say which single thing had the greater impact on me. If it was at last getting some rest after being on my feet for thirty-six hours and counting. A solid day and a half, during which I wasn’t just awake, but had traveled the full vertical length of the country. Had visited a maximum-security prison.

Driven to the desert and solved a long dormant case by unearthing a dead body.

Proceeded then to the mountains and tangled with half a dozen cartel soldiers.

Hiked and camped and paddled and all the rest.

A stretch of heightened awareness, maximizing the toll taken on my body. Effects compounded by the insertion and depletion of massive amounts of adrenaline.

A chemical pendulum, wreaking havoc on my basic physiology, leaving me with no choice but to use sleep as a reset. Wipe everything away and hope to wake back up at something resembling status quo.

A point of stasis, followed by the second possibility that had buoyed my spirits, which was the shower that followed. Thirty minutes in the locker room that I had once used every single day for years, standing under the hottest water possible.

Posted between neighboring shower heads, I slowly nudged each of the dials upward, going until they were both pointed due north before dropping to the floor. Tenting my knees, I clasped my hands around them, letting the scalding water beat down on my back and scalp.

Blessed heat used not just to strip away the sweat and grime of the last couple days, but to gnaw away the aches caused by all of the assorted activities therein.

Even the snowmobile ride from a couple of days before.

A liquid massage, followed by rising and scrubbing myself clean before stepping out and putting on fresh clothes from the bag I’d brought south on the plane. Luggage I was thankful I had the foresight to leave with Diaz in Victorville, in case things went sideways.

A contingency plan for events that I don’t think either of us envisioned playing out the way they did.

I could even say that what buoyed my spirits the most was the meal I had just consumed. My first food since the burgers at the marina shop this morning, this one Mexican food from the metal tubs on the counter along the outside of the break room.

Carryout that Diaz had likely sent one of her assistants after, with easily enough food to feed a dozen or more people. Protein choices of every sort for make-your-own tacos, along with all the condiments as well as rice and beans.

Every essential food group covered, perfuming the air with an intoxicating scent.

A smell that mixed with the multiple cups of coffee I chased the tacos with. Meat and cheese and caffeine that did wonders for my system, but still I didn’t believe that that was what had had the greatest effect on me either.

That honor alone belonged to the little girl now sitting at the table beside me.

The sheer joy she displayed when I entered, despite all that she had been through the last couple of days.

Even the way she exclaimed, “Louis!” as I entered, clinging to the image of me as an overstuffed cartoon alligator.

Things that all brought a smile to my face, calling back to a time and place years in the past. A point when I was around another little girl about the same age, the only thing missing being for her to rub my belly and ask me to play the trumpet.

Just like my own daughter used to.

Working through no less than her third plate of nachos, the remains of the previous two were splashed across her cheeks. Bits of liquid cheese and salsa that she was oblivious to, even as her poor mother kept imploring her to wipe her face.

Requests that were completely ignored as she regaled us with a detailed rehashing of the movie she’d just completed watching. Another Disney classic that her mother informed me she had seen no less than a hundred times, able to recite it from memory.

A performance she was well on her way to delivering, devouring the shared laughter and attention of her captive audience, when she paused. Staring through the gap between myself and Mariana, she stopped mid-sentence, her eyes widening in surprise.

An unexpected arrival that turned my focus to the side in time to see Diaz step over the threshold into the room. Her features drawn taut, she said nothing, merely fixing her gaze on me and giving her head a tiny shake.

An unspoken signal that I grasped in an instant, whatever mirth had existed a moment before dissipating as I pushed my chair back from the table.

“Excuse me,” I said, casting a quick look to Mariana. “I’ll be right back.”

Chapter Fifty-Eight

If the look Mia Diaz was wearing when we first pulled up earlier told me something was wrong, the expression on her face as she appeared in the break room doorway made it clear that something infinitely worse had just gone down. A stony visage that meant I was up and moving without her even saying a word.

Nothing more than a microscopic twist of her chin telling me all I needed to know before she turned and started back toward her office. Keeping her pace slow, she waited as I jogged a few steps to catch up with her before raising her gait back to full speed.

Or, rather, much past it.

Damn near a trot, taking care not to say a word that might be overheard, be it by Mariana and Lili behind us, or any of the remaining agents still in the building.

A lead I followed, resisting the strong urge to ask what had happened until we were both safely tucked behind the door to her office.

“Agents Marcum and Kirby are dead,” she replied, not even waiting until she made it to her chair before hitting me straight out.

Information that caused me to pause by my own seat as well, my jaw sagging open.

“What? How?”

“Kirby was stabbed and shot,” Diaz said. “First in the throat, then in the stomach. Marcum was shot three times, using her gun.”

Adding nothing more, she fell into her seat, the momentum of her weight pushing it a couple of inches across the plastic mat underfoot. Backward movement she did nothing to halt, the shake of her head matching the bitter expression on her face.

A look I was sure I would soon match, once the surprise of what I’d just been told passed.

A process Diaz had been given a head start on, already moving to the next step in order.

“I just saw them both this morning,” I muttered. “They drove the car we took down here, she was behind the wheel of the backup they were taking up to the cabin.”

My mind already working back to the brief interaction hours before, I continued, “They both seemed sharp. He was a bit eager, but it wasn’t like they were green.”

“No,” Diaz agreed. “Nine and seven years with the Administration, respectively. Army ROTC and an overseas tour for her. Law school for him.”

Confirming my initial take on both of them, I merely grunted. “At the cabin?”

“Yes,” Diaz said. Shifting her focus from the desktop between us, she continued, “The team the local office sent up to check on them found them a little while ago.”

“Nobody else onsite?”

“Nobody breathing,” Diaz said, shoving the words out while simultaneously exhaling and lifting her brows. An answer portending what I already knew was coming next, her gaze swinging my direction as she added, “I know we were trying to wait on this, but given what just happened...”

“Time to debrief,” I finished.

Starting with the conversation we had while I was stuck in traffic yesterday afternoon, I ran her through everything that took place from that moment until I called her from the San Gabriel Reservoir this morning. A detailed account that was much more in depth than I gave either of the now-deceased agents or Angel Abarca a little bit ago.

Careful to omit nothing, I went through it all blow by blow.

A full account taking the better part of ten minutes, after which the same amount was used for Diaz to probe certain details. Questions that I took no offense to, knowing that she was just looking for any kernel that might be useful.

Analysis going well past someone who was simply good at her job to somebody in charge who felt responsible for what had happened.

Guilt that I made no attempt to try and assuage, knowing that it would do no good, and that platitudes were the last thing either of us wanted to hear.

Now, or in general.

Once that second stage was complete, Diaz shifted gears again, asking, “Were you able to talk to Mariana at all about what happened before you arrived?”

“Some,” I replied. “Last night by the fire, and again today on the drive down.

“Pretty straightforward. She was on her lunchbreak at school two days ago when an unknown number with an Inland Empire area code showed up in her missed call log. Knowing immediately who it was, she called back, and he told her to grab Lili and get as far away as possible.”

“Did he tell her why? Who might be after them?”

“No,” I said, shaking my head, “because it sounded like he didn’t know. This was right after his brawl in the shower, so he didn’t know what was going on.”

“Just that it shouldn’t have happened,” Diaz inserted.

“Right. He wanted her to get on a plane or drive up the coast, but when she said she couldn’t for obvious reasons, they compromised on the family cabin, which it seemed like she thought was just a cabin until about forty-eight hours ago.”

Eyes narrowing just slightly, Diaz turned her chin an inch to the side. “But she does know...?”

“Oh, yeah,” I replied. “She was there through the trial, heard all the stories, everything. But she also said she knew there was no way he’d put them in danger, so they packed up and went.

“They were there almost a full day when a set of headlights showed up on the driveway. She sent her daughter upstairs and she hid in the kitchen while the first three piled out and knocked on the door, waiting for the signal her brother had told her to make sure she heard before answering.”

“Which is when you showed up,” Diaz finished.

Nodding once, I remained silent, both of us receding into silence, chewing on the massive amount of information just shared.

Some details that were new.

Others better fleshing out the loose framework we already had.

A process taking several long minutes, ending with Diaz flicking her gaze to me and saying, “I think it’s time we go talk to Abarca.”

Chapter Fifty-Nine

If the cell that Angel Abarca was sitting in was the first sign that the DEA facility where he was currently being held didn’t often house prisoners, the second was the meal that he had been served for dinner. A far cry from the same dry sandwich and fruit in congealed corn syrup he had been given before the riot broke out the day before, there was no doubt that this was something that came from an actual restaurant.

Mexican fare that could have been some sort of misplaced nod to thinking that’s what he would want, or might have just been what was ordered by the crew still on hand for the evening. Beans and rice and heaping piles of carnitas and chicken tinga alongside corn tortillas, all served on a paper plate on a plastic tray.

Beside it rested two oversized paper cups, one filled with coffee, the other with water.

What was admittedly somewhat simple fare, tasting like nothing short of fine dining compared to what he was used to. Explosive flavor that still fell short of what his mother used to put before him and his sister every Sunday, but was much closer than anything he had experienced in over half a decade.

One of many massive upgrades in recent days, none more so than the fact that for the first time in ages, he had been able to stand across from Mariana. See her face. Hear her voice without the distortion of the cheap phone he kept in his cell or with a third party listening as he made his monthly call from the prison line.

Even get a glimpse of his niece, the beautiful little girl who was but an infant when Hawk Tate and his team tracked him down.

Free of the massive amount of worry that had been gripping Angel for most of the last day, he had fallen straight to the food that was delivered. Taking it down in only a matter of minutes, once he was done, he abandoned the pacing he’d been engaged in earlier.

Instead, he retired to the mattress, still inhaling the assorted smells of the food as he stared up at the brushed concrete ceiling above. Small swirls highlighted by the fluorescent tubes just outside, creating thousands of tiny shadows and patterns.

Random designs that he put his focus on, letting them blur into a mosaic as he stared up.

A daze spent deep in thought, lingering until the sound of the metal latch on the door across the room rang out. A noise every bit as pronounced as before, causing him to blink three times in order.

Clearing his vision, he sat upright, swinging his feet to the floor as Agent Diaz and Tate both entered.

Each with features drawn, they walked straight his way as he stood, the two sides converging on the opposite sides of the bars, only a few feet separating them.

“Two of our agents have now been found dead,” Diaz opened.

“Right outside your cabin in the San Gabriel Mountains,” Hawk added.

Two quick points, drawing Angel’s attention back and forth between them.

“Any idea who did it?”

“That’s why we’re here,” Diaz replied. “We got your sister and niece to safety, it’s time for you to uphold your end of the bargain.”

In truth, Angel had expected as much since he was unloaded earlier. Even more so after he had been able to speak with his family, that alone being the final barrier he had before honoring what he promised in that Victorville holding cell the previous morning.

Now that Lorenzo Gil was dead, any loyalty Angel had to the organization – or the industry as a whole – was gone. The only fealty he had now was to the woman and little girl down the hall.

And by extension at the moment, the people who had kept them safe.

Fixed in place, Angel nodded once for them to continue.

“Let’s start at the top,” Diaz said. “Who wants you dead?”

A simple question, buttressed in the next instant by Tate adding, “Enough to go after your family to get to you?”

“Truth?” Angel asked, his brows rising slightly. “A lot of people.”

Chapter Sixty

From his spot at the head of the dinner table in the mansion of the Gil estate, Marco could not stop his right leg from bouncing up and down. A constant thrumming with the ball of his foot planted on the Spanish tile, his calf already starting to burn from raising and lowering his leg at three beats per second.

A physiological response without active thought, reacting to the tempest of things swirling through his mind.

The events taking place a hundred miles to the north and the thousand different directions things could go in the days and weeks ahead, depending on how it all played out.

Actions that he wanted nothing more than to be present for. A more active role that he had forced himself to step down from, adopting something that he had tried to impart into his father so many times.

The maxim that being the head of the organization did not mean he also needed to be the face.

How many times they had had that very argument, Marco could not remember. Endless banter, with him pointing out that in their line of work, it was better for him to pull back. Be the figurehead.

The shadowy person pulling strings that others spoke of in hushed whispers. Went out of their way to appease and avoid simultaneously, making sure to never be on his radar.

The personification of the Machiavellian principle that it was better to be feared than loved.

No matter how many times he tried to share as much though, his father wouldn’t hear of it. His own hubris, or some deep-seated need for adoration, or some other such thing that it would take a psychologist years to unravel, perpetually driving him to be out in front of things.

The benevolent leader who showed up at church every Sunday. Gave handouts to orphans or single mothers around the holidays.

Wasted time going out to each individual farm to see how they were doing. If there was anything else they needed.

More of the same old outdated bullshit that was ultimately his undoing, both literally and figuratively.

Mistakes that Marco always vowed he would not repeat, even in moments like this when he wanted nothing more than to be riding shotgun with Andres and his crew. With just hours remaining before the deadline that had been imposed by Ignacio Marin, they would be tearing across the desert.

Moving under the cover of moonlight, plumes of sand would be rising in their wake as they streaked toward the DEA office well outside the reach of San Diego.

An easy target, cut off and isolated, with no idea what was about to hit it.

An impending scene so delicious that Marco couldn’t help but feel adrenaline and anticipation seeping into his system. Excitement at the thought not just of battle, being able to release all the vitriol accumulated in his system, but at finally getting his hands on Angel Abarca.

Eliminating the man he had loathed for so long.

Looking into his eyes and telling him not just what would soon also happen to his sister and niece, but what had happened to his beloved Lorenzo before that.

A clean wiping of the slate, taking away any connection Abarca might have had to this world. His entire extended legacy, snuffed out and replaced by Marco and his team.

“You know, you might want to consider switching to decaf in that,” his mother said. A statement he was not expecting, causing him to jerk his attention up at the sound of her voice.

His leg ceasing to move for the first time since they bade his abuela goodnight half an hour earlier, he looked across the table, taking a moment to piece together what was just said.

A comment both on the endless thrumming of his leg, and the carajillo in front of him.

A coffee cocktail that he had barely tasted, sipping on it more out of habit as his thoughts rested on events happening elsewhere.

“Sorry,” Marco said, forcing a thin smile into place. “Just...thinking.”

Placing the folded newspaper down she’d been reading, his mother slid her glasses from the end of her nose. Placing them upside down on the paper, she leaned across the table, her hand outstretched toward him.

A wrinkled palm that Marco stared at for a moment before releasing his grip on the carajillo and sliding his hand forward, clasping it in his own.

“I know it’s a lot,” his mother said. “And that your father made it look easy most of the time.”

Resisting the urge to scoff, or roll his eyes, or give any sort of outward reply, Marco merely stared back at her.

Silence maintained out of respect, not wanting to tell her about the myriad errors that he was forced to witness every day. Mistakes in judgement and planning that grew to such a level Marco was forced to intervene.

Step in while there was still any hope of salvaging the once great empire.

“But you have to remember, what you saw was the end result,” his mother continued. “He had thirty-plus years at the helm to fall back on.”

Giving his hand a light squeeze, she added, “One day, that will be you. But in the meantime, you’re doing fine.”

Again, Marco made himself bite back the host of things resting on the tip of his tongue. Words he wanted to fling like accusations, from what was happening at the very moment a hundred miles away to the budding partnership it was in service of, that being their only option for pushing the organization back toward relevance.

Even the fact that the reason he was sitting with her at the very moment was because every spare body he could muster had been sent off to make sure their future was taken care of.

Words that he kept from saying as his mother gave his hand a gentle shake. Her gaze slid to the side, eyes glassing as she stared off, lost in some past memory.

Times gone by, before his father threatened to run them all into the ground.

“God, I miss that man,” she whispered, her words just barely audible.

A simple sentiment that caused Marco to bring his other hand forward, clasping his mother’s in both of his own.

“Me too, mama. Me too.”

Chapter Sixty-One

Despite the fact that what Angel Abarca was telling us was not what we wanted to hear, I got the impression he was telling the truth. Standing on the opposite side of the bars, his arms extended, hands loosely wrapped around the bare iron, his gaze never averted. The answers he provided were quick and to the point.

No pausing.

No flicking his eyes toward the floor or the ceiling, searching for the right response.

Directness that could have been because I kept up our side of the deal and got his sister and her daughter to safety. May have been attributed to the fact that Lorenzo Gil was dead, any allegiance he had perishing with him.

Hell, could have just as easily been because after being attacked twice and stabbed once, he was just pissed and wanted the people caught.

A process that it was apparent was frustrating him as much as us, prompting him to eventually say, “Can I ask you a question?”

His gaze fixed on Diaz, he waited until she nodded her approval before continuing, “The agents you lost. How were they killed?”

Not answering immediately, as if trying to determine where he was going with the question, Diaz drew in a deep breath. Enough air to expand her chest, lifting her shoulders the better part of an inch.

Slowly pushing it out, she replied, “One of them stabbed, the other shot.”

Flicking his gaze to me for an instant, Abarca moved back to Diaz just as fast.

“Describe the stabbing.”

“Single strike to the throat.”

In unison, both hands tightened around the bars before him. Imperceptible movement, the knuckles flashing white beneath the skin.

“Let me guess,” Abarca said. “Vertical puncture, straight edges on both sides of the blade?”

“That’s right,” Diaz said.

“You recognize the signature,” I added, each of us moving an inch closer.

Again, Abarca moved his gaze from Diaz to me. Mouth twisted up to the side, he smirked, letting it rock his head back slightly.

“Signature,” he muttered. “Hell, more like a kid trying to pick their own nickname, thinking if they say it enough times it will eventually catch on.”

Both of us employing an interrogator’s best trick, Diaz and I each remained quiet. Silence that extended as Abarca worked through whatever he was mulling, the set of his features showing a distaste that was palpable.

Visible disgust that lingered as he released his grip on the bars and took a step back, giving himself enough room to fold his arms over his chest. Corded muscle stacked up until he raised his right hand and began to rub his chin.

“Think out loud,” Diaz inserted.

Instructions earning her a glance from Abarca before he said, “Andres. Don’t know his last name, or if even has one.”

“Who’s Andres?” Diaz asked, her voice receding back to normal.

“Marco Gil’s right-hand man,” Abarca answered. “Sidekick, lackey, lap dog, bitch. Whatever you want to call him.

“I think he saw the writing on the wall from the very beginning and stuck himself on Marco’s ass like a band-aid.”

“You’re sure it was him?” I asked, pulling his gaze back my way.

“That was always his thing,” Abarca said. “Whenever he was out on the job, knew he would be interacting with people, he always wore long sleeves to cover this little sheath with a dagger on the inside of his wrist.

“Three-inch point, sharpened on both sides.”

Rocking his head back, he pointed just above his Adam’s apple. “Always went for the windpipe. Thought that was his thing, kind of a calling card.”

Bringing her hands up, Diaz folded her arms across her torso to match Abarca. Sliding her focus over to me, she said, “If he’s right, and this was Andres...”

“That means Marco is the one gunning for Abarca,” I finished, “and his family.”

Nodding once, Diaz moved back the other way. “You said when I talked to you after the fight in the showers the other day you had some ideas who was behind it.”

Leaving it purposely vague, she let Abarca jump at it, saying, “And he was top of the list.” Pausing, he smirked and said, “Hell, except for one other guy, he was the list.”

“Reason being?” I asked.

“Three reasons,” Abarca shot back. “First, brand new. He’d be looking to make a splash, announce his arrival, all that shit.”

Lifting his hands, he said, “What better way...”

“Than going after The Angel of Death,” I finished after his voice drifted off.

Completion earning me a nod, as he continued, “Even on the inside, reputation matters, and he’d be looking to build his on top of mine.”

In my periphery, I could see Diaz nod as she asked, “Second reason?”

“Extension of the first,” Abarca said. “Only someone so new would be so stupid. Lot of the more established people would know not to try something splashy and risk getting a lot of undue heat.”

“And the third?” Diaz asked.

“The third,” Abarca replied as he stepped back to his original spot. Grasping the bars again in both hands, he said, “Is that Marco never liked the way his father did business. He was another one of those young kids who thought they knew everything.

“First thing he would do after taking over would be to start wiping out anything from before.”

Again, Diaz looked my way. “Didn’t like it how?”

“He always thought that human trafficking and heroin were things of the past. They needed new, shiny. Kept trying to tell Lorenzo that fentanyl was the wave of the future. That’s what they should be chasing.”

Sliding her gaze to me, Diaz said, “But he didn’t want to go down that path?”

“Wouldn’t touch it,” Abarca said. Flicking his gaze over to me, he added, “You should know that.”

“Me?” I asked, my brows rising slightly. “Why’s that?”

“Because that’s the other name on my list. I was on my way to take out one of the largest producers in Mexico when you picked me up.”

Chapter Sixty-Two

For the second time in the last couple of days, Angel Abarca had just hit us with a bombshell. A massive piece of new information regarding not just the night when my team and I caught him, but where he was going when it happened.

The burgeoning producer of fentanyl who was his target.

The expanded role the man named Ignacio Marin had taken on since, with roots accessing most of the major players in the area and a sizable chunk of the product making it north that hadn’t been routed through China.

Connections that now, apparently, in some way included Marco Gil as well.

A mountain of data that changed how everything that had happened in recent days was to be viewed.

Same for all that would occur in the time ahead.

A thousand different questions that I could see playing out on Mia Diaz’s face as we retreated back to her office. What would be an extended investigation requiring the input and attention of far more than just the two of us.

Especially with us each still trying to digest what we were just hit with. A shot from left field that it was clear left Abarca confused as well, both sides operating under tremendous false pretenses.

The instant we reached her office, we sat down just long enough to agree to table everything Abarca had just shared until morning. Take some time to process. Put all that we knew into the new framework that had just been placed before us.

A Herculean task that would likely take more than just a single night to work through, but at least it was a start.

A bit of time and space so we could return with fresh eyes in the morning.

In the meantime, it was agreed that I would accompany Mariana and Lili to a safe house within the city. A place closer to the administrative offices for the DEA, where we would be met by a team of local agents and law enforcement.

Added security in the wake of what was just learned.

The threat that was now known to still exist.

While I was doing that, Diaz would stay in the office for at least a while more. Long enough that she could reach out to various contacts on both sides of the border, hoping to gather more information on Marco Gil.

The assassination of his father.

Ignacio Marin and the tip that we were given to intercept Abarca before he could take the man out years ago.

Disparate things that I doubted she would be able to make much headway on, but knew better than to even try to dissuade her.

Especially when I also knew it was exactly what I would be doing if I was in her position.

Agreeing to meet back up in her office in exactly twelve hours, I left Diaz to get to it and went out in search of Mariana and Lili. Finding the break room where we had eaten earlier empty, I moved on past to the conference room they were placed in when we first arrived to find the former reclined in a leather rolling chair at the head of the table.

Fingers laced over her stomach and her eyes partially closed, she stared listlessly at a cartoon playing on the flatscreen on the opposite wall.

A position showing only nominally more signs of life than her daughter curled up atop the table.

“Hey, you guys ready to get out of here?” I asked.

Despite the soft tone of my voice, it was loud enough to snap Mariana’s head up from the chair back it rested on. Eyes widening, she exhaled through her nostrils and asked, “Yeah?”

One corner of my mouth turning upward, I replied, “Unless you would prefer to stay here all night.”

“Heck no,” Mariana said. Rocking forward in her chair, she grabbed up the remote from the table before her. Jabbing it at the screen on the opposite wall, she flipped it off, eliminating the sound filling the room.

The light reflecting from the polished tabletop.

Rising from her seat, she extended both hands, reaching and grasping both her daughter’s shoulders. “Come on, baby. Time to wake up.”

Emitting a sigh even louder than her mother’s, Lili managed to blink open her eyes. Raising the back of her left hand to them, she pushed herself upright and asked, “Where are we going?”

“Just for a little ride into the city,” I replied. “It’s not too far.”

“Are we staying there for the night?”

“We are,” I said. “You, and your mom, and even old Louis here, if you’d like.”

Unable to muster the strength for a smile, Lili let it go with a nod. Doing her best to stifle a yawn, she slid down off the table, the three of us moving together for the door.

The start of a slow trek through the heart of the building, never once raising our gait above a shuffle.

A pace that turned out to be nothing short of a blessing, meaning we were just a few steps outside of the main doors when a series of headlights appeared on the winding drive above us. More than a handful of cars in order, led by a pair of massive rigs with winches on the front and roll bars across the back.

Vehicles moving much too fast for the location or time of night, their intentions clear as they made the first switchback, brakes and tires whining into the night as they whipped a turn and headed back the opposite direction.

All the makings of a war party, headed directly our way.

“Back inside, right now,” I said. Wheeling on a heel, I put one hand on Mariana’s shoulder, already pushing her back the opposite direction. Pressure that was then transferred to her grip on Lili’s hand, the three of us piling inside just seconds after leaving.

Entry that was just over the threshold before I raised my face toward the high ceiling of the main foyer and unleashed a loud cry. A single word, extending Diaz’s name out to several syllables in length.

A thunderous call that reverberated through the space and along the central corridor, drawing her out of the break room halfway down, a coffee cup in hand.

A sudden arrival, matched by a couple of agents on hand for the night popping into view in my periphery.

People that disappeared just as fast, the lights inside the building all cutting to black.

“We’ve got company!”

Chapter Sixty-Three

Barely a day removed from what happened last night, and ten hours beyond our trek out of the mountains, adrenaline was already close to the surface. My body’s natural reactions returned to the fore in an instant, activating every ingrained response.

Fight-or-flight, amped to the maximum possible setting in a matter of moments.

A repeat of what happened when I pulled up outside of the cabin last night on a most basic level, magnified by the hundred confounding variables that now existed.

Namely, the woman and little girl standing by my side.

“Where should I take them?” I asked as Diaz approached. Having tossed her coffee the instant the lights cut, she was moving fast, both hands already drawing back towards her hips.

Her left, reaching for the phone stowed there.

Her right, the Glock resting in its holster.

Yanking both free, she brought them forward no more than a couple of inches, keeping them poised by either hip. Fixed arm position, even as she continued coming our way.

“Break room is out,” I said. “Same for the conference room.”

Adding nothing more, she grasped exactly what I was saying. Slowing just slightly as the gap between us narrowed, she peered back over her shoulder.

“Definitely not the holding cells.”

“Definitely not,” I agreed, picking up on the underlying meaning.

Whoever was here now was after Angel Abarca. Most likely Mariana and Lili too, but their primary focus would be the man they had already tried to eliminate twice in Victorville.

Someone who had once been sent to take out the largest producer of fentanyl in the region.

A throwback to a cartel leader who was just recently assassinated himself.

How the hell all of it tied together at the moment, there was no way to know. No time to care either, our first and foremost concern being the onslaught pouring into the parking lot outside.

“Put them in my office,” Diaz eventually said. Shifting her focus to Mariana, she added, “The front of the desk is solid oak, reinforced with a steel plate. Get behind it and stay there until one of us comes for you.”

Beside me, Mariana nodded.

“I’ll be right back,” I said to Diaz. A simple sentence she accepted with a nod, resuming her previous pace as she shot forward.

A resumption of her prior activities, punctuated by her voice calling out as she started barking orders. Commands for the other agents inside.

Requests for them to get on the phone and start bringing in support.

A flurry of activity I left her to as I grabbed up Lili with both hands. Hefting her high into the air, I settled her weight above my left hip. Legs hanging down on either side of my torso, I started forward, Mariana keeping pace in my periphery.

An impromptu movement so I could get them both to safety faster.

The start of a jog down the central corridor that she didn’t fight me on, instead whispering, “Louis, I’m scared,” into my ear.

Just three words, underscoring the fear I could hear in her voice.

Feel as her small fingers clung to me.

“Don’t be afraid, princess,” I replied. My pace increased as we pushed forward, Diaz’s office coming into view. “We’re not going to let anything happen to you.”

Chapter Sixty-Four

The advantage of having a crew of fifteen was that it was easy for Andres to deploy multiple people to carry out multiple tasks.

The first one was a fairly easy job meant for the guy brought along solely because he was good with electronics. A self-professed egghead who wouldn’t be nearly as useful in a fight as the others, but could work magic in ways that made life for the rest of them easier.

Tasks such as what he was doing from the front seat of one of the sedans, jamming the outgoing lines on all cellphones and radios. A connective blackout, further isolating the facility resting far beyond the glow of San Diego in the distance.

The second chore in order that Andres put into motion was to have a pair of guys go and kill the electric to the place. Power being pumped in via the transformer box along the road, making it a fairly simple disruption requiring just a pair of well-placed blast fuses.

Twin explosives that sent a shower of sparks skyway, plunging the facility into darkness.

A total blackout that lasted a full minute before the internal generators kicked on, returning the place to a minimum level of power. Just enough for some track lighting to illuminate the interior, but nothing near what was present just moments before.

A reduction of the place from a spotlight in the desert to nothing more than an aberration. A small smudge of light, visible only within a quarter mile or less.

The instant those two items were checked off his list, Andres deployed the rest of his forces. Splitting them into groups of seven and four, he kept the larger body concentrated on the primary entrance. A trio of glass double doors standing across the front, creating an opening in the brick façade that was almost twenty feet across.

Their primary point to breach, the remainder of the team sent around the back to look for any secondary exits.

Actions that were all carried out with speed that bordered on gleeful. People like himself, who craved the action. Had gone without it for far too long.

A merciful scratching of an itch, made even better by the fact that they were going after the organization that had been such a pain in their ass for so long.

A sneak attack, catching them unprepared and unaware, hopefully crippling them for the foreseeable future.

And wiping out an asshole like Angel Abarca to boot.

A thousand positives that for the first time all day had pushed aside any notions of the impending midnight deadline for Andres. Even the name Ignacio Marin.

A bunch of tertiary bullshit that would all play out as it was supposed to, once they finished what they had come to do.

Standing along the front grille of one of the two oversized trucks, Andres held a chunk of brick in his hand. A piece of standard red clay, taken from the rubble of a crumbling corner of the motel they were at in the desert.

Measuring two-to-three inches on each edge, it provided plenty of flat surfaces for the message inscribed atop it in black marker.

Abarca.

“You want the honors?” Andres asked, holding the piece of brick out to the side.

An offering to the man posted up on the other end of the bumper. Someone who looked like a hardcore biker moonlighting as a mercenary, with thick arms etched with dark ink and a braided goatee extended several inches from his chin.

Auburn facial hair flecked with silver, matching the ring of stubble around the bottom half of his skull.

A crooked smile flashed gold where his front teeth should be.

“Love to,” he growled, placing the automatic rifle he’d been cradling atop the hood of the truck.

Snatching the brick away from Andres, he took two quick shuffle steps, building up a bit of momentum. Letting his arm unfurl like a whip, he hurled the chunk of stone at the glass.

A major league fastball at short distance that should have shattered the pane, instead cratering one corner of the brick into a shower of dust and small fragments.

Pieces that smudged the glass and rained to the sidewalk as the brick bounced off, making it more than halfway back to where they stood.

An offense that the enormous man seemed to take personally, grunting audibly as he strode forward to grab it, no doubt to try again.

“Stop,” Andres said, bringing him to a halt after just a couple of steps. An ending shorter than expected, causing the man to turn back, his features twisted up in anger. “They must be bulletproof.”

Pushing himself away from the truck, Andres moved for the brick resting just inches back from the edge of the parking lot.

“You’ll turn that brick to dust before you get through that glass.”

Without breaking stride, Andres bent down and picked up the discarded chunk. Walking straight down the center of the sidewalk, he hefted the chunk in the air, his gaze sweeping over the front of the building.

A second viewing from a closer angle, his mind already working on next steps.

Ways to get around this newest bit of information.

Ideas that were scattered and varied at first, eventually calling back to something he’d seen in the mountains earlier in the day.

Making no attempt to shield himself, hiding from the cameras imbedded into the side of the building up high, he walked straight to the center set of double doors. Turning the brick so that the inscribed message faced outward, he pressed it against the glass.

Stood there and watched the various shadows moving about in the dim light within, ensuring that they saw it.

“You have ten minutes,” he called, his raised voice resonating in the quiet desert air. “Either he comes out, or we’re coming in.”

Chapter Sixty-Five

Sixty seconds after the main power to the facility was cut, the backup generators kicked on. Low-level suppliers meant to cover the most bare-boned of functions, such as providing the dim light strips outlining the hallways and operating the security system and electronic locks.

Essentials that didn’t rise to include the cameras surrounding the place, leaving us blind on how many others were outside or where they were positioned.

Assuming that the guy at the door was telling the truth, and not just repeating bluster he’d heard in a movie somewhere. Posturing meant to get us to hand over Angel Abarca, which in reality was just part of their goal.

“No way we can open that door,” I muttered. Crouched along the side of the front desk, the Glock Diaz left under the passenger seat of the sedan yesterday for me was in hand.

On the ground behind the desk was a pair of automatic weapons. Rifles with magazines extended down from the base, having appeared while I was off getting Mariana and Lili to safety.

What would have been one of the first tasks Diaz assigned, distributing firepower where it was most needed.

“Not a chance,” Diaz said. Posted up on the opposite corner, her weight was balanced on a single knee.

By her side, her own Glock was gripped tight in her dominant hand, hanging by her hip. In her opposite hand was the phone, held just inches from her face as she continued trying to get a signal.

Anything to get past whatever block they had put on the place, jamming us up at exactly the same time they killed the lights.

An effective means of cutting us off, ensuring that no help could arrive.

How many people were outside, there was no way of knowing. Based on the convoy I saw rolling in earlier and the vehicles visible through the trio of glass doors along the front, it could be a number sitting anywhere between half a dozen and two dozen.

A full force I would guess to be somewhere in the middle, probably falling in the lower teens, plus the guy who was just at the door and whatever tech person they had overseeing the jam.

“Even if we did hand Abarca over, the instant that door was open they’d rush the place,” Diaz added.

Glancing sideways toward her, I asked, “How many agents do we have?”

“Eight, plus you and me.”

“How many exits?”

“Three,” Diaz answered. “The two in the back are steel doors with electronic locks that would have been the first thing to kick on.”

“So these here-”

“Definitely,” Diaz said, already knowing my question.

Barely was the word out and she turned the opposite direction. Raising her voice, she called, “How we doing in there?”

“We’re not!” a male voice shot right back. “Phones, cameras, everything’s dead!”

“Dammit,” Diaz muttered. Pulling her phone away from her face, she tapped at the screen a couple of times.

Bringing up an image, she thrust it my direction and asked, “You recognize this guy?”

Pushing sideways, I slid behind the desk to peer at the device. On it was an image of a guy with dark hair and clothing, a chunk of rock with Abarca’s name on it pressed to the front door.

“No,” I said, giving my head a shake before lifting my focus back to Diaz. “But I bet I know someone who does.”

Chapter Sixty-Six

For the third consecutive time, Angel Abarca was on his feet as I pushed through the door into the room with the holding cells on the backend of the building. A seasoned veteran of incarceration, he was standing in the exact center of his, leaving plenty of space between himself and the bars on three sides.

Weight balanced on either foot, he stood in a readied stance, prepared to defend himself.

A posture he maintained even as he saw it was me entering, his voice sharp as he barked, “What the hell’s going on?”

An ask that I didn’t bother answering, knowing what I was about to show him would do it just the same.

Moving just shy of a jog, I kept Diaz’s phone palmed in my right hand.

Returning to the exact spot I was standing in just thirty minutes earlier, I extended it before me.

“Do you know this man?”

Wasting no time glancing between me and the phone or posing any additional questions, he took two steps forward. Just as I had, he adopted the same post as earlier, grasped the bars before him in both hands.

“That’s him, with the knife. That’s Andres.”

Dropping the phone by my side, I said, “So it is Marco Gil coming after you.”

“Must be,” he said. Lifting his palms, he added, “But it doesn’t make a damn bit of sense. All this, to target me?”

Taking a single step back, I was acutely aware of the clock hanging over my head. An allotted amount of time, almost half of which was already gone.

An impending deadline I had zero doubt that Andres would honor, already much too far into their siege to simply back down.

“What are you going to do?” Abarca asked.

Ignoring his question, I took another step back, chewing on something he had just said. A line that had caught and lodged itself at the front of my mind, regardless of the many other directions I needed to be going.

A single nugget that I turned over twice before flicking my gaze up to meet his.

“Maybe you’re not the target, but a condition.”

Brow coming together for only an instant, I saw as Abarca’s lips moved just barely.

Repeating what I said, I also saw as the same realization clicked into place for him, lines appearing on his forehead as his brows climbed.

“Somebody else took out Lorenzo for him, he takes out me for them.”

“Exactly,” I said.

“Marin?”

“Would make sense, he takes out Marco’s dad so he can ascend, Marco takes out the guy his dad sent to kill him.”

His grip growing tighter on the bars before him, Abarca pulled his lips back in a snarl. “Has his own father killed, then partners with his enemy. That little son of a bitch.”

For the second time in as many minutes, I ignored what he said.

More things there would be plenty of time for later, my focus pulled back to the far more imminent threat before us.

“How many men would Marco send to make sure he got the job done this time?”

Flicking his gaze down to the phone by my side, Abarca said, “If he’s coming here, he’s desperate, probably on the clock, which means everybody he could spare. You say you took out six up at the cabin. He probably has at least that many he sent over the border, plus however much local muscle he would need.

“Best guess, probably fifteen or so.”

Having thought the same thing, I took another step back, heading for the door.

“Come on,” he called, his voice sounding out behind me. “You’ve got to let me out of here! I can help!”

Words I said nothing to, the last thing I heard as I slipped back into the hallway being, “At least let me stay with Mariana and Lili!”

Chapter Sixty-Seven

Halfway back to the front door, I wished I had brought along the damn assault rifle I left on the floor beside Diaz. An automatic weapon with a full magazine, capable of rattling off bullets much faster than I could ever get off individually with a handgun.

An arsenal unto itself, with maximum stopping power in case Andres and his crew decided to start their onslaught early.

Which was exactly what the bastards did.

If the internal clock ticking steadily downward in my head was to be believed, I should have still had about four minutes left. Almost half of what was allotted, giving me plenty of time to resume my position along the south end of the front desk.

Remaining time that was cut short by Andres and his crew pulling the exact same move that was used last night in the San Gabriel Mountains.

Something that was either a standard for how they did things, or was an idea after he went up there and surveyed things for himself today.

Just before killing Agents Marcum and Kirby.

Pounding my way through the central corridor for the building, I didn’t hear the grinding of gears as the truck was put into motion. There was no squeal of tires as the rubber spun across the blacktop, fighting for purchase before hurtling itself forward.

Absolutely nothing at all above my feet slapping against tile and the faint calls of Abarca still yelling until I heard Diaz cry out. A single word of warning, followed by the thunderous crush of glass shattering. The angry wail of the metal frame encasing the doors being sheared away.

The sudden eruption of a dozen automatic weapons all barking out in concert.

A hail of gunfire that reverberated down the hallway, bouncing from the walls and floors around me.

Familiar noises that would have sent most people back the opposite direction or diving into one of the side rooms that instead made me charge even harder. My grip tightened on the Glock in my right hand and Diaz’s phone in the left.

Two points of contact that I used to help propel myself forward, cutting the distance between me and the corner leading to the main foyer by half.

And then half again.

A hard charge that I continued until just ten yards separated me from my destination, cut short by flinging my feet out in front of me. Dropping my weight onto my right hip, I let momentum carry me across the polished floor.

Sliding to a stop just shy of the corner, I popped up on a knee. Casting aside the phone, I brought both hands up under the Glock, sweeping my gaze across the scene for the first time.

Parked diagonally in the center of the foyer was one of the matching pair of trucks I saw approaching outside earlier. What would normally be a mid-sized model, souped up so that it stood more than a foot taller than usual.

The oversized tires on either side gave it extra width.

Additional modifications were made to the front and top, effectively turning it into a much more mobile tank.

A combination battering ram and firing platform, around which four men were positioned.

Guys dressed in all black like those up in the mountains last night, a pair spilling out from either side. One each from the driver and passenger doors, while the others had hopped down out of the bed.

Fanning wide, they had assault rifles extended before them, muzzle flashes bursting from the tips.

One after another in order causing a strobing effect in the semi-darkness of the small space as they ran full auto, the combined noise nothing short of deafening.

A first wave sent in to wipe out – or at least suppress – whatever opposition was clustered around the front door, they slowly crept forward. Starting with the desk as a southern endpoint, they swept their fire north, pinning Diaz and the remainder of the agents spread further down into place.

Defensive positions, able to give only the occasional burst of return fire.

Just enough to keep the intruders from moving unimpeded to mow them down.

Knowing that not one of them was even aware of my presence, I pushed myself out a couple of feet to the side. Extra space to give me an improved angle as I stayed low to the ground, swinging my aim past the southernmost attacker, instead going for the next one in.

A move to take out their center, and isolate his cohort on the end.

Sighting in on center mass, I tugged back on the trigger three times in a row. One after another, rattled off as fast as the firing mechanism could reset.

Shots striking him square, knocking him sideways as the rifle fell from his hands with a clatter.

A noticeable loss of light and sound in the middle of the room, magnified by the man closest to him swinging his own rifle my direction. Finger depressed on the trigger, he stitched a row of bullets above the desk, reaching the corner just after I had tucked myself back behind it.

A sudden change of direction on his part, leaving him open to Diaz pumping out a handful of shots from her own rifle.

Bullets that ripped into the man at short range, lifting him from his feet and dropping him flat on his back.

A quick elimination of the southern half of their crew, causing the remaining two to cease their approach. Taking a step back toward their truck, they continued to fire, spraying bullets haphazardly.

A random pattern that I timed as best I could, waiting for an opening to push myself forward across the floor.

Slide up into my previous spot on the end of the desk and snatch up the assault rifle I never should have left behind.

Plans that didn’t get the chance to materialize, cut short by a flash of light streaking into view.

A second truck, swinging in at an angle behind the first.

“Incoming!”

Chapter Sixty-Eight

The second truck was a near copy of the first. Just like the other one, it had a winch welded onto the front bumper. There was a roll-top framing the cab. Oversized tires kept it lifted high above the ground.

Add-ons that were nice to have, but that Andres didn’t necessarily need.

The heavy lifting was already done, clearing the path for him and the second wave to make their entrance.

Swinging in from the opposite direction, the plan was to be the second slash in an X formation. A counterpart to the first one that hit and cleared out the steel frame and bulletproof glass, drawing the attention of whoever was inside.

Misdirection, meant to really magnify their numbers advantage.

Make for quick work of Angel Abarca, and the damn organization that had inserted itself where it didn’t belong, threatening what he and Marco were trying to do.

“Punch it, dammit,” Andres spat. Sitting in the passenger seat, his body was twisted to the side, ready to move for the door. His left arm was extended before him, bracing for whatever impact there might be. “Punch it!”

Across his lap rested a submachine gun. A smaller version of the assault rifles that the first wave was using, able to be operated with only one hand.

Greater ease of use, leaving his other side free to operate the door handle beside him.

Doing as instructed, the driver with the braided goatee shoved his toe toward the floor. A sudden surge of fuel that caused the massive engine to roar, the frontend bucking in kind as it shot over the shallow curb lining the building.

A quick up and down as the tires bit into the sidewalk, hurtling them forward.

One last burst of movement, thrusting Andres forward. Momentum that he braced against with his palm flat against the dash, feeling the impact all the way to his shoulder.

Absorbed energy that only heightened the series of things he was feeling, his skin tingling with sensation as the driver slid past the threshold of the front doors before slamming on the brakes. A sudden loss of forward movement, causing the backend to fishtail.

The combined sound of the brakes and tires sliding across tile to ring out.

The scent of charred rubber to drift through the open window beside Andres.

Sensory assault, igniting the adrenaline in his system, meaning that before the vehicle was even at a complete stop, he was shoving the door open. Grasping the submachine gun in his right hand, he vaulted himself down out of the cabin, hitting the floor at a jog.

Jerking the weapon up, he tugged back on the trigger, fanning bullets out before him. A quick spray of the area out to the right of the front door, just to ensure that there was no opposition waiting there.

No extra agents coming down the side hallway or through the wide corridor extended directly in front of them.

Passages that seemed to be deserted, the resources all grouped up around the front door and whatever other entrances there might be. At least one or two, currently being worked on by the team he sent around the back earlier.

A coordinated attack, causing the DEA to converge their firepower, leaving the rest of the place unattended.

Namely, whatever holding cell they currently had Abarca’s ass stowed away in.

Swinging his arm in a full one-hundred-and-eighty-degree arc, Andres ended his sweep by running a line of bullets across the desk in the center of the foyer. Rounds that chewed through the exterior of it, leaving deep gouges in the wood.

Blonde spots against dark stain where shards had been ripped clean.

A satisfying visual that brought a thin smile to his lips as he opened his hand, letting the weapon fall from his grasp. Reaching to the small of his back, he drew out a much smaller handgun, the magazine already in place, a round racked into the chamber.

A piece much easier to handle as he waved to the man who had leapt down from the bed of the truck behind him. One of three who had driven in with him, matching the force in the first vehicle.

Additional firepower that jumped from the driver’s side, adding the bark of their rifles to the fray.

Renewed energy that echoed from the walls as Andres motioned toward the side hallway running along the front of the building.

“You, with me!”

Chapter Sixty-Nine

From my position right along the corner leading down the main thoroughfare for the building, I could see Andres and his henchman spilling out of the second truck and sprinting down the hallway perpendicular to me, but I couldn’t do a damn thing about it. Balanced on a knee, I had a narrow lane no more than a few feet wide through which I could see them tearing off the opposite direction, but I had no clear shot.

Sure as hell no way to give chase without opening myself up to his goons exiting from the driver’s side.

A losing proposition that meant I would have to drop back down the hall and loop around, knowing full well where they were headed.

“Andres!” I shouted. A single word, not meant to be loud enough to stop him, but alert Diaz that I had eyes on.

Her assault rifle tucked tight against her right shoulder, one hand on the stock, the other along the underside of the barrel, Diaz didn’t bother looking over. Her only response was a simple nod as she continued firing, snapping off shots in two- and three-round bursts before retreating behind the desk.

Shots that each spat from the end of the barrel with a flash of orange light. Blossoms that highlighted her features, shiny with perspiration.

“Two more!” she shouted back, calling out the pair of new attackers spilling from the driver’s side of the truck. The counterparts to Andres and the man who joined him from the bed of the truck, heading down the far hallway.

Both exiting the truck with weapons raised, they fanned out into the misshapen triangle formed by the two trucks. Open ground already marred by the bodies of their colleagues, their blood pooling across the smooth tile.

A cautionary tale that neither one heeded, each pushing forward, shoving out rounds as fast as they could fire. Bullets that continued chewing into the front desk and along the wall behind it, forcing Diaz back under cover.

Shots rattled off one after another, the thunder of their report escalating the sound pounding through the enclosed space.

Instantaneous feedback that only served to embolden them both, causing them to take a couple of additional steps. Forward progress, leaving them both fully exposed past the front grills of the trucks.

Drawing my knee up under me, I slid forward a few feet. Never rising above a low crouch, I duckwalked forward before hitting my knees, resuming my original post on the south end of the desk. Placing the Glock down on the floor, I swapped it out for the assault rifle.

“On me,” I said, adding nothing more as I checked the magazine, making sure it was fixed in position.

Flipped off the safety and switched the firing mechanism to full auto.

Enhanced firepower that I had every intention of taking full advantage of as I rocked my weight back, pushing the balance from my knees to the balls of my feet. Extending my right leg a few inches, I shoved laterally with it, sliding out around the far end of the desk.

An enemy that, like their friends earlier, they didn’t seem to know existed.

A position they sure as hell never expected.

Tugging straight back on the trigger, I felt the kick of the weapon as it was shoved into me. Kinetic energy that only fueled the combination of adrenaline and acrimony within as I stitched a line of bullets vertically through the closest target.

No less than a handful in order, each impact evoking a spastic response. Shots that caused his weapon to jerk across his body, still spitting rounds from the end of it.

Bullets flung at random, striking the lower leg of the other new arrival by his side.

Friendly fire that he didn’t expect and wasn’t braced for, dropping him to a knee. His own weapon hitting the floor in front of him as he sprawled forward, he made an easy target for Diaz as she slid out the other side and unloaded on his ass.

Half a dozen bullets that pitched him straight back, dropping him flat in the center of the room.

Four dead bodies around the front end of the trucks, to match another a little further down.

A decent chunk of their assault taken out, the remainder already starting to retreat back to the safety of the vehicles. Cover that they crouched behind, their fire beginning to slow.

Volleys of one or two shots that were returned by the agents further down, the two sides becoming more judicious after the initial fracas.

“If we’re going after Andres,” I said, sliding a couple of feet closer to be heard over the faint ringing that had settled in my ears, “it has to be now. Abarca is helpless inside that cage.”

Glancing my way, Diaz looked back the opposite direction. Flicking her focus between her guys hidden in various doorways and nooks around the north end of the foyer, she checked over the opposition tucked into place around the massive vehicles.

All the makings of a standoff, both sides entrenched.

“One more burst, and then we go.”

Nodding my understanding, I slid back to my spot on the end of the desk. Taking up the Glock from the floor, I tucked it into the rear waistband of my jeans.

“One...” Diaz called out. “Two...three!”

Barely was the word out when both of us rose from behind the desk. Each with assault rifles fixed in position, we unloaded on the sides of the trucks, our muzzle flashes offset by sparks rising as bullets slammed into their metal bodies.

More than two dozen rounds spat in a matter of seconds as we drifted sideways, working our way past the edge of the desk.

Going until both of us had emptied our clips, we dropped the rifles where we stood. Drawing our Glocks, we whirled and took off down the central corridor, reaching a full sprint within just a few strides.

A hard charge carrying us through the heart of the building, the sound of gunfire growing fainter at our back. Pops and cracks that fell away enough to let our footfalls be heard for just an instant before being replaced by more of the same up ahead.

Single pops from small arms that caused us to slow our pace as we reached the end of the hallway. Both panting and sweating, we pulled up just shy of the corner, crowding tight and peering around at the fighting up ahead.

A smaller version of what was going on out front, surrounding a secondary entrance that looked to have been blasted open.

Through the gaping doorway could be seen a couple of rifle barrels, the attackers offset by a pair of agents, one of whom looked to have been shot, firing with his opposite hand while his colleague worked to drag him back to safety.

A scene needing only a glance for Diaz to say, “You go for Abarca, I’ll help them here.”

Chapter Seventy

Every vein in Angel Abarca’s hands and wrists was plainly visible. Same for each individual muscle fiber traversing his forearms. Results of the death grip he had on the bars in front of him, latching on the instant Hawk Tate had turned and ran out of the room just a few minutes earlier.

A reflexive response, damning whatever the last few years had taught him about staying back to ensure nothing could reach in and grab him.

A move born entirely of wanting to get to his sister and niece. Protective instinct taken to an extreme degree a few moments later as the sound of glass shattering somewhere in the building could be heard.

The percussive bass of explosives that followed just an instant later.

The unmistakable sound of guns firing that hit immediately thereafter, seeming to reverberate through the concrete room. Hundreds of individual rounds, their distinctive bark penetrating the metal door and echoing from every surface.

An onslaught from all directions, with him powerless to help stop it in any way.

Hands wrapped around the bars in front of him, Angel staggered his right foot behind him. Using it as a leverage point, he jerked his weight back, trying to uncover the tiniest bit of give in his enclosure.

Any slight deficiency that he could go after, using it to create an opening.

Finding absolutely nothing, he switched directions, shoving back the opposite way. A rocking motion, hoping to use opposing force to loosen the welds.

Effort that caused more sweat to rise to his skin. His breath to grow short in his chest.

But nothing more.

“Shit!” Angel spat, his gaze tracking towards the sound of an ongoing firefight occurring just outside. Noise that evoked handfuls of images, every one of them involving his sister and niece cowering, terrified as intruders bore down on them.

All with his ass sitting helpless in a cell.

“Shiiiiiiiit!” he bellowed, letting the angry wail rise up from deep in his chest. A pained howl that added to the assorted sounds, thundering throughout the room.

A cacophony so loud that this time, Angel didn’t hear the metal latch on the door disengage.

Sure as hell didn’t see the handle turn.

Not until a sliver of light appeared before him, breaking up the monotony of the gray color scheme, did he realize that he was no longer alone. The arrival of someone else, his first thought that it was Tate finally returning to release him.

Give him a weapon.

Let him tilt the balance in their direction.

Hopes lasting just an instant, replaced by the sight of a man dressed entirely in black. Tactical attire, as if he was some damned soldier in a faraway land, going door to door clearing buildings for possible insurgents.

Boots and cargo pants and all the rest, culminating with an assault rifle held in both hands across his torso.

A weapon he swept across the interior of the room, making it no further than Angel standing in the cage before stopping. Keeping the front tip of the rifle raised, he held it trained on Angel for several moments.

A big man with a gun, keeping it there even as a smile creased one side of his mouth.

A smirk rocked his head back an inch.

“In here!”

Finally tilting the gun upward, he pushed his hips back a couple of inches. Far enough to shove the door open wider, allowing a second figure to enter.

A man Angel saw on Tate’s phone just minutes earlier, but otherwise hadn’t laid eyes on in more than half a decade. A skinny young punk then, having grown into a cocky bastard now, as evidenced by the clothes he wore and the gold cross around his neck.

The razor cut of his hair and the pencil-thin beard lining his jaw. No doubt a host of dark ink etched into skin, hidden from view by the long sleeves he was just telling Tate and Diaz about earlier.

Superficial stuff. Little more than decals, easily slapped on the surface, but having no effect on what was underneath.

“Well, if it isn’t the famous Angel of Death,” Andres said. Lips pulled back into a sneer, the mismatched silver and gold incisors flashed against his tan skin.

Gun in hand, he let it hang by his side as he strode forward. A slow amble, as if oblivious to everything that was going on outside.

“Never thought I’d see you in a place like this.”

Even knowing that the kid was just trying to goad him, Angel felt his grip tighten on the bars.

“And I never thought you or Marco had the stones to try something like this,” Angel countered. “Still don’t, actually.”

Letting out a low chuckle, Andres continued his forward movement. Pulling up just shy of where Tate was standing earlier, he stopped, making a show of checking over the enclosure separating them.

“Think what you want,” he replied, “but the fact is, you’re stuck in here, and I’m the new you.”

Knowing that he was only being baited, Angel refused to respond. Grinding his molars together, his grip on the bars grew even tighter as his previous mental images were pushed aside, replaced by every last thing he wanted to do to the asshole in front of him.

Confrontation that would not be quick in the slightest, taking the little bastard apart a piece at a time.

Equal retribution for everything he and his proxy had put Angel and his family through in the last week.

“You want to know what I think?” Angel asked, jerking himself forward so that cold steel touched either cheekbone.

“I don’t give a shit what you think,” Andres replied, “because I can already tell you it’s wrong.

“We didn’t just put together anything. We’re finishing what we started six years ago when we called this place and set your ass up.”

Chapter Seventy-One

Retracing my steps from just a few minutes earlier, I had the same damn thought enter my head. The exact one I had while running away from Angel Abarca’s cell toward the sound of breaking glass and squealing tires, wishing I had brought along the assault rifle left on the floor by the front desk, no matter how much it might have slowed me down.

A thought that again returned as I pounded along the back hallway, making my way to the holding area in the far corner of the building.

A destination I had zero doubt about, as evidenced from the way Andres and his henchmen tore off down the side hallway. Their own separate mission, independent of trying to stay and help clear out the agents along the front.

A lower task left to his minions, while he went after the real prize.

The point of leverage, needed to be eliminated so he and Marco Gil could continue trying to build whatever personal empire they had in mind. A wiping out of the old guard, in the name of bringing in the next generation.

Kids who thought they knew better. Could do better.

Be better.

A tired story seen a million times in a million different formats, about to end the same damn way for them that it did for the vast majority of the others.

Back in my hand was the same Glock that I had been carrying most of the night. The damn one I grabbed up from the floor on instinct before remembering that the magazine inserted into the grip was now empty, leaving just the final round nested in the chamber.

A single remaining shot to go after Andres and whoever else remained with him.

Feet slapping against the tile floor, I charged ahead as fast as I could, each successive step causing the assorted sounds from the building to fade. Gunshots still echoing from the front. Diaz barking orders at my rear.

Noises that I let drift out, my full focus going to the final corner up ahead. One last turn, making no attempt to slow myself as I approached.

No coming to a stop and hoping to slip around unseen.

No tiptoeing in behind Andres and his men, trying to use surprise or sleight of hand.

Not with only a single bullet remaining. And not with the sheer amount of chemical energy I was feeding on.

Adrenaline at a level I hadn’t experienced in months, paired with raw animosity.

Jaw clamped, I peeled my lips back over my teeth. Sucking in deep pulls of air, I kept my arms hooked at ninety-degrees, waiting until the last moment before raising the Glock in my right hand before me.

Swinging wide, I covered the last couple of steps, rounding the corner to see the same metal double doors I had been to a handful of times since arriving earlier in the day. Solid steel plates that were usually closed, this time propped open by a man dressed entirely in black.

Standing perpendicular to the hallway, he carried an assault rifle loosely across his torso, his head turned to face back into the room housing Abarca’s cell. On his face was a faint smile, as if enjoying whatever was playing out inside.

A half-sneer that just pissed me off even more.

Tearing off three quick strides in order, I waited until the gap between us was just a couple of feet, until the man heard me coming and started to turn his head my direction, before pulling the trigger.

A shot fired at close range, ripping through the flat plane of his forehead, painting the door with blood and brain matter behind him.

Absorbed energy that snapped his entire body back, what remained of his skull thudding against the metal, emitting a hollow sound that echoed outward as I slid sideways past him. Fluid motion while barely breaking stride, crossing into the room to see Abarca standing in his usual place at the front of the cell, his hands balled into fists, clutching the bars.

Taking the spot where I usually stood was the same man Diaz had shown me on her phone earlier. The same one still who I saw jump out of the second truck and take off down the side hallway.

Andres, standing with a gun raised before him, the tip just a couple of feet back from the cage separating the two men.

A sneer to match his sidekick in the doorway on his face, he rotated my direction as the sound of the gunshot reverberated through the room, swinging his weapon my way.

A sweeping arc that seemed to move in slow motion as I pounded forward, making no effort to slow. To hide behind the door.

To even fling the empty Glock I was still holding his way.

My focus fully on getting to him, I charged straight across the room as an orange blossom erupted from the tip of the gun. A lone shot fired at random before he was fully squared on me, sending a bullet whizzing into the concrete block nearby.

A desperation move, snapped off just before I pushed from the ball of my right foot, launching myself shoulder first into the man.

Slamming into him broadside, I felt the tensile strength on a couple of ribs give way, the sound of them snapping finding my ears.

I also felt his body fold in half against the force of my blow, shoving him sideways into the front of the cage.

Back-to-back impacts that dropped him straight to the floor. A third impact expelling all the air from his lungs, leaving him immobile for just a moment before awareness returned and he began to roll away.

Quick revolutions meant to put as much distance between us as possible before scrabbling with hands and feet to pick himself up off the concrete.

A frantic struggle to regain his feet, leaving him clearly favoring his right side as he managed to stand.

Outstretched before him was the same knife I suspected killed Agent Kirby earlier in the day, appearing from virtually nowhere, just as Abarca had outlined.

Still on his features was the same sneer he’d been wearing when I entered. A look that lingered as we squared off from one another, lasting until a lone gunshot pierced the air.

An unexpected sound that caused us both to flinch, each turning to see the door on the cell beside us swing open, Abarca framed in the opening.

An exit made possible by the gun Andres had been carrying when I slammed into him in his hand.

Chapter Seventy-Two

Andres wasn’t sure how many bullets were left in the gun he’d been carrying since exiting the truck a few minutes earlier, but he knew it was more than enough for Angel Abarca to kill him, and the bearded man who just tackled him, and anyone else who might stand between Abarca and one of the rear exits.

A handful or more hollow point rounds, all waiting for him to start pulling back on the trigger that his index finger already rested on.

An impending action that Andres could see playing across Abarca’s face as he glared out from beneath his heavy brow. Nostrils flaring with each exhalation, he stepped slowly from within the confines of his cage out into the open room.

A few feet to the left, the bearded man matched his movement. Retreating in equal time, he maintained their spacing, an equilateral triangle forming between the three of them.

To his credit, he didn’t try to do what most in his position might. He didn’t try to assert himself as the lone law enforcement agent in the room. Didn’t tell Abarca to give him the gun, or say bullshit platitudes about how he didn’t have to do this.

Every person present knew that nothing about to happen was because Abarca had to.

It was because he wanted to.

Because it was who he was at his core.

Keeping his mouth shut, the man continued to rotate away, very much aware of both the fact that he was the sole person unarmed, and that thus far Abarca hadn’t so much as looked at him.

Complete disregard lasting several seconds, ending with Abarca doing the only thing in the world Andres didn’t expect him to do.

Lifting the gun from his side, Abarca didn’t raise it out in front of him. He didn’t angle it at one of Andres’ knees. Didn’t put the front sights on his chest or head.

Instead, he extended it to the side, raising it not to point at the man, but rather to offer it to him.

“Tate,” he hissed.

A single word that caused the man to remain rooted in place for only a moment, considering what was happening, before taking a step forward.

And then another.

Cutting the distance between them, he pulled up a couple of feet short and slid the weapon from Abarca’s grasp.

“Go see to Mariana and Lili,” Abarca said. His glare growing more pronounced with each passing moment, he added, “I got this.”

Again, the man paused for only a moment. Just an instant to consider what was said before turning and heading for the door.

No final comments or admonishments for Abarca.

Not even a glance at Andres, stopping just long enough to pick up the automatic rifle from the dead body by the door, before disappearing.

His entire presence was nothing more than a minute or two. Just long enough to eliminate Andres’s backup. Stop him from shooting Abarca in his cage like the dog that he was.

And then leave.

Transgressions that Andres would be sure to make the furry bastard pay for, just as soon as he was done with Abarca.

The knife still outstretched before him, Andres allowed one corner of his mouth to flicker upward. A look to let it be known how much things had just shifted.

How the odds were now tilted in his favor.

“You should have kept the gun,” he said.

A comment that Abarca ignored entirely as he took a step forward and said, “You are not the new me. You could never be me.”

Bringing his hands up before him, he added, “I’m The Angel of Death, remember?”

Chapter Seventy-Three

Ididn’t know if leaving Angel Abarca and Andres alone in the holding room was the right thing to do. Armed with the only guns of the three, I would have had superior firepower, but no handcuffs to slap on them.

No separate cells to force them into after Abarca had shattered the lock on his.

What I did know was the only possible thing I could’ve done was stand guard and force compliance while the pop of gunfire still rang out from the front of the building. An ongoing battle between my friend and the organization I once dedicated myself to and a group of cartel soldiers sent north to commit murder.

An option there was no way in hell I was going to take, leaving me pounding back down the hallway in the back of the building for the third time in just over ten minutes.

This time not making the same mistake I had twice already, I carried the assault rifle taken from the man I shot in the doorway earlier. The last bullet in my own gun, swapped out for an AR-15 with the better part of a magazine still available.

Superior firepower I was more than willing to exchange for a few extra seconds in getting where I was going. Extra time afforded by having to hold it in both hands in front of me, the awkward positioning keeping me from going at a full sprint down the semi-darkened corridor.

Letting it swing side to side across my torso, I followed the same route that it seemed like I had been running back and forth on most of the night. Feet slapping against tile, I let the sound of the ongoing fight guide me, pulling me back toward the rear entrance just off the corner where I last left Diaz.

A heading that didn’t take me directly to the same spot, but just past.

Based on the pair of bodies sprawled out in the center of the hallway and the smears of blood streaking the floor between them, my guess was that Diaz and the other unharmed agent had managed to put down the two intruders who were there when I last departed.

Creating a break for themselves, they were able to get their wounded cohort to safety before reinforcements dressed in matching black appeared. Men angling in from either direction, forcing Diaz and her team into cover from the nearest doorway.

A target their opponents were now converging on, alternating strafing fire. Rotational bursts, followed by Diaz or her colleague returning a couple of random shots out into the hallway.

Not enough to pose any real danger, but enough to keep them at bay for the time being.

And to keep their attention turned that direction, neither one so much as glancing my direction as I approached. The sounds of my footfalls swallowed up the reports of their own weapons, I pushed just past the head of the main corridor. Just far enough that I didn’t risk leaving myself exposed, should any additional hostiles come charging through the heart of the building.

A few final paces before slowing to barely a walk and drawing the AR-15 up to my shoulder.

Starting with the man closest to me, I pushed a quartet of bullets into his center mass. Shots that caused his entire body to spasm, the weapon he was carrying clattering to the ground as his arms jerked.

His head snapped in either direction.

Moving on before gravity had even fully taken over, I shifted the sights on the assault rifle a few inches to the side. Tugging straight back on the trigger a second time, I felt the kick of the weapon against my deltoid as it spit out another burst of bullets.

Absorbed energy that only added to the assorted host of chemicals already surging through me.

Two solid days’ worth that had sensation hurtling the length of me as I watched the rounds find their target, chewing through the man in the same way they did his partner just seconds before. Spattering the tile around him with red mist, they deposited him in a heap on his side, his limbs splayed in all directions.

Jerking my aim back the other direction, I scanned the hallway behind me. One last look to ensure any threat had been neutralized before dropping the rifle away from my shoulder.

“Diaz?!” I shouted, my voice especially loud without the sounds of automatic weapons filling the enclosed space.

“Coming out!” she called back, the words still hanging in the air as she stepped from the doorway where she’d been holed up. Glock extended before her, she went straight to the second man I had shot.

Checking to ensure he was expired, she returned her service weapon to the holster on her hip and took up the automatic weapon he’d been firing.

Pulling the magazine, she checked to see there were rounds remaining before shoving it back into place.

Heading my direction, she did the same thing with the first man, checking to ensure expiration before sliding his rifle away with her foot as she passed.

“Thanks,” she said.

Nodding once, I watched as the same agent I saw helping his colleague earlier stepped out of the office. His hands empty, he glanced our direction before moving straight for the rifle Diaz had just slid away from my first victim.

Doing exactly as she had, he checked to ensure there were rounds remaining, jammed the magazine back into place, and started our way.

Taking a single step backward, I glanced the length of the central corridor to the sound of continued gunfire. Resembling popcorn popping, it seemed that most of the bag had already burst, leaving just a few kernels at the end.

Random strays, signaling that the end was near.

A conclusion I hoped our side was on top of, needing only one last boost from us to bring it home.

“How’s your agent?” I asked.

“Stable, for now,” Diaz replied. “Andres?”

“Not so much,” I answered. Glancing back to her, I added, “We’ve got an issue with Abarca, but it can wait.”

For only an instant, a crease appeared between her brows. A hint of confusion, pushed away just as fast by understanding what I was alluding to.

Rotating her gaze to the side, she peered the length of the central corridor, bringing the rifle up before her.

“Let’s finish this.”

Chapter Seventy-Four

Whatever Andres and his crew were using to block any signals getting in and out of the building must have been nested in one of their vehicles, because within moments of those who remained tearing out of the parking lot and off into the night, mobile devices came back to life. A series of chirps rang out, erupting from agents and attackers alike.

People both dead and alive, their phones unable to tell the difference as they received backlogged messages and voicemails.

Chimes that could be heard across the cavernous maw of what remained of the front lobby, ripping us away from watching the vehicles flee, and putting us into motion.

To my left, the agent from the back whose name I still hadn’t caught went straight to the closest body on the floor. A young Hispanic woman in cargo pants and a tank top adhered to her skin by the blood expanding outward from a pair of bullet holes across her torso.

His weapon poised at a downward angle, ready to fire if need be, he started by extending the toe of his right foot. Placing it down on the submachine gun she had been carrying, he pulled it away, sliding it across the tile and out of reach.

First priority disarming her, followed by taking a step forward and dropping to a knee. Releasing only his left hand from the base of his gun, he pressed his index and middle fingers to the underside of her jaw, feeling for a pulse that it was obvious didn’t exist.

Standard procedure, followed by him rising and moving on to the next in order. The start of a sweep across the front, first to make sure that there was no more existing threat, followed by assessing any injuries.

Casualties that I’m sure he – like the rest of us – didn’t feel the greatest urgency about, our much larger concern being on the agents strewn throughout the building. The man he and Diaz pulled to safety earlier, and no doubt a couple of others from the firefight up front.

People I could hear moving about on the opposite end of the foyer, even over the sound of Diaz barking into her retrieved cellphone.

Standing directly in front of the main desk, the wooden paneling it was constructed of and the wall above it all dimpled with bullet holes, she held the device just inches from her mouth. Not allowing whoever was on the other end to get out so much as a syllable, she rattled off one command after another.

Orders that included putting out a BOLO – be on the lookout – for the vehicles that had just departed.

A request for backup from the other DEA office in town, as well as local law enforcement in case the remainder of Andres’s team decided to circle back.

Medevac for the handful of injured agents onsite.

A litany of tasks that I let her get to, interrupting only long enough to extend a finger down the hall and mouth the words, “Mariana and Lili.”

A silent relay of where I was going that she responded to with an exaggerated nod, her focus still on the conversation at hand.

Oversight that I left her to as I lowered the butt of the assault rifle I’d been carrying to the floor. Letting the top fall with a clatter, I headed back down the central corridor for the untold time of the night.

Moving much slower than on the previous several trips, I could still feel the adrenaline hurtling through my system, giving the sensation of floating.

A feeling that carried me most of the way to Diaz’s office in the center of the building before being brought to an abrupt halt by a sight at the far end of the hall. Something I had momentarily pushed to the back of my mind during the last surge, Diaz and the agent with dark hair and I moving on the front lobby and managing to drive back the few who remained.

A mad scramble to end things, shoving aside any thought of what had taken place already.

Events that came rushing back as I stared at Angel Abarca walking toward me.

Empty hands outstretched to either side, I could see dark rivulets of blood covering the bottom half of his left arm. A matching blotch stained the opposite side of his shirt.

Injuries that I had a feeling were far, far less than whatever Andres had sustained.

Reaching to the rear waistband of my jeans, I extracted Andres’s gun that Abarca handed me earlier. Wagging it twice at him, I said nothing, letting him infer the silent question.

An inquiry he answered with a shake of the head, adding, “I just want to check on my family.”

Meeting his gaze, I stared at him for another moment, surveying what I was told, before nodding.

Tucking the gun away, I asked, “You okay?”

“I’m fine.” Lifting his right arm, he glanced down and said, “Just a scratch.”

Using the same hand, he pointed to his opposite ribs and added, “Popped a staple or two.”

Given what I knew about the man, I had a feeling he could be missing a limb and would simply shrug it off. His natural baseline state of never showing pain, combined with the desire to never admit that Andres inflicted the slightest injury.

Deep-rooted predilections I didn’t press on, instead asking, “Andres?”

Shaking his head again, he replied, “Not so fine.”

Knowing enough to leave it alone for the time being, there no need to reignite any part of the battle that was just waging inside the building, I pushed my gaze toward the door between us. A gesture that he followed, rotating his attention that way as well.

“I was on my way to check on them when I saw you.” Sliding my gaze back, I asked, “Shall we?”

Once more, he used the same bloodied hand, this time to motion toward the door. An invitation I followed, stepping over and knocking three times in order.

Considering following it up by announcing who I was, I instead glanced to Abarca and called, “The sun rises in the west.”

Drawing a faint flicker of a smile from Abarca, I took one step back, listening as sounds of movement could be heard from within. The desk chair rolling across the plastic mat, likely used as a final bit of impediment to seal them in.

Footsteps crossing the same mat.

Sounds of Mariana approaching, ending with the metallic click of the deadbolt ringing out.

“Thank God,” she began, starting even before the door was open. Words that fell away as she swung it wide and stepped out over the threshold, her voice failing her as she saw the two of us.

A sight that caused her eyes to go wide, her jaw sagging slightly at the sight of her brother before her.

“Are you okay?” Abarca asked, filling in the dead air. “Lili?”

“Uh,” Mariana managed to push out, still working to find her voice as she rotated back the opposite direction. Jutting a thumb toward the desk, she said, “Yeah, we’re fine. Just playing a little hide and seek in there.”

Turning back, she flicked her gaze to me, forcing a half smile into place. “What happened?”

Returning to her brother, she spotted the blood striping his arm. The stain dotting his torso.

“Are you okay? You’re bleeding.”

“I’m fine,” Abarca answered, this time not bothering to even glance down at his wounds. “Just a few scratches.”

Again, Mariana cast her gaze between us, her brows coming together just slightly.

“But how-”

“We needed his help,” I inserted. “And after, he asked to come with me to check on you guys.”

Chapter Seventy-Five

The look Mia Diaz shot me as Angel Abarca embraced his sister told me she didn’t exactly buy the story that I had shared with Mariana Abbott. Words I wasn’t even aware she had heard, approaching from behind us to share that life flights were en route to move the injured agents.

Once they were seen to and safely on their way, arriving agents from the other local office would be transporting the three of them to a safe house for the night.

Offering nothing more than a raised eyebrow, she held off on asking anything directly until we were out of the office and well on down the hallway.

A walk made mostly in silence with a pitstop on the back end to assess the damage that had been wrought on the far side of the central corridor.

Massive divots in the sheetrock from the shootout that Diaz and the other agent had been engaged in before I arrived. The shattered remains of the lock and handle on the backdoor from the explosives used as part of the original breach.

The bodies still littering the floor.

A telling scene that we eventually turned away from, waiting until we were in the back holding room and standing over the body of Andres before Diaz asked, “What really happened?”

Pulling my gaze away from the remains of Andres at our feet, I rotated a few inches in place. Raising my left index finger, I pointed toward the body of his colleague that we stepped over upon entry, his feet sprawled in either direction still propping open the door.

“I got lucky,” I said. “Should have brought the rifle, because after that first burst of gunfire out front with you, I was down to the last round in my gun.

“The guy over there on the door wasn’t paying attention, turned in here watching whatever was going on with Abarca.

“Made for an easy target, and provided me with the element of surprise on Andres.”

Shifting back, I next went through the midair collision that disarmed him. The brief scuffle that ensued.

The gun that ended up in Abarca’s hand, fired only once to release him from his cell before being handed over to me with the instructions to go help his sister and niece.

A quick narrative taking no more than a couple of minutes, ending with us turned back to face Andres on the floor between us. A man whose right arm was wrenched at an unnatural angle. Same for the lower part of his left leg.

Even the bend of his nose and his right eyebrow, both twisted out of place, his features painted in the resulting blood.

Injuries that were grotesque to look at, but that were clearly not the killing blow.

More like ways of toying with the man. Abarca asserting his dominance.

Making him suffer before delivering the death blow, which was Andres’s own knife jammed into his throat. A wound matching what Diaz described was done to Agent Kirby.

The man’s own signature used against him.

A macabre mash of personal and poetic.

“He had the gun and the jump on you,” Diaz eventually said.

“He did,” I agreed. “He could have easily shot me. After he got done here, he could have just as easily waited until we all moved forward and then fled out the back.”

Grunting softly, Diaz nodded. “So the story you gave his sister, it wasn’t entirely true...”

“But not entirely a lie, either.”

Lowering her chin in a nod, Diaz opened her mouth to respond. The start of something that was cut short by a shrill chirp sounding out from the corpse in front of us. An unexpected siren reverberating through the concrete cube, causing us both to visibly flinch.

Reflexive movements, each of us reaching for our weapons, before the realization of what we were hearing set in. Understanding that caused us to relax a bit, our hands returning to our sides as a second ringtone sounded out.

And then a third.

The closer of the two of us, I took a step forward. Lifting my foot over the lower half of Andres’ leg extended outward from the knee, I crouched down and slid his cellphone from the clip on his belt.

Checking the screen, I squeezed the buttons on either side, silencing the loud squall of the ringer, and extended it her way.

An offering that pulled her forward as I said, “Marco Gil. No doubt calling for a status update.”

“No doubt,” Diaz echoed, taking the phone and staring at the device until the call was kicked to voicemail, the screen going black. “Just like there’s no doubt he’s not going to like what happened when he eventually finds out.”

“No, he will not,” a voice said, causing us both to visibly react for the second time in as many minutes. Moving in unison, we both reached for our weapons, turning toward the door to find Abarca standing in the center of the room.

His arm still coated in the blood that had long since dried atop his skin, he held it out to a few inches to the side, his fingers wide.

Gaze fixed on Andres on the floor beside me, he added, “But until then, he’s likely alone, or pretty close to it. You won’t have a better chance to go after him.”

Flicking his gaze up, he added, “And like I promised you yesterday, I can tell you exactly how to do it.”

Chapter Seventy-Six

From the chair behind the desk in his office, Marco could still see a couple of lights on at the main house across the way. Two belonging to the pair of lamps that always remained on framing the rear entrance to the place. Lights set to a permanent timer, synchronized to dusk and dawn each day.

Beacons serving as a deterrent, much brighter than the lone other bulb that could be seen. A small lamp in the upstairs window that Marco knew rested on the nightstand beside his parents’ bed.

A signal that his mother had used for years, whenever his father was in the office working late.

A means of waving to him, letting him know that his presence was missed. She was still there waiting on him.

A sign that still burned bright now, though whether it was meant to send a similar message to him, or was simply some kind of misplaced missive to his father, Marco had no way of knowing.

Couldn’t rightly bring himself much to care either, simply wishing that she would turn the damned thing off and go to sleep.

Stop her ongoing oversight of him. The constant questions. The sideways glances during breakfast or dinner. The comments about his dad and how he did things or how Marco was handling the transition.

Parental supervision that he didn’t want or need.

Oversight he was trying to get rid of, that being what put all of this into motion to begin with.

His suit jacket long since peeled off and cast into the visitor chair on the opposite side of his desk, the cuffs of Marco’s shirtsleeves had been undone and rolled to mid forearm. An extra button had been undone from his throat.

Additional ventilation, allowing the cool night air passing through the open door to the veranda to envelope him.

Attempts to offset some of the adrenaline and anticipation pulsating through him. Concentrated energy that had caused his body temperature to rise, bringing beads of sweat to his skin.

Heat that was being aided considerably by the pacing he was doing. Constant movement that had started the better part of an hour earlier, beginning with the final check-in from Andres. One last contact, letting Marco know that they were going in.

A full-on assault of the southwest headquarters of the DEA, intended to take out Angel Abarca, and every one of the agents who had been involved in getting him out of Victorville.

What was meant to be a statement. A way of simultaneously eliminating a lingering problem from the old regime. Squaring any remaining debt to Ignacio Marin.

And announcing themselves to the market as a player who was not to be trifled with.

New leadership, whose first act was to go across the border and wipe out the federal organization that had been antagonizing everybody for the last decade.

A coronation of sorts that Marco had wanted so badly to be a part of. Gun in hand, he wanted nothing more than to walk through the busted front doors of the place. Plant his foot onto Abarca’s chest.

Dare anybody else to try and defy him.

Mental images that had seemed like a cause for celebration, leading him to take out a crystal tumbler from the cabinet his father had installed along the wall. Bypassing the usual scotches and whiskeys that had been his old man’s drinks of choice, he had gone straight for the tequila.

Two fingers that he had taken down in a single pull, followed by pouring two more to match.

Alcohol still resting in the center of his desk, to be consumed the instant Andres called with the good news that it was over. A bit of self-indulgence, marking the completion of what had been six years in the making. Moves going clear back to when he and Andres first hatched the idea, knowing that if ever there was going to be an organization for them to one day inherit, they needed to intervene on its behalf.

Deft maneuvering that had taken his father’s biggest ally off the board, and at the same time saved what they saw as the future of the business.

Foreshadowing that it had taken much longer than either anticipated to fully maturate, now finally at hand.

Halfway into his trip across the center of the room, the chirp of Marco’s ringtone pierced the air. Turned up extra loud so as to not be missed, it sent a torrent of palpitations through his core, snapping his focus toward it.

A look preceding the rest of him by just a moment as he turned and headed straight for the desk. Increasing his pace to a jog, he went for the device resting beside the tequila, his hand making it within inches before his focus landed on the name splayed across the screen.

A moniker attached not to who he was wanting to hear from, but the man squirreled up in Tijuana.

The same condescending prick who had sat behind his desk just a couple of nights before, no doubt enjoying every moment of this.

“Piss off, Marin.”

Weight balanced on his palm pressed flat to the top of his desk, Marco mashing down on the red button at the bottom of the screen. Hitting it repeatedly to ignore the call, sending it straight to voicemail, the moment it was clear he went into his recent call log.

Scrolling down to the second entry, he hit send, putting in a call to Andres for no less than the fourth time in the last half hour.

An attempt at contact that ended like all the rest, ringing a handful of times before being picked up by an automated answering service.

A sound that was every bit as grating to him as Ignacio Marin had been a couple of nights before. Mocking that he would not abide, his wrath bubbling over as he pushed himself upright.

Snatched up the tumbler of tequila that rested atop his desk.

Hurled it straight through the open door beside him, droplets of liquor striping the floor as it disappeared into the night.

Chapter Seventy-Seven

The sound of the ringtone filled the interior of Ignacio Marin’s office. A shrill cry expelled every few seconds, with just a brief pause in between.

The sole noise to be heard, despite the trio of people inside the space. Ignacio seated at his desk, with Doc and Teo both standing across from him.

Gazes aimed downward, they all stared at the numbers climbing upward in the center of the phone’s screen. A timer that reached exactly one minute before the ringing stopped, interrupted by an automaton telling them the party they were trying to reach was unavailable.

Exactly as it had the last time they called.

And the time before that.

The instant the computerized voice was heard, Ignacio reached out. Tapping the screen a single time to end the call, he reclined back in his chair, lifting his gaze to his colleagues.

A faint smile tracing his lips, he resumed his preferred stance, resting his heels on the corner of the desk, his legs crossed at the ankles.

“Color me shocked.”

On the right, Doc snorted. A truncated chuckle that rocked his head back an inch, sending a quiver across the front of his bare shoulders. Muscles twitching just beneath the skin, plainly visible under his deep tan.

Mirth, offset by the expected response of Teo by his side. A man standing with both hands balled into fists, his chin tilted down so that he glared out from beneath heavy brows.

Dark eyes flashing, he stared at Ignacio and said, “I told you he couldn’t get it done.”

“Yes, you did,” Ignacio agreed.

“We should just go now. Wipe them all out and be done with these children.”

Opening his mouth to respond, Ignacio pulled up short. Contemplating what was just proposed, he mulled the notion for a moment, lines forming across his forehead as he considered it.

Not one word Teo had just said was wrong. From the moment Marco first approached him about a quid pro quo swap of services, Ignacio had expected this was exactly how things would go.

Hell, that was why he had entered into the arrangement to begin with. It wasn’t like there was any tremendous upside to be had from partnering with the young punk. A child who had nothing more than wild ideas and a very outdated system at his disposal.

Some story claiming credit for intervening to save Ignacio’s life years before that may or may not be true.

None of that meant a damn thing to Ignacio, the real reason he had jumped at the arrangement being because it eliminated multiple decades-old headaches for him in the form of Lorenzo Gil and Angel Abarca.

And it thinned the herd around him. One less organization vying for the same customers and the same routes north into America.

An addition by subtraction, all but guaranteed by the fact that Ignacio knew at some point this would happen. Whether it be on the front end or somewhere down the road, it was inevitable.

Marco would come up short.

His eyes would be bigger than his balls, and he would have to come groveling for forgiveness, or he would be left scrambling, trying to salvage something at the last moment.

Options that it looked like he was leaning toward the latter on, suddenly forgetting how to answer his phone as they tried to make their midnight deadline.

“The kid still technically has seventy-five minutes,” Ignacio replied, looking at each of the men before him in order. “We’ll give him that, so word never gets around that we cheated him.”

Lowering his feet to the floor, Ignacio leaned forward, resting his elbows on the desk before him, his fingers tented.

“But after that, we go and we wipe him, and his family, and even eventually the supposed Angel of Death, all off the face of the earth for good.”

Chapter Seventy-Eight

Angel Abarca would be lying if he said he hadn’t had multiple conflicting thoughts in the last half hour. Starting with Andres’s gun sliding across the concrete floor within reach of the front bars of the cell he was in after Hawk Tate tackled him, Angel had entertained an entirely different path for the rest of the night.

His life, even.

So easy, it would have been to shoot the lock on the cage, then do the same to Tate and Andres. Pick up a second weapon from the floor. Swap out his prison garb for something on one of the many dead bodies lying around and sneak out the back door.

Disappear into the desert and then across the border, using the same routes that he offered to Agent Diaz and Tate that the Gil cartel had been using for years.

A pathway that would take him directly back to the estate of his former employer, where he would start by eliminating the ungrateful son who had taken out Lorenzo Gil. Tried to go after Angel and his family.

A slow and painstaking process that would make what he did to Andres look light by comparison.

A lesson in hubris and torture, ending with Marco splayed flat on his back in the office he had undoubtedly taken over already, staring through unseeing eyes at a ceiling dappled with his own blood.

Resisting the urge to swing by the main house and pay his respects to Lorenzo’s widow and mother, Angel would nab just a few items that he knew were stowed away on the grounds. Fail safes that Lorenzo had instructed him to hide, buried in various locations.

Steel containers loaded with money and weapons and everything else needed for him to swing through Tijuana and finish what he was on his way to do six years earlier.

Wipe out Ignacio Marin and everything he had built before disappearing, never to be heard from again. Head out and start the kind of life that he had heard other inmates fantasizing about over the years, but he had rarely allowed himself to even consider.

Pipedreams that were meant for other people.

Not someone like him.

Fairytale endings with sun and sand and little drinks with umbrellas in them. Ladies wearing thongs that hardly covered their tanned skin.

Men in bow ties who would call him Mister and deliver lunch on trays.

A whole host of bullshit that he pushed aside in that initial moment in the name of ensuring that Mariana and Lili were both safe. His sister and his niece, both of whom had to be terrified, hidden away somewhere in the building.

Undeserving targets in a battle that was his doing.

Yet another encounter after days of going on the run because of things he had done in a previous life.

In no way willing to put them through such a thing, Angel had made the conscious decision to stay and take his time with Andres. Impart every bit of pain on the man that he could, using him as a surrogate for Marco and Marin and anyone else who had even the slightest hand in all this.

The second time he had allowed stray thoughts to enter his mind was after leaving Mariana and Lili in the office. Alone in the no man’s land of the central part of the building, he could have done the same exact thing.

Tate and Diaz were both in another part of the sprawling structure. Everybody else was upfront, dealing with the massive fallout.

As Diaz herself had just explained, there was an impending force on its way to help, but it hadn’t showed up yet. Reinforcements that would be of little aid once he was in the desert, far better equipped for survival at night than any of them could ever hope to be.

While they were still scouring the sands in the area, he would already be making his way over the border. By the time they even thought to look that far south, Marco and Marin would be finished and Angel would be gone.

An equally enticing notion that was also pushed aside almost as fast as it arrived as he stood in the center of Diaz’s office, able to hug his sister for the first time in years.

Meet his niece for the first time ever.

His only two tethers to the world. The sole bits of family he had, and now that Lorenzo was gone, the only people he felt even the tiniest sliver of loyalty to.

While everything he had done the last couple of days was to keep them safe, if he simply disappeared now, it would only bring a renewed wave of harassment down on them. Constant monitoring and scrutiny from not just the DEA, but untold other organizations treating him like an international terrorist.

A life of constantly looking over their shoulders that he would not subject them to, even if it meant he was not around to look out for them in person.

“Thank you, for what you said to my sister,” Angel said.

Sitting in a conference room a few doors down from the office he was in earlier, Angel sat on one side of a polished table. Resting in a padded chair, a paper cup of coffee sat in front of him.

A band of bright white gauze was wrapped around his forearm, replacing the handcuffs that were on his wrists the first time he sat down across from Tate barely thirty-six hours earlier.

An eventuality he never would have thought possible just a day and a half before.

“Thank you for helping out,” Tate replied, tilting his head forward. “Then and now.”

His turn to nod, Angel slid his left hand toward the legal pad resting at the head of the table. Dragging it over, he took up a pen and began to outline a map.

“Like I said earlier, most of his manpower was either sent to the cabin or here tonight. The only people left will be grounds security, little bit of overnight staff.”

“How many we talking?” Tate asked

“Handful, at best,” Angel replied, flicking his gaze up for just an instant as he continued outlining the grounds. “Only those dedicated to watching over Lorenzo’s wife and mother. Even Marco wouldn’t be stupid enough to pull them.”

“What about the guys who tore out of here a little bit ago?”

Snorting softly, Angel said, “Same as the people he hired to come after me. Cheap labor, in the wind by now.”

Finishing his sketch by inserting a couple of rectangles to represent the various buildings that existed the last time he was present, Angel spun the pad around. Rotating the pen end over end, he pressed the base into the paper, using it as a pointer.

The start of an explanation he prefaced by saying, “I wish to hell I was going with you.”

“I’ve been thinking,” Tate replied. “There is actually one thing you can do to help from here.”

Chapter Seventy-Nine

Icould see that Mia Diaz was busy.

I could also see that she wasn’t the biggest fan of what was unfolding. Two things that both were expressly visible on her features, my friend unable to hide either, and therefore not even trying.

Just as she was unable to change what needed to happen next, and therefore didn’t bother attempting that either.

A situation – much like everything in the last couple of days – that we didn’t create, but were damned sure going to finish.

In the hour or so that had passed since the last shot was fired, a wave of first responders of various sorts had shown up, starting with a medevac flight sent in to retrieve the two critically wounded agents. Young men barely older than I was when I started working at the place, so new they were still paying their dues on the overnight shift.

One guy engaged to be married soon, the other with a five-year-old son somewhere in the city.

People who would all need to be contacted soon, currently tucked in bed, about to have their worlds turned upside down.

The next in order to arrive were deputies from the San Diego County Sheriff’s office. The closest law enforcement agents in the area, responding to the distress call that was sent out.

A handful of cruisers just like those I encountered in the desert after digging up Hector Martinez’s body, all coming in with lights and sirens. Half a dozen bodies that Diaz immediately set to working the perimeter, ensuring that the charges that blew the electric transformer and the rear entrances were the sole explosives still onsite.

Same for any additional equipment or bodies or anything else that might still be waiting outside.

The next step in securing the scene, making sure that Andres’s team didn’t leave any parting gifts for us. Things that could be detonated from afar, either meant to finish what they already started, or to clear the way for a renewed attack.

A lingering concern that the deputies were also asked to be on watch for, setting up a single cruiser across the serpentine entrance to the headquarters to check any and all arriving vehicles.

Assorted tasks that the team fell directly to, barely past the shattered remains of the front door before a handful of agents arrived from the other DEA location in the city. People who looked like they had all been called in from home, their attire ranging from business casual to jeans and sweatshirts.

Varied choices grabbed on the quick, the only thing they all seemed to share being the grim expression on their faces. Dour looks that grew even more severe as they saw the damage to the place.

Heard of the injuries sustained.

A swirl of people and movement with Diaz at the center that I did my best not to interrupt by keeping myself busy elsewhere. A list of things that I needed to be getting to as well, starting with the discussion I had with Angel Abarca.

A meeting in the same conference room we had first brought his sister and niece to earlier, the two of us sitting on opposite sides of the table and going through every last thing he knew about getting to and through the Gil compound. Multiple routes and avenues of approach, paired with detailed sketches of how the grounds were laid out.

Where security was most likely to be posted.

The location Marco was probably holed up in and how many people were around to watch over him.

A comprehensive overview, confirming what he first said as we all stood just outside of the holding cell, looking over what he had done to Andres.

Going after Marco right now was a bit off-the-cuff. An immediate reaction – or even overreaction – to what had just taken place.

At the same time, there would be no more opportune moment.

And nobody better situated to do it than me. An outsider who knew the area and the game fairly well, but wasn’t an official member of any organization.

Outwardly, presented no cause for anybody to glance my direction, much less suspect anything.

In a complete reversal of our first meeting just days before, there were no handcuffs on the man across from me. No guards standing outside the door.

No animosity forced just beneath the surface over things that happened years before. Prior events that had been pushed aside, replaced with all that had transpired in the last couple of days.

Everything that still remained ahead.

A shared purpose that made for an interaction that was certainly not friendly, but at least civil.

Not wanting to take him to the lone remaining holding cell where he would be forced to sit and stare at the body of Andres, once we were done, I relocated him back to Diaz’s office. Leaving him with his sister and niece, I headed out to the motor pool tucked up under an awning extended from the back end of the building.

Corrugated metal supported by a dozen or so steel stanchions, all of it painted standard gunmetal gray. A nondescript color meant only to keep it from rusting in the harsh desert sun, providing cover for well over a dozen vehicles.

Automobiles that mainly trended toward the standard sedans that I had been driving for the last couple of days, the lone exception being a pair of open-air Jeeps on the far end. Rides with the windows zipped out and sprays of mud down the side, much more resembling weekend cruisers than government vehicles.

The clear choices that I selected the closest of, loading it down with an assault rifle and a pair of handguns taken from the various parties who had just stormed the place. Weapons that were technically evidence, but that possessed the added benefit of being invisible.

Ghost guns that would leave nothing traceable after the fact.

Nothing connecting anything back to me, and sure as hell not back to the DEA.

A modest cache that Diaz had taken one look at before getting on the phone and ordering what she called a care package. A collection of additional gear and firepower that a pair of agents from the San Diego site had carried out and loaded up, each shaking my hand and wishing me well before disappearing back inside.

A quick out-and-back, leaving Diaz and me alone behind the facility. The first hint of quiet either of us had experienced since she called me a couple of nights ago to say that Abarca had phoned and asked to speak with me.

Both a marathon and a sprint, visible amidst the tempest of other things on my friend’s face.

More stuff that didn’t need to be addressed in the present, her focus on the assortment of things stowed in the plastic storage bin in the back of the Jeep. Elbows resting on the rear tailgate, she stared until her vision blurred, seemingly playing out every possible scenario in her mind, before saying, “I don’t generally condone vigilante violence in our line of work...”

Letting her voice drift, she raised her attention my way, “But he's right, you know. Abarca.”

Taking up a post across from her, my hands draped over the side, I nodded. “There won’t be a better time than right now.”

“That, and we cannot run the risk of something like this happening again.” Lifting a finger toward the gaping doorway the two agents had just disappeared through, she added, “And as long as he’s alive in there...”

A dozen different things she could have added to the statement, she didn’t say one.

And she didn’t need to.

I was fully aware of every last one of them. Items I had checked off in my own head many times, ranging from the various reasons why this wasn’t the greatest idea to all the possible outcomes if we didn’t do this.

If we let Marco regroup to try again.

If we sent the message that we would take someone coming after the headquarters this way without a fight.

“You still have those credentials I gave you yesterday?” she asked.

Nodding again, I replied, “Back pocket.”

“Good. That’ll get you across the border without any problems.” Pulling back one corner of her mouth, she added, “I mean, you’re basically an agent anyway. We just aren’t paying you.”

Cracking the faintest grin to match hers, I pushed myself upright. Moving for the back corner of the Jeep, I replied, “Yeah, maybe we should talk about that, huh?”

Doing the same, Diaz headed my direction. “That is a conversation I would love to have.”

Extending her arms before her, she slid her hands around my waist, the two of us embracing for a moment before stepping back.

As we did so, the previous mirth on her face faded, her features hardening.

“Be careful. Don’t be afraid to abort if something doesn’t smell right.

“And keep me updated every step of the way.”

Chapter Eighty

The last time I carried a badge – officially or not – was six years ago. Just days after returning from an international trip and finding the remains of my wife and daughter on the front lawn of my home that was reduced to ashes, I slid it across the desk in the same office Diaz had taken over.

Pushed across the scratched wooden surface alongside my weapon, I had gotten up and walked out, not to return for years.

The last time I carried a badge across the border into Mexico was four or five months before that. A mad dash over the international line in response to a tip that I had come to find out was provided by Marco Gil.

A head’s up that the famed Angel of Death was going to be in Tijuana that very night.

Step one of what it had now turned out was a process taking more than half a decade to completely unfold. A full-circle event that was the very definition of playing the long game.

Not that I really believed Marco deserved nearly so much credit, luck and timing both seeming to be prominently involved. Cosmic forces that had mixed with his impatience, creating chaos in multiple countries.

Pandemonium that had been ratcheted tremendously tonight, putting an end to why I was back in northern Mexico after such a long break.

Why I had sat at the international border checkpoint just thirty minutes earlier being actively scrutinized by the pair of federales. Men from central casting, with olive green uniforms and bushy mustaches, going over every square inch of the Jeep with flashlights.

Attention that I had to assume most arriving agents weren’t subjected to, most likely a product of the vehicle I was in and the clothes I was wearing.

The cargo I stowed in the rear hold.

Implements of war that clearly made them uneasy as they came together in front of my bumper and whispered for the better part of two minutes. A hushed conversation, as if trying to determine if they should let me in, before ultimately handing back my credentials and permitting me to pass.

Wasted minutes that I didn’t have to spare, causing me to now push a bit harder on the accelerator. Extra speed propelling me through the darkened countryside, careening over the unlined road.

A river of darkened asphalt rendered aglow by the moon overhead. The lone reflective surface in a sea of sand and sage grass extended out for miles to both sides.

A lack of distraction, making it easy for me to put my focus straight in front, envisioning what lay ahead.

A mix of what Angel Abarca had shared, along with recollections of my own from a past life. Countless times just like this, when I was headed directly into the heart of a cartel.

Places that lived up to every stereotype that existed, guarded by men just like Abarca.

Previous encounters that I had gone into with a full team by my side, this time stripped down to just myself and whatever I could carry on my back. Firepower that I had to hope would be largely unnecessary, the lion’s share of whoever Marco had at his disposal either eliminated at headquarters or sent scurrying off into the night.

A massive operation, leaving just a couple of what Abarca referred to as home security.

People who never strayed from the family, their lone job to ensure safety.

Propped up in the middle console beside me was my cellphone. The sleep function turned off, the screen blazed bright in my periphery. On it was a map providing an overhead view of my progress.

A red arrow pointed due north in the center of the screen, matching every twist and turn of the road as I went.

A real-time progress chart that I followed for just shy of an hour before the first of the landmarks Abarca outlined appeared on my right. A towering rock formation that was winnowed into a spire, followed a half mile later by a stone column climbing more than three stories into the air.

Indicators so distinct it almost seemed as if they had been constructed for that very purpose. Signposts for someone to follow, visible even in the moonlight without having to bother with official names or traffic control.

Markers that for me caused the adrenaline still lingering in my system from earlier to renew. My hand to tighten around the top of the steering wheel as I reached out and killed the headlights.

Lifting my foot from the gas, I allowed my speed to drop, momentum carrying me forward for another couple of hundred yards.

The last of Abarca’s detailed instructions, pushing me over the final half mile. An elongated stretch with a gradual rise, cresting and then falling into a valley below.

A wide bowl surrounded on three sides by a rock wall, an oasis of light resting directly in the center of it. A beacon where it had no place being, the last sign of civilization I saw shortly after crossing over the border.

Not wanting to risk tapping the brakes and having the resulting taillights flare in the darkness, I let my speed drop until I was just barely moving before nudging the front end into the sand along the side of the road. Crawling forward to keep from kicking up too much dust, I went forward another fifty yards or so before coming to a halt. Tucking the vehicle between a pair of boulders, I pushed the gear shift home and engaged the emergency brake.

Killing the ignition, I sat for a moment, listening to the sound of the engine ticking as it cooled, searching for anything else in the night.

Any noises to indicate I had been seen. Someone down below was sounding an alarm.

Calls of warning that failed to materialize as I drew the phone up from the middle console. Swiping away the map feature, I went directly into my message center and tapped out a text to an unsaved number first entered barely an hour and a half before.

Just parked. Ten minutes, then make the call.

Chapter Eighty-One

From his spot at the wet bar along the back wall of his office, Marco could hear the door handle across the room start to turn. Aging metal rubbing against wood that had swelled and contracted fifty times over the year, leaving a baseplate that was no longer perfectly aligned.

Inner workings that sounded out, the familiar faint whine finding his ears.

A noise he had heard too many times to count, though tonight he was in no mood for it. A continuation of that damn bulb burning bright in the upstairs window across the estate.

Handholding that he would have to put a stop to in the very near future.

Another item for the list, along with how he was addressed at the breakfast table and all the rest.

“Mama,” Marco said without turning to face the door, pushing the word out with a sigh.

Having flung the first tumbler of tequila out into the night, a second glass rested on the bar in front of him. A matching piece, this one filled with three fingers of Irish whiskey.

Stuff that tasted like ass and burned like hell going down that Marco had chosen for those very reasons.

Alcohol meant to be a punishment. A stark alternative to what should have been a celebratory drink, driving home the failure that was the night.

A host of objectives that he had to believe had all fallen short by the fact that still Andres had not made contact. Radio silence that was caused not by his own calls going straight to voicemail, hinting at being out of range or a damaged device, but from endless ringing.

One tone after another sounding out, with nobody there to answer.

Both palms resting on the front edge of the wet bar, Marco’s feet were offset beneath him. Pitched forward at the waist, he stared down into his drink, already beginning to feel the effects of the one that preceded it.

And the shot of tequila before that.

Consumption that had his vision just the tiniest bit blurred, forcing him to focus as he lifted his gaze to the stone wall before him.

“You should be asleep.”

“And you should answer your phone,” a male voice said in reply. An unexpected response coming from an unexpected source, causing palpitations to rise through Marco’s core.

Sensation that forced him upright as he turned to see Ignacio Marin standing across from him.

Framing the door at his back were a pair of men. Muscled up guys who looked like any of a thousand others Marco had seen over the years.

By his side was the smaller man who had shown Marco and Andres into Marin’s office a couple of nights before, his dark eyes practically glowing as he glared across the length of the desk between them. A look to match the kinetic energy emanating from him, hinting that he wanted nothing more than to be given the word so he could come flying directly across the polished wood surface.

Boldness that Marco couldn’t help but notice was decidedly lacking in their last encounter, when they didn’t show up unannounced at the office of a lone unarmed man.

“You should also have better security around here,” Marin added. “And Angel Abarca should be dead.”

Lifting his palms to the ceiling, he let them drop just as fast, slapping against his thighs.

“And probably a lot of other things that should have happened, but here we are.”

In order, a handful of things passed through Marco’s mind.

Demands to know why the hell they were standing in his office. Threats that they better not have gone into the house first.

Assurances that things in the desert were being taken care of.

Items that Marco pushed off one at a time, his mind instead going to where the closest weapon was in the office. Spatial analysis to determine what was within easy reach.

If grabbing something up from the bar and flinging it across the desk would buy him the space he needed to go for Marin.

Silent calculations that Marin seemed to be able to read from his features, a thin smile spreading across his features. A look mixed of mirth and condescension, highlighting that same damn combination Marco first saw just a couple of nights before.

Reaching a hand to the small of his back, Marin extracted a handgun. Bringing it forth to hang by his side, he flicked his gaze to the desk between them.

The man standing even closer.

“Oh, I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” Marin said. Words that hung for just an instant before he smirked and added, “Actually, better yet, go ahead and try.”

Chapter Eighty-Two

The plastic bin that Diaz had her agents load into the back of the Jeep was a veritable arsenal. Weaponry that was more than sufficient to fight off a force twice the size of what had hit the headquarters earlier, with everything from assault rifle magazines to percussion grenades.

Reason enough for the pause from the border agents, no matter how annoying it was in the moment.

What she had to know was overkill, but was better to have along than for me to be left shorthanded for the second time in the night.

Options that I was forced to largely ignore as I exited the Jeep and started to make my way forward. A choice made for the purposes of not wanting to do anything that might make too much commotion, alerting whoever else was around to my presence.

A stealth approach that I wanted to fully utilize, the only surprise I had planned being the text I sent just moments before. A bit of last-second misdirection to ensure the upper hand once I arrived.

Provided I got my ass there in time to make the most of it.

Bypassing the assault rifle that I had stowed in the rear of the Jeep for the same reason why I didn’t carry them back and forth through the center of headquarters earlier, I opted to go with a matching pair of handguns. Walther PPKs made famous most recently by being the weapon of choice for James Bond.

A slight detail that I had no way of knowing whether or not was intentional when Andres and his team armed themselves, but I wouldn’t be surprised.

Not after seeing them up close, their style nothing short of performative.

To go with the guns, I slid an extra pair of magazines down along the outside of either rear pocket of my jeans. Sixty-eight total rounds, along with a hawksbill blade from Diaz’s stash stowed in the front pocket.

A bigger, gnarlier version of the one I purchased at Walmart just yesterday.

What I had to believe was infinitely more firepower than I could possibly need, with the side benefit of enabling me to move fast through the desert night.

Using the map Angel Abarca had drawn out for me and the detailed narrative descriptions he provided while he did so as a guide, I pounded along the dirt trail around the northern edge of the Gil compound. Little more than a game tract cut through the sage brush and tall grass, I moved just shy of a sprint.

Heightened pace, made possible by the same moonlight that guided my drive a short time earlier.

A pale glow emanating from the full orb above, highlighting the crease cut through the low brush.

Weight rocked forward onto the balls of my feet, the sound of my footfalls was swallowed up the mix of dirt and sand. A soft surface that kicked up small puffs of dust around me, the particles clinging to the bits of sweat staining my features.

Grit that I could taste on my lips and feel settling in my lungs as I drew in deep breaths, propelling myself forward.

Arms hooked at ninety-degrees, I pounded onward for the better part of half a mile. Far enough that any trace of the Jeep was swallowed up by the rolling hills behind me.

Alternating my focus between the path and my destination up ahead, I watched as the Gil estate came into sharper relief. A ball of orange and yellow resting due south as I circled around in a northeastern approach.

One bright orb that soon started to separate into individual clusters. Bits of light corresponding to the various buildings Abarca outlined for me.

Moving fast, I chewed up just over half of my requested ten minutes before reaching the dried remains of a creek bed. A natural feature that Abarca told me he always hated, impossible to be fully walled off like much of the facility.

A natural waterway that would fill up during the spring rains set to hit in a month or two, but throughout the rest of the year was nothing more than a dirt trail.

A weakness just asking to be exploited.

Settling into the center of it, I cut back due west. A reverse of my previous path, sending me knifing through the center of the property.

Aware of the clock continuing to wind down, I watched as the landscape to either side changed. Leaving the arid desertscape I had been in for most of the day behind, I crossed into the edge of a tropical refuge. Dense forestation that began to crowd in from either side, bringing with it an increase in moisture.

Humidity that hung thick in the air, clinging to my skin and sending beads of sweat streaming into my eyes.

Salty brine that stung as I pushed on, sucking in the heavy air for more than a hundred yards before the flora to either side shifted once more. Another dramatic change, this time moving from palm trees and bamboo to the even rows of a vineyard.

Grapevines that were already thick with leaves, small flower blossoms just starting to appear. What would soon give way to budding fruit, perfuming the air as I folded myself in half and continued to push on.

Steady progress on legs beginning to burn while looking up every few moments to study my surroundings. Match what I was seeing with the information Abarca provided.

Spot-on detailing, making it easy to see the pair of warehouses to the south. The main home in the distance.

Landmarks that were largely the same, only a couple of smaller outbuildings having popped up in the years since he was locked up.

Structures that I largely ignored, setting my aim for the closest burst of light. A handful of bulbs all burning from the lone building on the north end of the property.

What Abarca described as Lorenzo’s office, and the hub of the family business. The place that his son had almost certainly already claimed for his own.

A throne for him to sit on, asserting himself while trying to wipe out any vestiges of the old regime.

Slowing my pace to a walk, I pulled in air through my nostrils, willing my breathing to slow. Using the backs of my shirtsleeves, I wiped the sweat from my eyes, anticipating one of the guards Abarca mentioned at any moment.

Opposition that I didn’t encounter until I was almost clear to the base of the office.

And when I did, it was because I almost tripped over his dead body sprawled across the path I was on.

Chapter Eighty-Three

Icould hear the first ringtone sounding out through the open doors and windows lining the second floor of the Gil cartel office by the time I reached the base of the stairs rising along the west side of it. Steps made from the same stone as the rest of the structure, no doubt matching everything else on the property.

Granite blocks cut with the slightest bit of texture left behind for aesthetics. A classic design, in line with the ruse of the place being a working vineyard.

Window dressing, like so many other such places I had visited during my time with the DEA.

A go-to option for trying to disguise acres of manicured ground where it absolutely should not be.

One Walther tucked into my rear waistband, the other was extended in a combat stance before me. Making my ascent with knees bent, I turned so I was facing out over the stone railing encasing the stairs. My focus was aimed toward the main residence in the distance, my back just inches from the solid outer wall.

An overlook position, watching for anybody stealing down the walkway connecting the two. Any movement passing over the lights burning bright at the house, causing them to blink out for even an instant.

Signs of additional Gil cartel members on the ground, or whoever else was onsite, accountable for one dead body already.

The start of a tally I suspected was much higher, managing to push the assortment of evoked responses I was feeling just a bit higher. Adrenaline that was already redlined, somehow nudged upward again by the presence of a third party.

Ignacio Marin there to collect on what wasn’t accomplished north of the border, or somebody else entirely.

What could very easily soon become my second siege of the night.

Hearing the second ringtone sound out, the sound somewhat muffled by the thick stone at my back, I increased my pace. Careful to maintain my balance, I took the steps one at a time, lifting my right foot before raising my left to match.

Classic training technique that I hadn’t employed in years, pulled back in an instant.

Muscle memory overriding whatever else I was feeling as I ascended another couple of steps, cutting the distance remaining to the top down to five feet.

Three.

The third ringtone sounded out from the phone inside by the time I reached the top landing. An ongoing drone that said a lot, but nowhere near the whole story.

A siren urging me forward, spurring me to go faster.

Get behind the door and begin unraveling the rest.

The task I left Abarca with as I departed the conference room a couple of hours before was to hang onto the cellphone we lifted from Andres.

Do not answer it. Do not make any calls or send any texts.

Nothing until he got an incoming message from me telling him I was in position. Contact serving as the starting gun, after which he was to count off exactly ten minutes before calling Marco.

Just enough for me to get into position using the map he drew, my approach timed almost perfectly, held up by just a few seconds after finding the dead body down below.

What was supposed to be a bit of distraction, the sound of Abarca’s voice on Andres’s phone giving Marco pause as I slipped inside.

What instead now told me plenty, especially when paired with what I found down below.

My back still flat to the wall behind me, I switched my primary hand on the gun to my left. Releasing my right from it, I snaked the hand backward and checked the handle on the door.

Finding it turning easily, I nudged it open several inches and retreated back out of the doorway, waiting for any opposition that might arrive. Errant gunshots or shouted threats or anything else.

Signs of life that didn’t appear, the only thing that changed being the increase in volume on the piercing whine of the cellphone.

Shrill cries that grew louder still as I rotated out from the wall and stepped over the threshold into an office that was pretty much an exact match for the many others I’d been in. Layout and furnishings to fit the general stereotypes, with dark wood and a wet bar along the wall and all the rest.

An architectural cliché, aside from the lone figure sprawled across the desk in the center of the space.

A man even younger than Andres, with a thick head of dark hair and a black silk shirt unbuttoned halfway to his navel. A clothing choice making it easy to see the trio of divots carved into his chest.

Bullet holes that were likely much larger on the back than front, responsible for the blood that had pooled across the lacquered surface and dripped to the floor below.

Resting by his hip, I could see the source of the sound filling the air. A lone spot of brightness, standing out against his inky attire and the darkened desktop.

Taking a single step forward, I pushed the door shut behind me. Walther still at arm’s length, I swung the front tip to either side, ensuring I wasn’t walking into a trap.

Seeing nothing, I moved toward Marco and snatched the phone up.

Needing only a glance at the name on the screen, I answered, “Abarca?”

“Tate?” he replied, confusion plain in his voice. “What the hell’s going on?”

“Somebody else beat me here,” I said, my gaze swinging around the room, looking for any signs of struggle. Any hint of what might have taken place. “Marco is dead.”

Muttering something for only an instant, Abarca asked, “Marin?”

“Don’t know,” I replied. “I just got here, found a guard and now Marco.”

“Which means they’re probably on their way to the main house, if they aren’t there already. I know a shortcut, but you’ve got to hurry.”

Chapter Eighty-Four

Ihad to lift my feet to step over the guard sprawled across the threshold of the door leading into the kitchen of the Gil family home. My second such tripping hazard and third body overall since arriving on the property, the man was twisted onto a hip, his lower half resting outside while the top had been knocked back inside.

One arm outstretched above his head, the other reached for a weapon that rested just out of reach.

Firepower that whoever had put him down didn’t even bother picking up as they moved deeper into the house.

Extending my stride to avoid the pool of blood spread across the polished Spanish tile floor, I kept the Walther stretched out before me. Head cocked to the side, I listened for any sound of movement within the house, forcing my breathing to slow.

My heart rate to decrease.

Two tasks made infinitely more difficult by the sheer volume of adrenaline coursing through my system and my sprint from the office to where I now found myself. A two-hundred-yard dash through the tunnel connecting the office and main house that Angel Abarca told me about, making for a direct route, as opposed to the looping pathway at ground level.

A shorter path that I could travel at a much greater speed, helping me to shave a bit of time off the head start whoever else was here had on me.

Time that didn’t do the guard at the door much good, but might be enough for me to get to the Gil women before they too were eliminated. Final victims to opposition I had a pretty good idea as to the identity of, but no way of knowing for certain.

Not for people like the Gils, who had spent years accumulating enemies on both sides of the border.

Who had also amassed a great deal of things both business and professional that many others would love to get their hands on.

The faint scent of gunpowder drifting across my nostrils, I stepped one foot at a time through the kitchen. Knees flexed, I moved past a dining table with seats enough for a dozen, each one already outfitted with a setting for tomorrow morning’s meal.

Breakfast that there would be at least a few less faces at, just how many depending on how the next several minutes played out.

How far whoever was already here had gotten before my arrival.

Careful to stay on the thick rug underfoot as much as possible to mask the sound of my steps, I slipped past the table. Passing through an open doorway, I stepped out into a hallway beyond it to find yet another body sprawled on the floor.

A middle-aged woman with hair pulled back at the crown of her skull. A thick mane that was faintly streaked with gray matching the color of the dress she wore.

House staff, mowed down just as ruthlessly as the security team outside.

A fourth death thus far, representing a sizable chunk of the estimate Abarca and I put together. Indiscriminate killing, ranging from the man now in charge of things to the lady who likely brought his meals or vacuumed his floors.

All the signs of someone looking to make a clean sweep. Eliminate the entire Gil cartel, for reasons that could be Marin’s anger over how things played out north of the border to somebody else wanting to prevent that partnership from ever occurring.

Evolving machinations in the wake of Lorenzo Gil’s death that weren’t my primary focus at the moment as much as finding whoever was there and thwarting what they intended to do.

That thought alone resting at the front of my mind, I moved past the woman laying in the center of the hallway. Drifting to the side, I put just a few inches between myself and the wall, crouched back into a combat stance.

Gaze flicking in either direction, I moved a step at a time toward the center of the home, making it the length of the hall before the first sound found my ears. Voices, drifting down from above, followed a moment later by a faint thumping.

Footfalls that steadily grew louder as I inched a bit further, pulling to a stop on the edge of a clearing serving as the main entrance for the home. An open foyer with an elaborate front door on the west end and a chandelier hanging down from the ceiling three floors above.

Lighting that was currently dimmed, reflecting faintly from the floor and a central staircase on the south side, everything done in the same Spanish tile.

A solid surface, echoing the continued pounding of footsteps descending through the center of the house.

Heavy strides that didn’t seem to be in any particular hurry, moving independent of the faint call of conversation just barely audible from where I was standing.

If I were to guess, the latter was from the main party having reached their destination on the top level. The former was courtesy of someone sent downstairs to secure the house.

A task they saw as demeaning, making a huff of working their way down.

Displeasure I intended to make the most of as I pulled back a few steps from the edge of the foyer. Putting my back flat to the wall of the hallway I’d just traveled, I again pushed the Walther into my left hand. With my right, I fished out the hawksbill blade from my rear pocket.

Using just my thumb, I rotated the blade into position, listening as my unknown target came steadily closer. Twelve-step increments, separated by a brief pause as they reached a landing and made the turn.

Three in order before reaching the last flight and starting to come my way. Footfalls growing progressively louder that I forced myself to remain motionless through, waiting as they finally hit the ground level.

Paused for a moment, presumably to survey things in both directions.

A length of time that was nothing short of torturous before they finally came into sight, making it no further than a couple of feet across the foyer before I moved.

Knife held with an inward grip, I needed just a pair of strides to close the gap between us.

Two quicks steps before jamming the blade up into the underside of his jaw, just like I’d seen Abarca do to Andres earlier.

Chapter Eighty-Five

The scene in front of Ignacio Marin was almost perfect. An unexpected treat in the form not just of Lorenzo Gil’s wife standing on one side of the bed, but of the much older woman leaning against the corner post on the opposite side.

A bonus that his men had uncovered while sweeping the house, snatching her from her second-floor bedroom and carrying her up to the top level.

A woman Ignacio had to believe was Lorenzo’s mother, giving him a clean excision in the last week. Not just the man himself but every living member of his immediate family.

Three generations wiped from the earth, soon to be followed by his favorite henchman in prison north of the border.

A scenario that was almost delicious to envision, the only slight downside serving as a single mar to an otherwise beautiful portrait being the expressions the two women wore. Looks not of surprise. Or fear. Or even resignation.

Faces that rather displayed open hostility.

Defiance.

Self-righteousness.

Masks that he should have known they would put on, in line with their sons and grandson. Trademarks of the Gil family that Ignacio had been dealing with for years, but that didn’t mean it pissed him off any less.

Made him that much more certain of what he was doing.

The pleasure he was going to derive from carrying it out.

The same gun that killed Marco just a short time before still gripped tight in hand, Ignacio let it hang by his side. A weapon in plain sight, though he made no attempt to raise it just yet.

A quick and decisive ending that it was now apparent nobody in this family deserved.

Instead, he merely let it dangle. A silent threat, ensuring they knew what was coming, even as he stood and stared at them. A pointed gaze going from one to the other, not trying to match their insolence, but rather letting them see the amusement he got from all of it.

The joy in what was about to happen.

A rare moment when he left his post in Tijuana and ventured out, looking to make a statement.

A hands-on approach that he knew was killing Teo beside him, the man’s appetite for blood just barely sated by the handful of guards and staff onsite, but still he had made a point to carry out himself.

“You have no idea who I am, do you?” Ignacio asked.

To the right, the older woman immediately replied. Speaking in rapid-fire Spanish, she spoke not to him, but to her daughter-in-law across the bed.

Words she rattled off in short order, speaking uninterrupted for half a minute before finally ceasing. Things she probably believed he wouldn’t understand, unleashing a string of expletives and personal slights.

Words that nudged Teo a little closer to the bed, the smaller man taking a step forward, veins and tendons plainly bulging in his neck. A dog on a leash, tugging against its owner, practically begging to be released.

A reaction that Ignacio might have shared if the situation wasn’t what it was, his response instead to allow the smile to grow a bit larger.

A chuckle to rise up from his chest, spilling across the room.

“I’ll give you a hint,” he said. Matching Teo, he took a step forward, the mirth he wore slowly fading from his features. Completely ignoring the old woman with the sharp tongue, he put his focus on the younger of the two.

“Your husband tried to kill me, and like so many before and since, he failed,” Ignacio spat. “Instead, I killed him. I killed his son.”

Taking another step, he added, “And now I will kill his wife and mother.”

Accepting that he wasn’t going to get the look of fright he was hoping for from his prey, he settled for the revulsion that colored her features instead. Nostrils rising in a snarl, she stared back, the palpable hostility she displayed only fueling him further.

“Your husband thought we were smalltime, that our product was just a fad. And back then, maybe those things were true.

“But we were also the future, and he was too stupid to see that.”

Taking one last step, Ignacio pressed the front of his thighs against the carved footboard of the bed.

“Which is why he’s now gone.” Tapping the barrel of the gun against his leg, he added, “Why you all are.”

Lifting the weapon from his side, Ignacio got it just shy of shoulder height.

A slow and steady ascent, stopped just short of its destination by an explosion of sound erupting from just outside the door.

Chapter Eighty-Six

“Ithought you said the house was clear?!”

Reaching the top of the stairs in the center of the house and creeping toward the sound of voices spilling through the doorway on the south end of the mansion, I had a choice to make. A couple of different ways to play a situation I could only guess at.

A hostage scenario of sorts, or simply the last phase in a planned execution.

Varying possibilities with plenty of commonality, namely that there were armed hostiles in a confined space.

One option was for me to simply go charging into the room. Walthers raised, tugging back on the triggers as fast as possible, I would hope for the best.

Pray that there weren’t more than a handful of targets and that they were all out in the open. That they were all clumped up in front of the doorway, and not commingled with any of the Gil women or remaining staff.

Hell, that they weren’t standing with weapons ready, needing to only turn and start firing at the slightest hint of sound or movement.

A host of different things that almost all ended badly for me. Either accidental death or personal injury or some other thing that I had no intention of letting happen after everything that had gone down in the last couple of days.

A marathon journey that I needed to see to completion, without tripping just shy of the finish line.

Recognizing that for what it was, the alternative – and infinitely preferable option – was to somehow draw them out. Pull who I believed to be Ignacio Marin and whoever else he might have brought with him onto the massive landing at the top of the staircase.

Open ground in which I could use confusion and misdirection to gain the upper hand without fear of hitting someone by mistake.

Seeing that for what it was, I reached the top of the stairs after a slow and silent climb. Two floors with my body turned sideways, one weapon outstretched in either direction, listening for any sounds of movement around me.

Noises that continued to only emanate from the top level, the voices therein becoming clearer.

Angrier.

A heated conversation that I planned to take advantage of as I reached the top landing in the house and rotated out to my right. Swinging well away from the door to what looked like a master suite and the misshapen trapezoid of light it was throwing across the floor in the corner, I crept one foot over the other.

Facing my destination the entire time, I worked my way around the top landing in a misshapen arc, passing by a hallway extending the other direction and a couple of other doors. Entries to spare rooms or water closets that I ignored, both Walthers still extended as I swung around so I was facing the stairwell.

Sliding sideways, I worked my way closer to the door, waiting until it was just a few feet away before tucking the gun from my left hand into the rear waistband of my jeans. A loss of half of my firepower, in exchange for freeing up my hand.

Sliding over an extra half a step, I used it to grab up a knickknack from the narrow table resting flush against the wall. Part of a matching set of wood carvings, done in a design I didn’t recognize.

A strictly decorative piece that I had a much more functional use for, bouncing it twice in my hand. Exploratory hefts, getting a feel for its weight, before dropping the hand to my side.

Taking one more step laterally, closing the distance between myself and the doorway, I swung the carving forward. Flipping my wrist upward, I released my grip, sending the piece hurtling end over end into the semidarkness of the house.

A free fall out over the banister, letting it hang silhouetted for a couple of seconds, before it slammed into the chandelier hanging down across from me. The collision that set the entire thing to swinging, over a hundred crystalline pieces smashing into one another as the wooden carving tumbled more than twenty feet to the Spanish tile below.

A sound like a cannon blast in the quiet mansion, spurring the sudden exclamation that just found my ears.

A question answered not with words, but with a flurry of movement. Activity that I braced for, rooted motionless in place as the first man burst through the doorway. A short, compact guy with bare arms that were deeply tanned, showing off every vein and muscle striation as he clutched an oversized handgun tight.

A massive .50 caliber piece that was easily the length and size of his forearm.

A weapon for show, making this guy Marin’s – or whoever was barking orders inside the master bedroom – version of Andres.

His right hand, acting as primary muscle for the operation.

The lead charge, followed by a much larger man a moment later. Bulk to outmatch even the guy resting dead on the foyer floor below, his heft packed into a black spandex t-shirt.

In either hand was a basic nine-millimeter, everything but the barrel swallowed up by his massive paws.

The remaining members of a three-man crew, used to snapping whenever the boss said a word. Ingrained reactions paired with a default setting for aggression.

Two things that both worked against them as they shot right past, neither one thinking to simply turn and look the length of the wall as they exited.

Fighting my own predilections, my every innate desire, I forced myself to remain rooted in place as they passed. Completely motionless, I waited until the second in order was two steps beyond the threshold, making sure nobody else was following, before pushing laterally off my left foot.

Jerking up the Walther in my right hand, I pulled back on the trigger, putting a round just above the bigger man’s left ear. A shot at close range that went through both skull flaps in an instant, pulverizing everything between as it passed.

Pink mist that exploded onto the floor beyond as I slid in behind him, wrapping my left arm tight around his waist as he rotated in place. A slow-motion pirouette, brought on by the combined effects of the bullet that just passed through his head and gravity pushing him toward the floor.

Energy that I went with, using him as a human shield as I spun on past the doorway. Snaking my right arm out from beneath his, I raised the Walther and rattled off three consecutive rounds as his cohort launched himself sideways.

Acting on pure instinct, he dove across the length of the top-floor railing, making his way toward the gap at the top of the stairs.

A move that likely would have worked, had he not gotten greedy, rotating onto his side as he dove. The massive handgun outstretched before him, he got off two rounds in exchange for exposing his full chest as he fell.

A target I could not miss at such a distance, placing the shots across his torso even as one of his struck the man pinned tight against me. An oversized round that hit high on the man’s chest, the impact of it knocking us both backward as warm blood spilled down across my arm wrapped around his torso.

Weight and force and gravity that I could do nothing about as my knees folded and the man dropped back onto me, every vertebra in my back popping as we hit the tile.

Stars flashed across my vision as the air was driven from my lungs.

Impact exacerbated a moment later as more rounds pounded into the man’s flesh. One after another that his body absorbed, passing their kinetic energy onto me.

Small jolts that served to bring me back to the present, my vision clearing enough to see a third man standing framed in the light spilling out of the bedroom. Gun outstretched, his lips were pulled back exposing his teeth as he fired, squeezing the trigger as fast as he could.

Shots that I could feel hitting the fleshy blanket over me, but that did no damage.

A luxury he did not share as I tilted the Walther in my right hand up and fired.

Again.

And again.

Part V

Chapter Eighty-Seven

About the only thing in the entire southwest headquarters of the Drug Enforcement Administration that was the same as it was a couple of days ago was the interior of Mia Diaz’s office. A small space that had been turned into a makeshift safe room where Mariana Abbott and her daughter had hidden throughout the siege by Marco Gil’s men.

Outside of that, nearly everything had incurred some level of destruction, from the exterior doors that all needed replacing to the sheet rock throughout the building that had to be patched.

Even the holding cell in the back room.

Ongoing construction that could be heard plainly through the office door at my back. A soundtrack I got the impression Diaz had long since become immune to, barely seeming to notice as she sat across from me.

A minor annoyance that ranked too far down her priority list to bother addressing, the full litany of things demanding her attention having consumed every waking moment since I came running back inside with Mariana and Lili and told her we had company. A marathon currently standing at just over sixty-five hours and counting, with the promise of many more upcoming.

Time during which I imagined she had gotten little more than a couple of hours of sleep, most of that spent curled up at her desk or grabbing a nap on the same cot I used a few days ago.

Not once did I imagine she had left, overseeing every last detail herself.

“Are you sure there isn’t anything else I can do?” I asked.

An opening she didn’t seem to be expecting, bringing a wan grin to her face. A tired smile that lingered as she reached out and took up one of a pair of mismatched coffee mugs in front of her.

Cups both filled to a centimeter below the lip, the smell of dark roast perfuming the air.

Liquid caffeine that she had offered to share, though I had backed off, trusting she could use it far more than I, our schedules moving forward headed in markedly different directions.

“Yes, plenty,” Diaz replied. Pausing there, she held the mug in both hands before her, her elbows propped on the arms of the chair, keeping it just below her chin. “At the same time, a resounding no. You have done more than enough.

“Far more than any of us could have ever asked.”

Tilting my head forward in acknowledgement of the compliment, I countered, “Still, most of this mountain of work you’ve got staring at you right now is kind of my doing.”

While it wasn’t true that I was the root cause of most of what she’d been working on for the last two days, I was certainly the catalyst for it.

Or, at least, the call I made from the master bedroom of the Gil family home was.

Contact after extricating myself from under the bloody bulk of the man laying on top of me and ensuring that each of the three men on the landing were dead before stepping into the bedroom to find Anita and Consuela Gil both staring at me.

Lorenzo’s wife and mother.

Marco’s mother and grandmother.

Ladies who both confirmed that the third man I shot was indeed Ignacio Marin before falling silent as I phoned Diaz and told her she needed to get a team in there immediately.

A call she had been expecting, with information she was decidedly not.

A starting gun to something far bigger than just what had happened at headquarters, including sending a FAST team down to secure both the Gil and Marin bases of operation. Tracking down more than a dozen known associates.

Putting the Gil women into protective custody for the time being.

A massive coup that from all accounts had everybody south of the border scrambling. Retreating to regroup or going underground completely, looking to ride out the sudden upheaval.

Much-needed quiet after days of pandemonium, hopefully letting Diaz get her feet back under her a bit.

Maybe even get some rest to boot.

“Eh, I think we can give you a pass,” Diaz said, the same smile flitting across her features. “This time.”

“This time,” I echoed, matching her smile. “Speaking of which...”

Leaning out to the side, I extracted the leather billfold she gave me when I first landed into Ontario International. Holding it up between my thumb and forefinger for her to see, I tossed it onto the desk between us.

An offering Diaz made no effort to reach for, instead raising her gaze from her coffee.

“You sure you don’t want to hang onto that?” she asked. “Like I said the other night...”

Expecting as much, I let a single crack of laughter escape. “And when I said the other night that maybe we should have a conversation, I didn’t necessarily mean so soon.”

“Just saying,” Diaz replied, “if you had the powers-that-be talking after what happened up north a few months ago, they’re really going to be buzzing now.”

Opening my mouth to reply, I paused. Considering what she had just said for a moment, I raised my brows, tilting my head an inch to the side.

“I tell you what,” I said. “I’ll amend my statement from the other night to include what I told you after all that went down. When you one day become said power asking, then we will have that conversation for real.

“How’s that?”

Her turn to smile, Diaz nodded in agreement. “I’m going to hold you to that.”

Outside, the sound of something banging could be heard. A sound loud enough to pause the discussion, both of us turning to glance at the closed door behind us.

Each of us waiting long enough to see if there would be any kind of follow-up, I said, “Remember the last time we saw each other, over on the coast this past winter?”

Turning back to face forward, I added, “No bullets, no prison visits, no international cartels. We should do that again. That was nice.”

“That was nice. And please tell Kaylan I would gladly invite you guys back down, but,” she said, motioning to the door behind us, “little tied up at the moment.”

“That you are,” I agreed.

“Raincheck?”

“Definitely. And if I may, I was wondering if there was one little favor I might ask of you in the meantime?”

Chapter Eighty-Eight

The favor I asked of Mia Diaz before leaving was if I could be the one to return the loaner sedan received from the Los Angeles office a week ago. A ride that was dropped off by Agents Marcum and Kirby as one of their last acts on earth.

A means of transport for myself along with Mariana and Lili Abbott in the wake of our overnight trek out of the San Gabriel Mountains. A vehicle that had luckily escaped the damage that had befallen the rest of the building, parked just beyond the melee that had played out at the main entrance.

Offering no pushback on the request, I could tell that it caught Diaz a bit by surprise. Eyebrows raised, she merely looked at me until I explained that I had a couple of stops to make before catching a flight back north.

An explanation she grasped in an instant, recognizing precisely what I meant.

Two final destinations I needed to hit, the first of those being the Smith Correctional Facility outside of Banning. A maximum-security incarceration center not far from where I dug up the remains of Hector Martinez, overseen by the same Riverside Sheriff’s Department who had arrived to secure and process the scene.

A two-hour hop up and over the San Jacinto Mountains from the headquarters to the south, I arrived just shy of noon to find a visitor lot that was largely empty. A lack of foot traffic that could have been attributable to the midweek day or the fact that it was the lunch hour, making things quick and painless as I arrived and made my request.

Needing only to identify myself and the agency I was there on behalf of, just fifteen minutes after arriving, I found myself seated in an interview room not greatly unlike the one I had first been in in Victorville the better part of a week before. The initial meeting that kicked things off, involving the man now seated across from me.

Someone who seemed to have visibly changed since the last time I saw him.

Sure as hell since that very first meeting.

A man whose guard was back to being up, the tense pose of his shoulders making it clear that he was very much aware where he was. What had happened twice just barely a week before.

Situational awareness that I guessed was fully ingrained in him at this point.

What was clearly missing was the open wariness – or even hostility – he had carried during that first meeting. That small flinch when I entered, all the way to the set of his jaw, the glowering expression, he wore throughout.

A man clearly in conflict, trying to offset the vitriol he carried toward the man who put him there and the favor he was about to ask of him.

Confliction that was notably absent as he sat across from me and listened to every last detail I shared about what took place south of the border. Information I’m sure he had been dying to know since the moment it happened, he and his sister and niece all moved from the southwest headquarters long before I returned from the Gil compound.

Radio silence that he admitted when he entered to find me waiting for him that he figured would last forever.

More questions he would never get answers to.

That comment alone being the only thing he said before we both sat and I got right to telling him what went down.

A narrative he listened to largely in silence, his only responses being the non-verbal kind.

A single grunt when I shared how I had found Marco Gil.

Clenched fists as I detailed what transpired with Ignacio Marin and his men.

A nod of approval as I mentioned finding Anita and Consuela Gil safe and staying with them until they could be taken into custody.

A tale taking me the better part of ten minutes to relay, after which Abarca remained quiet. Turning his gaze toward the barred windows beside us, he stared out toward the parking lot, the midday sun illuminating his features.

A pointed gaze he eventually brought back my way to say, “Thank you.”

For which part exactly – or even if it was related to the story I just shared or things happening well before that – I didn’t know. Didn’t need to.

Information that was not as important as the sentiment behind it.

“For what it’s worth,” I replied, “the information you provided that night helped. As did what happened during the siege at headquarters.

“I’m not going to make you any promises, but I do know it has at least been noted.”

Merely meeting my gaze for several moments, he eventually smirked, letting his head rock back just a fraction of an inch.

“We both know with my record, it won’t change a damn thing,” he replied. “But maybe it will mean I can ask you to do one thing for me.”

Chapter Eighty-Nine

It just so happened that the favor Angel Abarca asked of me was an extension of the same one that I asked of Mia Diaz earlier. A request for me to stop by and check on his sister and niece and make sure they were doing okay in the wake of all that happened.

Perhaps even reach out from time to time in the weeks and months ahead, for the same reason.

A request that I had no problem agreeing to, given that I already intended to do as much.

Ninety minutes after stepping out through the gates of the Smith Correctional Facility in Riverside County, I found myself on the curb in front of a duplex in the suburb of Norwalk. A berg I was reasonably certain I must have driven past a few times, but could never remember stopping in before.

A site like a thousand others throughout the greater Los Angeles region, with small single-story homes lining the streets and mature trees filling the yards.

Standard fare around large cities, built up as an outcropping of their original growth decades before. Entire towns set up to give service employees a place to live within reasonable commuting distance.

The definition of both having changed dramatically in the time since.

One of several in a row on the east side of the street, the one before me was distinguishable by the red paint covering both of the doors. A splash of fiery color, standing out against the gray siding and black shingles overhead.

A unique flare that the unit on the left had taken further by adding a pair of oversized flowerpots on the small wooden front porch. Greeters framing either side of the trio of steps leading up from ground level, their tops overflowing with pink and white blossoms.

Some kind of tropical flower that I wasn’t familiar with, but knew in an instant had to belong to the woman and her daughter I was there to visit.

An organic expression of happiness, to match the bicycle resting on its side in the lawn. The series of decals adhered to the inside of the front windows.

Images that brought a smile to my face as I trudged up the driveway and made my way to the front door.

A grin that lingered even as my journey was cut short by the sound of the garage door kicking to life beside me. Starting with the low hum of the motor, it soon grew to include a few groans of the aging metal. Shrill whines slicing through the air, ceasing just moments after starting to reveal a lone figure standing in the garage.

Unaware of my presence, she looked to be dressed for gardening in a pair of khaki shorts and low-top boots. An open denim shirt and floppy hat were in place to protect her from the sun.

Attire directly out of a dictionary definition, evoking a chuckle to match my smile.

“Hey there,” I said, the sound of my voice causing her to visibly flinch.

A quick jerk before recognition set in and she raised a hand to her chest.

“Sorry, I was on my way to the door when I heard the garage start to open,” I added, holding my hands out to either side.

A response causing her features to crack into a smile as she exhaled before letting loose a chuckle.

“Sorry back,” she said. “You kind of caught me zoned out there for a second.”

Extending the same hand my direction, she said, “Which you’d think I’d be better about after everything that happened last week, but...”

“Naw,” I replied. “Actually, it’s probably a good sign that you aren’t.”

Motioning toward the bare concrete floor between us, I asked, “May I?”

“Oh, yes, of course,” she said, waving me forward. “Come in, come in.”

Waiting as I passed from sunshine into the shade of the garage, she repeated, “Sorry, kind of going in ten different directions right now. The timing of us getting back worked out so we just happen to be on spring break.

“I’m sure you saw Lili’s bike on the lawn. I’m trying to get my flowers out.” Lifting her shoulders with a sigh, she added, “You know, real life.”

“Real life,” I echoed, “which is where I’m headed here in just a couple of hours. Had some time before my flight, so I thought I’d stop by and say hello – or goodbye – on the way.”

“Well, I’m glad you did,” she replied. “Home is Yellowstone, right?”

“West Yellowstone. Which, if my phone is to be believed, is about fifty degrees colder than it is here right now, so you can understand my lingering a bit.”

Able to get out only a laugh, any further response was cut short by the door into the house swinging open beside us. Through it burst Lili, the corners of her mouth stained by the red popsicle in her right hand.

“Mom, who are you-” she began, needing only to glance my direction before her eyes popped up.

The frozen treat slid from her hand.

“Louis!” she cried, flinging her arms wide and sprinting my direction. Just a few short strides ending with her latching herself around my waist.

Holding the squeeze several seconds, she pulled back just enough to look up at me. “Guess what!”

“What?”

“Tonight is macaroni night, and my mom’s is the best. You have to stay and try some!”

Epilogue

Iwasn’t sure what prompted the spontaneous dinner invitation from Lili Abbott last night.

Even less what compelled me to push my flight back and accept it.

Perhaps it was the temptation of the best macaroni and cheese I had ever tasted. Lofty praise that Mariana had more than met with the wonderful pasta concoction she put on the table combining no less than four freshly grated cheeses and plenty of crispy bacon crumbles.

Maybe it was the fact that with the clock already pushing up into the early afternoon, I didn’t really want to fight my way through Los Angeles traffic to drop off the sedan and then head to the airport. Tasks that would be much easier in the evening, once things had settled down.

Possibilities that were both valid, though the most likely reason was that the impromptu offer from Lili was the exact kind of thing I could have imagined my own daughter doing. A young and joyful child already displaying the resiliency to move past all she had been through.

An extended offer of kindness that I would like to think someone in my position would have accepted from her one day.

Especially if they had been through anywhere near all that we had. Shared experience on the most extreme end of the spectrum, finally able to be offset by something approaching normal.

A simple meal among friends, where stories and laughter could be shared.

Fond memories to hopefully replace at least a couple of the bad ones.

For as wonderful as the experience had been, that didn’t mean it wasn’t still difficult to excuse myself in the middle of the evening and start making my way back. A trip that included swinging by the local DEA office to drop off the sedan, followed by a cab ride to LAX.

A late-night flight home.

An even earlier start to the following morning, the combined effects of such a journey seeming to exacerbate every last thing that had happened over the preceding week. Every missed hour of sleep. Every shot fired and battle engaged in.

Every mile traveled and sight seen and a thousand other things, all going clear back to the extended snowmobile trip to Old Faithful the day before I left.

A total tally that my body seemed acutely aware of, leaving me moving a bit slow as I pushed open the front door to my shop on the northern edge of West Yellowstone.

Ginger movement that Kaylan picked up on in an instant, a smile flitting across her features as she reclined back in her seat behind the desk. Coffee cup in hand, she craned her neck up over the counter to look at me, the pile of curls atop her head swaying as she did so.

“Late night there, old man?”

Offering the faintest hint of a smirk, I merely shook my head. Going straight for the coffee pot in the corner, I filled a Styrofoam cup. Draining it in two gulps, I replaced its contents before turning and dropping sideways into one of the chairs framing the table.

“Yet again, not that much older than you,” I replied.

“Uh-huh,” Kaylan replied, the same grin growing a bit more pronounced. “I sure hope I’m a lot older than you claim to be before I start moving that slow.”

Unable to contain myself, I let a single crack of laughter escape. Feeling a smile cross my features to match, I turned toward the front window, peering at the snow covering the ground.

A visual reminder of what I was just telling Mariana the day before about the impending temperature drop.

A swing that felt a lot greater than just fifty degrees, exacerbating every ache and pain in my body.

“I won’t lie,” I said, sliding my gaze toward the desk. “I am not looking forward to another eight hours on a snowmobile today.

“Any chance I can talk the Stansons into just checking out Mammoth? Or maybe even the west gate, and then turning around and heading back?”

Her turn to laugh, Kaylan let out a handful of chuckles. Laughter that caused her cheeks to bunch, blood flushing them.

“Well, I doubt we can pull that,” she said, “but I do have some good news. About five minutes before you walked in, they called and said they missed their flight.

“Won’t get into Bozeman until late afternoon, so they asked if they could push their trip back until tomorrow.”

Ceasing the ascent of my coffee halfway to my face, my eyes widened. Lifting my gaze toward the ceiling, I exhaled slowly.

“Thank you, all the gods in all the heavens.”

“Thought you might like that,” Kaylan said, mirth still plain in her voice. “And don’t think I didn’t notice you dodging my earlier question there.

“Late night? I thought you were supposed to be home by dinner?”

Dropping my gaze back to face forward, I lifted my coffee the rest of the way. Taking down what remained, I returned it to my thigh and said, “I was, but ended up pushing my flight back to have dinner with Mariana and Lili.”

Eyes widening, Kaylan turned her chin an inch to the side. “Mariana and who now?”

“Lili,” I replied. “They’re nice. Hopefully, one day you get to meet them both.”

Brows climbing as well, Kaylan said, “Oh, really? So you told them they should come visit?”

Letting one corner of my mouth pull up in a smile, I said, “Well, I actually told them that up here the sun only sets in the west, but they are still pretty spectacular to see.”

Ten feet away, I could see the look of confusion that passed over Kaylan’s features. Discombobulation that lingered as she shook her head, trying to piece together what I just said.

An internal battle that ended with her only managing to push out a single word.

“What?”

The opposite side of my mouth rising into a full smile, I said, “It’s a long story.”

“Then I guess it’s lucky for us the Stansons missed their flight,” Kaylan replied. “I now have all day to hear it.”

Turn the page for a sneak peak of HAM, Ham Suspense Thrillers Book 1, or download now and begin reading: dustinstevens.com/Hmwb

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Sneak Peek

HAM, A HAM ACTION THRILLER BOOK 1

The ground absorbs any sound made by my footfalls. Walking heel-to-toe, I make sure each foot is placed down carefully, the thick bed of pine needles insulating the earth and masking my movements.

Moving in a serpentine pattern, I trace a path through the thin underbrush of the forest, this place one of the few in the world I have ever called home.

And right now, this man is here violating that. Not just with his mere presence but with everything he represents. Everybody he is associated with, every intention he has in mind.

With every thought, every realization, every moment, I am in his presence I can sense my animosity growing higher. I can feel as it raises my pulse, increases my body temperature, even tightens the grip on the rock in my hand.

To shoot this man would be easiest. To simply sight in on the back of his skull and ease back the trigger, knowing from this distance there is no possible way I can miss.

But the easiest path right now won’t necessarily be the easiest moving forward.

And it would damned sure be far, far kinder than this man deserves.

The last sliver of orange has just slid beneath the western horizon as the ring announcer steps through the ropes. It sends a thousand shards of shimmering light across the surface of the Pacific Ocean with its last gasps, the sudden absence plunging the world into a state of exaggerated darkness.

And just as they always do, the strands of bare bulbs strung high above the ring kick on a moment later, casting a straw-colored pallor over everything below.

The aging ring is built on pressure-treated 4x4’s buried directly into the sand, spots of blood and assorted detritus dotting the canvas mat. The twin aluminum risers are on either end, both loaded with drunken revelers, their skins painted shades ranging from tomato red to dark tan. Beers in both hands, tobacco juice or sunflower seeds hang from their lips and the assorted forms of facial hair stuck to their chins.

Per usual, the overwhelming majority of onlookers are men, the few women that are mixed in serving clearly as accompaniment, still dressed in bikini tops from the day or already in leather anticipating the night ahead.

No in-between.

On the east and west ends of the ring are scads of wooden folding chairs, what were once even rows already a twisted jumble. Housing most of the regulars, they’re grouped into random clusters, seats turned so they can see some combination of the sunset, the ring, or each other.

Considering that every last one of them had to pay to get in, I’m not sure anybody rightly gives a damn what they look at.

Least of all, me.

Despite the open-air venue, the recent sunset, the faint breeze pushing in from the sea, there is a palpable charge in the air. That familiar buzz that I’ve known for decades now, the unshakable feeling that seems to reach deep inside, igniting the parts of me I spend most of the week keeping tamped down.

For the last hour, the crowd has sat and watched the undercard for the night. Beginning with less than half of what is now on hand, the combination of buckets of beer and the cheap cover charge has managed to pull in enough to fill the bleachers, easily the largest crowd we’ve drawn in a while.

It also doesn’t hurt that the first several bouts turned into little more than backyard brawls. Bloody affairs with over-muscled men that had once been high school athletes and can’t let it go, so they come out here to the sand every weekend. Smaller guys that work the fields nearby, carrying resentment for damn near everything in their lives, entering the ring with something to prove.

And of course, a healthy sprinkling of fools that have watched a few too many MMA bouts on television and figured it didn’t look that hard. Little more than chum for the crowd, they have done their part, sacrificial lambs for the maddened rabble.

With each passing bout, I sat in the back and felt the energy rising. Starting low, it worked steadily upward, cresting into a veritable hunger, bordering on lust, the feeling so strong I can feel it pushing in from every angle.

Goose pimples cover my exposed forearms and calves as I assume my stance in the corner, waiting as the ring announcer steps through the ropes. A cordless microphone in hand, he doesn’t pretend to be some sort of Michael Buffer knockoff, showing up in the traditional attire of a tuxedo and polished wing tips.

Opting for little more than board shorts and a tank top, the tail of his unbuttoned Aloha shirt flaps to either side. No more than a couple of hours from the surf, his long hair is sun bleached and pulled back, a crooked grin on his face.

All in all, a look that holds no pretense, neither confirming nor denying the fact that he’s a Los Angeles trust-fund baby down here hiding from his family and the real world and all the responsibility both brings with them.

Not that I give a shit. This isn’t the place anybody ends up unless they’re hiding from something.

Myself included.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” he says, his sandals slapping against his heels as he saunters to the center of the ring. A quick squawk of feedback through the cheap mic echoes through the speakers, vocal displeasure sounding out from the audience.

Pretending not to notice, he pushes on. “Let’s hear another round of applause for our last combatants, Charlie Reed and Eric Montrose!”

Calling the last two guys combatants is something like calling the Grand Canyon a ditch. Both big and beefy, the bout quickly devolved into a couple of gorillas trying to see who could withstand more haymakers.

It was like watching three rounds of the last forty seconds of every Rocky Balboa fight.

The crowd had loved it.

The reception to his request is weak at best, what clapping there is accompanied by a healthy smattering of boos. Already the crowd has moved on from the last spectacle, ready for the next in line. A small shower of peanut shells and paper napkins rain down, the items dotting the outer edges of the ring, some even landing within a few inches of my feet.

Not that the announcer seems to notice. Even with the top of my head buried into the corner pad, my gaze aimed straight down at the ground, I can imagine the look on his face. One corner of his mouth is rising higher, his grin growing ever more lopsided.

He lives for this shit, inciting the masses, feeling like he’s some sort of ringmaster in his own personal circus.

All bought and paid for with his daddy’s money.

Not that he — or any of us — have any delusions about where we are and what we’re doing. The last guys beating the hell out of each other just means there are a few more stains on the mat going forward. Pelting the ring with garbage doesn’t mean we’re going to slow things down to sweep up. It’s just that much more crap for me to now roll around in.

This isn’t Las Vegas, or New York City, or even Rio. The people that have shown up to watch know that. Those of us that step inside the ring damned sure know it.

And here we are in spite of it.

Or, some might even argue, because of it.

“All right,” the announcer says, a bit of his surfer accent sliding out, making him sound like McConaughey in Dazed and Confused. Rotating at the waist, he looks to either side before saying, “and with that, I’ll get us straight to what we all came here to see tonight.”

“Ham!” a stray voice calls out. “Ham!”

My eyes slide shut. This is the worst part. That damn chant that some drunken idiot always gets started.

“Ham!”

Ignoring him, the announcer calls, “For tonight’s main event, we have one of the most anticipated bouts in Shakey Jake’s history.”

His voice cracks as he walks around the ring, pretending that he’s trying to whip them up a bit more, though there’s no need. The collective energy has continued to rise, the lack of walls or a roof having no negative effect on the tension brimming in the air.

No, this is about him siphoning off a little piece of things for himself, reminding everybody here who is responsible for all this.

Because it has been a whopping fifteen minutes since he last pointed it out.

“Two women, different in every way,” he continues. “One Latina, the other white. One from South America, the other North. One making her Tijuana debut here tonight, the other putting her crown and perfect record on the line!”

The hype achieves some modest bit of effect, enough to at least push a swell of cheers and applause from the crowd.

Again, I hear the same inebriated bastard attempt to get a chant going, calling, “Ham! Ham!”

Once more, the announcer ignores him. My time will come. Right now, he’s still milking his moment.

“In the blue corner,” he continues, his voice rising and ebbing, “a woman coming to us straight from the underground club circuit of Colombia. Standing six foot two and weighing one hundred and sixty pounds, with a 38-2 record, the Bogota Brawler herself, Victoria Rosales!”

I don’t bother moving from my spot in the corner, already knowing exactly what the woman looks like, her actual physical description enhanced the standard twenty percent by announcer hyperbole.

On a good day — in boots — she might go six feet even. Weigh maybe a pound or two above a buck forty. Striated muscle lines her arms and shoulders but her midsection is a bit softer, free of definition, with small bulges visible above her trunks.

Not that all of that is easy to see, most of it obscured by dark ink etched into much of her skin. Beginning around her ear, it wraps down one side of her neck before spreading over her back and, eventually, making it all the way to her calves.

With basic coloring and blurry lines, it’s the sort of thing referred to in the States as prison ink, though I don’t have enough knowledge of the girl or parlors in Colombia to know if she got hers inside or if that’s just how tattoos look down there.

Not that it much matters, my lifetime interaction with her is about to come to an abrupt end in about ten minutes.

Perfunctory cheers ring out as a bit more debris lands in the ring. Right now, I imagine she has a fist or two raised into the air, making a small circle, the announcer remaining silent, extending the moment as long as he can.

Same cocksure smile on his face.

The first few times I was down here, I played the part. I stayed upright in the corner, responding to all the cues, doing what was expected.

That was long ago, well before I came to see that it went the same way every time, that the kid was more interested in playing out his own little fantasy than actually doing justice to the venue or the fighters.

Now, I just stay in my corner, wrists draped over the ropes, top of my head pressed into the pad, waiting it out.

“And her opponent,” he eventually pushes out, “a woman that you all already know. Making her way down from just over the border and standing before you tonight with a perfect twenty-eight-and-oh record, your champion — Haaaaam!”

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Thank You

Greetings, y’all!

As I have alluded to many times in this space, whenever a story idea comes to me, it generally arrives in one of two forms. On rare occasion are the lucky ones that show up fully formed. Most often occurring for an existing series, a lot of the background characterization is already done, leaving nothing but an unraveled plot line.

What is essentially a mad dash, spurring me to get it down as fast as I can.

Far more common, though, are the stories that show up in bits and pieces. What starts as an intriguing conceit that isn’t quite ready to carry an entire book, needing time for additional pieces to come together around it.

The first nugget that appeared for Signal Fire was centered around the idea of Hawk helping a family make their way down out of the forest. How they found themselves there or why they were being chased I wasn’t too sure about until watching a television procedural one night and seeing the investigating officers pulling some prisoner out of lockup to lean on them for information long tucked away.

A trope used enough to have become cliché that I started to marinate on, wondering how often the inverse is true. If prisoners ever reach out to their arresting officers and what the motivation would have to be for them to do so. What the reaction would be if they did.

All sorts of questions that allowed the rest of this story to come together around that one original idea, the final product of which you just finished reading. A story I had a great time writing for a variety of reasons, and hope you enjoyed as well.

To say it still astounds me how far Hawk – along with all of the other series I have been fortunate enough to dabble in – has come in the last decade or so would be a massive understatement. I cannot begin to thank you all enough for your continued trust and support, nor can I stress how much it has all been appreciated.

Until next time, much love and happy reading as always,

Dustin

Free Book

As thank you for reading, please enjoy a FREE copy of my first bestseller – and still one of my personal favorites – 21 Hours!

Dustin’s Books

Works Written by Dustin Stevens:

Reed & Billie Novels:

The Boat Man

The Good Son

The Kid

The Partnership

Justice

The Scorekeeper

The Bear

The Driver

The Promisor

The Ghost

The Family

The Cat

The Shadow

The Influencer

Hawk Tate Novels:

Cold Fire

Cover Fire

Fire and Ice

Hellfire

Home Fire

Wild Fire

Friendly Fire

Catching Fire

Forest Fire

Signal Fire

Zoo Crew Novels:

The Zoo Crew

Dead Peasants

Tracer

The Glue Guy

Moonblink

The Shuffle

Swatted

Ham Novels:

HAM

EVEN

RULES

HOME

GONE

DEAL

BLAZE

My Mira Saga:

Spare Change

Office Visit

Fair Trade

Ships Passing

Warning Shot

Battle Cry

Steel Trap

Iron Men

Until Death

Night Novels:

Overlook

Decisions

Twelve

Hobby Lobby Mysteries:

The Exchange

Badger Games

Standalone Thrillers:

Moonshine Creek

The Subway

The Ring

Peeping Thoms

One Last Day

Shoot to Wound

The Debt

Going Viral

Liberation Day

Motive

21 Hours

Scars and Stars

Catastrophic

Four

Standalone Dramas:

Quarterback

Be My Eyes

Ohana

Just A Game

Children’s Books w/ Maddie Stevens:

Danny the Daydreamer…Goes to the Grammy’s

Danny the Daydreamer…Visits the Old West

Danny the Daydreamer…Goes to the Moon

(Coming Soon)

Works Written by T.R. Kohler:

Hunter Series:

The Hunter

Street Divorce

Jumper Series:

Into The Jungle

Out To Sea

Bulletproof Series:

Mike’s Place

Underwater

Coming Soon

Translator Series:

The Translator

The Confession

About the Author

Dustin Stevens is the author of more than 70 novels, the vast majority having become #1 Amazon bestsellers, including the Reed & Billie and Hawk Tate series. The Boat Man, the first release in the best-selling Reed & Billie series, was named an Indie Award winner for E-Book fiction. The freestanding work The Debt was named an Independent Author Network action/adventure novel of the year and The Exchange was recognized for independent E-Book fiction.

He also writes thrillers and assorted other stories under the pseudonym TR Kohler.

A member of the Mystery Writers of America and International Thriller Writers, he resides in Honolulu, Hawaii.

Let’s Keep in Touch:

Website: dustinstevens.com

Facebook: dustinstevens.com/fcbk

Instagram: dustinstevens.com/DSinsta