ALEJANDRO grinned while pinning his brother to the ground, only to get rolled over and pinned himself a moment later. Jaime and Juan cheered them on. Lucky had bet his money on Alejandro as soon as the brothers’ all day sniping came to a head after finishing work.
The Garcias alternately hugged each other or scuffled, much like Lucky’s younger two brothers, Dover and Daytona. They’d beat each other to a pulp, but no one else better touch either one of them.
Rafael stood and held out his hand. Alejandro reached out and, at the last minute, clasped Rafael’s hand in both of his and tugged. Rafael landed in a heap in the dirt. Alejandro dashed away, chortling, Rafael hot on his heels.
Where were Dover and Daytona now? What were they doing? Did they ever think of better times with their older brother? Lucky used to take them hunting and fishing. Taught them to drive the tractor. Talked them through their first broken hearts. And had busted their asses when he’d caught them smoking pot behind the barn.
He hadn’t laid eyes on them in twelve years, not since they were eighteen and nineteen. God, they were in their thirties now.
Even before they thought him dead, they’d quit speaking to him. And after all these years, Lucky never found out exactly why. Not that he hadn’t given them plenty of reasons. Smoking a joint behind the barn couldn’t compare with a trafficking conviction.
The Garcia brothers returned, arms around each other’s shoulders and friends again. Just like Dover and Daytona.
Don’t look back, Lucky, it only brings you pain.
“We’re finished here, let’s head for the house.” Stephan’s house, or rather, Victor’s. Not Bo’s and certainly not Lucky’s. They had nowhere else to go, and Lucky couldn’t stand being reminded of how his choices had cost him his family.
No use hanging around the factory when he and Bo weren’t invited past the warehouse area. How Lucky would love a peek inside the doctor’s office for a chance to pilfer some records. But the invite meant rolling up his sleeve. No. Definitely not, and what little information Bo got didn’t amount to much.
He’d also love to go back to Bo’s place, but Bo might have to pay dearly for another afternoon together if Stephan found out. The jealous bastard.
The mere thought of being in the same room, or even the same zip code as Stephan made lunch threaten to reappear. He’d promised Lucky his own place and didn’t seem inclined to follow through. Like Stephan stood a chance of scoring if Lucky stayed close.
“I’ll drive.” Bo fished the Jeep keys from his pocket.
“No, I will.” Lucky snatched the keys and danced away from Bo’s swat.
Rafael growled. Growled? Alejandro wore the same adoring expression he did every time he stared at Lucky. A breeze caught Lucky in the upwind. He winced in advance of a snoot full of sweaty man and whiffed cologne instead. Alejandro smelled…pretty? The squat little guy murmured too low for Lucky to hear, setting his cohort to chuckling.
“What did he say?” Nobody made jokes at Lucky’s expense.
Bo joined the laughter. “Give me the keys and I’ll tell you.”
Lucky attempted to wipe the grin off Bo’s face with a glower. His plan fell short.
Bo held out his hand. Alejandro said something else just out of hearing. Lucky dropped the keys into Bo’s outstretched palm. Jerk.
“You’ve got an admirer. He loves your hair, and says you’re a fine looking man.” Bo unlocked the Jeep door with an unnecessary flourish.
“He did not!” Lucky shifted his gaze from Bo to Alejandro, who gave him a kissy face. Oh, crap. Maybe he did. At least he rode in the other Jeep and gained a ten minute head start while Bo waited for Cruz to climb into the back of theirs.
They’d gone about eight miles from the factory when a quick glance in the side mirror showed a tail. The late model Ford made no suspicious moves and didn’t seem out of the ordinary. Yet it followed them just the same. “See him?” Lucky asked. Just because it wasn’t a black SUV didn’t mean it wasn’t cartel-related.
“Yeah. He fell in behind us about five miles back.” Bo flicked his gaze to the rearview mirror and back to the road. He pushed the accelerator down, leaving the Ford. The car lagged behind for mere moments, then caught up. Instead of tailing them like before, the vehicle flew by as another came up from the rear.
The front car swerved in a spray of dust. Bo slammed on the brakes. “Hold on!” He whipped the steering wheel to the left. The Jeep spun and tilted onto two wheels. Fuck! Lucky grabbed the dash with both hands. Tires squealed, and Bo stomped the gas. He hit the brakes when a truck cut them off.
The rear car blocked them from behind, three vehicles surrounding them.
“Cruz!” Damn, what Lucky wouldn’t give for his gun. “Bo, tell him to get on that precious cell phone of his and start calling for help. And where the hell’s his gun?” Lucky wouldn’t use his phone. No doubt it was bugged all to shit, like Bo’s. Too bad he’d left the handy little anti-bugging tool Walter gave him on the counter back home.
Bo fumbled under the seat and came up with a tire tool. Fuck Stephan Mangiardi for leaving them unarmed, except for Cruz, who might take them both out just for boredom and hatred of Americans.
A fourth car approached, a so-new-it-sparkled Mercedes E250. Beautiful and classy, it was the closest thing to a Sherman tank on the road. Lucky would be willing to bet the thing was damned near bulletproof. The car pulled up a few yards away and stopped. The back door swung open.
He spun in the seat to find Cruz grinning. In perfect, unaccented English, the sorry asswipe said, “Here’s where you get out, amigo.”
Lucky added Cruz’s name to his shit list. He climbed out of the Jeep and approached the Mercedes. Squirming, wriggling dread gathered in the pit of his stomach. Footsteps sounded behind him.
“I’m coming with you.” Bo’s voice didn’t waver. It wasn’t a question.
“No, B…Cy. Stay here. Whoever it is, they want me.” He’d love to add “where you’ll be safe,” but this waking nightmare offered no safety. Lucky swallowed more than a mouthful of dust.
The footsteps grew louder until Bo stood at his side. “Then I’m dying to meet them. We have so much in common, ‘cause I want you too.” The cocky smile might be a recent addition to Bo’s repertoire of facial expressions, but The Dimple, that damned, sweet-assed dimple, said, “I go where you go.” In the cold hard light of day, the simple gesture might end both their lives.
Hell, if he’d known Bo would follow, he’d have clobbered Cruz and run a long time ago.
“Remember, it’s your choice.” Lucky forced extra bluster into his words, though Bo’s steady presence brought a ray of light to a gloomy world. Unless Lucky missed his guess, the moment he got in that car, he’d be in the presence of some lackey, either after information or determined to send Lucky back to Stephan with a message—one body part at a time. And he’d gladly take any punishment if whoever waited believed Bo wasn’t worth their time.
Walking slowly might postpone the inevitable. For a while.
Darkly tinted windows hid anyone inside the car. The sweltering sun showed no mercy. Sweat trickled down from Lucky’s brow, and his T-shirt clung to his back. He stepped in front of Bo. He made a smaller target, but any bullets coming out the door were bound to have Lucky’s name on them anyway. A lone figure in the backseat came into view.
Bright teeth against sun-leathered features. An outstretched hand. Dark hair and brows shot with gray. A sixty-ish Hispanic man who’d appear relatively harmless in any other situation, yet who radiated power the way Victor had. “Welcome to my country, Mr. Lucklighter.” Nestor Sauceda-Vasquez. The big fucking kahuna himself.
Lucky shook his hand, if only because he couldn’t think of a reason not to. Nestor stared far longer than necessary, but not with ruthless appraisal. “You always had a rugged charm. I’m glad to see you haven’t lost it.”
Breathing deeply didn’t bring any calm. Lucky longed to scrub his sweaty palms against his jeans. Holy shit. Entering the lion’s den with Bo in tow. If he got out of this alive, he’d have to give up something. He didn’t drink much, didn’t smoke, needed his cussing, had already given up caffeine. Please, Lord, don’t ask him to sacrifice sex.
Lucky forced a smile, recalling kicking Nestor’s butt at poker in Victor’s living room fifteen years ago. “You’ve gone to a lot of trouble for a rematch, haven’t you?” The last time they’d played Five Card Draw, Lucky had walked away a thousand dollars richer. Nestor’s loss bought Christmas presents for the Lucklighter brothers that year.
“Oh, I’ve learned my lesson, my friend. I’ll never play cards with you again. ‘Lucky’ is more than your name.” A hint of an accent caressed the words. Charlotte would have been enthralled. Nestor had quite the reputation as a ladies’ man. Money and power turned even ugly men handsome, not that Nestor was hard on the eyes. In his own territory, he appeared relaxed, in charge.
Nestor released Lucky’s hand, slid across the backseat, and patted the spot he’d vacated. Oh well, no hope for it now, Lucky crawled into the car, followed by Bo. Bo’s presence made a comforting weight against his side, helping him face whatever came next. It wouldn’t be pretty.
The man had played nice on Victor’s turf. Now, he had home field advantage.
Their unwanted host tapped the headrest in front of him, and the car pulled away. “Ah, now. Where are your manners, Lucky? Introduce me to your friend.” Nestor saved him the trouble. “Nice to meet you, Mr. Cooper. I’ve heard many things about you.”
“From Stephan, or from Cruz? And is Stephan aware of Cruz being on your payroll?” Bo’s words snapped like a bullwhip.
Nestor barked what might have been a laugh but sounded more like a hacking cough. Years of hard living must be catching up with the man. “Now, what good would he do me if Stephan knew who held his leash?”
None at all, actually. Bo sat ramrod straight, a touch of wariness in his eyes, wearing Cyrus Cooper’s suspicion like a scuffed leather jacket. Good.
Mr. Big Shot Drug Lord needed to peel his eyes off Lucky’s man. Now. Regardless of his womanizer reputation, he’d indulged in the occasional hired man while visiting Victor. “Why go through all this to see me?” Might as well get this show on the road, and divert attention away from Bo.
“Now, Lucky. We can’t talk business in a car. How…uncivilized. Don’t you remember the wonderful dinners we used to share? Tell me, whatever became of Victor’s cook? What was her name? Rosa?”
“Linda.”
“Ah, yes. Rosa was his housekeeper here. He never brought you to his grandfather’s house, did he?”
Only pure force of will kept Lucky from grinding his teeth together. “You know full well he didn’t.” Maybe grabbing the guy around the throat and giving him a good shake or two would rattle loose where they were going or why, but without a doubt, the driver kept a gun handy. Cruz followed in the Jeep like a good little pet.
He’d get his payback later.
One question burned on Lucky’s tongue, one he wouldn’t ask with Bo around. He drummed his fingers on his thighs and fought the urge to grab Bo’s hand and send a “we’re in this together” message of his own. Only, Bo shouldn’t be here. This entire mess fell directly on Lucky’s head, traceable back to the biggest mistake of his life when he’d tried to steal a car from the wrong man. The road to his ruin started at a vintage Mercedes Roadster and ambled down to Hell, courtesy of Victor Mangiardi.
Concrete block walls and tile roofs emerged from the vastness of nothing, a town of sorts. The buildings, like the warehouse on the border, bore signs of skirmishes—gray gouges showing in terracotta walls. A stop sign had more bullet holes than metal.
The car stopped in front of a cantina.
“This looks familiar,” Lucky muttered.
“It should,” Bo hissed. “I live about a block away.” Oh. That cantina.
A child of about seven sat alone in the lot. He bounced to his feet when the driver opened his door and got out, babbling in rapid-fire Spanish. The driver gave a curt command, and the boy scurried off.
“Don’t be so hard on the young ones, Miguel,” Nestor said, emerging from the vehicle. He called the kid back and placed a coin in his palm. The kid grinned and ran off.
The heavenly aroma of cooking meat met them on the sidewalk and invited them inside. Nestor opened the cantina door and waved them in, then led the way past a bar where three men sat watching soccer on a TV above the bar.
He stopped and turned, palm out. “Mr. Cooper. I’d prefer if you stayed down here. I need to speak with Mr. Lucklighter alone.”
Bo locked eyes with the viper. After a moment, he dipped his chin, never breaking eye contact. He didn’t comment on the use of Lucky’s real name. No need to dig a deeper hole.
Like Victor, Nestor had ways of knowing things and seeing through bullshit. It was a wonder he allowed Stephan to draw breath…or Lucky. Either they both served some kind of purpose, or soon they’d be little more than inked words in an obituary column. And unlike when Walter killed him, this time Lucky would be dead for real, his body never found.
Bo flashed Lucky a quick “be careful” glance, and slid his gaze away. Cruz hoisted himself onto a stool at the bar, already eyeing the soccer game. Bo sauntered over to a nearby table and sat with his back to the wall, facing the stairs. “You need me, holler.” He crossed his arms over his chest and leaned his chair back on two legs, staring at Nestor so hard one of their heads should burst into flames. An enforcer. Just like he’d been for the Cruisers.
“Come, Lucky.” One side of Nestor’s mouth lifted in a bemused smirk when he fixed his eyes on Bo. “We have many things to talk about.” As they climbed the stairs out of earshot of Bo, he added, “Loyalty, I like that. Tell me, what have you done to deserve such respect from a hard man like Cyrus Cooper?”
What, indeed? “I lay my cards on the table and never try to bullshit him.” Not much, anyway. Whether as Cyrus Cooper or Bo Schollenberger, Bo didn’t tolerate bullshit. Or lies. Or wet towels on the bathroom floor.
The upper floor held four long tables and possibly served as a party room. Lucky and Nestor were the only diners. Despite the circumstances, Lucky’s stomach grumbled. The little breakfast he’d eaten had long since burned off.
A woman appeared with a tray and set a bottle of water and one of beer in front of each man. Nestor spoke to her in quiet Spanish, patted her arm, and gave her a toothy smile. The lady, her hair shot with age, grinned, and a flush crept up her cheeks.
She turned to Lucky. “Luck-key?”
He gave her a sidewise regard and nodded. How the hell did she know his name? She said something in Spanish, patted his cheek and smiled. All he made out were the words “son” and “happy.”
“What’s that all about?” Lucky asked Nestor.
“She hopes you like her cooking.” Nestor didn’t even tear his eyes away from the woman while answering.
She giggled and backed away, darting down the stairs faster than a woman of her years should be able to move.
“Graciela and I go way back.” Nestor’s lascivious smile dimmed to polite affection. “She was quite the looker back in her day. Still is, in my eyes.”
“If you brought me here to brag about your old conquests…”
All mirth left the man. “Bite your tongue. The woman had eyes for only one man, undeserving as he was. Her misguided devotion outlived him.”
Not for Nestor’s but for the woman’s sake, Lucky offered a quiet, “I’m sorry.” Damn, but Bo was rubbing off on him. And not in the fun, leads-to-sticky-skin way.
The hard lines of the man’s face softened. “I forget what a tough guy you were. Serving time behind bars hasn’t mellowed you. Then again, some of my best men learned all they needed to about fighting and survival in US prisons.”
Lucky had learned some of those same lessons himself, courtesy of the Durham Correctional Center. Years spent as an outsider looking in at the Southeastern Narcotics Bureau also added to his education.
“I hope you don’t mind, but seeing this is your first trip to Valle Hermoso area and you’re unfamiliar with local tastes, I took the liberty of ordering for us.” Nestor turned his lips up in a sneer. “What most Americans call Mexican food is an insult to fine cooks like Graciela.”
The woman returned with a young girl of about twelve at her heels, both carrying trays. With well-practiced movements, they silently transferred dishes to the table. The tray of sizzling meat captured Lucky’s full attention, the veggies adding a side note that maybe Bo would get fed too.
Before he chowed down, he asked, “How about the men downstairs?” No need to single out Bo, though he had no love at all for Cruz. The bastard could survive on his own ego for all Lucky cared.
“Your friend is being attended as well. You’ve never experienced my hospitality, though Victor considered me an excellent host.”
And a deadly one. In 2011 a local shootout had left several gang members, along with one Mexican cop, dead. That gang soon left the area. Nestor remained. Go figure.
Wait. He’d said “considered” not “considers.” Did Nestor speaking of Victor in the past tense mean anything, or just that he hadn’t seen the man recently?
If death waited at the end of the meal, better to go on a full stomach. Lucky ate. Damn! Spiced meat rolled up into tortillas made a fine meal, though the beer he washed the offering down with left something to be desired. He even tasted the vegetables to satisfy his curiosity. And maybe Bo.
Only after the woman retrieved the empty dishes did the conversation progress beyond, “Oh, you must try the gorditas,” and “Graciela makes excellent salsa.”
“Now.” Nestor wiped his mouth with a napkin and dropped it on the table, a gesture Lucky had witnessed many times at Victor’s, ending the meal and starting business. At Victor’s, however, Lucky would quietly make his exit to wait upstairs for a recap of the conversation.
This time, he didn’t move.
“I thought it best if we talked without Stephan overhearing.” Nestor took a sip of his beer, eyes trained on Lucky’s face.
If he expected Lucky to jump to Stephan’s defense, he was in for a long wait. “I tend to agree.”
“You don’t trust him? Your own partner?”
“The partnership is his idea.” Lucky would rather go into business with a palmetto bug.
“Then why are you here? What’s in this for you?”
How much could Lucky say and expect to walk out of this mess with his and Bo’s lives? “Let’s just say he’s offered me a deal I couldn’t turn down.”
“Oh, I see.” And Nestor probably did. “So, your loyalties lie with…”
“Myself. As they always have.”
Nestor let out a snort. “I think I know you better than that. You forget. I knew you when you were with Victor. I envied him your loyalty much as I envy you the loyalty of the man downstairs. Cyrus’s trust is not easily won, I’m guessing, and neither is yours.”
Anything Lucky said might be too much. He gave his reply with an unwavering gaze. What secrets did Nestor hope to uncover with his probing stare? In the end, Lucky shrugged.
“Victor only trusted a handful of men. Two sit at this table.” Where was Nestor going with this conversation?
When Lucky stayed silent, Nestor continued, “I think, perhaps, I should trust you too. At least until you prove I can’t. Now, recent States’ legislation is cutting into profits, while the DEA is opening new doors.”
Not what Lucky expected to hear. Apparently, he’d passed some kind of test. And it wasn’t in his best interest to lose Nestor’s trust, if he actually had it. “You brought me here to discuss legal pot? It’s only a few states.”
Again the disarming smile attempted to lull the unsuspecting. It might have worked on Lucky once upon a time. Possibly around age three. “Yes. And already I’m losing money, as are the other cartels.”
“Hey, wasn’t my fault. And there’s not a damned thing I can do about it.”
Nestor waved a dismissive hand. “It was only a matter of time. However, now I’m left with the need to diversify, find new ways to protect my profit margins.”
“What’s that got to do with me?”
“Stephan’s proposal.” The way he snarled “Stephan” left no doubt as to how little Nestor thought of the man, as if the earlier name calling wasn’t clue enough. Lucky tended to agree. “We’re here, where you can be totally honest with me. Don’t say the words he put in your mouth.”
It wouldn’t do for Lucky to show too much of his hand just yet, or let on how much he’d learned. But he wasn’t the only one capable of finding things out. “When have I ever said what someone else wanted me to?”
Nestor laughed, a deep, genuine sound. “I see why Victor liked you so much. You don’t flatter, and you don’t kiss up. You’re your own man. I like that too. Now, in your time with the Southeastern Narcotics Bureau, what have you heard of a pure hydrocodone such as Stephan described?”
Lucky nearly dropped his beer. He fixed his eyes on Nestor’s inquisitive gaze, seeing all he needed to. Nestor’d discovered how Lucky spent his last few years, and likely knew Lucky still drew an SNB paycheck. Hell, he probably knew what color boxers Lucky had on.
With any luck, he’d found jack shit on Bo.
The blast from Lucky’s past ended their staring contest. “It’s safest for you to assume you have no secrets from me and speak freely. Now, about the hydrocodone.”
Lucky inhaled deeply to regain his composure. Nestor knew Lucky’s background, and used intel for cash. Once spent, he’d not have it again. He wouldn’t tell Stephan. Stephan wasn’t worth the cost.
Might as well answer honestly. “The FDA just approved such a thing, in pill form.” Pill form, but not tamper-resistant, like other easily abused painkillers, ratcheting up the potential for overdose.
The manufacturers might as well have offered powdered form, ready to snort or melt and shoot up.
And what did the US do? Make overdose kits like the one in the Jeep’s glove box more readily available. Sometimes Lucky didn’t understand his government.
Nestor rested his elbows on the table, steepling his fingers, the gesture so like Walter’s, Lucky’s heart ached for the mentor he’d known and trusted. And who possibly had been playing him all along. “And have his researchers actually managed to combine the properties of hydrocodone with the ability to remain undetectable during simple drug tests like his synthetic drug?”
Soon people would be dropping like flies and no one knowing why unless they really looked. “Yes.”
“And he has buyers?”
“Yes. I met with some the other night in Brownsville.”
A furrow appeared on Nestor’s forehead. “What’s the price point?”
“Cheaper than heroin. The US will never know what hit it.”
“Do you remember the child downstairs begging for money?”
“Yeah.” Vaguely.
“The boy and his father were on their way to the market and found themselves caught in the crossfire of two rival cartels. The child watched his father bleed to death on the sidewalk. And do you know why?”
The old man’s eyes nearly pierced Lucky’s soul. Lucky shook his head.
“Drugs. The US wants to blame the cartels, but you know who’s at fault? There wouldn’t be a supply without demand. Every American who’s ever rolled up a dollar bill adds to the problem. Without demand, there’d be no need for us.”
What? Nestor spoke against his own profession. The hypocrite. Or maybe he’d seen the errors of his ways.
“Too many lives have been lost. Too much blood spilled.” Nestor seemed to be talking more to some unseen ghost than to Lucky
“You could always go legit.” Lucky couldn’t envision Nestor as anything other than a drug lord. “Or retire.”
“Men in my line of work don’t retire. When we get old, we’re killed by someone who wants the life we’re tired of living.”
Somehow, Lucky couldn’t see this man giving up without a fight. “Then go down swinging.”
“I plan to. Is this product ready for shipment now?” Nestor didn’t act like someone on the verge of investing an ass load of money. He might as well have been talking about the weather.
Lucky schooled the tremor from his voice. If Nestor and Stephan had their way, and he survived to tell the tale, soon the SNB would soon be battling a new enemy. “He’s taken orders.”
“Is this substance liquid or pill form?”
“All liquid, fast acting.” Needle tracks in the men’s arms. An OD kit in the truck. The man Lucky replaced that no one spoke of without crossing themselves. “He’s testing on his own men.”
“Who better? Although, personally, I have few in my employ I’d sacrifice in such a way.”
Fuck. “Why are you so interested in something Stephan has? You’re not seriously considering working with him, are you?”
“My friend, he’s looking for investors. I’m looking to make a profit. This is business. If what he says is true, I want in on the action. With the DEA rescheduling certain narcotics, the market opens wide. And if Stephan has lied, well, as his nearest rival, I’d take it upon myself to see he doesn’t lie again.”
Nestor spoke calmly, as though a man’s life—a lot of men’s lives—didn’t hang in the balance.
“And where do I fit in?” Lucky didn’t understand chess, despite Victor’s many attempts to teach him, but he felt a certain kinship to pawns.
The most dangerous man Lucky had ever met leaned in and nearly whispered, “Tell me, Lucky, what do you believe happened to Victor Mangiardi?”
Now true motives were coming out. If Nestor held Lucky responsible for testifying against a friend it’d be “Adios, Lucky!” With either nothing to lose or too much at stake, Lucky answered honestly. “The papers say he hung himself in his cell. But that doesn’t sound like Victor. With his connections and his money, why didn’t he make a deal?”
“Why, indeed. If Stephan is to be believed, his uncle did make a deal, much as you did.”
“You don’t believe him?”
“I have no reason to believe him. But Victor was a friend, and to have no contact with a friend for twelve years doesn’t seem right, regardless of the reasons.” Nestor tightened his hands into fists on the table, the knuckles turning white. He wasn’t telling all he feared.
More than Mexican spices inspired the sinking feeling in Lucky’s gut. “You don’t believe he’s alive.”
“I don’t believe he took his own life.”
Should Lucky be happy or sad? Hell, he’d work out the details later. “Why?”
“Because if he made a deal for his freedom, they’d demand evidence against more than the pissants they arrested.”
Hey! Lucky had given those names!
Nestor stared directly into Lucky’s eyes. “If he really wanted someone’s good graces, he’d have given them me.”
“You don’t think he’d protect you out of friendship?”
“If our roles were reversed, he’d expect no less of me.”
Yes, trafficking was a pretty cutthroat business, with family members turning against each other to save their own skins.
And yet Lucky’s testimony had helped put Victor behind bars to begin with.
Criminal minds must think alike. Nestor voiced Lucky’s fear. “Your testimony didn’t affect the outcome. Victor knew what was coming and took too much time getting out. And yes, he was in negotiations for a deal. Either way, he wouldn’t have killed himself. He had too many plans for his retirement.”
Negotiations for a deal? The Walter-meter swung back toward “guilty”. Wait. What? “Retirement?” What the fuck? Victor never mentioned retiring to Lucky. Sure he’d been selling off properties, but he’d never mentioned leaving the business.
“He planned to pay one last business call on Rio before settling into a life of relative leisure traveling, maintaining his home base, and one legitimate business here.”
“I didn’t know.” And yet, the Feds had found two tickets to Rio at Victor’s arrest, and a doctored passport for Lucky, proving Victor intended to take Lucky with him.
For weeks building up to the arrest, Victor had acted strangely. Keeping secrets. Lucky had mentally packed his bags to make way for whoever else Victor wanted to move in. He’d never dreamed he’d meant enough to the man to be a part of his plans. “He knew the heat was coming and planned to get out first.”
“Yes. He was concerned about you. He feared you wouldn’t leave your family, even to save yourself.”
A very good point. “Doesn’t matter now.” Lucky had lost his family and his self-respect all on the same day. Victor lost his freedom. And his life. Maybe. Possibly. Who the fuck knew at this point?
“Victor didn’t do anything by half-measures, did he?” Again Nestor used past tense.
Lucky still being alive could only mean one thing: somehow he figured into Nestor’s plans. “I still don’t get where I fit into this.”
“Stephan says he collected you at his uncle’s request.”
“What do you believe?”
“The little pendejo listens to no one but himself. If he chose now to bring you here, it’s for his own purposes.”
Chose now? “He only found out I was still alive a few months ago.”
Again, a penetrating stare said Nestor knew more than he let on. “Don’t think for a minute that I didn’t know where you were at any given time. The men you handed over were careless, sloppy. You did me a personal favor in getting rid of them, and I have no grievances against you. But as a favor to Victor, I watched from afar and know more about you than Stephan does, Mr. Harrison.”
Lucky’s proudest moment had to be not even blinking at Nestor’s admission, though his heart slammed against his ribs. Nestor knew. Knew everything. He might not be the only one, but he was the most powerful. “Loyalty only goes so far. If you watched me, it’s because there was something in it for you.”
“I still haven’t perfected my poker face with you, have I?” Nestor gave a little chuckle.
The cards were on the table. With no aces up Lucky’s sleeve. “You’re not afraid I’ll go back to the US and turn on you?”
“For forty years, your country’s authorities have wanted me.” Nestor rolled his shoulders in a half-hearted shrug. “And yet here I am.”
Damn. Why couldn’t the bastard be a moron and walk into his own noose?
Nestor traded twinkling eyes for pursed lips and beetled brows. “I should warn you that Stephan has a lot of missing relatives.”
“What do you mean?”
Nestor stared at his hands. After a moment he visibly relaxed. When he raised his gaze, determination gleamed in his eyes. “After Victor’s arrest, the US government seized his properties there, and Stephan and his father came to Valle Hermoso. They evicted the tenants from Victor’s house, fired his managers, and took over the factory themselves.”
“Who were the tenants?”
“Victor’s father had a mistress who bore him three children. Two boys and a girl. Victor allowed them to stay in the home.”
Victor had half-brothers and a sister? “He never mentioned them.”
“He worried for their safety, but make no mistake, he called the lady ‘Mama’ and paid for his sibling’s education.”
Steel bands loosened in Lucky’s chest. “All this time, when he visited here, it was them he came to see, right?”
“Yes.”
And each time Victor had left without taking Lucky had rankled. Fuck. Lucky would have liked to meet the family. That is, if they didn’t treat him like dirt, as the rest of the Mangiardis did. “Why did Vincent toss them out?”
“He and Victoria never accepted their father’s second family. Called the kids bastards. Victor cherished them.” That was Victor. Family meant the world to him. A family, not orgies, had brought Victor to Mexico alone.
“But Vincent and Stephan stood to inherit, right?”
“Maybe. You see, a United States citizen cannot own property on Mexican soil in restricted areas, they can merely lease, which is why Victor’s grandfather took a Mexican bride after his first wife died. Victor was born in Mexico City and held dual citizenship, Vincent and Stephan did not, so Victor inherited, and increased his wealth on both sides of the border. He left his American holdings to them and named other beneficiaries for Mexico.”
And here Stephan had bragged for years about one day inheriting everything. “Who?”
“I cannot say, but I don’t believe it was Vincent or Stephan. It couldn’t be. And yet, though Vincent was half the businessman his brother was and preferred legitimate trade, he took control and eked out a living here. That is, until recently.” Nestor stared at something on the far wall that Lucky couldn’t see. “Money was getting tight, a few setbacks at the factory. Vincent started giving his son more and more leeway. Then six months ago, we had an appointment, Vincent and I. He never called or showed. Stephan sent apologies, saying his father had to leave suddenly to tend to his ailing sister.”
Vincent and Victoria could both rot in Hell for all Lucky cared. They’d always sneered and looked down their noses whenever they’d visited, and even whined to Victor to kick Lucky out. Lucky finally resorted to escaping to his parents’ house whenever they came to call—whenever they wanted money. Not a bit of love lost there.
“And you haven’t heard from him since.”
“No, I haven’t. And in this day of cell phones and text messages, silence can only mean one thing.”
Even Lucky wouldn’t figure Stephan had enough balls to actually kill someone. “You think he killed his own father?”
“What do you believe? Vincent visited his warehouse on the border to find Stephan dealing in the kinds of merchandise he wouldn’t touch. The hydrocodone project started as a way to provide inexpensive sedatives to the US, and turned into what you see now, created by unscrupulous men. And then…Vincent goes away.” Nestor swept a hand out. “If Stephan has harmed him in any way, he’ll pay. As a favor to Victor.” Nestor downed the last of his beer.
Fuck. If what Nestor said was true, Stephan really had lost his damned mind. No telling what he might do.
What a hell of a lot to process. And now Lucky had to go back and face the bastard. He hadn’t cared for Vincent, but he cared even less for Stephan. “What do you want me to do?”
“Do what you do so well, Mr. Lucklighter. Watch your back.”
“Can I ask one more question?”
“You can ask. I can’t promise an answer you’ll like.”
“If you knew where I was all these years, and left me alone for Victor’s sake, why didn’t anyone else take me out?”
“That’s easy. One, you’d likely be a hard man to kill, and two, your life hinged on the outside chance Victor still lived. No one wanted to anger him. Plus, Walter Smith doesn’t take insults lightly. To kill one of his people would be to write one’s own death warrant.
Drug lords feared Walter Smith. Good to know. And added another layer to an already complex man.
“Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have another appointment. Cruz will drive you home.” Nestor rose from his chair.
“What about Stephan?”
“What about him?”
“The partnership?”
“While his inviting you into business makes the offer more palatable, tell him…I’m not yet persuaded.”
Graciela waited at the bottom of the stairs, chatting with Bo. She laughed and patted her graying hair at something he said. Yeah, he had that effect on people, no matter in what language. Had them eating from his hand in no time flat.
“Graciela.” Nestor motioned her over with a wave of his hand.
“¿Sí?” Her smile grew wider with each footstep.
He spoke quiet Spanish. Lucky understood “Stephan Mangiardi.”
Thunderclouds wiped away the woman’s smile. She spat and crossed herself. “Diablo!” she cried.
Now that’s one Spanish word Lucky did know: Devil.
And he still hadn’t gotten a yes. Nestor met and held Lucky’s gaze. “If the dog proves rabid, put him down.”
Lucky strode out the cantina door and snatched the keys from Cruz’s hand in the parking lot.
“Hey!”
“Hey, yourself, you lowlife maggot!” Lucky grasped him by the shoulder, spun him around, and slammed him against the Jeep.
“Lucky, don’t!” Bo grabbed Lucky’s arm before he could swing his fist toward Cruz’s mouth. “We need him. He’s our link to Nestor and…” Bo whipped Lucky around to face half a dozen men, scowls on their faces and arms folded across their chests.
As pissed as he was, Lucky could take them all.
“No, Lucky.” Bo put his lips close to Lucky’s ear. “I’ve got a better idea.”
Bo drove the Jeep while Lucky watched Cruz grow smaller and smaller in the side mirror. The son of a bitch could find his own way home. “Now, you gonna tell me what Nestor said?”
Lucky’s anger still needed a target. Where was a gym when he needed one? “Lots of talk that went nowhere. I think the old man’s lonely for someone else who knew Victor. I also think he was feeling me out.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know, but I probably won’t like the answer.”