Gael Morales stared down the barrel of the gun to the darkness that would greet him if Rocha squeezed the trigger. He’d had guns pointed at his head all too frequently these last couple days. But he thought this entire situation was coming to a head. He thought it would be finished soon. All he had to do was get to the end alive.
“Listen to me,” Gael said.
“I’m all ears, Gael, if that’s your real name.”
“I never saw the truck. I drove to the department store and parked. Danielle and Monica went inside. I sat in the car smoking and listening to the radio for two hours. They came out and we drove back here. That’s it. If Danielle is telling you a different story, she’s lying. For all I know, she’s the reason Diego’s missing. Whatever the fuck she’s selling you, it’s all packaging. The box is empty. You know me, Alejandro. I’ve been working for you every day for six months and never once have I done anything to make you suspicious of me. I’m a man making a living by doing his job—that’s all I am—and I think we can both agree that I do my job well. I’m on time, I do what I’m told, and I do it well and without complaint. You shouldn’t be pointing that gun at me. If anything, you should be pointing it at Danielle—because she’s the bitch who’s lying to you.”
* * *
Alejandro thought about Gael’s words. He wanted to believe them—partly because he liked the guy and partly because they made sense. Francis Waters was supposed to have approached Danielle Preston yesterday. If he had, and if she’d agreed to talk, Diego would have gone for her. It was possible that she’d somehow managed to get the upper hand. Even good men sometimes made stupid mistakes, and in this line of work, a stupid mistake could cost you your life. But if she’d gotten the upper hand, what had become of Diego?
“Don’t fucking move,” he said, pulling his cell phone from his pocket. He dialed Francis and put the phone to his ear. It rang five times before going to voice mail. He ended the call and replaced the phone. He didn’t know what to do. So, for almost a full minute, he simply stood there aiming his gun at Gael Morales.
Finally he said, “I want you to kill her.”
“What?”
“Danielle Preston. If she’s lying to me—if you’re not DEA—I want you to prove it to me. Put a bullet in her head. That’s not a problem, is it? If she’s willing to lie, willing to tell me lies that’ll get you killed, you should want her dead.”
* * *
Gael looked past the gun to Rocha’s face. He swallowed and heard a dry click in his throat.
“What about the trip she’s supposed to make tomorrow?”
“If she can’t be trusted, she’s not going. I’ll send someone else.”
“Fine,” Gael said. “I’ve got no feelings for the bitch.”
What he said wasn’t a lie. Gael Castillo Jimenez might like Danielle Preston. Gael Castillo Jimenez did like her. But Gael Morales had no feelings about her one way or the other.
Alejandro Rocha looked him in the eyes, examined his face, and after what felt like a long time, decided he was telling the truth.
“Good,” he said.