Georgia spent the night at the camp. Although she was more or less under house arrest, they fed her, loaned her some bedding, even let her walk around the compound—albeit with a guard. Still, when it was time for bed, she tossed fitfully.
She had questions. For one, she recalled how Sandy Sechrest said that Delton’s accounts at the bank, the ones Chris closed, were technically unfunded. That Delton had persuaded the bank to temporarily loan him the three million dollars. But Geoff Delton wasn’t stupid—didn’t he know the bank wouldn’t let it slide? Unless he’d been planning to shift the blame to Chris all along. Her fingerprints were in the system. Maybe he thought he could convince the bank she’d embezzled the three million and written bogus cashiers’ checks as retribution because he refused to leave his wife. He could slip in the fact that she’d become pregnant as proof.
Still, Delton should never have ended up in this situation. He should have anticipated his men would be tempted by the cartels. They were mercenaries, after all. Did he think his men were immune? Rumors of arms smuggling by mercenaries were nothing new. Unless Delton, the former Boy Scout, panicked when he discovered his own men were involved. Maybe he was just plugging holes—or letting the man with the missing finger plug them for him.
But Delton’s motivations would have to wait. Georgia’s most pressing question was figuring out who Delton was collaborating with. Geoff Delton was in league—willingly or not—with someone who could run drugs overland across the border or underground through a tunnel. Which meant that individual controlled key pipelines along the supply chain. And that made him a powerful person.
Yesterday she’d been ready to go to the police. But according to Whit, the Stevens police had been corrupted by the cartel. And Javier Garcia thought the mayor’s brother ran a drug tunnel underneath his property. Going to the authorities, civil or law enforcement, wouldn’t get her anywhere. It might get her killed.
She thought about the lives that had been snuffed out. The men who’d turned from soldiers into murderers. The children like Molly and Diego, whose world had been blown apart. The people who’d been coerced or corrupted.
Raffi had wanted to strike a blow for the powerless.
What did she want?
• • •
She woke to the aroma of coffee and the clarity that comes from making a decision. One of the women was scouring the pot that held last night’s stew. The other was rolling up sleeping bags, putting things away.
“What’s happening?” Georgia asked.
“We’re breaking camp. We rotate between three or four places,” the woman said. “It’s safer.”
Georgia couldn’t see herself living a gypsy existence. She liked having a home base, her apartment. Even if the walls were bare.
She poured coffee and waited for Whit. She realized now why he’d confided in her. She thought she had an idea where the tunnel was. And whose property it cut through. The problem was she needed proof. She sipped her coffee, remembering the call that Raffi got from his buddy confirming that his “package,” a videotape, had arrived. Someone or something important was on that tape. Was it the proof she needed? If so, the man with the missing finger might already have it. He’d taken Raffi’s cell and could trace the call. She didn’t have much time.
At length Whit came into the room, dressed in black, smelling like soap. He was carrying something under his arm. Her blazer, which she’d used to cover Raffi’s bloody body. Someone had washed it. He handed it to her, then went to the coffee pot and poured a cup.
She folded the blazer, then turned to him. “Let’s go outside. We need to talk.”