Kane Rogan was used to working with a team—he had his core group of mercenaries, all former military, and while he was the commander, he listened to his men and weighed the pros and cons of any decision. Quickly, because when you were in the middle of the jungle or planning an op to rescue a hostage there wasn’t time to pontificate or debate.
There were also times when one person could get the job done. Having backup was preferred, but not always required. He’d never tell Sean that—Sean could be reckless, especially when someone he cared about was at risk. Kane had never been reckless. When he went into a dangerous situation, he always knew what he was getting into. He always knew the threat, analyzed his chances of survival, and determined whether the goal was worth the risk.
Since Siobhan had moved into his heart and his bed, he had recognized that taking risks didn’t just impact him anymore. And while he wasn’t ready to give up his vocation, he had added another factor to the mix: Was the risk worth losing Siobhan?
For the first time in his life, he looked forward to going home. Hell, for the first time since he’d enlisted in the marines when he was eighteen, he had a home.
Because neither he nor Sean really knew what was going on in this situation or if it even connected to Carson Spade or Jesse, Kane opted for caution. Sean would do his thing with computers, and Kane would watch the players involved and figure out the threat. He wouldn’t have been overly concerned except that Domingo had been assassinated to keep from talking. That told Kane whoever was behind this didn’t want anyone to know the endgame. Vasquez was just another tool. But even if he was a tool, he might also be a threat.
It took Kane time to track down Vasquez, but soon he learned that the man had a standing golf date with three other men at eight a.m. every Saturday at a private club. Sean was much better at bribing or talking his way into these situations, but Kane had a few tricks up his sleeve, and speaking fluent Spanish helped. He found a young woman on the janitorial staff, gave her a short but believable story about how he was trying to get pictures of a deadbeat dad who spent thousands of dollars golfing but couldn’t pay his ex-wife to feed their kids. He slipped her a hundred dollars and promised he’d keep her confidence. She let him in through the staff entrance.
From there, he just had to blend. He grabbed a staff polo shirt, a golf cap, and a clipboard so that it looked like he was working. Then he slipped into a golf cart and tracked Vasquez down at the twelfth tee.
There were two caddies and four golfers. He parked close, but not too close, and pretended to be checking a flower bed. He had no idea what people did to maintain these type of exclusive golf courses, but he imagined there were always things that needed fixing. And maintenance people were ignored by almost everyone. It was often the best cover.
He couldn’t get close enough to hear anything that they said, but he did have a powerful little pocket camera that he used to discreetly zoom in and snap photos of everyone in Vasquez’s party.
He sent the photos to Sean to run their identities. Kane didn’t recognize any of the men, other than Vasquez. All white men, except Vasquez, who was Hispanic. All in their forties to early fifties. Anyone walking by would think they were businessmen playing golf on the weekend.
Kane left after twenty minutes and took the cart back. He earned a few odd looks from staff, but no one stopped him. How long before they were done? At least an hour. A couple, if they stayed at the club for lunch or drinks.
He’d checked on the house earlier. Full security and it appeared that the wife was home. If they needed to get into the place, Kane would have to wait until dark and when he had Sean to help. He didn’t want to get his brother caught breaking and entering, and if it was an old-school security system Kane would have no problem getting in. But the high-tech systems were out of his league.
He left the neighborhood and drove downtown to Vasquez’s PI office. He called Nate.
“You taking heat about last night?”
“Not too much. Need me? I’m sitting on my ass doing nothing.”
“Do you have a solid contact with SAPD?”
“A couple.”
“I want everything on Vasquez. Proven and unproven.”
“I’m on it.” Nate hung up.
Kane liked Nate Dunning and wished he could bring him into RCK. He was exactly the type of operative who would fit in well with their organization. Unfortunately, JT Caruso, Kane’s partner, had an agreement with Rick Stockton that they wouldn’t recruit out of the FBI. The only exception was former Sacramento FBI Agent Mitch Bianchi. However, there were extenuating circumstances: Mitch had wanted to quit, and he had broken a bunch of FBI rules—ridiculous rules, Kane had thought at the time—that had put him on the hot seat. They’d finessed it and it worked out.
No way in hell would Rick Stockton let Nate Dunning go. Rick had actively recruited FBI agents out of the military. And if Nate quit the FBI to join RCK, they would severely damage their relationship with the one person who could cover them when things went south.
Vasquez maintained space in a strip mall that was primarily destination businesses: a real estate office, a mobile phone dealer, a dry cleaner, a chain tax assistance business, a few others. A mom-and-pop Mexican restaurant had the largest space.
Why would a former cop—probably corrupt—who lived in a million-dollar house in an exclusive San Antonio community have his PI office in a lower-middle-class neighborhood? Might mean nothing. Lower rents. Certain clients. Maybe he wanted to help the little guy.
Kane was thinking that wasn’t his primary reason.
Thugs like Domingo wouldn’t stand out here. People could come and go at all hours and no one would bat an eye. At night, everything was closed—except for the twenty-four-hour gas station across the street.
Kane grabbed a plain, black ball cap and put it low on his head. He wore a black shirt and khakis and his hair was completely covered by the cap. He’d gotten tired of telling Sean to cut his hair, but it was probably a good thing because Sean was a taller version of Kane. He didn’t need to look any more like him.
He walked down the strip mall as if he was heading for the Mexican restaurant. When he got to Vasquez’s office, he slowed, took a couple of photos of the door—they were open by appointment only on the weekends. Nothing could be seen inside; the blinds were tightly closed. He couldn’t even see how big the office was, whether there was a receptionist desk or waiting area or how many internal doors. There was a security camera above the door.
He walked down to the restaurant and entered. It had counter service. He ordered six street tacos and a beer, sat in a booth that had a view of the door, and considered his options.
He had an idea.
He called the number of Vasquez’s business. He wasn’t surprised that he had an answering service.
“Vasquez Private Investigations and Security, how may I help you?”
“I need to speak with Mr. Vasquez.” He spoke with a heavy Mexican accent.
“The office is closed today, I can take a message.”
“A message? Write this down. I know he ordered the hit on my boy Manny. Manny Domingo. If he wants to talk, call me, otherwise one good turn deserves another.” He gave his burner phone number. Sean had set up a trace for it, just in case they needed it. He hung up before the answering service could get any ideas about asking questions.
He looked at his watch. One seventeen. How long would it take the service to deliver the message?
As it was, the message was delivered at the same time his tacos were. He let the phone ring three times before answering.
“We need to meet,” Kane said.
“Who is this?” Vasquez sounded angry, not worried.
“I’m sorry,” Kane said in a heavy accent, “did I interrupt your golf game?”
Silence.
“You’re fucking with the wrong person.”
“No, Mr. Vasquez, you’re fucking with the wrong person. Your office, one hour, alone.”
“Sounds like a trap.”
“Be there, or I’ll have some friends of mine in New Orleans pay a visit to sweet Maria and tell her what her father has been up to.”
He hung up. He didn’t generally like threatening the children of his targets, even adult children. Chances were that Maria Vasquez was innocent of her father’s dirty work. But Kane couldn’t use the man’s wife—he didn’t know anything about her, and she could be in as deep as her husband if they hadn’t won the lottery or her rich uncle Roberto didn’t croak and leave them the house. Until he knew more, he went with his gut, and his gut said Maria Vasquez was innocent and her father wanted her to stay that way.
Kane ate his tacos and waited.