“Gentlemen,” Rosario started, “I understand that we’re making progress in an attempt to find my guns.” Her Spanish accent, coupled with her smoker’s voice, reverberated through the barren space. “Chris, bring us up to speed on what you learned?”
Chris roughed a hand through his short blond hair. “There’s not much to tell. I did some digging after Denim came to me and asked if I could put out feelers. Seems the right number of threats will get anyone to talk. I won’t give you my source, but he ran into Mateo and two men huddled outside the Mills Tavern in Boston about a month ago. Mateo called one of them Emilio. I passed that along to Gustavo the day before Thanksgiving.”
“Do you know where Mateo is?” I asked.
“I don’t,” Doug said. “He doesn’t stay in one place too long. But before Denim came to me, I heard that Mateo has been visiting Tito quite frequently in prison.”
I clenched my fists at the mention of Tito Alvarez. “I would put money that fucker is the mastermind.”
Chris harrumphed. “I say this loosely, but don’t underestimate Mateo.”
“What’s his motive?” Vince asked. “Surely, Mateo knows that fucking with the cartel has deadly consequences.”
“Not if he’s working for the cartel,” I said. “Rosario, have you talked to Arturo yet? Because if I recall, Arturo was the one who Tito had been in talks with about a gun deal right before Tito was sent off to jail. That was four years ago when the Mexicans were trying to worm their way into Boston. So, I would suspect Tito is pulling the strings to have Mateo pick up where Tito left off.”
“I agree,” Rosario said. “But why steal from me?”
“To get your attention.” Chris crossed bulky arms over his chest.
Rosario sighed. “You mean to fuck with me.”
“I don’t know,” Chris said. “Unless Mateo wants revenge against Duke for sending Tito to prison. Maybe Mateo and Tito think by stealing from you, it hurts Duke in some way.”
“But it doesn’t,” I said. “I don’t pay Rosario until the client pays me.”
“Mateo probably doesn’t know the deal we have with Duke,” Gustavo piped up.
“Arturo won’t return my calls,” she said. “But word from my guys on the ground in Mexico is Arturo has been in the States quite frequently in the last six months. I’m trying to confirm where.”
I scrubbed a hand over my unshaven jaw. “Maybe Emilio can tell us.”
Gustavo clenched his bloody fist. “I’ve already tried. I’m hoping Rosario can put the fear of God into him to talk.”
“Gustavo, wake up Emilio,” she said in a steely tone.
The hairs on the back of my neck stood at attention. We were inching closer to a full-out war.
17
FALLYN
ALIAS: JOY
My heart was in my throat as I stood breathlessly outside the lunchroom and listened through the crack in the door. I’d done a lot of adrenaline-junkie feats but none as high-strung and death-defying as spying on the cartel.
I’d almost gotten caught when I heard footsteps coming toward me. I’d barely had time to hide in the supply closet that was on my left.
Nevertheless, as I listened to bits and pieces of the conversation interspersed with my pulse banging endlessly in my ears, my hands were trembling harder than they ever had.
I’d gotten a lucky break when I overheard Duke talking to Gustavo on the phone at the gym that morning. Duke had repeated the address where they were meeting as he asked Gustavo for key landmarks in Dorchester. I couldn’t have passed up the opportunity to be a fly on the wall. After all, I was undercover to find intel any way I could.
The second I’d left the gym, I rushed over to the manufacturing plant to scope out the facility and the area before their meeting at noon. No one had been here when I arrived, which gave me a chance to walk the facility to locate the entrances and exits.
“Emilio, wake up,” Gustavo said.
I’d been upstairs, keeping an eye out, when Gustavo and two men pulled up and dragged a passed-out prisoner inside. Voices carried in the empty facility, so I was able to hear Gustavo order the men to tie Emilio to a chair in the cafeteria, then they were ordered to guard the entrance and wait for Duke and some guy named Chris.
A chair screeched across the floor, sounding like nails on a chalkboard.
