Carl slumped in his chair and threw his head back. “Man, I have never been happier to be a glorified babysitter than I am right now.”
Mateo laughed. “Right? Beats the hell out of our previous gig.”
Carl looked at Jake. “Can I at least come visit you over at Dewi’s while you’re there?”
“Both of you can. And they got me a phone, so we can talk and text.” He smiled. “Might need to teach me how. And you can make grocery runs for me, too, I guess. I’d probably prefer that. I have a feeling just from what I’ve seen so far that I’d be overwhelmed.”
Carl leaned over and hugged him again, laughing. “Damn right, I will.”
Jake stayed for another hour because Duncan wanted him out of there before the kids woke up, and before Brianna and Da’von returned home. Duncan Primed the men not to reveal the information.
As Carl stood in the driveway hugging his father, he resisted the urge to bawl like a kid. “I love you, Dad. Promise me you won’t disappear again.”
“Not willingly,” Jake said. “And love you, too, son.”
After hugging Mateo, Jake climbed into the truck and headed out while they watched.
“That happened, right?” he quietly asked Mateo.
This time, Mateo wrapped his arms around Carl from behind. “Your father’s back. And life just went from ‘weird’ to ‘what the fuck?’”
Chapter Sixty-Eight
Abundio Segura
Abundio wasn’t looking forward to this chore for more than one reason. He took only Armando as a driver, swearing him to secrecy. Then he left him behind at the hotel and walked a few blocks to the public cafe where the meeting would take place.
He had no doubt he was already being surveilled, and that was fine. Nothing about this meeting was illegal or would reflect on his business. All he was doing was looking for an identification, a name. He wasn’t hiring a hit man or arranging a drug deal.
But he had to know what was going on and if Miranda had jeopardized everything he’d built over her selfish interests.
Her meeting had been seven days ago, and in this very plaza. Abundio used his contacts and several owed favors from highly placed governmental officials to obtain information and arrange this meeting.
He sat there for over thirty minutes before two men approached his table, one older and in the lead, the other younger and with his head on a swivel.
Finally.
The older man sat first without bothering to introduce himself and indicated for the flunky to sit next to him, putting him across from Abundio.
“Can I order you anything?” Abundio asked in English.
The older man thinly smiled. “Your hospitality is noted, but unnecessary,” he said in thickly accented English. “Let us not waste time. We may dispense with that.”
“Very well.” Abundio picked up his cell phone, which he’d left facedown on the table because he didn’t want to make any moves mistaken for hostile. Unlocking it, he showed the man a picture. “I need to know who this man really is. He’s a Russian. Name of Ilya Baranov. He was here one week ago.” He spelled the name.
The man took the phone, studied it for a moment, then held it so the flunky could see it. He nodded to the flunky, whose thumbs proceeded to fly over his phone’s keyboard for a moment.
The flunky shook his head. “We have no records of any such person. And there are no passport records of him, either.”
Abundio stared at his contact. “I came here in good faith today. Please don’t insult my intelligence. He sat out in the open and spoke with my daughter seven days ago. He is involved with the Bratva.”
The man reached for the flunky’s phone and started typing. “Send me that picture.” He rattled off a cell phone that was, no doubt, a burner.
Abundio texted it to him.
A moment later, the Russian scowled, then looked at the picture again. “This man is neither Russian nor alive. He is a very dead American.”
Abundio thought he’d misheard him due to the man’s thick Russian accent. “What?”
