“I owe you way more than a beer,” Linc said, following him to the door. “Figure out what you guys need for the clubhouse and consider it done.”
Tag grinned and waved. Swinging a leg over the seat of the bike, hegrabbed the handlebars, revved the engine, and shot off down the road back to the front gate, his shaggy brown hair flying out behind him.
“You think it’s true?” Carly asked.
“Makes sense. Explains the connection between the two men.”
“You know, there was something very distinctive about Zapata’s voice. A gruff, sort of guttural sound when he said certain words. That was the reason I was so sure it was him the night of the gala. If his first language was Arabic not Spanish—”
“That could explain it. We need to know more about Al-Razi’s family.”
“We need to call Taggart.”
He nodded. “The FBI can get the DNA results a lot faster than we can.”
Grabbing his cell, he punched Quinn’s contact number, heard the agent’s familiar voice come over the line.
“I’ve got something for you,” Linc said.
“We could sure use a break in the case. What is it?”
“Physical evidence that Raul Zapata and Hassan Al-Razi are brothers.”
“Jesus.”
“Exactly. In return, I want to know what else was in the trailer.”
Taggart cursed. “Not on the phone. I can be at your place by noon.”
“All right. We can meet at the big house. I’ll see you there at noon.” Linc hung up the phone.
* * *
Right on time, Quinn Taggart showed up at the mansion at exactly twelve o’clock. Carly looked up to see Mrs. Delinski showing the blond FBI agent into the study, where she and Linc were waiting.
“So what have you got?” Taggart asked, wasting no time as Linc led him over to the ornate rosewood table and chairs near the fireplace and all of them sat down.
Linc picked up the Ziplock bag he’d left on top. “An anonymous source gave me this, says it came from Zapata’s residence. Says it’ll prove he and Hassan Al-Razi are brothers.”
Taggart’s features tightened. “Could be he’s right. After you called, we went back and took another look at Al-Razi, the father. Seems he had two sons—each by a different mother. Both of them lived with him in Mexicowith wife number one. Eventually Hassan, the older sibling, returned with his parents to Saudi Arabia, but the younger boy, Bharat, was still in high school. He had friends there, wanted to stay, so they let him.”
“What happened to him?” Carly asked.
“No idea. Nothing on him after he graduated. He just seemed to fall off the grid.”
“So it’s possible Bharat got into the drug trade with his buddies,” Linc said, “made a little money, then changed his name to Zapata and moved into Texas to build his empire.”
Quinn held up the plastic bag. “If this is Zapata’s DNA, it could link him to Hassan, prove he’s Bharat Al-Razi, and your theory is correct. There’s no chain of evidence, so it won’t stand up in court and it won’t be a perfect match, but it’ll tell us if we’re on the right track.”
Linc’s chair squeaked as he leaned back. “All right, now it’s your turn. What was in the trailer besides human cargo?”
Taggart sighed. “This isn’t for publication.”
“Agreed,” Linc said, and Carly nodded.
“There were three heavy wooden crates in the back, each over five feet long. Each held an FIM-92 Stinger infrared homing, surface-to-air missile, along with the launchers, the warheads—the whole enchilada.”
Carly felt the blood draining out of her face.
