"As in later today."
I eye the IV port, the bruise beneath the tape. "You’re leaving the hospital against medical advice, and you want me to fly you to Mexico?"
"Can you?"
"Yes."
"Then do."
"No." I let it hang, just to watch the spark in her eyes. "Not until I know if we’re chasing smoke."
She slides off the bed with more grace than her chart would approve. Pain flickers and goes out. "Fine," she says. "I’ll fly myself."
"Sit," I command. "You’re not getting in a cockpit with two holes in you."
Her eyebrow lifts. "You offering to carry me, Conti?"
"If that’s what it takes."
We stare each other down until the corner of her mouth betrays her. "Can you be ready," she asks, all business again, "to take us to Mexico the second I get the ping?"
"Yes." I pull out my phone and send two texts. Dre will have the jet ready to leave at a moment’s notice, and one of my trusted lieutenants, Lucas Bocelli, will get a standby ground team in El Paso ready to enter Mexico. "We'll have two jets and a standby team."
"You think of everything," she says lightly, but the approval under it is real.
"Comes from losing too much."
Another ding. She checks; her brows tighten, then smooth. "Update: tail number popped up again south ofCreel, nothing since then. No manifest, but the timing lines up with a convoy outside Guachochi. My guy says they bought a lot of medical equipment, and the prisoner is American."
"Nico."
She lifts a shoulder, and her head turns from side to side. There is a warning in her eyes not to jump to conclusions, but we are both betting on the same horse. Still, she cautions, "Or a decoy. My guess? It's him. They flew him to Creel, had him patched up, and now they're housing him somewhere nearby." She watches me carefully. I know her well enough that she isn't the type to mince words, and I brace myself. "Nico was shot in the gut. The air transport was risky, driving him across the desert?" She shakes her head.
"So they're keeping him somewhere around Creel. Send me your pins," I try not to think about Nico having been shot in the gut. I can't. I've seen injuries like that go sideways too many times. And that was in hospitals with proper medical care. There is no telling what the Mexicans were able to scavenge up.
A second later, I receive the coordinates from Ana, and I forward them to Dre and Lucas. Dre sends back a thumbs-up and a skull. Comedian. While I get a thumbs-up from Lucas.
My eyes scan the room, find a small jar of lotion, and add it to the bag. "Let's go."
She watches me, amused, and mumbles, almost to herself, "You’re enjoying this."
"Which part?"
"Bossing me around."
"I’m enjoying you doing what I say." I wink at her.
"And when I'm not?"
"Then I enjoy us arguing," I reply, and her laugh is warmer than the room deserves.
I help her into the jacket I brought: lightweight, soft, black. My fingers find her shoulder through the fabric, a careful pressure where scar tissue will live. She goes still for a breath, then turns, close enough that I can count the gold flecks in her jade green eyes.
"You going to bring your wife to Vegas?" she asks, eyes hooked to mine. "Or are you ashamed of me?"
"How do you know about Vegas, and I don’t get ashamed," I say. "I get strategic."
"And strategically?"
