“Of course.” He’s so smug, I want to punch him through the phone. Or tell him I know he’s dirty as fuck.
“There’s precious little we know about her. Do you have any hard details? Age? Height? Eye color? And any weaknesses. I need an edge. Anythin’ you can give me.”
“I am getting another call that I must take right now. May I send you an email message with this information?”
“That would be brilliant. Thank you.” He hangs up mid-sentence, and I snort. “He’s either spooked and knows we’re on to him or he’s about to contact someone in the cartel.”
Zephyr looks up briefly. “What happened?”
“He said he’d email me. Claimed he had another call he had to take.” Heading for the kitchen to make a fresh pot of tea, I call over my shoulder, “If he’d truly been the case officer in charge, he’d have ready answers to all my questions. He’s stallin’ so he can get them.”
“I’m in!” Zephyr announces, pumping her fist and grinning at me when I peer around the kitchen wall. “At the bank. Get over here. Let’s see what we can find on Martín—aka Michael Lawrence.”
The fire is back in her eyes, thank God, and as soon as the tea’s ready, I join her. “I can’t wait for you to meet Wren. She’s goin’ to love you.”
Her shoulders stiffen for a brief moment before she forces out a breath. “I hope that happens,” she says softly. “That I’m stillhereafter tomorrow. Or…anywhere.”
“You will be.” The urge to give her my promise clogs my throat, but before I can clear it, Zephyr clicks on a file with Michael Lawrence’s name on it.
“Yes!” she hisses, almost to herself. “Got a phone number.”
Holy shit. It’s right there in black and white. The PO Box number and address the bank manager gave to Oliver are at the top of the file, but in a notes field at the bottom, a Boston-based phone number.
“Call him. Right now, luv. You have to warn him the cartel’s comin’ for him. I can get a team to any address in the city in a little over an hour. If he wants to come in, he’ll be protected.”
The look she shoots me? It might just be love.
* * *
Zephyr
With my phone on the table in front of us, I dial what I hope is Martín’s number. Since Dante was the one who told me his alias, I can’t be positive, but why else would Oliver and Theo want to find him?
“Who is this?”
I’d know the raspy male voice with a hint of a French accent anywhere. Martín taught me so much over the years. Knots—and how to escape them—how to fool facial recognition algorithms, hotwire a car, pick locks…
Every bit of practical, hands-on knowledge I have? He influenced all of it.
“It’s Zephyr.”
The call disconnects immediately, and the overwhelming frustration and disappointment threaten to pull me under.
“That was him, yeah?” Ronan asks. Strong fingers stroke up and down my thigh, and I grab his hand, needing an anchor in all this chaos.
“Yes. I lived in the same house with him for more than ten years. I’d know his voice anywhere.”
“Maybe he doesn’t know you left?”
I don’t want to dash his hope. Probably because I don’t have any left of my own. But I have no choice. “He knows. He’s the one who told me about all the bad shit François was into. He made me promise to leave, and when I did…he sent me a message. One sentence. ‘I’m proud of you.’”
“Try again. Maybe you surprised him. Maybe he didn’t know what to say.”
There’s that hope again. The man has it in spades, and I can’t muster enough to pick up the phone. Ronan has to dial for me, but the call goes straight to voicemail.
“Would he trust you more if he saw your face?” Ronan asks. “Trevor’s an expert at readin’ micro expressions. He can tell when someone’s lyin’ to him by how fast they blink, their speech patterns, where they’re lookin’.”
“You expect him to pick up a video call?” I huff out a laugh. “He’s definitelynotgoing to do that.”
