He’s Kane’s uncle.
And he’s not armed, but he doesn’t have to be, not with his men all pointing guns at me.
“Hello, Miguel,” I say, stepping in front of him and pointing my gun at him.
“Agent Lilah Love,” he replies in a heavily accented voice. “About time we met.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Miguel and I make eye contact and I find something familiar there. He’s a killer. I don’t wonder what he sees in mine. Maybe he sees the same in mine. Maybe he doesn’t, but what he doesn’t see is fear.
“Tell your man to let go of the woman,” I order, “or I swear to you, I will shoot you between the eyes.”
Kane steps to my side, his presence a punch of power even I can’t deny. “She’ll do it,” he warns. “And then I’ll have to bury another body.”
“Another body?” Miguel quips. “What the fuck?”
“Yes,” Kane assures him. “Another body.” Kane eyes the man holding Marilyn and lifts a hand. The man doesn’t hesitate. He releases her and Jay rushes forward and guides her away from the scene. Kane waves at the other men and they lower their weapons and back away, out of the scene as well. Almost as if Kane is in charge, not Miguel, I think sardonically.
“Lilah, you can put the gun down,” Kane says coolly. “My uncle and I need to have a private conversation.”
I lower my weapon but it stays in my hand. And I damn sure don’t leave. Not yet. I step closer to Miguel, really damn close, and I say, “If you ever come up on me in an alley like this again, or scare one of my witnesses, I will kill you.”
He laughs. “You’re an FBI agent. You won’t do that.”
I smirk. “Won’t I? You must think I give two fucks about my badge.”
I give him my back, telling him I don’t fear him. This time, I step in front of Kane and say, “We can stay. But he won’t last long.”
His face is stony, but I see a glow of respect in his eyes. I’m not sure how I feel about that right about now.
I step around him and start walking. No one joins Kane. Because he doesn’t need help. That’s how in control he is. And that very notion defies our many conversations on the topic of the cartel. Kit motions me inside the coffee bar. I charge inside, and pissed off and driven by adrenaline, I step inside the seating area to find Marilyn hugging herself and waiting on me with Jay by her side.
“What the hell was that?” she demands, her voice trembling as she motions to Jay. “He won’t tell me anything.”
“That was boys behaving badly,” I say. “Kind of like Rip behaved badly.”
“Rip is dead!” she exclaims. “Are we going to die?”
Jesus, I think. For someone who sat by while others were taunted and said nothing for who knows how long, really, she’s easily rattled. “Why did you run?”
“This whole thing has me spooked. I had second thoughts about coming forward. What if I end up a target?”
It’s a logical concern, even if I don’t believe her. I think it’s all part of a big act meant to make me believe she’s a scared victim. “You have us here protecting you. As long as that remains the case, you’ll be fine. Right now, you’re going to go home and pack.”
“Jay’s still her chaperone,” Kit interjects.
“Jay,” I say, eyeing Marilyn, “would be the man standing beside you who you were just complaining about. Word of advice. Don’t be cranky to the men who swear to take a bullet for you. As I said, he’s going to take you home to pack for New Hampshire.”
My cellphone rings and I grab it from my bag, to find Lucas’s number on caller ID. “Talk to me.”
“Last contact between Marilyn and Rip was six and a half months ago. And it was about fourteen months ago when his number first started showing up in her records.”
Seems the kinky blonde bitch was honest about at least some things. Let’s hope that means everything. “Stand by, Lucas,” I order. “I’m going to need you.” I disconnect and glance at Marilyn. “Good news. I confirmed your story. I’m going to pick up your immunity agreement. I’ll call Jay when I have it and you two can meet us at the lockbox. And as a side note, if you’re afraid of Jay, don’t be. He’s my personal bodyguard and a good guy. He took a bullet for me and I’m pretty sure he didn’t even like me at the time. Questions?”
“Who were those men?”
“Cartel,” I tell her frankly, and I do so because a) it’s the truth, and b) she needs to have as many reasons as possible to cooperate. “Kane is not his father, who you must know was a very bad man, but I can’t change the fact he’s his son. They’re still protective of him. And this is what happens when you start throwing the Mendez name around.”
“Oh my God. Are they here for me?”
“Just a misunderstanding,” I say. “And I’ll keep it that way.” I motion to the front of the building. “Unlock the door for me.”
With that, I head in that direction, not about to exit into that shit show out back. Marilyn hurries forward and unlocks the door. Kit motions me to the right, toward a black Mercedes. I hate Mercedes. They drive like a basic bitch of a car but still cost a small fortune. Kind of like a cupcake that looks beautiful and tastes like cardboard.
I hesitate at the passenger door, frustrated by the scene behind the coffee bar, debating a return to Kane and Miguel.
“Don’t do it,” Kit says over the roof, about to climb into the car on the driver’s side. “Let Kane do what Kane does.”
And I have to do what I do right now, I remind myself. I inhale and force myself to climb inside the car. Kit starts the car. “Where to?”
“To the precinct to see Chief Houston.”
By now, everyone on our team knows where to find Houston, and Kit sets us in motion. And by doing so, we leave Kane behind with the cartel.
And while I have no doubt he will survive them just fine, surviving what I have in store for him is another story.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
On the ride to the precinct, I call Andrew and give him the rundown.
“Holy mother of God,” he says.
“At this point, I don’t think we need to bother her. We need that data file. It could give us the best guess on who’s a target, and who might be our killer.” I shift subjects. “What happened with the fake Naomi sous chef?”
“Her name is Ann Casey. She has family in Boston. We have the Boston PD aiding us. They’re questioning the family.”
“Anything in the car?”
“I don’t know yet.”
“What do we know?” I ask.
“Basics. She’s twenty-eight and was a waitress at a hotel in New York City.”
“Did she have a background or hobbies that suggest she might be trying to sell some sort of product or invention?”