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Chapter One
Thewintersky,alreadysullen with iron-gray clouds, dropped its curtain of starless night, coating everything in darkness. The rain stopped, the squeak of windshield wipers on dry glass setting his teeth on edge, so he turned them off.
Caleb Varella glanced at his rental Jeep’s dashboard.Eighteen-thirty.
The smell of the funeral home he’d just left—antiseptic and lilies, sharp and sickly sweet—clung to his skin. He needed a drink. Not for pleasure, but for distraction.
Something acidic enough to dissolve the past clawing its way into his present.
His headlights bounced off wet asphalt, casting desert scrub in ghostly white. Up ahead, the desolate terrain gave way to the artificial glow of civilization as he entered the outskirts of Gallup, New Mexico, the closest place that would meet all his needs tonight—liquor, food, a warm bed, and anonymity. Even with a relatively meager population of twenty-one thousand, Gallup was the regional hub for tribal communities that straddled the northern Arizona–New Mexico border.
A weight pressed on his shoulders. Grit scratched his eyes. If he were smart, he’d find the nearest motel and faceplant on a cheap mattress. A month providing close protection for a silicon valley tech guru settingup a hub in Kenya’s new Konza Technopolis and then, the phone call. His mother was dead. An overdose.
His mother, who’d been sober for over five years.
He turned onto old Route 66, passing budget motels, fast food joints, and a self-storage facility.
A glowing red neon sign caught his eye.
Lucero’s Lounge.
First, that drink.
A square adobe squatter, the bar sat between two empty lots of dormant grass and scrub, as if quarantined from more respectable businesses. Between that and the weeds sprouting in the cracked pavement up front, this was no tourist hot spot.
On satellite radio, an 80s rock queen went full throttle about being alone. Caleb guided the Jeep into the gravel lot on the side of the building. A chain-link fence separated the property from railroad tracks, where a Burlington Northern Santa Fe train rumbled on, with no visible beginning or end.
A lone security light cast a dim yellow haze over the three parked vehicles. Given it was Tuesday, they likely belonged to a few diehard locals who wouldn’t give him the time of day.
Perfect.
He wasn’t good company right now, anyway. He killed the engine and stepped out, cutting the songstress off before her last lonely notes faded away. Chill, damp air muted the smell of diesel and neglect in his surroundings, and nipped at skin left exposed by his white t-shirt.
His phone buzzed as he strolled to the bar’s entrance. He glanced at the message from Danny Mayhew, one of his colleagues at Dìleas Security Agency, and ignored it like he had the others. Condolences, even the well-meant ones, twisted his gut. He’d figure out what to say when he returned to DC.
His childhood wasn’t something he talked about.
With anyone.
Five years. Last year, his mom had busted her knee but refused anything stronger than ibuprofen. Said she didn’t trust herself around stronger pills.
Which made the way she died—fentanyl disguised as oxy—even harder to stomach. A new, deadly variant, according to the Phoenix police.
Where the hell had she gotten the pills from? His drug-dealing old man had been killed in a Phoenix back alley years ago. Eighteen, in fact.
A day of celebration as far as Caleb was concerned. Not his mother, though. She’d actually mourned the bastard.
Caleb gave the glass door a weary tug. He should have called her more often.
Should have gone to Phoenix during the holidays instead of accepting that protection job in Mexico City no one else wanted because it was over Christmas. He’d been meaning to visit her after.
Then the Kenya job came up.
Inside the bar, warm air leached the chill from his bones. Burnt tobacco invaded his nose. Stale beer stuck to his boots.
It was as expected for a dive. Dim lights, wood-paneled walls, beer brand placards and a mishmash of Americana and Native art. The bartender, stocky with a face weathered by desert sun and black hair streaked with gray, slouched near two old-timers with Desert Storm ball caps.
Veterans like him, but from a different war.