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“Gallup, New Mexico. Two of my men were meeting our new distributer when they saw her.”
“Tell me the nearest airport.” Vincente was already moving. “I’ll have the pilot ready the plane.”
Silence.
The pause grated on his nerves. “What is it?”
“A man interfered—former military, my men think. Skilled. He and Abigail escaped before they could follow.”
Vincente’s temper soared, seeking release. “Your men?” Venom slipped into his voice. “The last time I checked, they worked for me.”
“Sí, primo.Perdóname. I meant no disrespect.”
A breath hissed between Vincente’s teeth. He was tired. Too tired to fight with family tonight. “Find out who this soldier is. Reach out to our new business partners. See what help they can offer. And make that fucking detective you hired earn his pay.”
If Abigail ran again, he wanted her alone and undefended. He was running out of time to bring her back under his protection before his father or Tío Ramón took matters into their own hands.
“No mistakes,” he warned Juan. “If this soldier—thiscabrón—surfaces again, handle it.”
Chapter Seven
Morningsunlightsweptawaythe night’s gloom, painting the Navajo Nation in bright yellow and azure blue. Caleb pulled into the Episcopal mission lot a half hour ahead of schedule. Stepping out of the Jeep, he shrugged into his black suit coat, the ache in the back of his shoulder a reminder of the previous night’s events.
Crisp, clean air frosted his lungs.
The church was a study of right angles—flat-roofed, squared off, clad in red sandstone. An ornate white cross topped its bell tower. A white van from the funeral home sat near the end of the gravel strip. Two black Tahoes with official Navajo Nation plates took up the front spaces closer to the blue entrance doors.
His shoulders locked, muscles strung tight.
He hadn’t arrived early enough—his grandfather was here.
Gravel crunched underfoot as he approached the covered entrance and pushed into the vestibule. The furnace belched out warm air, smelling of aged wood, worn stone, and old leather. The sanctuary beyond was bright and airy, white stucco walls lined with Navajo art, the ceiling high and crossed with weathered wooden beams.
He strolled down the aisle between white pine pews, his gaze drawn to the large silver and turquoise cross. White roses and Asiatic lilies spilled from pedestal stands on either side of the sandstone altar. Theircloying scent dragged him back to a different funeral. A teammate. Killed in combat. He understood that kind of death.
This? This was different.
Breathing through his mouth, he shoved the memory away.
Two men stood deep in conversation at the pulpit.
One of them, Floyd Parker, he recognized from the funeral home. Thick around the middle, thinning gray hair and a red flush to his pasty white complexion, he fit the stereotype in Caleb’s head of a funeral director. He noticed Caleb’s approach and hurried over, speaking in a hushed tone that was as much a part of his work ensemble as his black suit and tie.
“Mister Varella. Everything is arranged. Once again, I’m sorry for your loss.”
The hollow ache in Caleb’s chest tightened. “Thank you. I’d like to see my mother.”
“Of course. If you’ll follow me.” Parker led him through a side corridor. “Your grandfather is with her now.”
Caleb swallowed the curse forming. He’d hoped for a few precious moments alone with hisamá.
No such luck.
Two Diné men in dark suits flanked a closed door—a security detail. Their alert posture, watchful gazes, and suit coats sized to accommodate vests and concealed weapons all added up to executive protection, like him.
Only it wasn’t his mother they were guarding.
Opening his suit coat, he waited for the pat down. “I’m not carrying.”