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The scent of Ortega’s fear was a sickly sweet perfume.
Caleb leaned closer, whispered into the man’s ear.
“You two are expendable.”
He let the words sit with Ortega and his sidekick for a moment.
“And when the boss finds out the Aztec Kings are looking to cut a side deal with another cartel…”
He tsked softly.
“I bet that won’t sit too well withEl Víbora.”
Sweat beaded on Ortega’s forehead. His gaze darted from the Glock to Caleb’s face.
“You’re lying,” he wheezed. “The Kings are solid.”
One motto of the Green Beret was “Improvise, Adapt, and Overcome.” And Caleb had just thought of a way to throw Espina Negra into disarray.
He eased back, arching a brow in cold amusement.
“Am I? I hear one of the Mexican motorcycle gangs is looking to push north, into Arizona and New Mexico. They’ll need local partners. Who better to connect with than the Aztec Kings?”
Fear flared in Emilio’s eyes, his Adam’s apple bobbing on a swallow.
Ortega’s fists clenched helplessly.
“If I’m right,” Caleb continued, “El Víbora’s going to blame someone—might as well be you.”
Time to twist the knife.
“Look at you, old man,” he sneered. “All these years with Espina Negra and you’re still an errand boy. “Once Lopez guts you, he’ll go after the Aztec Kings. No one double crosses Espina Negra and lives to tell about it.”
He slid one foot back.
Then another, keeping his gun trained on the men.
Before he left, he delivered one final promise.
“And tell that prick in Miami, Vincente Garcia, that the woman is under my protection. He sends anyone after her again…”
Caleb let a feral grin curl his lips.
“…he’ll answer to me. This is desert country, where the wind and the sand steal your screams—and secrets stay buried forever.”
Palming the doorknob, he slipped into the night.
Chapter Ten
Thesunpeekedoverthe mesa, gilding the frost on the sagebrush in gold as Caleb drove Gia to work the morning after his mother’s funeral. The air was crisp but clean, with the promise of new beginnings.
Which Caleb needed. Tension knotted his shoulders. Last night, he’d let his grief and rage get the better of him. In the light of day, he could see how recklessly he’d waved a red flag in front of the cartel—while he was supposed to be protecting the woman sitting next to him.
Gia wore navy slacks and a pale blue blouse beneath her white doctor’s coat, her long hair confined in a twist. The small navy backpack she used as her work bag sat on the floor between her feet. The aroma of cinnamon-laced coffee in the travel mug she gripped drifted toward him, rich and spiced. Her posture was too rigid, her glances in the side mirror too frequent.
Half-truths, evasive answers. Her past a mystery she refused to share.
It wasn’t paranoia—he’d honed the ability to read people in the Army.