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Slowly the familiar sneering smile which had been a comfortable mask for thirty years found its way back to his face, bringing with it the cold control that was his armor, his superpower, his shield against the weakness of human vulnerability. Rhett exhaled in relief, blinked away some wetness from his eyes, focused his mind back on Benson, back on vengeance, back on the game that he sensed was within his grasp now, within his reach, like this serendipitous revelation had taken away Benson’s advantage, given Rhett the chance to go all-in and play his wild-card, his joker.
He glanced at his laptop screen.
The search for Diego’s van was complete.
He scrolled down the list to the last known location, glancing at his watch, then back at the screen. Last traffic-cam capture was thirty minutes ago. Junction of Case Avenue and 86th Street in Southeast Baltimore.
Rhett zoomed in on the snapshot, then clicked over to the Maryland traffic-cam live-streams to scan the area in more detail, see if the van was parked somewhere close to its last-known spot.
He knew that particular Southeast Baltimore neighborhood—not well, but enough to know it was an up-and-coming area of town, lower rents and some boarded-up buildings but relatively safe compared to some other parts of Southeast Baltimore. No drug-slingers on the corners or drive-by shootings at noon. Bustling retail doing brisk business during the day. Quiet at night, with just a couple of small bars and restaurants, maybe a grocer or drugstore staying open late.
Rhett switched between the live cameras, zooming in on an apartment building down the block, hoping he’d see the van parked outside the front door.
No luck.
He flipped to another intersection, a couple of blocks away, in the direction the van had been pointed thirty minutes ago.
Jackpot.
The van was parked in an almost-empty lot attached to a little strip-mall. It was too far away to read the plates, which was why the NSA search hadn’t hit. But it was definitely the van.
The strip-mall looked deserted, with a nail-salon and a wash-n-fold laundry both shuttered for the night. But there was one shop window with a neon OPEN light still blazing beneath the painted store-sign.
A little Mexican bodega.
The sign saidMercy’s.
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“Lord have mercy. I cannot eat another bite.” Diego Vargas spread his palms wide over his empty plate, shaking his head vigorously as Mercy tried to serve him another steamy-hot tamale wrapped in corn-husk, dripping with delicious goodness that reminded Diego of times long past, days long gone, memories long dead.
And that wasn’t the only memory Mercy’s unexpected invitation had triggered in Diego’s calloused heart—a heart which had long since gone cold, died that sunny afternoon decades ago when his entire world turned dark, when his two pretty, smiling, dancing, loving reasons for living had been taken away, torn away, raped and murdered away while Diego was held down and forced to watch, forced to witness, forced to understand that Mexico was run by the Cartels, that being a proud honorable Mexican Special Forces hero did not exempt you from the law of the land, the rules of the game, the consequences of breaking those rules.
And the warm homely scent of fresh tamales wasn’t the only thing that triggered desperately yearning memories that afternoon when Mercy had invited Diego into the back room to fix a leaky faucet.
At first Diego had stared hungrily at the pleasing way Mercy’s bottom moved as he followed her into the back room. If this had not been the United States—which at least hadsomesemblance of the rule of law—Diego might have taken what he wanted right then and there, behind the counter with Mercy bent forward, head pushed down on the greasy glass, her screams filling the air as he rammed into her deep and hard from behind, the only way he ever did it these days, the only way he liked it now, with violence and anger, a mad desire to drag everyone into the darkness where he’d been dragged that ugly afternoon, into that cave of deranged horror where he permanently lived now, eternally drowning in a psychic cesspool of blood and vengeance that had once been a good man’s soul.
A good husband’s soul.
A good father’s soul.
“Are you my father?”
The question had cut through Diego’s heart that afternoon when he followed Mercy into the back room of her little bodega. He’d been startled not just by the child but by the matter-of-fact innocence with which the little black-haired girl had looked up doe-eyed from where she sat cross-legged on the floor, a coloring-book open to the image of a prancing unicorn, bright crayons scattered all around her like glowing pixie-sticks in a magical garden.
Diego had lost his voice in that moment, his breath taken from him, his entire body wrenched down by the way his gut seized. Thankfully Mercy stepped in, her cheeks bright with blush as she hurriedly answered her daughter’s question which had been asked with the unfiltered innocence of a child yet untainted by the ugliness of reality.
“No, Cari,” Mercy had said, glancing apologetically at Diego, then squatting down to her daughter’s level and sweeping the mess of crayons into a neat line. “You know your Papa is in heaven.”
Cari frowned at her mother, then peered past Mercy’s shoulder towards Diego. Her gaze made Diego’s gut wrench again, like something solid was in there trying to get out, a ball of memory so dark his brain refused to store it as visual images, instead shoving it down into some blind space in his body where it festered like a pustule, ticked like a time-bomb.
For a startling moment Diego thought he saw his own lost little girl in Cari’s doe-eyed gaze. Then he blinked and it was gone, leaving him soaked in sweat, like a fever had risen and broken. His legs felt like jelly, and it took considerable focus just to stay upright and force a stiff smile at the little girl looking up at him, lookingintohim.
Cari’s little face scrunched up into a pout, like perhaps she was disappointed that Diego wasn’t her Papa. Diego shrugged with playful apology, then flashed an involuntarily warm wink that made the child giggle.
Cari gave him a little wave, still holding a stubby blue crayon. Then Cari glanced back at Mercy, and in a whisper that easily carried to Diego’s ears, said, “Is Papa in heaven now? Because sometimes you say he is in hell where he belongs. I hear you say it sometimes.”
Mercy stiffened. She sighed, then gently took the crayon from Cari’s fingers, closed the coloring book, leaned close to her daughter, whispered something softly in her ear.