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“If he exists.”

I check weapons, add extra ammo, and hand Seamus a gun.

He takes it. “Something here stinks.”

“Of course it does, Seamus,” I say. “It’s either a test or a trap. We treat it as a trap. Get the girl, this Pella if we can, and then shoot to kill whoever’s left. Look up Pella. See what you can find on him.”

“Well,” Seamus says a minute later after lightning fast research is done. “Pella’s real. And an ugly bastard. He travels with crews. They’ll be armed.”

“Hence the shooting to kill, Seamus.” I sigh and light a cigarette. “Fuck it, if the asshole doesn’t look in the mood to talk, kill him. A sixteen-year-old’s more likely to talk our ears off.”

“De Rosa’s right, I got the name of the father, and he’s small, but someone we’d definitely want to dobusiness with.”

“Maybe the girl knows something.”

“You can’t use a child, Callahan.”

I give him a dark look and blow smoke at him. “I said talk. And then we return her. We’ve got a nice safe house. Make arrangements.”

He mutters something rude as he does what I ask, and I blow out another stream of smoke, letting my thoughts circle in no particular way as we head to Jamaica. Nothing jumps out. I’m not sure what to think of Vincent. He asked for a crew or anyone we knew who’d handle this. And then he showed us the info on the girl and her father.

As Clive parks just down from the shuttered restaurant in Jamaica, a delivery truck pulls up. Two guys start hauling out crates of vegetables and sacks of rice. An actual delivery, but the guy who takes it doesn’t look like any sort of restauranteur.

It’s the perfect distraction.

“Clive? Wait for the signal, and the moment either we, or a girl, comes out, I want you moving. If it’s the girl, grab her. If it’s us, be ready to take off.”

“I know how to do my job, Cal.”

“Fucker.”

With that, Seamus and I head for the back door. The manager’s office is back here, and I can hear someone crying inside. A girl.

At least that part’s true.

Seamus picks the lock and I look at the girl once we’re in.

“Quit your crying and go with him,” I say. “Silently. Now.”

“Cal.”

I send them off with a wave of my hand and creep deeper inside. There’s something off about this.

I inch down the hall, past the restrooms to the restaurant. Outside, a truck starts up, and voices filter from the kitchen.Then I see him. Pella.

He’s drinking from a bottle of tequila at the bar. Not exactly the mastermind of an operation. More like a man hired to do a job and waiting for his next order. So I grab him, smash his head against the bar, break three fingers, and twist his arm so sharp behind his back something snaps.

Then I loop my arm around his neck and stick my gun to his temple. “You’re going to tell me what the fuck you know about Vincent de Rosa, and I’ll decide just how little pain you’ll go through before you die. Deal?”

The guy tries to fight. Fuck this. He’s the kind of nasty you hire when you don’t want any information getting out. Namely because he has none to give. I pull the trigger, right as I see something on the floor.

I know what it is.

A fucking bomb.

They knew that we’d show up here and were ready to take us out. Because of de Rosa.

Son of a bitch.