Page 3 of Blurred Red Lines

If the situation didn’t screw us nine ways till Sunday, I would’ve laughed. But nothing about a betrayal in a cartel’s ranks warranted humor. “What do they have?”

“Our informant on the inside says three months of wiretapping. They’re moving tomorrow.”

Without thinking, I ran my hand through my hair, dislodging it from the carefully combed back style my father favored. I cursed as unruly strands dusted over my forehead. “Who?”

Mateo hesitated. “Nando.”

My shoulders hunched as a dagger lodged deep in my back. Nando Fuentes sat next to me as we crossed the border six years ago. He’d been with me from the beginning, and to find out he’d sold my soul for his own tested my control.

“What has he told them?”

“According to our informant, just details about upcoming shipments.” Mateo shifted the paper from hand to hand. “No names or chain of command, but…”

“But?”

He steeled his expression, holding my stare. “He’s flipping.”

Regaining my composure, I pressed my fingers together for a moment before reaching into my pocket for my phone. Hitting a coded button, I dialed the last number I wanted to call. It annoyed me to need a favor from anyone—especially him.

After several rings, he answered with a smirk in his voice. “Carrera, what a pleasant surprise.”

I gripped the edges of my desk to calm myself and tempered my voice. “Harcourt, we have a slight situation.”

“Why doesn’t that surprise me?”

I paused a moment to stop a knee-jerk reaction I’d regret. “How’s the bid for the district attorney nomination coming?”

“Steady,” he answered cautiously. “DA Garrison is all but out the door. Favorability polls are looking up.”

“Good.” I knew I’d hit him where it counted and went in for the kill. “As I said, there’s been a situation. My lieutenant tells me it’s with one of my men and a DEA agent. Is it a bluff or has he already made a deal?”

“It’s not a bluff,” he said after a long pause. “He hasn’t talked yet, but they’re coming for him tomorrow.”

“I need a glitch in the paperwork to stall them.”

A slow sigh preceded a hush in his voice. “Damn it, Carrera, this isn’t the time to be sticking my hands in evidence.”

He should have thought of that before he stuck his hands in cartel business to get access to Houston’s first Latino mayor for career advancement. Having Houston’s first Latino mayor’s ear came in handy.

“Think long and hard, Harcourt. It’d be a shame for someone to be tipped off about a few grams in your car. No one would elect a junkie DA.”

“Asshole,” he growled. “You wouldn’t. Besides, how do you know I’m not recording this whole conversation?”

“Because you’re not a suicidal moron. You think an assistant district attorney scares me, Harcourt?” I leaned back in the noisy chair. “I’ve poured men like you down drains with nothing left but a bad smell. You want to take the risk? It’s been a while since I’ve made soup.”

Silence between us had a smile breaking across my face. The soup talk always clinched the win in an argument with Americans. They wanted to believe it was an urban legend but didn’t want to take the risk to find out.

“Fine,” he mumbled, clearly irritated. “Name?”

“Nando Fuentes. And hurry; I don’t like to wait.” I disconnected the line before he could respond. I’d learned the tactic from my father. Always end a conversation with the last word—by whatever means necessary.

I turned to Mateo. “Take care of him.”

A slow blink indicated his acknowledgement of Nando’s fate. “Fifty-five-gallon drum? The acid will leave no trace within three hours.”

Hell, no. I wanted a trace. Pieces of Nando were going totraceall over the goddamn place for his betrayal.

“No,” I replied calmly. “I want a message sent. Make it look like a murder-suicide. You know thepolicíaaround here. They’ll claim that’s what it was whether they believe it or not.”