Page 5 of Cartel Viper (The Cartel Brotherhood #2)

Good. That means the key card should still work. But who the fuck is Ms. Henderson? As far as I know, Madeline didn’t get married, so that is not her last name. How was she able to check in under an assumed name? She’d need a photo ID and a credit or debit card with that name.

Ding. Ding. Ding.

Red flags and sirens are going off.

“Do you need me to escort you up?”

Nosey fucker .

He isn’t offering to let me in. He wants to know what the fuck is going on. So do I.

“No. I can knock. Thank you.”

I could knock, but I won’t. I make my way to the elevator, growing more impatient as each floor ticks by.

When the elevator pings at the fifth floor, I put my hand on my gun.

I peek out of the elevator, always cautious before stepping into a confined space.

I see no one, and I continue to keep my head down like I did in the elevator.

I don’t need cameras recording my face. I turn toward the room I want, my ears peeled for anyone approaching from behind.

I’m not paranoid, but I’m situationally aware even in my sleep.

I pull the key card from my pocket, not bothering to knock.

I let myself in again, and immediately, I know the room is vacant.

Just like in the parking lot, I sweep my gaze around the room.

It’s spotless. I walk to the kitchen, and everything looks like maid service came through.

Not just the half ass tidying plenty of housekeepers do while a guest occupies the room.

This is ready for the next guest kind of clean.

I head into the bedroom, and the bed is crisply made.

Madeline didn’t sleep in it. This isn’t just she pulled the sheets up.

This is there aren’t any wrinkles. How she managed that, without fresh sheets, means she didn’t untuck them.

I walk into the bathroom, and there’s a lingering scent of disinfectant.

I have a sensitive nose. Spring and fall allergies are a bitch.

If I don’t take an antihistamine twice a day, I’m fucking Rudolph.

I move back into the main room and look around. She wiped down everything. She probably tucked herself into a sleeping bag to keep from messing up the bed. I know she’s a nurse, so she knows how to sanitize things. She obviously did that here.

Touching nothing, I move through the rooms a second time—this time with a far more critical eye.

I’m looking for any smudge or hair. A single thing that leaves a hint about her.

Part of it is to gather evidence of I don’t know what for my use.

The other part is to make sure she left nothing behind someone else could use.

If she went to this much trouble, she’s definitely hiding.

I take nearly half an hour, but I leave knowing as little as I did when I arrived.

I get back to my car and consider what I learned.

She didn’t check out, but I doubt she plans to come back.

I wonder if she recognized me or remembered me, and that’s why she left.

Or did she leave merely because she was scared after having a bunch of narco-traffickers busting into her room?

Will she come back to check out? Or will she do it online? Probably the latter.

Where did she go?

I don’t know what she drives these days, so I definitely don’t know her license plate. I can’t run them myself, so it’s forcing me to ask Joaquin for help. I pull out my phone and inhale.

Fuck my life.

“ Hola, hermano .” Hello, brother.

“ Hola . Can you get into the hotel’s security footage?”

“Which hotel? The one we were at? Do you suspect someone went to see Luigi? Or—are you wondering about that woman?”

That pause was intentional.

“Find out what car she got into.”

“Why?”

“Please.”

“Javier, why?”

“Because I’m asking nicely.”

He scoffs. I was a bit demanding.

“Give me a moment. I just sat down to my computer. Where are you?”

“The hotel.”

He remains quiet. I can guess what he’s thinking.

I’ve already examined my feelings in the time it took me to get back to my car.

Something’s not right, and I can’t turn away from this.

If Madeline’s hiding under a fake name, she’s desperate to get away from someone or something.

With the protection she could get from her in-laws, something is seriously wrong for her to be on her own.

My brother isn’t asking questions because he knows he won’t get answers until I’m ready to give them.

“She got into a subcompact with Maine plates.”

He reads them off to me as I put them in a note in my phone.

“Maine?”

“Yeah. It’s a deep-blue four-door.”

“Can you run it to see if it’s a rental?”

“Give me a moment.”

I hear him tapping on his keyboard again. I keep myself from tapping my fingers on the center console.

“It’s registered to a Caitlyn Henderson. Who’s that?”

“I don’t know.” Why’s Madeline using that name?

“Do you want me to track it?”

“Yeah. Please.”

I remember my manners a little faster this time. I’m usually way more polite, but this shit has my mind spinning. I know it’ll take him a few minutes to get her whereabouts if he has to run through the city’s camera records to follow the car from here to wherever she is.

“She’s in Jersey. She left before we did.”

Did she go to her parents? How the fuck didn’t any of our guys see her?

“She took a weird route to near Montclair, considering she didn’t stop. She took the Verrazano Bridge to the Staten Island Expressway, then across the Goethals Bridge.”

She went to her parents if she’s near Montclair. “Did she take Ninety-Five up to the Turnpike then Essex Freeway?”

“No. That’s part of what’s weird. She took surface streets through Elizabeth, went up the Garden State Parkway, then got on the Essex Freeway.”

She went south to go north. She could’ve just taken the Brooklyn Bridge into Manhattan, then taken the Holland Tunnel over to Jersey. From there, the Turnpike to Essex Freeway would take her close to Montclair. She really didn’t want to be followed.

“Can you tell where she stopped?”

“Somewhere in Montclair. She got on surface streets that don’t have cameras.”

“Okay.”

“Why do you think she took such a circuitous route? Was she worried we’d follow her? I have no footage of her leaving Montclair.”

“Maybe.”

I turn my Porsche on and look at the screen as I reverse out of my parking spot. It’s not until I’m in drive that I speak again.

“Joaquin, she’s Laura’s little sister.”

My announcement is met with a moment of silence before my brother responds with surprise.

“Madeline?”

“Yeah.”

“No. She was way skinnier than Madeline ever was. She was way paler too. Madeline was always outside with Laura. While Laura used to fade in winter, Madeline had a perma-tan. We used to tease that she fake-baked to look like she belonged to Pablo’s family instead of hers.

That she wanted to be Pablo’s little sister rather than Laura’s. ”

None of us mention Juan if we can avoid it.

Laura wasn’t a bossy big sister, but she certainly had opinions.

Pablo would stand up for Madeline because he would’ve swapped either sister for Juan.

His younger brother was a real pissant. Pablo would let Juan pick on him because he knew if he unleashed his temper, he’d be the one in trouble for picking on his baby brother. He’d get back at Juan in other ways.

“Why on earth would Madeline stay somewhere like that when she was so close to home?”

“She’s hiding something or from someone. You saw the bruises on her wrist.”

“I did. What are you going to do about it?”

Even if I can’t see him, I’m certain my brother cocks his eyebrow at me, already knowing the answer.

Even if he can’t see me, my answer is a raised eyebrow in return.

I usually don’t subscribe to “what my family doesn’t know won’t hurt them.

” At least, most of the time, I don’t. In this case, I don’t know what I’m going to do, so it’s better if I don’t speak out of turn.

My brother trusts me not to fly off the handle, but I won’t settle for less than the full story.

She owes me that.