Page 132 of Delta

"I know."

"Stop saying that!" she growls. "I know, I know. Find something else to say."

I say nothing—it's safest.

We crossed the border into Mexico hours ago. A contact in the NIC—Mexico's version of the CIA—placed Mercado somewhere in Central Mexico. This intel is rather thin, however, as it is based more on the movement of Mercado's entourage than his movements. Basically, it's a guess. But it's all we have to go on, so we are on our way to the coordinates my associate at the NIC gave me.

We still have a long way to go.

We have found ourselves in Fresnillo, in the Mexican state of Zacatecas. It's a silver mining town, but lately it has become something of a hub for organized crime. In other words, a perfect place for Mercado to hide in plain sight.

We're at a cafe in Fresnillo's Centro area, sipping sparkling water from sweating bottles. A fan lazily stirs the air overhead, and a bored waitress idly scrolls on her phone with a basket of silverware and a stack of paper napkins in front of her, which she ignores.

On the opposite side of the street is a trucking company's garage, which is our focus. In addition to the usual, normal traffic coming and going from the fenced-in lot, there's a steady influx of old pickups, battered SUVs, and the occasional rattling sedan. Each of these vehicles is packed with armed men. They arrive, park, the men disgorge, and then…nothing. It's very curious.

"What do you think they're doing?" I ask Sophia in Portuguese, rather than Spanish.

She shrugs. "Sucking each other's dicks, I don't know. I don't care. I only care about ripping Rafael's spleen out of his body with my fucking fingers."

"At least thirty men have arrived in the last hour, by my count," I say, ignoring her outburst.

"Wonderful."

I sigh. "Sophia." She ignores me. "Inez."

This gets me a withering stare. "What, Lorenzo?"

"Even if he is in that building, with that many of his men, we can't do anything."

She reaches into the backpack at her feet and withdraws a frag grenade. "Sure, we can."

I reach across the table and push her hand down. "Jesus fucking Christ, Sophia," I snap in English. "Put that fucking thing away. Do you want to get us arrested? Because I've been in a Mexican prison. I do not recommend it."

She puts it away—slowly, laconically. She glances at me with idle curiosity. "You have? When? Why?"

"It is a long story. I was undercover and things…went sideways. I spent a month there before my people could get me out." I shake my head. "I really do not fancy another stay."

She nods, the topic already dismissed. When yet another Toyota pickup enters the yard and disgorges four more men with assault rifles, Sophia shakes her head, hissing a serpentine sound of irritated fury. "Fuck this. You sit here and watch if you like. I'm done playing fucking games." This is in English, as well.

"Sophia, wait," I say, grabbing her wrist.

Mistake.

Before I can so much as blink, there's a blur of silver and a snick of metal, and a butterfly knife has blossomed open, the blade resting at my throat, drawing a spot of blood.

She leans over the table, spitting her words in a savage whisper. "You are with me or you are against me. Do as you wish, Lorenzo. But do not think you can tell me what to fucking do."

"I'm not, Sophia. I just—"

She pockets the blade as swiftly as she produced it. "Stay here or come with me. I don't give a fuck. I'm going, and I’m getting answers."

"There must be nearly forty men in there, at minimum."

Her grin is downright barbaric. "Excellent. At least one of them will have information."

She snags her backpack and strides out of the cafe.

Fuck.