Chapter 26

The address Gabe had given them was a hideous two-story house shaped like a sideways T with balconies at each of the three ends. Sure, it screamed money, but it also shouted, “no taste.” Greek columns welcomed visitors up front, Spanish tiles crowned a Tudor fa?ade, and modern glass doors opened to a rustic verandah. The mishmash of styles was an assault on the eyes.

Not that Quinn knew anything about or had any interest in architecture. No, all he saw when he looked at the ugly house was the possibilities each feature offered to their targets. The balconies could be sniper nests, the glass doors providing a clear view of anyone approaching, and the numerous rooms and hallways inside were perfect for setting traps or hiding.

Breaching the place was going to be a clusterfuck.

The house sat on a fenced-in property surrounded by foliage. A gated entry to the brick driveway provided some security, but it was mostly for show because Quinn and the team got through without breaking a sweat. The backyard boasted a BBQ pit and bar on a tiled patio shaded by a wood pergola. A sunroom entirely made of glass opened up to the patio from the back of the house and shielded a Jacuzzi, which was currently in use by a scrawny kid barely out of his teens and a very friendly older man.

“That is disgusting,” Marcus whispered beside him.

Laying belly to the ground in the bushes at the edge of the property, he frowned, thinking of Gabe’s brother. “Keep your derogatory comments to yourself, men. I have friends that are gay.”

“Not that.” Marcus sounded completely insulted. “I don’t care if they’re gay. More power to ’em. I meant that kid can’t be legal. Or if he is, then he’s just barely. The guy’s what, at least forty? That is disgusting.”

Quinn focused his night vision goggles on the hot tub again and winced. Things had progressed into BDSM territory. Yeah, it was disgusting and disturbing, but with the brutal way the kid was acting, he was obviously in control of the relationship. And that was the way the older man liked it.

Where in hell were the kid’s parents?

“Man,” Marcus muttered. “I can’t sit here and watch this. I’m gonna sneak around front, see what I can see.”

“Careful,” Quinn warned. He couldn’t watch what was happening in the Jacuzzi either, so he scanned over the upper floors of the house. The lights were out, and he didn’t see any movement inside. Had to wonder if there was a basement. Gabe sounded very sure when he said Bryson Van Amee might be at this address.

“Incoming,” Jean-Luc said. Stationed by the front gate as a lookout, he rattled off the details of the approaching vehicle. “Red four-door Mercedes convertible. Bogotá license plate, mike-xray-uniform-two-niner-eight. One occupant.”

“Copy that,” Quinn replied. “Visual on his face?”

“Negative. The top’s up—wait. He’s opening the door. All right. Got visual confirmation. The driver is Jacinto Rivera. Repeat, I have visual confirmation on Jacinto Rivera, and he is armed.”

Excellent. A thrill chased through Quinn’s blood. Finally, they were getting somewhere. “Hold your positions. Let’s see where he goes.”

* * *

Jacinto Rivera shoved through the front door of his cousin’s house, cursing. That stupid negotiator Giancarelli was jerking him around by the cojones, claiming they needed more time to secure funds. What bullshit. The funds sat right in Bryson Van Amee’s bank account, ripe for the taking. He knew. He’d seen the bank statements.

They also wanted more proof of life or they were calling the whole deal off.

And if that wasn’t bad enough, Rorro, the perverted little fuck, had been wandering about the city doing God knows what to God knows who instead of watching Van Amee. Anyone could have strolled right in last night and plucked their golden goose out from under their noses.

Jacinto cursed and stalked through the house. First thing, he crossed to the basement door and flipped on the light. The ripe odors of shit and urine and unwashed man assaulted his nose as he descended three steps. Van Amee sat up from the cot in his tattered, bloody business suit and blinked owlishly at the light. Several days’ worth of beard covered his jaw, and his black and purple left eye had swollen shut. He looked and smelled more like a street bum than the owner of a multi-million dollar empire.

“Water,” he whispered through cracked lips. “Agua. Por favor.”

“What did you want to name your son if he was a girl?” Jacinto asked in Spanish and then again in English.

Van Amee blinked his one good eye. “Please. I need water.”

“Answer the question.”

“I—I—don’t know. Which son?”

“Ashton.”

“I—God, I can’t remember. It was… something Susan. After my mother. Uh, Adelaide. Addie Susan.” He winced. “Please, I need something to drink.”

Jacinto shook his head and went back upstairs to the kitchen. Trusting his cousin to help with this had been a stupid idea from the start, but he couldn’t have asked his brother Angel without involving the EPC, and the plan was only to make it look like the EPC was involved. They took enough people hostage that sliding one more under their belt shouldn’t raise suspicion.

Or so Claudia said.

She said if they made it look like their brother’s doing, nobody would cast them a sideways glance. He wasn’t sure about that, because if Angel found out they were setting up him and the EPC, kin or not, he’d kill them both and lose not a wink of sleep over it. Angel Rivera was one scary pirobo, and Jacinto wanted nothing more than to be free of him.

Soon.

Once they got the ransom money, he could go somewhere Angel would never find him. Hollywood, maybe. He’d live the good life with women and booze and drugs. Maybe act in a movie or two. All he needed was his cut of Van Amee’s ransom.

Jacinto found a bottle of water in the fridge, crossed to the basement door, tossed it down, and heard a scramble of limbs. Like a rat. That was all Van Amee was. A wealthy, well-dressed rat, who didn’t need even half the money he had. But even rats had to drink, and it’d do no good if he died of thirst before they got their money.

Jacinto shut and locked the door and, hearing sounds on the back patio, headed that way. He had to talk to Rorro, though he really didn’t care to see the little pervert going at it with his flavor of the day.

And wasn’t it interesting that this flavor was a replica of Jacinto’s uncle, Rorro’s not-so-dearly departed father? No wonder the kid was being especially brutal tonight. Jacinto could hear the flesh on flesh action from the kitchen and waited outside the solarium doors until the sounds faded into heavy breathing. Then there was a gasp, a gurgle, and it was over.

Jacinto stepped into the room and tried his hardest to keep his eyes off the battered man hanging limply over the side of the Jacuzzi. Blood dripped from his throat onto the tiled patio. Rorro sat in the bubbling water, smoking a joint and looking very satisfied with himself. The knife he’d used to slit the man’s throat lay near his elbow on the edge of the tub.

Bile rose in Jacinto’s throat. He’d never had the stomach for murder, which was part of the reason he’d called Rorro in the first place. Bryson Van Amee had seen both of their faces, knew at least his name if not Rorro’s, and had to die tomorrow after they got the money.

“What did you do to Van Amee?” he asked, remembering the man’s black eye.

“Had a little fun.”

Jacinto held back his wince. He was always torn between disgust and sorrow when it came to his young cousin. Rorro seemingly had it all: money, intelligence, movie star good looks, privileges and opportunities other children in Colombia would kill for—but all that glamour hid horrible secrets, ones that made Jacinto’s dysfunctional home life look like a fairy tale. Little wonder the kid turned out as loco as he was.

“I told you,” Jacinto said as gently as he could manage. “You cannot have him until after we get the money.”

Rorro flopped a hand in the air. “He tried to escape. I had to punish him.”

“What?”

“Last night. No, don’t look at me like that. It wasn’t my fault.”

It most certainly was his fault, but Jacinto wasn’t in the mood to argue. “Did he get far?”

“Only to the patio.”

At least he hadn’t made it off the property, onto the street where anyone could have spotted him.

Jacinto shot a look at the dead man. “You’re staying in tonight, Rorro. I mean it. We can’t risk him trying to escape again.” And the clubs downtown would be much safer with the little shit tucked away at home. “This will be all over tomorrow.”

Rorro flashed a smile that was all boyish charm, a hint of the kid that Jacinto had once adored like a little brother. “Then we’ll leave here?”

“Yes,” Jacinto said. “We’ll leave.”

He felt only the tiniest prick of regret for lying as he walked inside the house and started upstairs. He had no intention of going anywhere with his psycho cousin. Once this was over, he wanted to be able to sleep soundly at night without the fear of ending up with his throat slit open like that desgraciado in the hot tub.

Jacinto stepped into his bedroom and shot home the deadbolt lock on the door. He then moved to the small, barred window that overlooked the backyard—what was left of it after Rorro’s landscaping disaster. His eyes scanned every inch of the property, ensuring there were no signs of an attempted escape by Bryson.

As he scanned, his gaze landed on an unfamiliar vehicle parked down the road—more than a block away, but still too close for comfort. He squinted, studying the nondescript van, but its tinted windows made it impossible to tell if anyone was inside. It was parked with a casualness that suggested it wasn’t there for nefarious reasons. Yet something didn’t sit right in Jacinto’s gut. The longer he stared at it, the more his unease grew, until he could taste the sour wash of fear in his throat.

FBI?

He needed more men guarding this place.

Time to call in some favors.