Chapter 13

Chapter Thirteen

Trujillo, Puerto Jardin

27 Months Earlier

FOR ONCE, SILVA had given Finn advance notice for a meeting. Enough time for his teammates to get in position. Enough time to park the car, saunter toward the restaurant, and study the area around it. Enough time for him to arrive early and check out the café.

Finn wasn't overly familiar with this part of Trujillo. It was a newer section of the city, upscale with low-rise apartment buildings and expensive boutiques. It was bland—it would fit in any city in the US without standing out—but it had its plusses. There was less traffic, less noise, and wider streets and sidewalks.

It was the quieter atmosphere that allowed him to spot the woman on the other side of the street. She was a bit ahead of him, and he could only see her back and a sliver of her profile, but with the height and the long dark hair worn loose today, his body's reaction told him exactly who it was .

Fucking son of a bitch.

It didn't take long for a break in traffic, and Finn crossed the road, coming up on her rapidly. He caught Zo by the wrist and turned her to face him. "You told me you'd stay the hell away from Silva," he accused, voice low.

Her surprise and irritation at being grabbed changed to confusion. "I have stayed away from him." Understanding chased the clouds from her eyes. "You mean he's around here?"

"Why else are you wandering this area on a Saturday?"

Zo tugged her wrist free and straightened. "This is where Mari lived. I've been visiting businesses, asking the people who work there some questions. I had no idea Silva was in the vicinity."

"Sorry," Finn apologized gruffly. "I didn't realize you'd changed tactics."

Some of the rigidity left her muscles. "How could you? We haven't talked."

"Does that mean you missed me?"

That earned him a glare, and Finn grinned. "I missed you, loquita . " The smile faded as he lightly traced a fingertip over the side of her mouth. "There's still a faint bruise, and it's been four days. That bastard really tagged you."

And if Finn had any say in it, the fucker would be spending a hell of a long time in prison at the end of this.

Zo shrugged. "It doesn't hurt much anymore."

Finn leaned down and whispered a kiss across her lips. "I'm sorry I didn't stop him."

"You couldn't do anything. If you'd tried, we'd both be dead. Bruises heal. Another day or two and it'll be nothing except a memory."

She was right—if he'd continued to move toward the bodyguard, they'd be in the morgue—but it didn't mean he liked it. He realized he stood close enough to feel the heat of her body. Finn decided not to step back and had a moment of satisfaction when she didn't move away either, not even when people had to go around them to get by. "How's the new plan going?" he asked.

Her grimace preceded her answer. "Not well. Today's been a bust, and so was Wednesday."

"What did you do Wednesday?"

"I visited her favorite places." Zo shook her head. "No one has seen Mari, not since I stopped getting messages from her."

He smoothed her hair back from her face and waited for Zo to meet his eyes. "I'm going to tell you the same thing I said on Tuesday. You need to back off." The mutinous glare that immediately appeared had his lips curving, but he was serious when he said, "You know I'm right. This search of yours? It doesn't help your friend. The only thing it does is make you feel better because you're doing something."

"What if I could save her?" she asked, her voice less sure than he'd ever heard from her.

"What if you put her at risk?" he countered.

Zo seemed to collapse, her body leaning into his, and Finn put his arms around her. "I know it's hard. If it were my friend missing, I wouldn't want to stop looking either, but sometimes the smart thing isn't easy."

After a long moment, she straightened away and said, "I'll think about it, okay?"

Finn knew that was the best she was going to give him today, so he reluctantly dropped it. Her heart was battling her brain.

"When's your meeting with Silva? Do I have time to get clear?"

He stiffened, checked his watch, and hoped like hell that the teammate trailing him to the café was a close buddy and not someone like the chief or, worse, his captain. "I have about ten minutes. You should have time to get out of here but turn around. You're headed toward my meeting. "

She nodded and took a step before she stopped and grabbed his forearm. Her grip was tight. "Be careful, okay?"

"Always," he promised. Zo stared for a long moment, then released him, and without another word, walked the direction he'd told her to go. He watched her leave, bemusement holding him in place. She cared about his safety.

A honk brought him back to the present, and Finn cursed under his breath. He was going to have to hustle now, or he'd be late. Glancing around, he tried to find whoever had his back, but he couldn't spot anyone. His team was good.

He made it to the café with minutes to spare. Two bodyguards waited outside the building, and another climbed out of the front seat of the limo when he arrived. The driver remained behind the wheel. Finn recognized two of them as the men who had searched him the first time he'd met with Silva. Automatically, he raised his hands over his head.

The pat-down on the sidewalk only garnered brief glances before passersby hurried away. Life in Puerto Jardin wasn't easy.

After he'd been disarmed, the man who'd been in the front seat took his weapons to the trunk of the limousine and locked them away. That was new. The older bodyguard gestured toward the black sedan, and the younger bodyguard opened the door. Well, shit. "We're going for a ride?" Finn asked.

"Please get in, Se?or Finley." Despite the politeness, it wasn't a request.

He hesitated. This was either really good or really bad. He thought of Zo, of his promise to be careful, and shrugged. His teammates would follow, and if the situation went to hell, they'd save his ass. He hoped.

Finn got in the car.

Two of the bodyguards joined him in the back while the other returned to his place beside the driver. Both men sat across from him, and neither removed his sunglasses despite the tinted windows. As always, they wore tailored black suits, slate blue ties, and polished black oxford dress shoes.

"What's our agenda for today, gentlemen?" Finn asked in Spanish.

They stared at him stonily.

He got the same response to several other conversational gambits. That was fine by Finn—he'd rather quietly observe. It was Tom, who was the talker.

The car headed north, and the land transformed gradually into foothills. They had to be headed for Torres' compound. Finn took an unobtrusive deep breath and ran through what he knew about the home.

A Mediterranean-style mansion set on a multi-acre piece of land. It was gated and patrolled, and in the past, intruders had been mowed down by assault rifles. Finn hoped he didn't need to escape because he probably wouldn't make it out. He drew another quiet breath.

It was forty-five minutes before they turned off the road and paused. A brown gate slowly began to open, and when it was wide enough, the limo proceeded. This was Torres' estate, no question about it.

The driver pulled up such that the rear passenger door lined up perfectly with the entrance to the mansion. Within seconds, the car door was opened by someone on the outside, and the older bodyguard gestured for him to exit. Finn was met by another pair of bodyguards who urged him toward the door. The duo who'd been riding with him fell into step with them.

All the photos he'd seen had been taken by satellite or drone. They had a sketch of the floor plan that Finn assumed had been drawn by someone who used to work in the house. It had been a rough rendering. They'd also sketched the front of the house, but nothing prepared him for the reality.

Iron and glass doors went up almost two stories. They opened soundlessly, and another bodyguard stood there, waiting for Finn and his entourage to enter. Yeah, getting out of here would be a bitch, and if he needed help, getting in would be harder yet.

The house was a surprise. It was a very feminine space—white marble floors, ornate columns, fussy furniture, chandeliers, and gilded everything. In Puerto Jardin, women were in complete charge of the home, but even so, Finn had a hard time believing an international arms dealer with an ugly reputation lived in this garish palace.

Silva made an appearance then, his face impassive. "Se?or Torres is ready to meet with you," he said without preamble.

As he walked through the house, surrounded by armed men, Finn memorized everything. The layout, the pictures of Torres' grandchildren on the walls, and the myriad of entrances and windows. Every inch of the home was as ornate as the entrance.

After a light tap, Silva opened the door to the office. This space was at least a masculine brown—paneling covering the walls and ceiling—but it was no less opulent. Torres sat behind a desk made of expensive wood and burnished with gold leaf. The two barrel-shaped chairs in front of the desk were also brushed with gold. It was ostentatious beyond anything Finn would have guessed.

Jorge Torres was in his mid-sixties, with a snow-white, neatly trimmed beard. His hair, though, was salt and pepper, with less gray than the much-younger Silva sported. There were furrows across his forehead, over the bridge of his nose, and at the corners of his eyes. He looked like a kindly grandfather, and if Finn hadn't read the dossier and seen the evidence, he'd have a hard time believing Torres was an arms dealer.

The man eyed him, glanced at his guest chairs, and then stood. He was about five foot nine and trim. Unlike his second in command, who was in his usual business-formal attire, Torres wore black trousers and a white dress shirt with the collar open, and the sleeves were rolled up. "We'll walk as we talk," he said in heavily accented English.

Finn guessed that meant Torres didn't want to chance Finn ruining the furniture. He was dressed in Tom Finley's usual camo fatigue pants, olive drab T-shirt, and scuffed tactical boots. There was a set of French doors from the office outside, and with bodyguards flanking them, he, Silva, and Torres went outside.

The back of the mansion was more spectacular than the front. There was a full outdoor kitchen, a rotunda with an enormous flat-screen television, and an ornate fireplace on the other side of the patio with a seating area in front of it. A water feature cascaded into a crystal blue pool, and beyond that, Trujillo could be seen in the distance. "This view must be magnificent at night," Finn commented in Spanish.

"That it is," Torres said with obvious pride. "Come. Walk beside me so we can talk."

Finn complied, and Silva fell into step behind them.

"Henri tells me you are persistent, Se?or Finley. It annoys him."

"He's mentioned that."

Torres laughed. "I'm certain he did. I, however, admire a man who knows what he wants and takes measures to attain it. Within reason, of course."

"Of course," Finn agreed. The path they walked was wide enough to travel two abreast comfortably. In the distance, he could see a guest house. He also noted how tight security was around him, but especially on the walls around the estate. Yeah, there was no fucking way he was escaping if Torres wanted him to stay.

"I had you investigated," Torres said conversationally. "Mercenaries are generally untrustworthy, fighting for whoever pays them the most, and I saw nothing in your background to encourage me to do business with you. "

"I've never fought on both sides of any conflict. Your investigation would have told you that."

Torres nodded. "Why mercenary work?"

"I was orphaned, no family, and I was sent from one stranger's home to the next." They'd kept his cover story close to his real life. "Joining the US military was my best option. I have no other skills except what I learned in the Army. Mercenary work earns enough to get a foothold."

"And selling arms will do more than give you a foothold. It will set you up for the future, is that the idea?"

Finn shrugged. "That wasn't part of the plan, but when the opportunity fell into my lap, I wasn't going to turn it down."

Torres remained silent as they rounded a gentle curve in the path. "Henri told me you have friends in interesting places."

"Sí," Finn agreed. At last, they were getting down to details.

"Why are they going through you and not brokering their own deal?"

"They don't have the type of contacts I do. Both of them played it straight up till now."

The path had another curve, and they were headed toward the house again.

"And it allows them to deny any knowledge of how the weapons ended up where they did, should they be caught," Silva offered. "At least until the authorities learn of their friendship with you."

"Henri is correct, as he always is," Torres said with genuine affection. The half-smile didn't linger. "Why should I work with you, se?or? Because of your source, the weapons will come in dribs and drabs. I'm accustomed to receiving thousands of pieces at a time."

They were nearly back to the patio now. "I can deliver those numbers. A phony invoice, a misdirected shipment. It's doable."

They reached the house, but Torres didn't stop. Instead, he continued around the side. "Perhaps we can do business. I'll give you a 30% cut."

"I have associates. Let's make it 50%."

The limo loomed in front of them. It looked like this was going to be another short meeting.

Torres didn't say another word until they arrived at it. "Se?or Finley, your associates are your problem." There was nothing grandfatherly about him now. This was the international arms dealer. He nodded to the bodyguard, and the man opened the rear door. "The deal is 30%. I do not negotiate."