Hunt Her Down (23 page)

arm whipped around for another crunch of his windpipe.

“Do you
want
to go back there, Ramon?”

“Fuck you,” he managed to choke. “You can’t send me there.”

“Oh, no? I did once already.”

Ramon tried to break the hold, but that just made the guy clench tighter. “Who . . . are . . .

you?” he rasped.

“You used to call me Miguel. Amigo Miguel.”

What?

“Michael Scott was my official name.”

No way. No effing way.
His gaze shot to the rearview mirror to see his captor’s face again.

Impossible. Different eyes. Different hair. Different man.

The fucking FBI narc was . . .
not dead?
Holy shit.

“Now why don’t you tell me exactly what you’re trying to get from Maggie, and why you

keep showing up and hurting my eyes with your ugly face. What are you up to, Ramon? Have

you been over to the old house lately? Doing business again?”

The grip loosened enough for Ramon to speak, but even swallowing hurt like a bitch.

“No,” he managed. He didn’t dare go anywhere near that house. Viejo’s men were all over

the place—here, down in the Keys. Man, he was so marked for death it wasn’t funny.

And if this
wasn’t
Viejo’s hired assassin, was he really Michael Scott?

Wait a minute.
That’s
why Lourdes wasn’t here. She wasn’t screwing him with the fortunes

—she’d turned him in. He heard she did deals with the feds, determined to make her company

all squeaky clean and legit. Of course. Lourdes had done this deal.

Couldn’t Viejo see who the
real
traitor in the family was?

But the money, or the hope of it, was the only way Ramon was going to prove to El Viejo

that
he
wasn’t a traitor, that
he
hadn’t been the one to leak stuff to the FBI. He still belonged

in the family.

“Prove it,” he said gruffly. “Prove you are Miguel.”

The other man laughed. “I don’t have to prove anything since I’m the one holding the gun,

but go ahead. Give me a little test.”

He’d taught his friend Miguel a very little bit of important Spanish, but mostly he taught

him curse words and dumb sayings, laughing his ass off at the way Michael would screw up

the pronunciation. One of those sayings had become a joke between them.

“La vida es breve,”
Ramon said. Life is short.

The other man smiled.
“Vámonos pa’l carajo y vamos a joder toda la fregada noche!”
His

smile widened as he loosened his grip enough for Ramon to easily breathe again. “I finally

found out what it meant, you dirty bastard.”

Holy shit. He even butchered the words in the same goddamn way. Michael Scott, the one

person who knew that Ramon hadn’t leaked family secrets, was
alive
. And that meant that the

one person on earth who knew Ramon was innocent of what Viejo accused him of . . . was

sitting here in his car.

The first coil of hope started to unwind in his chest. What would it take? If he really was a

fed, money probably wouldn’t work. But… fame and glory and a big score might do the trick.

“Amigo Miguel,” Ramon said, a slow broad smile on his face. “It’s good to see you, man.”

“Get real, Ramon.”

“I’m real, bro. I’m real.”

“Real desperate.”

Ramon attempted to turn, to look him in the eye. “Why don’t we make a deal?”

He got a doubtful look in return. “I don’t know what you want, but you don’t have much to

barter with.”

“That’s where you’re wrong, Miguel. I have a hundred million dollars.”

One eyebrow notched in interest. “Then you should get a better car.”

“I’m going to lean forward, now. Very slowly.” Ramon inched slightly toward the glove

box. “I’m going to open that little door.”

“I don’t think so.”

Ramon was undeterred. “And I’m going to reach in and pull out a tiny piece of paper worth

a hundred million dollars.”

“Is that right?”

“If you don’t believe me, fine. But you have a choice. You can keep it for yourself, or you

can turn it over to your bosses at the FBI and get lots of ribbons and honors, or whatever the

fuck you get in the FBI for turning over millions in drug money for the government.”

“You get to stay out of jail. Which is all I can offer you.”

“But you have something else I need, amigo. You have the truth.”

He got a look of interest and distrust in response.

“I’ll show it to you, if you’ll let me get it.”

Miguel nodded a fraction. “You so much as touch a weapon and you’re dead.”

He had no doubt that was the case. He flipped the latch and the glove box door dropped

open, revealing the rental papers. Behind him, the man inched to the right, looking for a gun

hidden in the glove box, of course. There was none. His gun was under his seat.

Very slowly, Ramon slid his hand inside the opening, his fingers grazing the edge where

he’d tucked the fortune. Nothing.

“Fuck,” he whispered, reaching deeper. He knew it was there. He’d made the decision not

to take it up to Lourdes until he saw the other ones she said she’d—

“Are you looking for this?”

He opened his hand and revealed the tiny Chinese fortune, right under Ramon’s nose. The

bastard already had it.

“How many are there, Ramon?”

Son of a bitch. How could he barter now? “Four.”

“Who has the other one?”

“Maggie,” he said, knowing that wasn’t new information.

“Who else?” he demanded tapping Ramon’s jaw with the gun.

What difference did it make? Lourdes had already betrayed him, so he was back to making

deals with feds. “My sister and the FBI. But that piece of paper is worthless if you don’t know

how to read it.”

“Maybe I do. I have GPS.”

Shit. The bastard knew everything. No, not everything. “But not the clues. You don’t know

the clues.”

“But you’re going to tell me, aren’t you?”

“For a price.”

The man laughed softly. “The price is my bullet in your head.”

“I will tell you everything, if you tell Viejo the truth.”

“About what?”

“Who fed you information. Who in that group was your inside source.”

“Why would I tell him that?”

“For the glory of finding your country a bounty of one hundred million dollars. Would

you?” He knew he sounded desperate, but, right now, he didn’t care. “And because
mi amigo,

we were friends.”

“No, you were a drug dealer and I was an FBI agent.”

Ramon looked hard at him. “We
were
friends. And El Viejo is going to have me killed if

someone doesn’t tell him the truth.”

Miguel looked uninterested. “What’s this? Longitude or latitude? Minutes or degrees?”

“Will you tell him for me?”

“I can maybe get you protection.” He flicked the fortune. “When I find the money.”

“What if it’s not there?”

“Then you’re probably a dead man. Because as I recall, your dad’s a vindictive and pitiless

son of a bitch.”

Ramon took a deep breath. Lourdes had abandoned him. His own father wanted him dead.

This light-eyed version of Michael Scott was his only hope. “There are four fortunes. Each

one has numbers and words. The numbers are the coordinates. On every fortune there is a

word that begins with the same letter as the direction, telling you if it is longitude or latitude.

Two of the fortunes have minutes, two of them have seconds.”

Miguel read the fortune. “A little can go a very long way.” Flipped it. “Seven-one-three-

zero.” Then he looked hard at Ramon. “Interpret that.”

“The W in
way
says it is west, or a longitude reading. I had main longitude, so that is

seventy-one degrees thirty minutes west longitude.”

“Who has the precise seconds that you add to this?”

“My father, originally. So the FBI has it now.”

“And the other two? Which one is which?”

“Will you help me, Miguel?” Ramon asked. “
Will
you?”

“Depends on whether or not you’re lying. The other two fortunes?”

“My sister has the latitude seconds; Maggie had the latitude main. All four together will

give you want you want.”

Ramon watched him fold the paper and slip it into a pocket on his T-shirt. He still couldn’t

see any real resemblance to the man he’d once considered a friend, but he had no doubt.

“Will you help me,
mi amigo?
For old time’s sake?”

“Lay low. Stay out of sight and out of trouble. I’ll find you.”

“Gracias.”

As Miguel climbed out of the car, Ramon reached forward, digging for his gun. Outside,

his old
friend
held up the pistol.

“Looking for this?” He dropped it in his pocket and walked away.

That was too easy. Way, way too easy. The fortune still in his hand, Dan scanned the street,

his gaze landing on Maggie as she closed the driver’s door of the Porsche and headed toward

him, sunlight streaming through yet another flimsy skirt, her dark waves bouncing with every

step.

He met her on the sidewalk, his grin widening with each of her steps.

“What are you so happy about?”

“That your skirt is see-through.”

“Doesn’t take much, does it?”

“And I’m also kind of happy about this.” He held up the fortune he’d found in the first

place he’d looked. Too, too easy.

Her jaw opened as she snatched it from his fingers. “No.”

“Yes.”

“Are you kidding me? He just gave it to you?” She held it out to read.

“Not exactly.”

“You threatened to kill him.”

“A little.”

She read it. “ ‘A little can go a very long way.’ ” She looked up at him, her eyes bright.

“See that? You said ‘a little’ and those are the first words. That’s what my Baba would call a

sign. Just like the parking space that opened up for me.” She turned the paper over, reading

the numbers. “And where do these fit into the GPS scheme?”

“According to Ramon, that’s the main longitude. And he explained how to read the code on

each fortune.”

“Seriously? That was a very fruitful meeting.”

“Yes, it was. Maybe a little too fruitful. Let’s go see Lola.” He took her hand. “And you’re

not staying out here alone. Plus I might need you to distract the doorman by standing in front

of the window and letting him gape at your legs.”

“Whatever it takes.”

The door to the lobby wasn’t locked, and the front desk was unmanned, with a little note

that said “Receiving delivery—will return shortly.”

Maggie shot him a victorious look. “Baba’s hard at work today.”

“Someone’s helping us, all right. But I don’t think it’s your grandmother.”

The elevator required an access key, but in less than thirty seconds, the car arrived and a

redhead stepped out. She made sexy and unsubtle eye contact with Dan before walking by.

“See that?” Maggie said. “The universe is definitely on our side today.”

When the car stopped at the twenty-eighth floor, Dan held her back. “I’ll ring the bell, and

you stay behind me. No matter what, you let me take the lead.”

There were only three units up there and he strode right to 28C, remembering the address.

He rang the bell, knocked, and rang again. Nothing.

The lock pick took a minute longer than when he worked on Viejo’s house. But Lola—or

the universe—had assisted by not bolting her door.

“Ms. James?” he called as he opened the door.

The only sound was the ticking of a grandfather clock. He took a step in. This place was

definitely a notch up from her office. Hardwood floors with expensive Oriental carpets,

designer furniture, original art.

“Lola?” he called again, Maggie following him.

The living area had a corner balcony, the sheer curtains offering a hazy view of the bay and

Miami Beach across the water. The room was spacious, and led to a dining area and kitchen,

and two bedrooms beyond that. Every single item was placed just so, not even a throw pillow

out of alignment.

Except for the silk robe that lay on the floor.

Dan glanced at it, and at Maggie. Why would a woman who lived in such pristine

perfection leave her robe in the middle of the floor?

He moved deeper into the condo, giving the kitchen a cursory check, then stepping into the

hall that led to a bedroom, guest bath, and an office.

Maggie stayed in the living room while he searched the bedroom and found nothing,

including a quick look in drawers, jewelry boxes, and the porcelain cups of an Oriental tea set

displayed on her dresser. Everything was so tidy, it was pretty easy. The bathroom, closet, and

dressing area were way past orderly and into nutcase neat.

He paused in the hallway and motioned to Maggie. “I’m going to check out the office.”

The office was more of the same. A lot of white, a lot of clean, a lot of perfection. None of

the drawers were locked, and he searched in every possible place.

The computer was off, a printer and scanner next to it, words flashing in green on a tiny

panel on the top.

Fax successfully sent.

Dan lifted the lid, where a paper lay facedown on the glass. Slipping a nail into the corner

so as not to compromise any DNA or fingerprints, he inched it up and over.

His gaze landed on three words:
Quinn Varcek Smith.

Behind him, Maggie gasped. “It’s his birth certificate.”

At the bottom of the document, Dan stared at the line that said
Father: Michael Scott.

He pressed the redial button to get a number. The first five digits told him exactly who it