Promises to Keep (22 page)

Fifty-Seven

Michael powered up Ben's
laptop and logged on to the secure conferencing site that FSS used to conduct long-distance meetings. Using his partner's laptop would make it less likely that the meeting would be monitored, but it wouldn't make a difference in whether or not Leon Maddox would agree to speak to him.

“Hey,” Lark said from the doorway, a file folder in his hand. “I got that stuff Ben asked for.” He walked in and tossed the folder on the table next to the laptop. “Some pretty heavy shit in there. Shaw finds out we're poking around in his business, ain't none of us gonna make it outta this one. Junior included.”

He waited for Lark to make his exit before flipping the file open, but it didn't take him long to realize he was right. If Shaw knew what they were up to—what they knew—he'd kill them all.

The laptop let out a chime a second before an image of who he was sure was the Senator's aide filled the monitor, her flirty smile fading when she saw who was on the other side of the screen. “Oh, you're not—”

“No, I'm not. Mr. Shaw is attending to other matters, so I'm keeping his appointment with the Senator,” he said, carefully avoiding the use of his name. Maddox might know who Michael was, but that didn't mean his staff did.

“Let me see if the Senator is available.” She placed him on hold, the display going dark.

Michael sat back, swiping a hand over his face. Knowing Shaw, he was already halfway here. He didn't have time to sit around while some politician decided to grace him with his presence or not.

“Fuck this,” he muttered, scrolling the mouse pad over the disconnect icon.

“I agree, Mr. O'Shea.”

He winced, looking up to see Leon Maddox staring at him from Ben's computer screen. “Sir. I was just—”

“Going to hang up on me, so let's cut the crap, shall we?” Maddox barked, his tone brusque. “I was expecting you and Mr. Shaw to arrive yesterday afternoon. I take it from the San Francisco area code that you were waylaid by what I can only imagine to be a break in my grandson's disappearance.”

“Yes, sir. Ben received a report from a contact of his that a young boy matching Leo's description was found in an abandoned house.” He didn't know how to say the rest. He'd never had to do this before.

“Is he dead?” Maddox said plainly, his gruff words at complete odds with the stark grief in his eyes.

“No, sir. The boy that was found isn't your grandson. But I've managed to identify Leo's abductor. Alberto Reyes.” He nearly choked on the words and the look Maddox gave him when he said them.

“Alberto Reyes. The head of the Moreno cartel. Your former boss.” Maddox's expression went from wary to downright hostile. “And how did you come upon that information?”

He sighed. “I happened to get a lead on where he's basing his operations here in San Francisco, and I paid them a visit. I'm sure you're aware of how persuasive I can be when I'm properly motivated.”

Maddox narrowed his eyes and leaned in to the camera just a bit. “Just what are your motivations, Mr. O'Shea? A man like you—my grandson's welfare is hardly of any importance.”

“A man like me, sir?” He nearly bit the words in half.

“I know what you've done. Who you've done it for,” Maddox said. “Why Livingston put you in charge of Leo's recovery is a mystery.”

“That would be the question, wouldn't it?” Michael glanced at the file folder spread out next to the computer and decided to go for broke. “When did you get word about your appointment to head Appropriations Committee B1217, sir? This morning? Maybe late last night?”

The Senator visibly stiffened, his eyes narrowing on the screen. “That information is classified. How did you—”

“You're right. It is classified. So classified that the committee
itself doesn't even officially exist and only three people are in
volved in choosing its chair,” Michael said. “And yet, Livingston Shaw has known about your pending appointment for weeks now.”

Appropriations Committee B1217. The committee that would be charged with reviewing and approving how and where the government's black budget was spent. An estimated eighty-five billion dollars, used to fund military research programs and covert operations that Uncle Sam didn't want his citizens to know about. It also funded the country's growing dependence on privatized military companies. According to the dirt Lark dug up, Livingston Shaw and FSS were attached to well over half of the programs and operations that would be up for approval, to the tune of fifty billion dollars.

“What are you saying? That Livingston had my grandson kidnapped in order to force me into giving his company government contracts?” Maddox said, practically spitting the words out of his mouth. “If that's so, then where are his demands? The committee meets in three days; surely he'd have made his move by now.”

“Demands?” he laughed, causing the Senator to bristle even more. “This is Livingston Shaw we're talking about—he'll simply return Leo to you, unharmed, in the nick of time and let your conscience be your guide.”

“He's got the largest privatized military operation in the world at his disposal. Why hire a two-bit drug lord to do his dirty work?” Leon said, still trying to punch holes in a theory that was quickly becoming fact.

“If you were going to kidnap the grandson of a US Senator, would you do it yourself or would you hire someone to do it for you?” Michael sighed, running a rough hand over his head before settling it on the back of his neck. “There was no money exchanged. No payment. It was a handshake deal as far as I can tell—no way to tie it back to Shaw if things went sideways.”

“Then why? If not for money, then what? What could Livingston give Reyes that would be worth the risk of kidnapping my Leo?”

“Me. Reyes has been looking for a way to kill me for a very long time,” Michael said quietly. “You wanted to know why Livingston would put me in charge of finding your grandson; there's your answer. Revenge.”

Michael told him everything. He started at the beginning, with him and his unit getting sent to Colombia to help Marisol Ramos and her team disable Mateo Moreno's fleet of drug subs and the ambush that followed and ending with his agreeing to work for Livingston Shaw.

Through it all, Maddox listened. When Michael was done, Maddox sat back in his chair, a look of betrayed defeat on his weathered face. “The appointment system was put in place to keep things like this from happening.”

“If I've learned anything over the last several years, it's that anyone can be bought. Money. Secrets. Silence. Everyone has a price, and people like Alberto Reyes and Livingston Shaw have a knack for sniffing them out and exploiting them.”

“What about you, Mr. O'Shea? What's your price these days?”

He thought of Sabrina. What he'd be willing to do to be allowed to stay with her. How far he'd go to earn the privilege to lay down next to her every night. “What I want, no one can give me—not even you,” he said, scrolling the mouse over to the disconnect icon.

“So where does that leave me? Where does that leave Leo?”

Michael looked up to find Maddox watching him. “I'm going to go get him and bring him home, sir,” he said. “I made a promise to you and I intend to keep it, whatever the cost.”

Fifty-Eight

Cofre del Tesoro, Colombia
June 2011

Reyes was back.

He'd flown in just days after Christina's birthday, his helicopter touching down only yards away while she practiced riding the bike Michael had given her. He stepped down from the Black Hawk, barely sparing them a glance before disappearing into the house. Wedged between two guards was a slouching figure with a black bag over its head.

“Is that man in trouble?”

He'd looked down to see Christina standing next to him, feet flat on the ground, bike balanced between her knobby knees. She looked worried. Like she wanted him to do something about it.

“Probably.” He frowned. “I think it's time to go inside.”

For once she hadn't argued. Wheeling her bike over to the set of stone steps that led to the veranda, she leaned it onto its kickstand while he watched and waited. When she was finished, they went inside.

That had been months ago. Reyes was still on the island and he'd shown no signs of leaving. Michael and Christina went on with their daily routine of trips to the beach and bike rides, both doing their best to ignore the fact that the longer her father stayed, the more eggshells they seemed to walk upon.

It was late. The small wind-up clock on the bookshelf that served as his nightstand told him it was past midnight. He'd put Christina to bed hours ago before retreating to his own room.

His sleeping quarters had originally been a three-room suite on the opposite side of the house. Not long after he'd accepted the job, he'd relocated himself to the closest room outside of Christina's apartments. He suspected that it'd been a closet before he moved in. It was barely big enough to hold the twin bed, shelf, and dresser he'd hauled in, but that didn't matter. There was a two-by-two window set high into the exterior wall that offered him a view of the grounds and ocean. That was good enough for him.

He stood there now, studying the thick, hulking lines of the Black Hawk squatting on its pad, willing it to come to life. To take Reyes away so that he could go back to pretending he wasn't hiding from the things he'd done. That he wasn't ashamed of what he was.

The loud knock on his door moved him away from the window and he pulled it open to see Hector, Reyes's second-in-command standing on the other side.

“
Hefe
sent me. He wants to see you,” Hector said, craning his neck a bit to see into the room behind him. No doubt the man was wondering the same thing everyone else did: Why would a man like
Cartero
choose to sleep in a glorified closet?

Michael made a show of looking at his watch, forcing his face into a mask of irritation. “I'm off the clock. If the kid needs something, get her mother to—”

“This isn't about Christina.” Hector moved to the side, making it obvious that Michael was to follow him whether he wanted to or not. “Oh, and
Hefe
says for you to bring your knife.”

Hector led him to Reyes's office before stationing himself beside the door, hands clasped in front of him, leaving him to enter the room alone.

In the pair of chairs in front of the desk were two men he'd never seen before. One was dark complected, with eyes and hair to match, while the other had sandy blond hair and pale eyes, his skin tone several shades lighter than his friend. Their differing looks didn't matter. Both sported fleur de lis tattoos on the back of their hands. That made them brothers in the Cordova cadre.

Stretched across the floor between him and the men was a wide square of plastic sheeting. It crinkled beneath his boots every time he shifted. Michael had little doubt what he'd been called here to do.

“Thank you for joining us,
Cartero
,” Reyes said from behind his desk, as if he'd been given a choice. Estefan stood behind his father's desk, literally at his right hand, glaring at him with a mixture of disdain and self-importance that he'd come to recognize as the kid's natural state of being.

“Of course, Mr. Reyes,” he said, careful to keep his tone respectful while choosing his words wisely. “Hector said you wanted to see me.”

Reyes smiled. “I'd like you to meet Javier and Enrique—they work for an overseas competitor to whom I'd like to deliver a message.”

He felt the length of his spine stiffen as he watched the two men seated in front of him shift uncomfortably in their seats, each wondering who would be chosen to be message and who would be messenger. With barely a nod, Michael reached behind him, into the small of his back, and found his blade. Pulling it from its sheath, he stood with it held casually, the flat of it tucked against his thigh … and waited.

Without warning, an interior door tucked into the corner of the room opened. Two of Reyes's men entered, dragging a third behind them. They dumped him onto the plastic before situating themselves on either side. His captive audience.

Michael recognized him instantly as the man who'd been pulled from the helicopter the day Reyes arrived. The black sack was still in place, soured with the stench of sweat and fear that wafted around him as he was forced to his knees in the middle of the plastic sheet but it was him, Michael was sure of it.

Is that man in trouble?

He gazed down at the hand that held his knife. The same hand that'd held Frankie as a baby. Had soothed her through nightmares after their parents died, before he'd given up completely. The same hand that'd held onto the back of Christina's bike seat and guided her down the garden path while she pedaled, struggling to find her balance. The same hand that'd tucked her in no more than a few hours ago.

Michael looked up from the hooded man kneeling in front of him to find Reyes watching him closely, like he was an animal being examined for disease or defect. One that would be culled from the pack if he didn't prove to be as vicious as he'd once been.

He was being tested and failure meant death.

He cocked his head, forcing the corners of his mouth into the semblance of a smile before stepping forward to yank the hood off the figure in front of him. His shirt was expensive beneath the
grime, his dark eyes wide and sharp, words fumbling against his lips as soon as he saw him. Beyond him, the blond one—Enrique, let out an outraged bark, trying to lunge from his seat, across the plastic. He was corralled by Reyes's goon, cuffed viciously with the butt of a gun before the barrel of it was jammed into his ear. His rebellion was quelled before it even really began.

The young man in front of him started to beg. “Please, I'll give you anything you want. I'll do whatever—”

Michael didn't let him finish. He fisted his hand in hair, jamming his knife into the side of the young man's neck, following the curve of his jaw until a river of red poured from its underside. The man in front of him gurgled, spewing and spitting as he choked on his own blood. Michael shifted his hold, reaching his fingers into the gaping wound he'd just carved into the man's throat. Finding and gripping the tongue, he pulled it though the wound, yanking and tearing until it hung, flapping, against the underside of his chin.

As soon as it was done, he let the young man drop onto the plastic, where cooling blood continued to weep from the gash in his throat. He looked at the two men seated no more than four feet away. Close enough to touch, Michael reached out and wiped the flat of his blade against the shirt of the man sitting closest to him. Enrique. His name was Enrique.

“You make sure your boss gets Mr. Reyes's message,” he said, flipping his knife over to drag the other side across the man's shirt. Now he looked up at Reyes. “Will that be all?”

Reyes shot his son a smug look and stood. “Yes,
Cartero
. I think that's everything,” he said, and Michael had the insane urge to dirty up his newly cleaned knife by jamming it into his boss's eye socket. If Reyes read the impulse as it ghosted through him, he said nothing.

He turned and left the room, walking past Hector without a backward glance. What happened
after
was never his concern.

Ducking into the first bathroom he found, he dropped his knife in the sink and turned it on, running the water as hot as he could stand before slushing the bar of soap over his hands and forearms, doing his best to wash off the red stain that covered them.

Michael scrubbed until his hands were clean, letting the water run ice cold before he was finally satisfied. Relieved, he looked up into the mirror above the sink to see that it wasn't just his hands.

The blood was everywhere. He was covered in it, and he had a feeling that no matter how long or how hard he scrubbed, he always would be.