“That’s for Eddie,” Dixon said of her deceased ex-boyfriend.
Guevara winced. “Don’t know who that is.”
“John Mayfield killed him.”
“Don’t know who that is, either.”
“Lying pisses me off, César. And that’s not something you want to do.”
“I don’t know—”
Dixon slapped him on the head. “Just shut up, asshole.” She turned to DeSantos. “Robby?”
“Haven’t heard anything,” DeSantos said as he holstered his weapon. “Call this in. I’ll go see if Karen needs help.”
ROBBY TRIED TO GET TO HIS FEET, to right himself. But he was still dizzy from the punches he took and the head butt he meted out. After all he’d endured lately, his tank was running dry.
He sat back down on the cold floor, water dripping from his face. His clothing was thick and heavy, and his arm throbbed.
And he couldn’t shake the image of holding the man’s head down as his lungs filled with water. He had killed him. But it was different from the time as a teen when he had murdered the man who had done the same to his uncle. Here it was a matter of survival. Before . . . it was as Diego had said: revenge. Raw, inexcusable, premeditated revenge.
He’d repressed those memories, those thoughts and feelings, for so long that he’d gotten skilled at it. Too skilled. He now realized he had been cheating. He had broken the law and never paid the price.
But was the price too expensive now, given that he had dedicated his life to catching those who would harm others? Did that balance out the scales of justice? Did it tip them in his favor?
Robby shivered. He had to get to his feet, find help, dry clothing, some food, and medical attention for his gunshot wound.
He rolled left and pushed himself up.
VAIL FELT THE ELEVATOR bottom out, then leaned forward as the doors slid apart. She side-slithered through, Glock in her hands, and swept into the hallway.
“Which way?” she called back to Pryor.
He remained behind her and silently pointed ahead, no doubt realizing that, with the handgun clenched in both hands, out in front of her, Vail’s frenzied demeanor wasn’t an act. He was probably beginning to wonder what he’d gotten himself into.
Pryor directed her through the seemingly endless, curving corridor.
“How much farther?”
Pryor slowed, then looked back over his shoulder. “I don’t know. The back of the house isn’t my patrol area. I’ve only been down here once.” He pursed his lips, stopped walking, then again glanced behind him. “There’s no elevator at the north end of the property. I’m pretty sure the room service elevator was the best way to get there.”
“But you’re not really sure where ‘there’ is.”
“I think if we keep going, we’ll eventually get to the maintenance shop.”
Vail tightened her grip on the Glock. Great. Robby could be in trouble—if he’s still alive—and I get the tour guide with no sense of direction.
“Don’t think,” Vail said. “Use your radio, find out, and get me there. Fast.”
82
After struggling with the soaked, clinging material, Robby stripped off his shirt. There was a gentle flow of oil-scented air swirling through the dimly lit area, which helped evaporate the dampness from his skin.
The breeze made him shiver. His shoes sloshed with each step. And his waterlogged pants rubbed against his thighs.
But none of it mattered. Because he was free—no one with high-powered ammunition or bloodstained machetes was threatening, beating, or chasing him. In a few minutes, he’d reach safety. Dry clothing. Medical attention. And, hopefully, Karen.
But before he’d gone twenty feet, something struck him in the head. Hard. And he went down.
Two arms pulled him upright and a dark figure approached.
A few steps more and the glow of a nearby incandescent bulb shadowed across the hard features of Antonio Sebastiani de Medina.
“Sebastian—”
“You had to fuck everything up, Robby. Everything came together the way it was supposed to. I just needed a few more days, a few more goddamn days.” Sebastian shook his head. “A $3 million payoff. And everyone would’ve won. DEA, me, you, all of us would’ve gotten what we wanted.”
“Is that right?” Robby asked weakly.
Sebastian’s men struggled to force Robby erect. One of them yanked up on his injured arm, eliciting a cringe. But Robby was still dazed and had difficulty keeping himself steady.
Sebastian sighed and stepped closer. “DEA would get Guevara, and if we were lucky, maybe even Cortez. You get your special agent creds. And me—I get my cut. A million big ones and a shot at a comfortable retirement when the time comes.”
“I always thought you were a smart guy, Sebastian. Until this. Then you got really stupid. And greedy. But greed can be so intoxicating it can blind you to what’s going on.” Robby tried to bring his shoulders back, to give him some sense of authority. “You never saw it coming.”
Sebastian’s face stiffened. “What the fuck are you talking about?”
“Yardley. He suspected something wasn’t right. That’s really why he agreed to bring me on. When your partner got into that accident, it turned out to be a dream come true for you. Too good a dream.”
“You’re the one who’s dreaming, buddy.”
Robby shifted his weight to lessen the strain on his shoulder. “You figured you could convince Yardley to bring me onboard because of my street cred. And you knew I’d drool over the chance—and that Gifford would do what he could to help get me signed on.”
“Nice story, but—”
“Best part is you thought you’d be able to control me better than a veteran agent who’d adhere to procedure and would be all over anything that smelled like shit. And to a seasoned nose, you were reeking. That’s what got your partner killed, isn’t it?”
“I don’t need to listen to this crap.”
“Worst part is that I was your friend, so you knew I’d give you the benefit of the doubt.”
Sebastian laughed weakly. “You think you’ve got it all figured out.” “You’d work the op and help bring down the cartel, but at the same time you were angling to score a last big payoff. Skimmed off that huge black tar heroin shipment coming in. You’d then collar Guevara, maybe Cortez, too, and no one would know about the missing money.” Robby cricked his head to the side. “Does that sound about right?”
Sebastian reached back into the darkness and thrust a fist into Robby’s abdomen. He doubled over and dropped to his knees.
Robby sucked in his breath, then tried to sooth the abdominal spasm that prevented him from speaking. He lifted his head, anger spilling forth like the saliva that dripped from the corner of his mouth. “You’re a fucking disgrace to the badge, Sebastian. You’ve shit on all the honest DEA agents who put their lives on the line every fucking day.”
“Like I did for nine years. Years of deep cover.” He spit in Robby’s face. “No fucking way to live.”
“That’s the life you chose. And now . . . you’re living on the wrong side of the law. You’re a huge disappointment. As a federal agent. And as a friend.”
Sebastian looked at him—and for a second, Robby thought he saw sorrow. An apology? For all the fun times they’d had. For a friendship that was now forever tainted. Dead with no hope of resuscitation.
But maybe Robby was projecting what he’d like to see . . . an admission that what Sebastian had done was wrong.
“We don’t have a lotta time,” Sebastian said to his two lieutenants. “Take care of him, then meet me where we discussed.” Sebastian slipped past them out of the light’s reach, his footfalls going suddenly silent as he disappeared.