The Maya Bust Read online

  “As if I might want you back. You know Lexi’s in trouble, but you haven’t even asked about Kyle.”

  Gooney swallowed. “He’s okay, isn’t he?”

  “Of course he is. He’s staying with your parents while I sort this out.” She unfurled a beautiful smile. “He’s becoming quite the scholar athlete. I think he reminds them of your brother.”

  It should have been a compliment. It sounded like one — but Gooney’s expression hollowed out. He reeled slightly as if absorbing a blow.

  Pam turned on her heel and walked toward the door. “Mr. Casey, your firm is clearly in violation of the contract. You’re fired. I’ll expect the refund of my money immediately, less appropriate travel expenses.” She cast a look at the dreadful apartment. “You violated my trust, and I can’t do business like this.”

  Gooney surged toward the door. “It’s not just business, it’s our daughter’s life!”

  Grant caught him with an arm across his chest as she flung the door open and stalked out into the darkened street.

  “Ms. Dionne, with all due respect,” Grant swiveled, hoping Gooney would stay put. “The best chance of getting your daughter back will be staying with me. We’ve already made contact with these people, and I have boots on the ground. Let me do the job you hired me for. If you’re that angry, I’ll do it for the down payment. Lexi’s in trouble. You don’t need any more delays.”

  “I believe the Pinkertons have an office down here. Surely they can —”

  “Fuck that.” Gooney brushed past him, and she whirled around, but his shoulders hunched, his hands spread as if she held him at gunpoint. “Please, Pamela, Ms. Dionne, whatever you want to be called. Please don’t fire him. He’s the best, honest to God, there’s nobody else I would trust with her life.”

  “Last I knew you didn’t even like each other, now you’re thick as thieves. You never dealt with me in good faith, Mr. Casey, and I intend to spread that truth everywhere that money goes.”

  Now she was trash-talking the Bone Guard, threatening to ruin the rep he was trying so hard to build. Before Grant could form his reply, Gooney said, “No, don’t. He didn’t know anything — it’s all on me! Swear to god, it’s nothing to do with him.” His breath came in ragged gulps. “I’m leaving right now — you never have to see me again, Pa — not for the rest of my life, okay? I’ll sleep in the fucking airport until there’s a flight out of town. Please don’t walk away. Don’t let how you feel about me screw up Lexi’s chances. Please.”

  Gooney, pleading. There was a sight Grant never thought he’d see. He should be reveling in it. Payback for the throbbing bruise at his temple, for the years Gooney was his CO, looking to break him. Instead, anger simmered at his gut as he listened to Gooney twisting himself inside out for a manipulative, high-handed woman who thought it was more important to grind him down than to do what was best for their daughter.

  Walking backward, Gooney was already half in shadow, but not so far that Grant missed the pain that edged his eyes.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  * * *

  After transferring Eleiua to a different location, with a few guards to keep an eye on her, Raxha retired with Dante to the cottage and fell asleep to the sound of Chica’s soft crunching from her den at the back of the enclosure. The animal was almost purring. Raxha felt the same after converting the rude policeman into a jaguar snack. Slipping from the bed after dawn, she walked across the compound to her gym. The rundown camp deliberately failed to reveal her residual wealth. Before his death, Hernan Castillo lavished gifts on those he loved, giving Eleiua a hacienda almost as nice as the one he shared with his family, albeit further into the jungle. After he died, Mother sold their own home and fled the area, trying to take Raxha with her, but it didn’t stick. Eight years in the city, making herself ready, and when she came back here, her father’s men tried to laugh off her return, Dante most of all — until she proved herself against him, and the Sinaloa, and the cops. Fighting uphill the whole time as she won them back.

  She and her crew picked up some freelance work from Los Zetas, but the Z’s treated her little better than the policeman: like they wanted to pat her head and hand her some sweets while she went back to where she belonged. She belonged here, in the jungle, close to the blood and the glory.

  Inside the gym, she flicked on banks of lights and got to the business of keeping strong: push-ups, chin-ups, jump rope, bench press and curls. She locked eyes with herself in the mirror as the sweat beaded like a crown across her forehead. Not the kind of princess her father had in mind, surely she was the kind his memory deserved. She pumped the weight toward her chin, flashing back to the moment she challenged Dante to arm wrestle. A girl? Crazy! What, are you afraid? Oh, he was strong, but he lacked discipline. She had studied, telling her mother she’d gone to the library — such a good girl! So studious! Gracias a Dios she’d left her father’s influence behind — when she was talking the men in the park into giving her lessons. She became a novelty, a flirtation, and finally, a challenger, earning enough for the guns and the bribes and the truck that brought her home.

  Showered and changed, Raxha emerged from the main house to find Juan in conversation with a skinny kid on a motorcycle. “There’s a stranger on the basketball court, he says. Carrying a pistol, playing pick up, says he’s looking for a job.”

  “So? The plantation’s hiring. Let him pick coffee. What’s it to do with me?”

  Juan shrugged. “Sounds like that’s not the kind of job he’s got in mind.”

  “It’s not a cop, not from the city?”

  “Doesn’t look like a cop, doesn’t talk like one,” the kid said. “Sure not a federale. He’s got ink all down.” He waved his hand from his shoulder to his wrist.

  She gave a whistle and Dante loped over from the vehicle sheds. “Getting the truck ready, Princessa, what do you need?”

  “That’s good. Let Juan handle it. You know what do to?”

  Juan gave a short nod. “If he can give Chica her medicine first.”

  Bringing out the small tranquilizer gun he carried for moments like that, Dante said, “Nap time for kitty.” The man had more pockets than a cacao pod had seeds.

  “Meet me at the truck after. You got an interview to conduct.” Not much time left before the meet. Her palms itched to get hold of the cup again and find her father’s hidden wealth.

  Raxha behind the wheel, the two of them bumped along into town, Dante calling in to one of their men, telling him to go play basketball. She had a number of people already in place, some of them not so obvious, keeping an eye out for the American. Seemed like the woman was playing straight with her so far.

  She parked in a fringe of trees, already pointed the way she meant to go, a precaution she associated with her father’s voice, and his strong hand on the parking brake. Lexi’s father had been a police officer, she said, and Raxha wondered if she’d lost him to the danger of the life, and whose side he’d been on when he fell.

  Near the old school, she and Dante split up. She strolled around the courts to a rickety staircase, and up to La Donna’s Cafe on the second floor where a screen of bamboo separated her from the court. A stranger, who knew to come to the basketball court to look for a certain kind of work. Interesting. Maybe too much of a coincidence? But then, her informant had said the Zs were keeping an eye on her. If they knew she had Eleiua, well, they might be expecting something to happen. The courts were neutral ground. From the restaurant’s shaded balcony, Raxha could hear what was said below. And if she didn’t like what she heard, well, she had a pistol for that. She raised her hand to summon a cup of coffee, and settled into her sniper’s nest.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  * * *

  The three men kept playing, the rangy one taking his shot, Grant easily blocking, swiping the ball and pivoting to dodge the defense. Hadn’t taken too long, as he was purchasing some weapons, to find out where the cartel hung out in Lanquin. Now a tall guy with a thick head of hair strol
led over. They kept playing, but the newcomer’s presence sent a ripple of excitement through the cartel crowd: smothered smiles, shared looks, a sense of anticipation, like they were in for a good show. Either Grant became one of them, or — what? Beheaded, like the threat that hung over him for years in Afghanistan? Maybe the newcomer would be the one to paint a warning in Grant’s own blood, using his disembodied arm as the paintbrush. Maybe he had something even more gruesome in mind.

  The tallest player drew back, making the T for time-out. Grant dribbled the ball over cracked pavement to the sloping concrete retaining wall that served as a bench. A two-story shop painted vivid blue loomed up behind. Bamboo screen on the second floor veranda flicked out and back again. Someone settling in with a snack? Tucking the ball under his arm, Grant pulled a flask from his back pocket and tossed back a swallow. Or not. He wiped his mouth and held out the flask to one of his competitors. The guy grinned, showing a gold tooth, and accepted, taking a swig of the whiskey inside, then passing it to the next one.

  Grant wished he had a jug of water instead. That would have to wait. The new guy strolled over: hair down to his shoulders, wide-brimmed hat with a stain at the crown, rifle slung over his shoulder with the ease that underscore his sense of command. Must be four or five inches taller than Grant, maybe a few years younger.

  The last of the players leaned to hand back his flask, but Grant lifted his chin toward the new guy. “See if your friend wants some,” he said in Spanish.

  The man shook his head. “No friend of mine.” He pushed the flask back, and Grant accepted it.

  “No friend of anybody’s,” the youngest one declared with a snicker. He mopped his face with a bandana tied around his neck.

  “Heard you’re looking for a job. What can you do?” The newcomer planted his feet and regarded Grant with flickering, eager eyes.

  Leaning against the wall, Grant bent a knee and planted his foot on the concrete, letting the ball rest on his thigh. “Lots of things.” He glanced toward the street and back. “Wet work. Among others.”

  The newcomer snorted. “With that peashooter? I am impressed.”

  The players laughed, shifting their weight, moving a little away from Grant, as if to avoid the blood spatter about to happen, even while they didn’t want to miss it.

  Cocking his head, Grant studied the rifle across the other man’s back. “If I want a bigger gun, I’ll take yours.”

  “Mierda! How the hell you think you’ll do that?” Arms folded, feet planted, the guy regarded him as if he were a lunatic.

  “The basketball takes you in the side of the head, knocks off your hat, and leaves you facing the street. I drop a low kick to the back of your knee, slide the gun off your shoulder, tap my peashooter to the back of your skull.”

  He shrugged. “That’s one way.” He picked up the ball and spun it on his fingertip, then caught it lightly in his palm, not even looking.

  Frozen for a moment by Grant’s words, the other players looked for a sign, but the youngest one covered his snicker with the back of his hand. “Dios Mio, Dante, the look on your face!” He burst out laughing, slapping his knee. Grant was almost sorry he’d missed the face.

  Dante swung the gun off his own shoulder, following through to ram the butt into the young man’s stomach. He doubled over now, wheezing. Turning back to Grant, Dante’s glance flicked up toward the veranda, as if he were just taking his time, then he said, “I don’t recognize your accent. Where are you from?”

  “North.” In a quick movement, he bounced the ball, and the young man recovered enough to capture it. Grant gave him a wink.

  Dante grunted, eyes narrowed and rifle cradled in his arms. “What’s your name?”

  Unfurling a smile, Grant said, “Does it matter? As long as it starts with a Z.”

  The two older ballplayers shared a fist bump. After a hint of excitement, Dante relaxed a little and casually slid the gun back to his shoulder. “Like ’Zote.’” Dimwit

  “Maybe it’s Zagale,” the young man suggested, calling Grant a shepherd.

  “How about Zaino?” Dante proposed. Treacherous.

  Grant chuckled. “I guess you’ll have to find out.”

  “I know, I know!” The young man aimed his finger at Grant, then made a swish-swish-swish through the air. “It’s Zorro!” He struck a pose like the swordsman who took his name from a fox.

  Grant laughed. “I’ll take that one. What’s yours?” He put out his hand.

  “Ramon.” The young man shook with him.

  “So,” Dante began, “Zorro … what brings you to Lanquin?”

  He’d played the game, done the tough talk, and covered the banter. Time to go for a different tack. “This town hasn’t been in play for the last few years, but we heard there was a chance for recovery, a rising power. Something better than a cacao farm, anyway.”

  “That’s for sure, Zorro.” Dante’s lips spread in a feral grin. “Come on, we got work to do.” He held up a cautionary hand. “Not wet work, sorry.” The hand rolled to a shrug. “At least, probably not.”

  “I’ll take my chances.” He fell in with the men, sauntering down the sidewalk toward the meet. Four of them here, and Dante the only real threat, plus whoever was keeping an eye out from above. He had Gooney as backup, already in place, and Pam likely freaking out in the back of the plush sedan, clinging to the cup that meant her daughter’s life — or maybe preparing to smash it over Gooney’s head. Hard to say. When he proposed Gooney as her concealed bodyguard, both of them looked incredulous, but while Gooney could pass for a Nazi, neither his appearance nor his language skill would let him stand in for Grant’s role. Gooney, he could depend on; Pam, he wasn’t so sure about. So, in spite of Pam’s protest that her ex would as likely shoot her as a bad guy, the plan fit.

  Other pedestrians kept their heads down or darted glances, and found something a lot more interesting to occupy them, preferably on another street. Strong coffee lingered on the wind, held down by the lowering clouds. Grant let Dante walk a half-step ahead, close enough to establish both Dante’s presumed dominance, and that Grant was letting him have it. Walking the fine line between macho bonding and just pissing the guy off. Recalculating how to get hold of Dante’s rifle if he needed it. Zorro’s sword would be a nice touch, but he had another gun strapped to his ankle, and three knives, all acquired in the darkness in dangerous alleys far from Pam’s hotel. Preparing to handle the wet work and praying he wouldn’t have to.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  * * *

  The truck lurched and bounded down the rutted path, and Malcolm, leaning against Lexi, winced at every jolt. Short chains bound their ankles to bolts welded onto the floor, both of them gagged against shouting, but leaving their hands free to talk — except his right hand lay scraped and bleeding in his lap. In the aftermath of the officer’s death, Dante grabbed Malcolm, shouting at him, something about trying to help the wrong side, Malcolm had explained later. Dante flung Malcolm to the ground, and she screamed, lunging forward, ready to fight, but he didn’t shoot — maybe because the jaguar was still eating. Instead, Dante stomped on Malcolm’s hand, grinding it into the rocky earth, then letting him go. Raxha, in her apparent benevolence, allowed Lexi to wash the injury and wrap it. No broken bones, though she didn’t probe too firmly. He needed a hospital, and if he’d slept at all that night, he didn’t look it. Two men with guns sat by the tailgate, swaying easily with the ride, as if they’d done this all their lives.

  Please God, only a few more hours. They hadn’t told her the plan, though they had taken her picture a couple more times, but she could see Raxha’s excitement grow and catch the increase in planning and communication. It was like being on the committee for a big party, but nobody bothering to interpret, so she never knew quite what the plan was. She might have to make her own. Between the metal bed of the truck and the canvas cover, she glimpsed the passing jungle, and noticed when the pattern of light changed as the trees opened up. In spite of the nausea
ting ride, she peered through the gap, desperate for any information that might help. Did they even pass the corner where she’d left the coin? Stupid to have abandoned her own small object. No, her shirt had buttons. If she needed to, she could leave a trail that way, and she had ingratiated herself enough with Raxha to earn a stubby pencil of her own, the better to answer Raxha’s questions. No, Aabo hadn’t talked about the princess. No, nothing about a way, a path, a trail or a map. No idea what the woman really wanted. The only thing Lexi cared about was, would the pencil be long enough to kill someone? Would she have to stab them in the eye, or would the throat do? She couldn’t count on her aim between ribs to reach someone’s heart, and she didn’t think the chest would be vulnerable in any case, between the layers of clothing, and the layers of muscle.

  An impression of her father flashed before her again, pointing to his own throat, his eyes, nose, groin. The most vulnerable areas of attack, then he grinned, and discouraged her from attacking his groin. “Men would protect that at the cost of anything else,” he had signed to her. “Besides, I’m your dad. But when you go for the groin, their eyes and throat are open.”

  If she did succeed in getting herself and Malcolm out of the truck, the gang still had Eleiua. She must hope that some authority could be summoned to care about a local woman. Even Raxha herself didn’t want to kill Eleiua, just to hold her long enough to prevent her from wrecking the abduction scheme.

  The truck slowed and pulled around a corner. Shops and apartment buildings bounced through her vision, and then — it couldn’t be. Her imagination supplied the face beneath a hat, just a glimpse of chin, nose, deep green eye. A man hanging around on a street corner, broad-shouldered in a grubby jacket that looked like he’d been sleeping in it.