Hunt Her Down (14 page)

the essence and my . . .”
Days are nearly over
. But they could never know about the cancer.

No one could, until he’d finished and replaced lying, stupid Ramon with his only hope—a

grandson he’d never met. “My needs are not yet fulfilled.”

“I can find him, Viejo,” Roberto said. He was older, and his loyalty to the Jimenez family

ran deep. But Pedro? Viejo couldn’t even look at the filthy cheat who was in the game for the

money only.

That’s all he could find to work for him now, and why his activities had to stay secret and

be handled on his own. But getting his grandson to Monte Verde couldn’t be done alone.

“Give me time, and I can find him and bring him to you,” Roberto repeated, his dark eyes

burning with intensity.

No, he could never kill this man. Time was, he would have picked up a butcher knife and

driven it through his heart to make an example, to maintain his power. But his power, like his

body, was faltering, and loyalty like this man’s was more valuable than examples.

“You tried and failed,” Alonso said. “Now he is hidden and protected.”

“I will get him,” Roberto said defiantly. “For you, Viejo. I will find your grandson and

bring him to your plantation. He belongs at Monte Verde. He will start the next generation.”

Roberto was also very good at saying exactly what he thought Alonso wanted to hear.

“
I
will find him,” Alonso replied. “I have many resources.” That was a lie. He had one

resource, and it cost him dearly. But he’d paid the fee gladly all these years, rewarded with

knowledge. Pictures. Even a videotape of Quinn playing in the park with a big brown dog, a

fairhaired boy who obviously favored Caridad’s side.

Across the room, the ancient fax machine trilled with an incoming call. The next shipment

must be on its way. He pushed himself up, using both hands, his strength sapped just from this

conversation.

He blocked the machine from their view. The readout that lit with the sender’s phone

number had long ago burned out, but he knew who was transmitting this information. The

same person who would find his grandson.

As the paper inched into the tray, he saw that a strange design trimmed the paper, as though

the sender had used some sort of official document to write the information.

This should just be a confirmation that the shipment had been sent from the code name they

used: Michael Scott. Alonso frowned, glancing over his shoulder at the two men who shared a

look of hope, like chastised children who prayed the worst they would get was a tongue-

lashing.

Half of the paper was through the machine now, enough to pull Alonso’s attention from his

men to the message.

This was an official document. It was a certificate of some sort.

His belly tightened, because anything out of the norm was never a good thing. He’d been

expecting a shipping number, an arrival time, a cargo code.

Finally the document completed printing, and the machine shut down, releasing the paper.

Alonso lifted it, frowning as he worked to translate the English, much better at speaking the

language than reading it.

Certificate of Birth.

Birth . . . he understood that.

Quinn Varcek Smith.

He certainly understood that.

Mother.
Madre
. Yes, Magdalena Varcek. He recognized that name, of course.

Father.
Padre
.

He sucked in a breath and felt his treacherous heart skip one beat, then another.

“El Viejo?” Pedro asked. “Bad news?”

Bad news. Horrible news. Impossible, wrong, despicable news. His head grew light, his

chest felt squeezed by a vise, his powerful fingers trembled.

This could not be real. This was a cruel and vicious joke, played by someone who wanted

to speed his demise. The words shattered and changed and ruined everything.

There was the code name he’d been expecting, but never, never like this.

Was it possible? Had
she
been the betrayer, not Ramon? Had he blamed the wrong person

all these years? Did he have men out to kill a son who had not done anything except the crime

of stupidity by not watching his woman more closely?

Bile rose in his throat as the harsh reality settled over him.

The boy was not his blood.

Then what did he have left to live for? Nothing. Absolutely nothing but revenge.

He stepped back from the machine, holding the paper as if it burned his fingers. She had to

die. No, no, it had to be worse than death.

The whore who had ended his life as he knew it, ruined his business, and put him in prison,

had to suffer first. Alonso folded the paper to cover the hateful words.

The
puta
would watch her own son die. Then she would pay for her betrayal with her life.

And when that was over, he’d have one last man to kill.

Michael Scott. This time, his death would be real.

ONCE MAGGIE KNEW Dan’s former identity, she easily picked up the nuances that made the

man she knew similar to the man who walked into the FBI offices with her. Not that his cover

hadn’t been thorough, but there were subtleties in his speech patterns, the way he moved his

brows and hands, even his gait and posture, that were his regardless of hair color or the shape

of his nose.

Not so with Joel Sancere. As the stocky, stiff-backed, military-buzzed FBI agent marched to

greet them in the lobby, Maggie stared in amazement that this man was the sloppy, slacky

Juan Santiago who had seemed to be kept around more for his off-color jokes than his role in

the drug dealing.

In a tailored suit, crisp white shirt, and square-knotted tie, there was nothing slack about

FBI Supervisor Sancere.

“Dan Gallagher, you son of a gun.” He reached his hand straight out to Dan and gave it one

snap of a shake. “Great to see you again.”

Dan returned the shake and immediately turned to

Maggie to make the introductions, even though he’d already told her exactly what to

expect. “This is Joel Sancere, currently the supervisor of—which squad are you running

now?”

“Major thefts and violent crime,” he said. “But I’ve worked my way through most every

division we have. Mrs. Smith, I understand you are helping us once again with an open

investigation. Thank you.”

Like she’d
helped
on purpose last time.

“Supervisor Sancere,” she said, shaking his hand and looking him in the eye. He had to

know how Dan got inside information all those years ago, but she refused to feel ashamed.

His attention was back on Dan. “So you did it, huh?” he asked, a look somewhere between

admiration and chastisement in his eyes. “Why am I not surprised? You were always a rule-

bender.”

“Getting into the evidence room?” Dan shrugged. “I know people. But I’m afraid they

won’t let Maggie in there.”

“That pushover SAC? He might.” Joel shook his head with distaste. “The guy’s a mess.”

“I admit I was surprised when you didn’t get the job.”

Joel waved a hand as if he didn’t care, then leaned closer and lowered his voice. “Like

you’ve known for years, Dan, it’s who you know, not how well you do the job. And this one?”

He pointed a thumb over his shoulder. “He knows
everybody
.”

“Who knows everybody?” Another man came around the corner to the lobby, smaller in

stature and breadth, slightly balding, with sharp brown eyes behind rimless glasses. “Are you

Dan Gallagher?”

Maggie had to agree with Sancere; the “boss” was a mess. He hadn’t even ironed his shirt

and clearly thought shaving was optional.

“I’m the special agent in charge, Thomas Vincenze.” He shook Dan’s hand and then nodded

to Maggie. “You ready to go Gallagher? I’ve had the ev clerk pull the 1As and bulkies for

you.”

Dan hesitated, looking at Maggie. “You want to wait here in the lobby?”

“I’ll take care of her,” Joel assured him. “We’ll be in my office.”

If Dan noticed the blood fade from her face, he didn’t react. He just nodded his thanks to

Joel and disappeared out the lobby doors with Vincenze.

“This way,” Joel said to Maggie. “My hole is in the back.”

She started down the hall, wondering how to make small talk without going to the past, the

place she wanted to avoid.

“So,” he started, “have you met the infamous and incomparable Lucy Sharpe?”

The question surprised—and relieved—her. “I spoke with her on the phone before we

came.”

“No sparks?”

She gave him a confused look.

“Between her and Dan. Rumor has it they’re an item, didn’t you know?”

Another surprise, but this one at her reaction to that news. What did she expect? That he’d

never been attracted to another woman? A man like that? “He didn’t mention that.”

“It’s just a rumor, mind you. Lots of those where that operation is concerned. They’re sort

of shrouded in mystique.” He laughed as they reached the door to his office, and gestured for

her to go in first. “And money.”

“I’m really not that familiar with the company,” she said, crossing her arms and not taking

a seat. How long would it take Dan to find that fortune?

“Bet you were surprised when he showed up after all these years, huh?”

Even five minutes with someone who had this much on her past was too long.

He ambled around his desk and sat in a creaky chair. “Sit down, Maggie. Oh, I’m sorry. Do

you want something? Coke, coffee?”

“No thanks.” She sat and glanced around, looking for something to change the subject. But

there wasn’t even a family picture or diploma or anything she could use to make a comment.

“Did you recognize him?”

“No, I didn’t.” She looked directly at him. “But I really wouldn’t have recognized you.”

He smiled, obviously taking that as a compliment. “I don’t do much UC anymore, but I was

pretty good at it back in the day.”

He leaned forward, and there was a subtle shift in his features from amiable to something

rougher. “You don’ remember your old pal, Juan?” The thick Spanish accent had a hint of

something mean, and she sat back a little to get away from it.

“I do now.”

Instantly, he was himself again. “Sorry. I’m sure this is awkward for you.”

“A little.” She gave him a tight smile. “I appreciate that you understand that.”

“Let’s just proceed as friends, Maggie. I think what you’re doing to help is a noble thing,

and we’re grateful.”

“I’m happy to help,” she said, keeping it as vague as possible.

“What do you have? One of the ‘missing fortunes’?” He air-quoted the words and added

plenty of sarcasm.

“I take it you don’t believe they are the key to… anything?”

“Never have. That was Dan’s theory, and some others. Me? I was there that night with El

Viejo. He made no effort to hide or conceal the fortune he had. It’s nice folklore—a hundred

million in missing cash—but I doubt it ever existed. And if it did, Esteban went to the grave

knowing where it is.”

“Not even Ramon?”

“The minute those agents busted in, El Viejo knew exactly where the leak came from.

Ramon is persona non gratis with him, I suspect.”

“I really don’t know that much about it,” she said coolly. “I’m just trying to help Dan.”

“You haven’t answered my question. Do you have one of the fortunes? Because if you do,

even a rogue investigator like Gallagher wouldn’t be foolish enough to keep that from the

FBI, would he?” When she didn’t answer, he leaned forward. “
Do
you have one, Mrs.

Smith?”

“Not anymore.” It wasn’t technically a lie. She’d hidden the fortune in the one place she

thought was completely safe—Quinn’s backpack. If he was in a safe house, then so was his

backpack.

“It’s okay, Maggie,” he said, reclining his chair casually. “Dan will eventually tell me;

we’re good friends. You don’t have to worry about what’s safe to say or not.”

“Thank you,” she said. “And please, don’t feel like

you have to babysit me. If you have a meeting or something . . .”
Please go to it. Now.

He flicked a hand. “It’ll wait. Tell me what you’ve been doing all these years? Living in

Florida, still?”

“In the Keys.”

“Husband? Kids?”

“My husband passed away about four years ago, but I have a son, Quinn.” Before he could

take a breath or ask how old, she pointed to his bare walls. “I don’t see any pictures of a

family, Supervisor Sancere. How about you?”

“No time, I’m afraid.” He added a sheepish smile. “I’m here more than I’m home, and

when I’m not, I’m traveling on a case. How old’s your son?”

“Old enough to drive me crazy half the time,” she said quickly. “Have you completely

given up undercover work? I would imagine it’s quite exciting.”

“Not as exciting as it was for Dan.”

Could he mean what she thought he meant?

“A guy who stomps all over the regs like he does tends to do quite well UC,” he continued.

“So he’s a teenager then, your Quinn?”

It was a direct volley and she knew exactly what he was trying to figure out—the math.

Was the baby Dan’s . . . or Ramon’s?

Blessedly, she heard footsteps and Dan’s voice in the hall.
Thank you, Baba
.

Dan’s face was dark as he entered. “All right, Maggie. We can go.”

She stood, grateful for the reprieve, but trying to read his expression. She couldn’t. She

glanced at Joel. “It was nice talking to you.”