I check my phone for the hundredth time, for news from Stanley that he’s located them, for a missed call from an unknown number that could only be Bane, allowing me a chance to hear Mercy’s voice again. Still nothing. Not that I would have missed either.
I feel this overwhelming urge to scream, and keep screaming until I know she’s okay and this deep ache inside me finds a moment of respite.
“Alright Gabe. I’ve followed you along for the ride up until now. Tell me you’ve got ideas for how we’re going to win against dear old Dad.”
“I’ve got ideas.” It’s all I’ve been thinking about since I left Fulcort yesterday, when I’m not thinking about Mercy. How do we kill Merrick and Vince, and scare Puff into compliance without actually doing any of it? And how do we manage all this with that FBI agent in our shadow?
Our first hurdle—hiding from Agent Lewis the fact that Mercy didn’t leave Vegas with us—was solved care of Becky, one of Caleb’s showgirl friends who has the same body type and long dark hair as Mercy. She arrived last night with a gaggle of women and stayed over, agreeing to dress the part—in one of Mercy’s outfits, wide glasses, and a low-brimmed hat. With my arm around her and her face nuzzled in my neck, the short walk from the elevator to the SUV was easy enough.
But I know Lewis’s type. She’s a lot like the agent who took down our father, a total dog on a bone. She’ll eventually figure out that Mercy isn’t in Phoenix with me and, when she does, she’s going to assume the worst happened—and that I’m behind it.
We’ll deal with that when we get to it.
Caleb sets his Glock on the counter and pours two glasses of vodka. “So, let’s hear ‘em. How exactly are we going to convince that snake in an orange jumpsuit that we’re committed without getting ourselves or Mercy killed in the process?” He downs his in one smooth gulp and nudges the other one toward me. “Both of which are highly likely, by the way.”
“By getting on board with what he wants.” It’s the only way. I leave my glass where it is, untouched. I need all my wits about me if we’re going to pull this off.
My phone chirps with a text. It’s like a fire drill in my pocket. I rush to grab it.
Stanley: I think I figured out what Vlad had planned for Navarro.
His message is followed by a link to a Mexican news source, written in Spanish, with pictures of a charred building.
I thrust the phone into Caleb’s face. “What does this say?” My Spanish is mostly nonexistent, save for a few phrases I use with our housekeeper, Rosita. It’s certainly not good enough to decipher this.
He squints as he reads the screen. “A lab outside Hermosillo was hit last night. Looks like they were slicing and dicing cocaine, and someone lit it up bigtime.” He lets out a low whistle. “Seven dead so far, the warehouse torched. Go big or go home, I guess.”
I sigh heavily. Hermosillo is in Sonora. “That’s Navarro’s territory.” Our father must have been working that angle for a while now, long before Navarro’s guys hit Puff’s crew. Finding out one of those locations is no easy feat. I’ll bet he pulled it out of one of Navarro’s guys on the inside in Fulcort.
“So he has Ivan or JJ torch the guy’s operation and now he wants us to go on like everything’s copacetic? The guy’s going to cut us down the second we step out of our house.” Caleb laugh-snorts, as if the idea is preposterous.
But nothing about this is funny. The reality is, Navarro will retaliate and soon. “We’ve got to keep up appearances until Stanley tracks down Mercy.”
He sighs heavily. “How far on board are we talking here? Are we Rose or Jack in this situation? Are you Rose and I’m Jack? Cuz I don’t wanna be Jack. Things didn’t work out too well for him.”
Leave it to my brother to make a stupid joke during a serious conversation. Except maybe he’s not too far off this time. “We both fight like Rose and hold on like Jack, until this whole fucking dirty empire goes down, once and for all.” And if Mercy isn’t in my arms when it’s all said and done, I’ll sink to the bottom of the ocean along with it.
8
Mercy
I swallow against the taste of bile that lingers at the base of my throat. The two bites of peanut butter sandwich I dared ingest earlier sit in slimy clumps on the dirt in front of me, heaved from the depths of my digestive system. A few chunks landed on my silk blouse, splashed onto my toes. If I vomit again, it’ll be on an empty stomach, and there’s nothing worse than retching on an empty stomach.