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“I’ve made arrangements for tomorrow midmorning. Will that work for you?” It had taken Victoria more than two weeks to work out the details as well as to summon the resolve to do this behind Lucas’s back. She cringed inwardly. The sooner it was over the better she would feel. She had deceived Lucas only once and, like this time, it had been for his own good. The last time she had been faced with the possibility that she had a terrible disease and she hadn’t wanted to worry her family until the doctor’s suspicions were confirmed. Fortunately the test results triggering the concern had been falsified for another’s own agenda. Keeping Lucas in the dark that time had resulted in her being abducted and held in a mental institution. Victoria hoped there would be a vastly different result this time.

Though this was an entirely different situation, there were similarities. Lucas could be in danger. After what they’d gone through in Mexico, Victoria needed to be sure about Slade Keaton. Lucas remained firm in his assessment that Keaton was not who or what he said. Victoria had not been as convinced until the incident in Pozos. The attempt on her and her husband’s lives below the border had been one too many twists of fate with Keaton’s name, however obscurely, in the mix. Victoria had watched over these last months the toll that uncertainty took on Lucas. She wanted the issues surrounding Keaton’s identity and motives resolved once and for all. Going to Jim or having Sloan follow up would have been the easiest, but neither of the two would have been willing to keep Lucas out of the loop.

This is the best way. This time.

“Tomorrow is fine, ma’am,” Stark said. “What’s my cover?”

“Mineral de Pozos was a mecca during the silver mining boom. But like many other places, when the mining heyday ended hard times fell upon the area, leaving it little more than a ghost town. Recently revitalization has begun, due to the low real estate prices that have attracted many artists.”

“I see.” He nodded. “My mother is an artist.”

“That background provides an opportunity for you to question the locals without stirring suspicions.” The Colby Agency had a reputation for hiring not only the very best investigators and security specialists but also those with diverse backgrounds. The combination was unparalleled in the business of private investigations. Victoria and her son Jim strived to maintain that superior balance at the agency.

“I agree. I appreciate the opportunity.”

Levi Stark had moved to Chicago from his home state of Florida nearly two years ago. He still hadn’t adjusted to the climate change but he’d meshed perfectly with the staff here at the agency. His work in the Colby Agency’s research department had been so outstanding that Victoria had been tempted to try and persuade him to stay there. But, like most who came to the agency, he had wanted to become a field investigator in time.

“Excellent. Your contact for resources once you arrive is in the case file. He will provide whatever you need. I’d like you to keep me posted as often as possible.” Victoria suffered a twinge of doubt. This case, as she’d briefed Stark, sounded inordinately straightforward and quite simple. Yet, she feared it would not be nearly so. Lucas wasn’t alone when it came to suffering those troubling doubts related to Keaton. “Take extraordinary care, Stark. Your safety is to be your first priority.”

“Understood.”

“And Lucas cannot know.” The words left a bitter taste in her mouth, but they were necessary. This was something to which Victoria needed to attend, discreetly and promptly. Whatever Keaton’s obsession with Lucas, she intended to ensure he meant no harm.

“You’re the boss. Off the record it is.”

With that Levi Stark left Victoria’s office, the case file under his arm.

He would follow the leads he found until the truth about Slade Keaton was revealed. As far as the rest of the agency would know, Stark was on vacation. Lucas would be most displeased that she had taken this route if he learned of her actions. As much as she regretted the need to mislead him in this way, Victoria had been in this business far too long not to trust her intuition. She wasn’t wasting another minute.

For better or worse…it was done.

Mineral de Pozos, Mexico, October 11, 2:30 p.m.

Casey Manning wandered onto the verandah outside her room at the Hacienda de Pozos. The sun felt good on her face. Locally designed and crafted wind chimes tinkled in the faint breeze. The view was nothing short of inspiring. Pozos presented a fascinating clash of ancient history and modern revival. Revitalized structures filled with contemporary art were shoehorned between stark ruins from the days when this ghost town had been a booming source of silver. Lucky for Casey, the hotel sat on a slight rise above the town plaza, providing an excellent surveillance opportunity of the activities beyond. Bougainvillea was draped like a necklace along the railing where she stood overlooking an al fresco dining space that reminded her of her childhood home in Southern California.

Soon the music in the cantina below would fill the cooler evening air and she would wander among the patrons in search of her first mark. The Well was his favorite watering hole and he socialized there most nights.

Paulo Fernandez was forty-nine, though he looked sixty. Goats and chickens were his livelihood in Pozos. To his neighbors and customers he was the old man who’d turned the church ruins on the edge of town into goat and chicken pens. The same old man whose dried meat shop in the main plaza kept his patrons coming back. Fernandez’s outwardly one-dimensional character ran far deeper than anyone recognized. Based on Casey’s research she would wager his ancestors had been traitors in the Mexican Revolution at the beginning of the twentieth century and not much had changed through the generations since. Fernandez played snitch for the
federales
or whoever else paid the largest sum of pesos. He hadn’t inherited the old mining hacienda he called home as most believed. His lucrative little side job had paid for the property and the renovations.

Casey knew and understood his type. Ruthlessness camouflaged by charm. Relentlessness hidden by humility. She could handle Fernandez with both eyes shut. With a quick check of her cell, which had succumbed to poor service but still maintained the time, she headed down to the lobby to meet her resource. She had arrived as prepared as legally possible but some necessities wouldn’t pass airport screening. For those essentials she required a local resource. Central Mexico hadn’t been among her assignments thus far in her CIA career but a quick call to a colleague had provided a name and number for the best man in the region.

Casey strolled across the cobblestone courtyard, admiring the beautifully aged architecture adorned by the late season’s blooms until she spotted the red silk scarf that tagged her contact. In this case the best man in the region was a woman. Tall, elegant and with a lush mane of coal-black hair cascading down her back, Eva Sanchez sat at a table sipping a tall glass of what appeared to be water with a lemon wedge perched on the rim. A large colorful and clearly expensive bag sat at her feet. The stilettos and flowing white skirt with matching ballerina blouse gave her the look of a chic contessa. The red scarf offered an eye-catching pop of color that few could ignore. Their gazes locked and Casey crossed to her table.

“Ms. Manning, you’re far younger than I expected.” Eva smiled, gesturing to the chair opposite her and then to her glass. “Would you like a drink? I recommend the sparkling water. It’s immensely refreshing and it is by far the safest of the things you will encounter while visiting our lovely country.”

“I’m good, thanks.” Casey settled into the chair. “You had no problems filling my order?” There were times when small talk served a purpose but this was not one of those times. Casey wasn’t here to make friends. She was extraordinarily gifted at setting aside her emotions. Her last boyfriend had reveled in pointing out what he called a deep-seated personality flaw.

“I have everything you need.” Sanchez’s expression shifted to one of business. “Two handguns. One Beretta 9mm and one Ruger .22 caliber. A holster for the latter. One box of rounds for each. One four-inch switchblade.”

“You received my cash transfer?” Payment up front—that was the deal. No exceptions.

“Of course.” Sanchez flashed another of those practiced smiles that fell short of her eyes. “Otherwise I would not be here.” She drew a small red clutch purse from the larger bag at her feet and placed cash on the table for her tab. “All is as it should be.”

“Excellent.”

Sanchez openly studied Casey for a moment. “Be very careful, Ms. Manning. Human trafficking has reached an all-time high in our country. You fit the most highly sought-after profile. Watch your back.” She rose with all the grace of a well-trained dancer. “And good luck with your venture.”

Casey pushed out of her own chair, while not as gracefully as the other woman with every bit as much barefaced confidence. “Thanks.” She didn’t bother mentioning that she never relied on luck to accomplish her mission. Luck was for those incapable of getting the job done on their own.

When Sanchez had disappeared beyond the arched entry gates, Casey picked up the fashionable bag she’d left behind and headed back to her room. There was no need to check the merchandise for quality; Sanchez was a five-star resource. Not an easy accomplishment. The designation signified that Sanchez not only came through with high quality merchandise every time, she did so even when her personal safety was at risk.

A woman after Casey’s own heart. Any mission that didn’t include some level of danger would surely be incredibly boring and intensely unproductive.

The Well, 9:45 p.m.

T
HE MUSIC WAS LOUD
, the lights low. The blazing logs in the broad stone fireplace kept the evening chill at bay. Every chair and stool in the house was occupied. Bearing in mind that the Well might be the only decent cantina for fifty miles, the crowd was no surprise and actually suited Casey’s objective for the evening. Fernandez was here. She had watched him work the crowd like an oily politician running for office. He’d permitted a brief glance in her direction, making a mental note of her position, as any experienced informant would. She was armed. He would expect as much. The .22 nestled snugly against her right thigh in its leather holster. What he wouldn’t expect was the switchblade strapped to her other thigh with a silk scarf. Eva Sanchez wasn’t the only one who knew how to put silk to good use. The wide-bottomed bohemian skirt covered both well and allowed for quick, easy access.

Casey ordered another sparkling water and waited for Fernandez to get around to her. He was in no hurry; he knew she would wait. Let him enjoy his moment of power. She needed information. Playing nice was her role tonight. The CIA had taught her well the art of assuming roles and maintaining patience. This was the easy part.

Eventually Fernandez swaggered up to the bar next to her. “Ah, Miss Manning.” Though he spoke English, the accent was thick with salsa flavor and his emphasis leaned heavily on the
miss.

Casey turned to face the man who claimed to have some knowledge of Slade Keaton. “Mr. Fernandez.” She offered her hand for a nice-to-meet-you shake and he proceeded to cradle it for a mini-eternity before planting a light kiss there. If she hadn’t read his background she would have been surprised by his skill at impersonating a suave gentleman. But she wasn’t. At all.

A brief visual exchange between Fernandez and the man seated next to Casey had him vacating the bar stool. Fernandez slid into his place. “Shall we get down to business,
chiquita,
or do you prefer foreplay?”

A sense of humor, too. How nice. “Is that code for ‘you have additional information for me’?” Perhaps to some Fernandez might be viewed as quite the ladies’ man in his white linen trousers and scarcely buttoned cotton shirt, both emphasizing his dark features, but not to a SoCal girl who’d just dumped her lying, cheating boyfriend.

Her contact’s laugh harmonized with the frisky Latin music. Then, with a single blink of his eyes, he changed modes and all signs of amusement vanished from his face. He leaned in close to her. “You will be pleased to know that the person you seek is more than a friend to Señor Keaton. She claims to be his
hermana.
”

Sister? That was interesting. If genuine, the familial connection could carry added benefit. “Do you have any verification of what she asserts?” Casey shrugged and stirred her water with the thin pink straw that bobbed next to the lemon wedge. “I’m not in the market for hearsay unless there’s an element of corroboration.”

Fernandez lifted two fingers to the bartender before meeting her eyes once more. “I can neither confirm nor refute anything she claims. I can, however,” he added when Casey would have interrupted, “attest that this woman has lived at the same address, used the same name and operated the same business for several years. Her former lover was a nephew of a lady I once knew
very
well.” He leaned even closer as he said the last. “This claim is nothing new and I have never heard rumors to the contrary. Although, I have heard that the name Slade Keaton is an alias. Regrettably, I have no knowledge of his given name.”

A warning fired in Casey’s veins. This was another of those coincidences Lucas had spoken of. A man who had this level of knowledge about someone who knew Keaton just happened to live in the town where Victoria and Lucas had visited and been attacked. Not so likely. More significant, the man— Fernandez—just happened to be the sort who would sell his own mother’s soul to the devil if the price was right. Too convenient.

The bartender plopped two shot glasses glistening with golden tequila on the counter in front of Fernandez. He nodded his approval before sliding one toward Casey. “A toast to our mutually beneficial business.” He gestured to the waiting glass. “This is the best tequila in all the land.”

Casey reached past the glass he’d slid her way and snagged the one he’d kept for himself. She held it up.
“Salute.”

Another of those charming laughs echoed from him as he lifted the glass she’d refused and echoed her toast before downing the contents in a single swallow.

Casey knocked back the shot of tequila then honed in on his dark watchful gaze. “I need a name and an address. As previously agreed, half the money up front, the other half when I confirm your uncorroborated claims about her identity.”

“Yes, those are the previously agreed terms.” Fernandez placed the glass on the counter. “For certain I would be most happy to complete our business tonight. But…” He sighed. Casey didn’t hear the sound but she saw the exaggerated inhale-and-exhale. “Unfortunately I cannot do business with you when you are cursed with a tracker.” He threw up his hands. “Particularly one wanting the same information as you. I find myself in a very—as you Americans say—sticky situation.”

Casey sat up straighter, her instincts going on alert. “What’re you talking about, Fernandez?” She had known this was too easy. Her pulse rate elevated.

“The
gringo
at the back table dressed in the blue jacket and snakeskin boots.”

She glanced in that direction. In three seconds flat she noted several things about the man. Not much older than her, late twenties, thirty. Dark hair. He looked American, then again that was not unusual in Pozos. Most of the artists who’d taken up residence were American. But this one had been asking about Keaton.

And he was watching Casey.

“Shake your American friend,” Fernandez tossed at her, “and we can do business.”

Her contact ambled away, merging with the other patrons and falling into conversation as if he’d never left the festivities.

Who the heck was this party crasher? She glared openly at the stranger in the blue jacket and hoped he felt the animosity all the way across the smoky room.

Only one way to find out. Casey snagged a bill from her shoulder bag and deposited it on the bar. She weaved her way through the tables and standing patrons until she reached the guy’s table. He watched her coming, making no move to escape a confrontation or to even stand to greet her, for that matter. Where were all the men like Lucas and her uncle Thomas?

Casey flattened her palms on the stranger’s table and leaned down close enough to identify the nice aftershave he wore. The man had taste and the funds to back it up, it seemed. “We need to talk.” His eyes were green. Really, really green. Emerald green. She blinked and gave herself a prompt mental kick. His eyes were green. So what?

He studied her a moment with those emerald eyes. “Do I know you?”

Despite the spirited music blaring in the background, the uncommonly deep sound of his voice made Casey shiver as if the night air had somehow cut through the warmth of the room and splashed chill bumps across her skin. She shook it off.
Focus.
What kind of game was he playing?

“If you don’t,” she warned, “you’re about to become intimately acquainted.”

He smiled. Just a smile. Wide, open and fiercely attractive. Casey ordered herself to breathe.

“Why don’t you join me?” He indicated the vacant chair at his table.

Fury whiplashed Casey, booting her from amateur land. What the heck was wrong with her? Maybe the place and the music or the ridiculous concept that she was still furious at her ex and revenge was baiting her with the idea that this guy was nothing short of
hot.

“Outside.” She didn’t wait to see if he intended to follow the order. Seriously ticked off at herself and
his
intrusion into
her
mission, she executed an about-face, worked her way through the crowd and out the door.

Too many eyes and ears in the courtyard, she observed. Beyond the arched entry that welcomed guests and patrons to the hotel grounds, the street was empty. Good. He was behind her. Not that he made a sound; his movements were remarkably soundless. She could feel him.

The street corner would work. As she approached that mark, Casey reached under her skirt and snatched the .22 from its holster, then wheeled to face the annoying glitch in her plan. Rather than meeting his green eyes beneath the moonlight, her gaze locked on the business end of a sleek 9mm.