In the following month Luke laid low, obeyed orders and paid attention. Go figure, the wanker had sent him on a suicide mission in an old Beech King. Luke should have known the biggest drug overlord in the world would be flying in style. Nothing but a state-of-the-art Gulfstream for Morales. So that’s what he kept in the locked hangar at the airfield. Luke had assumed the place was chockablock full of drugs.

They’d been gone for a month and the journey hadn’t been fruitless. El Padrino and his entourage stopped at warehouses, packing plants, plantations, and Luke catalogued each one. No wonder the man was a mega-billionaire. He not only owned Mexico, his talons sank into South America and parts of Africa.

Luke was treated like any other employee, though definitely not one of Morales’ inner circle. His hotel rooms were never on the same floor as The Godfather’s. And Morales was never left alone. Marco and Juan traded shifts with a few other trusted men. None of them ever let Luke think he might be part of the boy’s club. They told him what he needed to know to fly the plane. All other intel, Luke gathered by nosing around with his hands in his back pockets, pretending he was just hanging out, waiting until his bank account was healthy enough to retire.

But even that bore a risk. The biggest problem was Juan. The man hated Luke from the outset and the incident with Bruno only served to encourage the bloke to be more antagonistic. Juan used every opportunity to make Luke look bad to El Padrino and watched him like hawk.

It wasn’t until they arrived in Buenos Aires that he got his first real break. One that opened the doors he needed to delve deeper into the operation.

Morales rented an entire hotel, complete with bar and restaurant. Usually, he stayed in third-rate hotels and rented out two or three floors. But for some reason, he changed his routine in Buenos Aires, and that would prove to be a grave mistake.

The only hotel staff Morales kept on were the women. For the first time since they set out, El Padrino felt comfortable enough to eat in the restaurant—at a table in the back, away from doors and windows. Maybe he had protection from the locals. Luke didn’t know the reason and he was in no position to ask.

He’d been assigned to acting as bartender, which amounted to mixing tequila and lime for Morales and serving beer to the others. The nice thing about being behind the bar was he didn’t look like he was eavesdropping no matter how many times he wiped down the old mahogany surface.

Juan swaggered in from the street and took a seat at the boss’ table. He tipped the chair back on the two rear legs. “I have news.”

Saying nothing, El Padrino peered over his newspaper and arched an eyebrow.

“Amado Zambada wants a meeting.”

“He contacted you?”

“He knows I’m your man.”

“Oh really?” Morales asked, setting down his paper and crossing his arms. “How did you receive this message—did Zambada approach you himself?”

“No, no, señor. He sent word through my cousin. Zambada is here in Buenos Aires.”

“Your cousin works for Zambada? Why did you not tell me this before?”

“Ah…” Juan’s eyes shifted from side to side. “I don’t know him well. He’s a second cousin.”

“So, tell me, what does the cockroach want to discuss?”

“He’s had a bad season. His crops are for shit. He wants to offer you access to his sales channels.”

Luke’s hand stilled. Holy hell, Morales could increase his presence in the U.S. by a quarter—that could mean billions. But then, it sounds too easy. Morales and Zambada are sworn enemies.

“So, my nemesis finally realized who is the better man, eh?”

“Si, señor.” Juan grinned like a Cheshire cat. “He’s ready to do business.”

***

After his shower, Luke used the cleaning crew’s stairs and took the long way to the bar—the route through the kitchen. “Hola, señoras,” he said to the staff as he passed through.

“Hola, Aussie,” they said in unison, waving with smiling faces. It never hurt to get on the good side of the help, no matter what. The men in the Morales Cartel used coercion and force to obtain what they wanted. Had anyone else who worked for El Padrino passed through the kitchens, they would have been met with silence and hateful stares. But not Luke. A man made too many enemies when he acted like an asshole. If he behaved like a thug, he’d run the risk for word to reach El Padrino he’d used the employee stairs. But these ladies suspected him of nothing.

Luke grabbed an apple on his way through, met with a slap on the back of his hand.

“Those are for a pie,” the woman said.

After taking a bite, he winked. “Sorry. Just one for a growing boy?”

“Only for you.” She thwacked him on the shoulder and flicked her wrist toward the door. “Now go before you find something else to pinch.”

“A man could starve around here.”

Before the ladies could balk, he slipped out and casually sauntered toward the bar, taking a few more bites of the apple, then pitching the core into the rubbish bin. He picked up a glass and filled it with water while using his peripheral vision to confirm he was alone. Drinking, he turned full circle. Nothing moved. Only then did he pull the SIG 227 conceal-and-carry pistol from the back of his pants and hide it under the bar. The meeting with Zambada had disaster written all over it. Though a truce of non-violence had been made over the phone between the two overlords, Luke learned a long time ago warfare was about planning and preparation—forecasting the pitfalls, covering bases and making ready for the worst. His philosophy had kept him alive in Africa and Afghanistan before that. Now living in the enemy’s lair, Luke couldn’t afford to make mistakes.

Same thing with Mia. It was for the best he’d been away from the hacienda for a month. The brunette was way too disruptive. She kindled his primitive instincts, yet the numbers didn’t add up with her. On one hand, she acted vulnerable and naïve. On the other side, she couldn’t be as innocent as she made out. She lived with Vincent Morales, for Christ’s sake. Luke hated the way she consumed his thoughts. The woman wouldn’t talk about her past and she hadn’t asked him for help. The last thing he needed was to worry about some gorgeous female who lived with a drug lord. Mia’s life was none of Luke’s business. What was? Learning the cartel’s operation and gathering information to take them down.

Since they’d been traveling, he’d stolen moments in his hotel rooms to feed ICE coordinates of warehouses, plantations and manufacturing sites. The problem? Things were constantly moving. Morales never kept an operation in one place for more than a couple of months, which is why he couldn’t be busted. They even planted different fields every season. Another quandary was the exchange of money. With all the internet searches Asa had run, ICE still had no idea where Morales kept his dough.

Luke suspected the man had stashes of cash, rare art, and precious metals everywhere—maybe offshore accounts someplace where transactions couldn’t be traced. Or he had many accounts in so many names and only ran transactions in small amounts. Luke had given Asa the manufacturer’s ID on the Gulfstream and she’d come up with zilch. It was as if the plane didn’t exist—or had been assembled off the books.

Cash? An agent buyer?

However the man acquired the toys that came with extreme wealth, Morales had perfected the art of being off the grid. Literally.

Luke’s job wasn’t done by half. Hell, Garth had told him he’d be undercover for a year or more before all the pieces of the puzzle came together. With Morales, it became more and more evident it took at least a year for the man to gain an iota of trust in a new employee.

After using the head, he returned to the bar to find Juan, Paco and Marco moving a table near the door. Juan glanced up. “You mix drinks, pull beers and keep your mouth shut.”

“I’m becoming an ace, mate. At least if I’m ever grounded, I can get a job as a barman.”

“Yeah, well keep it that way.” Juan usually acted like an ass, but he seemed even testier today.

Luke sauntered behind the bar and leaned on his elbow. “So, where to after Buenos Aires? Aren’t you boys missing the hacienda?”

“Shut up,” said Juan.

“You’re becoming mouthy, gringo,” said Marco, who usually didn’t say much. “You’d best remember your place. You’ll never be one of us.”

“That’s right,” Paco agreed. “You were hired to fly planes.”

“And tend bar?”

“If that’s what El Padrino wants.” Juan stepped behind the bar and poured himself a shot of tequila.

Luke shook his head. The lack-wit would not intimidate him. “Hitting the hard stuff before the big meeting?” If only he could roll up his sleeves and go a few rounds with the bastard—if Juan could go a single round with him. Doubtful. None of these wankers have any skills aside from street fighting.

Juan raised his glass. “Fuck you.”

With Luke’s next breath, every muscle in his body tensed, preparing for a fight. He ought to let the remark pass, but in the past month he’d taken about all he could stand from Morales’ flunky. And the man stood within arm’s reach. Before a second ticked, he grabbed Juan by the shoulder and drove his finger into the collarbone exactly where it would cause severe pain. The man tried to jerk away, but that only made Luke apply more pressure as he stopped, inclining his lips to Juan’s ear. “I might be the new guy on the block, but I’m due the same respect as anyone else. I’ll sit back and keep my mouth shut. I’ll fly the plane any goddamned place Morales wants to go, but I don’t have to take shit from you.”

“Fuck you!”

“Wrong answer.”

Marco pulled a Glock from his holster and trained it on Luke’s skull. “Let him go.” But he only used one hand. Evidently, Marco thought he was a one-handed sharpshooter.

Luke’s jaw twitched. “Not until he apologizes.”

“Christ!” Juan’s knees gave way as sweat peppered his brow. “Shoot him.”

Luke stared Marco in the eye. “You’d shoot the pilot just because he’s applying a little pressure to your friend’s shoulder?”

“I’ve killed for less.”

His gaze never leaving the gun, Luke shoved Juan to the floor while he launched himself over the bar. As he sailed through the air, he wrested the pistol from Marco’s grasp and used the man’s arm to flip onto his feet.

This time he held the weapon with both hands, exactly how a Glock should be handled if the shooter is serious. “I’ll have that apology now. From both of you.”

Morales came in with the others. Of course. Five Padrino men pulled their weapons.

Bloody hell, now I’ll be in the dog house.

“What’s going on here?” asked the boss.

“This turkey has been using me as a door mat for long enough,” said Luke while Juan lumbered to his feet, rubbing his collarbone. “I asked for an apology, but Marco decided to pull a Glock on me.”

“Is this true?” Vincent looked to the hulk.

“I wasn’t gonna shoot him.”

Luke ejected the cartridge and the bullet from the chamber, then handed the pistol back to its owner. “All I ask is a bit of respect. Nothing more.”

Pursing his lips, Morales looked between his men. “Leave the pilot alone and stop playing childish games.”

Juan gave Luke a glare expressing more hate than a declaration of war.

“And you.” Padrino pointed at Luke. “If I catch you causing more trouble, Marco will put your feet in a bucket of cement and throw you into the Rio de la Plata. Understood?”

Licking his lips, Luke nodded. “Yes, sir.” No worries, boss. I’ll kiss your ass until the time comes to pay for your life of crime.

Not long after the tension in the air abated, Zambada and his mob of tough guys arrived. As the man scanned the room, his small eyes stopped at Luke only for a moment, his eyebrows shot up. “I’d heard your prison term was commuted.”

Luke gave him a dead-eyed stare. “Thanks to El Padrino.” The words burned like acid on his tongue.

Amado Zambada was short with a thick neck and a full bottom lip that jutted out—definitely not a handsome man.

Juan made them check their guns at the door. Though they’d agreed to no weapons over the phone. Zambada threw out his hands and glared at El Padrino sitting at his table in the rear. “You have us like pigs in a trap. Before we proceed I must see your men surrender their weapons.”

Morales snapped his fingers and his guards put their pieces on a nearby table, though every one of them carried more than one. When Zambada shifted his gaze to the bar, Luke pulled out a Glock and held it up.

“With the others,” said El Padrino.

As Luke complied, Zambada turned to Juan and arched an eyebrow. “Are you packing?”

Tipping up his chin, the thug shook his head, though he always carried a SIG in a shoulder holster and a Colt Special stashed in an ankle harness. Something about the eye contact between the two men made the hackles on the back of Luke’s neck stand on end.

“You want a drink? Some food?” asked Morales. “The food here is good. The best in Buenos Aires.”

“Give me a tequila on the rocks.”

Luke sprang into motion while his thugs watched him pour—looking for a slip of the hand, most likely. He put two slices of lime in a shot glass and started around the bar, but a beefcake stopped him. “I’ll take it.”

“Suit yourself.” Luke was happy with his post behind the bar where he could see the outline of the SIG beneath a bar towel. Not to mention, made of solid mahogany, the bar would keep him from taking a bullet.

Zambada took a seat across from Morales and sipped his drink. “You ambushed my men.”

“Ambush? When? Where?”

“The Sianori Hills. Don’t deny it. I know it was you.”

“Ah. Your men took the wrong road.” Morales smoothed his middle fingers across his moustache. “An eye for an eye, my friend. You stole my shipment. You know what happens to anyone who steals from me.”

“I stole nothing!”

“Is that what you came to discuss? Ask forgiveness for the shipment you did not steal from the wharf in Port Mansfield?”

“Mansfield? No, not the Zambada Cartel.”

“No? Then who else would have the cojones to cross me? It was you, you lying piece of shit.” El Padrino stood and leaned forward on his knuckles. “You always wanted to be better than me. You’re sitting there salivating, waiting for your chance to get your hands on the formula for Rhapsody so you can muscle in on my business. I know why you’re here, and it’s not because your crops failed!”

“You arrogant bastard.” Shoving back his chair, the glass of tequila tottered as Zambada slapped his hands on table and stood his ground. “You think you can lord it over the rest of us because you have a bigger piece of the pie? I never should have come. I don’t have to listen to insults from you.”

Zambada shifted his head making Luke’s radar zoom to full alert—not a subtle warning, but a prickling, gut-clenching alarm. Before he drew his next breath, he reached for the SIG. Juan pulled the Colt from his ankle while every man reached for concealed weapons. Zambada dove beneath a table. One of his men covered the drug lord and opened fire. In a heartbeat, Luke took him out, then another. The place erupted in an all-out gunfight as Luke panned his SIG through the restaurant, searching for a clear shot at Zambada. Damn. Juan stepped into his line of fire.

“Get down,” Luke shouted, “Zambada’s escaping!”

Juan shifted his sights toward the drug lord while Luke swung back to El Padrino’s table. Men were down, blood spattered everywhere. Homing in, Morales crouched behind the table, holding a gun. Marco lay on the floor, clutching his abdomen, writhing in pain.

Bullets flew. Zambada’s men surrounded him as they backed toward the door.

A gunman swung his revolver toward Luke. Crack! He dove behind the bar as a bullet shattered the glass behind him. “Get Morales out of here,” he shouted, crawling on his belly to the edge of the bar over shards of glass cutting his flesh.

The door slammed. Gunfire stilled making a hush swell through the air.

Are they gone?

In the deafening silence, Luke peered around the corner.

Morales looked to Juan. “Did you get Zambada?”

“No.” The man raised his weapon and leveled it on The Godfather. “But you’re about to die.”

Paco sprang from his hiding place and fired at Juan, his gun clicking and empty. Juan chuckled and aimed.

“Not this time, you wanker!” Luke swiveled the SIG Sauer, and squeezed the trigger.

Juan dove to the floor. The shot missed by a hair. He rolled under the tables. The restaurant exploding with a new volley of gunfire. Zambada’s men had fanned out across the street-side wall, using tables for barricades.

Crack! Crack! Two shots fired from near the window.

Shrieking, Morales crashed to the floor.

“Boss!” Paco scrambled to El Padrino’s side.

In a crouch, Luke scooted to the far end of the bar and scanned the restaurant for Zambada’s men. Something flickered, moving toward the window. Juan was army-crawling on his belly, heading for the enemy camp. Luke took a shot through the chair legs, but he didn’t have a good enough line.

“Wait!” Juan yelled, scurrying for an upturned table near the door.

“Traitor!” Luke darted around the mahogany barricade, homed his sights on the turncoat and nailed Juan with a bullet to the skull just before the jerk made it to the table. Behind it, the door opened while Luke unloaded his magazine into the flimsy barricade. When his SIG clicked empty, he crouched back behind the bar. The door creaked closed as he loaded a new clip. Moans and grunts of the wounded cut through the silence.

“Zambada!” Luke bellowed, preparing for another round.

When no reply came, he rolled a beer bottle across the floor.

Nothing moved.

Taking a chance, he led with the SIG and swept it across the restaurant. Splintered and upturned furniture and bullet casings littered the floor. Cries of pain came from the Morales men. Holding his gun at point, Luke hastened toward the door at a crouch. He sucked in a sharp breath before he straightened and zeroed in behind the bullet-fractured table. A dead man lay on his back, his eyes vacant and lifeless. Damn, it wasn’t Zambada.

Once content the scene was secure, Luke ran to Morales while sirens sounded in the distance. The place looked like the Alamo. Paco was the only man unscathed. Morales writhed on the ground, baring his teeth and cradling his ankle. Marco looked worse, laying in a pool of blood and holding his side.

The sirens grew nearer.

Luke looked to Paco. “Take Marco to the hospital. Tell them you’re migrant workers from Mexico. Don’t mention El Padrino or you’ll never see home again.”

He took Morales by the arm and hefted the drug lord over his shoulder. “Come, boss. Hacienda Paraiso is calling your name.”

Luke’s gut roiled, punishing him with the concoction of emotions. But he couldn’t lose sight of the goal. If Zambada won and took over, the entire op would be blown—and Luke would probably be shot in the head for his efforts.

He hated his options, but he wasn’t about to lose everything now. Not when the pieces of the puzzle were starting to fit together.