Angelino Heights
Los Angeles
From the back of the Phoenix Agency surveillance van, Dan Romeo and Mike D’Antoni eavesdropped on audio coming from inside the Garrett house. They broadcasted the feed to Faith and the Phoenix operatives positioned around the private home.
Faith watched the house from down the block and kept in touch with the Phoenix team. She and her husband Mark were jointly spearheading the surveillance—Mark handled the tactics and resources for Phoenix and Faith would direct any Psi part of the op. They had an operational strategy, the resources to pull the plan off, and experienced and trusted Phoenix operatives to handle anything that got derailed.
Faith hated the intrusion on the family’s privacy, especially the deeply personal exchanges between Valentine and the Garretts. If she could’ve kept Valentine, the Garretts, and a houseful of mourners safe without the intrusion, she would’ve done it, but too much was at stake. She agreed with Mia that Valentine was their best shot at luring Mateo De la Cruz into the open, but that didn’t mean she didn’t have second thoughts on how they conducted surveillance.
“There’s movement in Valentine’s bedroom.” Faith peered through binoculars at a shadow near the second floor window. “He doesn’t look happy.”
From audio, she knew Valentine had retreated to his room until something riled him. Through the bedroom window, she caught the sudden movement of him yanking off his jacket and tie and it piqued her interest. She didn’t have to be a psychic to recognize a boiling kettle about to blow off steam.
“That’s because the van is back, the vehicle from the church with no tags. Valentine spotted them from his window,” Mark’s voice came over Faith’s ear piece. “That’s got to be the cartel. Heads up, people.”
“If they make a move toward the house or anyone sees weapons, call out and be ready to move in,” Faith said as she lowered her binoculars. “Be on the lookout for Valentine. He a powder keg about to—”
When Braxton Valentine raced from the Garrett house and into the street, heading straight for the cartel van, Faith couldn’t get her warning out fast enough. Valentine was already on the move.
“We need boots on the ground,” Faith said. “What’s he doing?”
Her body tensed. Faith didn’t know what to expect. She prayed Valentine wouldn’t get gunned down in the street in front of the Garretts.
“On it.” The voice of Mark Halloran.
“I’ll back your play,” Mike D’Antoni said over his com unit as he emerged from the van. “Stay under cover until we see someone make a move. We don’t want to unzip our fly unless we need to.”
“If the cartel comes out shooting, what’s Valentine going to do?” Faith asked. “Is he even armed?”
A trained covert operative didn’t need a weapon to inflict harm, but that didn’t stop Faith from worrying that Valentine had lost it.
***
Standing in the middle of the road, Brax smelled the burning rubber as the van barreled straight for him. He narrowed his eyes as he searched the shadows inside the vehicle, looking for a face to remember. With a scar on his cheek from eyebrow to lip, the man behind the wheel came into focus—too late for Brax to avoid getting hit.
You’re mine, amigo.
Glaring at the driver, he tore at the side mirror until it broke and pounded the window, cursing in Spanish—messages for Mateo. As the van sped by, it hit his injured arm from the knife fight on the train and grazed his ribs. After he toppled to the ground and rolled, his skin scraped the asphalt and he winced. In seconds he got to his feet again with his chest heaving and he glowered at the driver as the man drove away.
Brax brushed off the gravel and debris embedded in his raw skin and when he felt the warm trickle of blood trailing down his arm, he glanced at the reopened gash and sloughed it off.
“Are you trying to get yourself killed?” Charles Garrett stared wide-eyed as he ran up to him. “Who were those people? You were speaking in Spanish. Do you know them?”
Brax only shrugged and grimaced through the pain. He owed the Garretts the truth. After they heard what he had to say, he wouldn’t be welcomed in their house again.
***
“Stand down, Mike.” Mark communicated as he took cover behind a parked car. “Crisis averted…for now.”
Faith breathed a sigh of relief as Charles Garrett headed back into the house with a bruised and battered Valentine. With the amount of blood drenching his shirt sleeve, he might need stitches, but a covert operative would know how to field dress that wound on his own.
“Did anyone get what Valentine said to the van driver in Spanish? That wasn’t just his anger. He told that man something to take back to his boss.”
“I didn’t catch it all, but I got enough,” Mark said. “You’re right, Faith. He said, ‘Tell Mateo I’m coming for him. Tell him to send his best to stop me.’ I’d say Valentine has declared war.”
“Respect, man. I would do the same,” Mike D’Antoni said, with his sobering commiseration.
Mike’s voice trailed off, leaving Faith with only silence and the weight of her conscience. After a long few minutes she finally communicated to the team.
“Make no mistake. We’re on his side. He just doesn’t know it.”
***
Valentine headed to his room with his head down, not looking any of the mourners in the eye. Mercifully, no one reached out to touch him. Something in his eyes must’ve caused them to think twice. He chose not to explain his actions to the Garretts, not while they had a houseful of guests. The cartel would not be back. Not to the Garrett’s house.
He would have to draw them off and let them follow where he’d lead them. He already had a plan. The text message he’d sent earlier from Raine’s bedroom had secured him a safe house, using connections he had in his former life.
He stared at his reflection in the bathroom mirror. Under the stark light over the sink, he didn’t like the man he saw. He gazed into the eyes of a stranger. Raine had tapped a side of his nature he didn’t know he had. With her gone, his hope to live a different life had died with her.
Some sins should never be forgiven.
Brax stripped off his bloodied shirt and tossed it in the trash can. Bruises and scrapes marred his body and his ribs ached. He soaked a washrag and ran the wet cloth over his chest, arms and belly, the cool dampness raised goose bumps on his ravaged skin. Blood from his knife wound had stuck to his flesh and the gash had opened.
He checked the bathroom medicine cabinet and a nightstand to gather what he would need to finish the job—a sewing needle and a spool of black thread, tweezers, ample gauze and cotton balls, Vaseline, and a disinfectant.
After he irrigated the wound and cleared out the road debris, he sterilized the needle and threaded it and disinfected the wound. Grimacing as he worked, Brax pierced the needle through the folds of slashed skin to close the injury and stop the bleeding. With that done, he wiped the sutures with Vaseline to keep the wound moist and wrapped it in gauze. It would have to do.
He had scars on his body from missions. One more wouldn’t matter, but every time he saw the injury on his arm, he would remember how he’d earned it. He would never forget how Raine died. Never.
He wandered out from the bathroom and saw the last of the guests leaving from his upstairs window. The house had turned quiet as the sun ebbed beneath the horizon and the sky turned steel gray.
Brax changed into dark BDU pants, hiking boots, a navy T-shirt, and a vest with pockets for gear. He’d packed his bag and zipped it closed by the time he heard a squeak on the stairs outside his door. Brax knew he couldn’t stall any longer.
He owed the Garretts the truth about how their daughter died. After he heard a soft knock on his door, he heaved a sigh.
“Come in.”