The time for rest and recovery had passed, and thank fuck for that. Because no amount of planning, strategizing, or consulting was going to get Ethan back on his feet like diving headfirst into fieldwork. He needed to put his boots on the ground and get his hands dirty.
Ethan wasn’t built to idle or let other people handle things in his stead. He delegated when he had to, and he had the utmost faith in the team he’d built. But at the end of the day, his team was his responsibility. He gap-filled for them, not the other way around. It had taken just three shots to the chest to blow that all to shit. To render him little more than deadweight.
Obsolete.
Ethan rolled his shoulders within the confines of his tailored suit. After all the prep and planning—blackmailing the accounting firm, helping Parker create a vast digital trail to support Ethan’s alias—he hadn’t expected incursion into the Vega cartel to come by way of a fucking cocktail party. Heavy artillery and close-quarter combat he could handle. Subterfuge and covert maneuvers he was trained for. But sipping cocktails, listening to insipid corporate gossip, and otherwise schmoozing his way through an evening? Well, his parents had trained him for it, but it was still the worst sort of boredom.
But the executive team at Whitney, Smith and Brindle had insisted. They’d been adamant—no backroom introductions, no low-key deals. In their rush to provide Ethan an in and to avoid a federal investigation, they had explained that high-risk, high-profile staffing was always handled via a “networking opportunity” for plausible deniability. Host a large enough event, let enough people mingle, and the firm could wash its hands of any discussions or career decisions that took place.
Which was why Ethan stood near a floor-to-ceiling window overlooking the Washington Monument, making dull small talk with two middle-aged lobbyists while he waited for someone from within the cartel to make contact. Once again, he’d been put on the defensive, forced to wait for somebody else to make the first move.
Patience, he reminded himself. Unlike tactical incursions, undercover assignments required a different type of endurance and finesse. Much as he wanted to, he couldn’t afford to rush things along.
Bringing Will home was the priority, and always at the forefront of Ethan’s mind, consuming his thoughts and driving his every decision. But now it was time to tuck that away and focus less on the big picture and more on the individual pieces. One step at a time, until Will was taking his first steps home.
“Mr. Sullivan,” a voice announced, drawing Ethan’s attention from the window and back to the conversation at hand. As he turned, both the lobbyists he’d been largely tuning out went still. “Hernan Vega.” The hair on the back of Ethan’s neck rose at the deep, slightly accented voice. Ethan pivoted, coming face-to-face with the man of the hour.
“Ethan.” He shook hands with Hernan, nodding as one of the men he’d been standing with mumbled something about refreshing his drink and left, the other following in his wake.
“Have a seat,” Hernan said, pointing to one of the ridiculously high-backed leather chairs flanking the window. When Ethan didn’t move, Hernan canted the glass he held in the palm of his hand, the amber liquid dipping toward the rim, and repeated his command. “Sit.”
Subtle. And everything Ethan had expected of the man he’d researched and studied.
Convenient. But a little disappointing, too. Just once Ethan wanted to test himself against an adversary who surprised him. Who was more than the sum of their deeds. Who wasn’t motivated by basic, boring instincts like greed or power or lust. Someone a dossier or rap sheet couldn’t capture.
Someone dynamic. Someone interesting.
But not here. Not today. And certainly not Hernan Vega.
The man didn’t say anything, simply stood there, sipping at his drink and running an assessing gaze over Ethan. For his part, Ethan crossed an ankle over a knee and reclined against the gold leather of his chair and waited. He and Parker had spent endless hours preparing for this moment, had leveraged all the power of Parker’s predictive analysis program to create a persona for Ethan that Hernan Vega would buy into.
He’d been burned once already by an arrogant white-collar employee who’d had next to nothing in common with a man born and bred in a culture of violence. Ethan Sullivan had been crafted from a meticulous blend of competence, arrogance, and deferential respect. Someone who came from nothing but didn’t intend to accept that as his due.
Someone willing to get his hands dirty to achieve his own ends.
Someone Hernan could recognize as a peer. Someone he could predict, if not control.
It was a delicate fucking balance, and in that, at least, Ethan found the challenge he was looking for.
“Are you enjoying yourself, Mr. Sullivan?” Hernan finally asked, staring down at Ethan from a face that had seen too much sun and too many fists.
“Not particularly,” Ethan answered, clinking the ice of his empty drink against his glass.
“Oh?” Hernan shifted, glancing out the window. “Is it the view you find lacking?” he asked, indicating the Washington Monument, glowing white against the inky black of the night sky. “Or perhaps the free booze is not to your taste?”
Ethan cut a tight-lipped smile. “I don’t care for the company. Men who inherit an empire don’t know what it means to build one, to bleed for one.”
The corner of Hernan’s mouth, the one bisected by a deep, curving scar, tilted up. “Pendejos.”
“All of them,” Ethan agreed, sucking a piece of ice between his lips and crunching.
“All?” Hernan asked, his dark-brown eyes boring into Ethan, the flicker of a challenge in their depths.
“Most,” Ethan conceded with a careless shrug.
“But not you?” Hernan asked, his rigid frame and tense posture settling into something ready but relaxed.
“My father left me his looks . . . and nothing else. Everything I have, I earned.”
“Bled for.”
“Or drew blood for.”
Hernan tsked and took a slow sip of his drink. “A dangerous game, taking what does not belong to you.”
“That depends on who you’re taking it from.”
“Something your predecessor failed to realize.”
“Then he was a fool, and you are well rid of him.”
“I certainly will be,” Hernan said, his face going hard and grim and cruel, giving Ethan his first glimpse of the monster beneath the suit. The Hernan Vega he’d read about was as mean as he was brutal. Ruthless. The sort of cartel player who not only embraced the violence but delighted in it.
Not for the first time, Ethan hoped that for his sake, Stephen Milner was a better ghost than he was a thief. There would be no easy death if Vega caught him.
“And you, Mr. Sullivan?” Hernan asked, his voice frigid and sharp.
“Me?” Ethan asked, rising to his feet as Ana Maria Vega, the person he had most hoped to meet that evening, appeared at her uncle’s elbow.
“Tio?” she asked, her voice high and soft and sweet as a freshwater spring. “I freshened your drink,” she said, gently slipping her uncle’s near-empty glass from his fingers and replacing it with a new one. With a soft smile and curious blue eyes, she turned to Ethan. “I hope I’m not interrupting.”
“I was just asking Mr. Sullivan if he was a fool,” Hernan barked, his gaze never leaving Ethan’s.
“What man isn’t when it comes to cards, cars, or beautiful women?” he said, shooting a pretentious wink at Ana Maria. The corner of her mouth twitched in amusement, and to Ethan’s shock, an innocent blush rose across her chest and up the fair column of her neck. This . . . was not the woman he’d expected. Before he could get lost in that train of thought, he forced himself to turn back to Hernan. “But not so foolish as to pass up drinking another man’s liquor”—he shook his glass, rattling the ice against the sides—“or to forget that nothing tastes sweeter—or goes down smoother—than what a man secures for himself.”
“I suppose we’ll see,” Hernan grunted.
“I look forward to working with you,” Ethan said.
“You assume too much. I’ve offered you no job.”
“Forgive me,” Ethan said, shifting his stare back to Hernan. “I thought that was why we are all here tonight.”
“We’re here,” Hernan said with a sneer, “because the last accountant was a liar and a cheat—very soon he’ll be nothing at all—and now I’ve discovered he was incompetent, too. What guarantees do I have you’re not exactly the same?”
“None,” Ethan said. “But then, you aren’t a man who deals in guarantees. Just in facts and the control they bring.”
“And what are the facts, Mr. Sullivan?” he asked.
“That while Milner and I share an education and a work history, we share little else. That I’m not interested in a quick payday or boring career.” Ethan met Hernan’s gaze head-on. “And that when I say I can or will do something, I back it up.”
“Easy words.”
“Easy to test,” Ethan countered.
“What did you have in mind?” Hernan asked, his expression growing calm and curious.
This, too, Ethan had discussed with Parker. Given Hernan’s own history and the general culture within a cartel, Ethan would likely need to prove himself. His willingness to do so without being asked or challenged could only work to his benefit.
“Grant me access and I’ll tear through Milner’s files until you know down to the last cent what money he stole and how he spent it. Give me a week and access to your systems and I’ll provide you a full accounting.” Ethan loosened his stance and slipped his hands into his pockets. On a shrug, he said, “I’m good. Certainly better than Milner, but talk is cheap.” He watched Hernan consider his proposition, his face a blank slate Ethan couldn’t quite read. “Judge a man by his actions and you’ll never have to wonder if he’s lying to you.”
“Very well,” Hernan acquiesced. “I’ll have Milner’s computer delivered to your home—you’ll have full access to his files but not mine. Not yet.”
Ethan suppressed a wince. Full access had been a long shot, but ultimately tomorrow’s problem. With any luck, Milner’s files would provide the answers he was looking for.
“I’ll have a full accounting for you by the end of next week—”
“You’ll have it Wednesday afternoon,” Hernan corrected.
“Done,” Ethan said. He’d asked for more time than he’d need—he and Parker had already compiled half the picture where Milner was concerned, but still, he’d hoped for more time to look for anything that might lead them to Will. But it didn’t matter. Ethan would deliver on his promise, and Hernan would pull him into the fold and one step closer to bringing his friend home.
“I have business to attend to,” Hernan said, dismissing Ethan and their conversation. “My niece,” he said, pulling her forward by her elbow, “will see to it that the rest of your evening is more to your liking.”
“It’s looking up already,” Ethan said, extending his hand to Ana Maria as Hernan turned and walked away. “Ethan Sullivan.”
“Ana Maria Vega.” She slid her long, delicate fingers against the roughened skin of Ethan’s palm, suppressing a shy smile as he brought her knuckles to his mouth for a kiss. “It’s lovely to meet you.”
“The pleasure is mine,” he said, allowing her to slip her hand from his. The photos he’d studied of the woman before him hadn’t done her beauty justice. At first glance, Ana Maria reminded Ethan of an exhibition he’d seen years ago at a museum in Paris. It had featured one-of-a-kind drawings that the artist had created by setting pen to paper only once, creating beauty in one seamless, fluid stroke.
In Ana Maria, Ethan saw the same long, fluid lines, delicate curves, and fragile planes. Had she been petite, as her build suggested she should be, she would have been no less beautiful and yet significantly less striking. As it was, she rose nearly eye to eye with Ethan’s own six foot two. A feat, even in heels, for a woman who looked as if she should barely reach his shoulder.
“Are you enjoying yourself, Mr. Sullivan?” Ana Maria asked, blinking up at him with wide blue eyes Ethan could only assume she’d inherited from her mother’s European lineage. Certainly, judging by the few Vega family photos Parker had dug out of some Internet database, she looked nothing like her father and even less like her uncle.
“Ethan,” he corrected. “And the evening has certainly taken a pleasant turn.” True, insomuch that Ethan hadn’t had to track down Ana Maria or force an introduction on his own. But strange in that the woman before him was nothing like he’d expected. His own fault. He knew better than to make assumptions based on half-formed impressions or details found only on paper.
Still, Ana Maria wasn’t the sort of surprise he’d had in mind. Nothing about her felt like a challenge or an enigma. Even on first impression she felt too open, too inclined to please the people around her. She was exactly the sort of woman Ethan dated—beautiful, accommodating, uncomplicated—for a month, six weeks if he was traveling. Until hot sex turned to questions about the future and vapid conversations about celebrity scandals and reality TV.
This was the woman who’d been tipping off the authorities for years? Appearances could be deceiving, but good God, if that were the case, then this was one hell of a disguise.
Ana Maria’s chin dipped, her gaze going briefly to the nearly empty martini glass she held. “I’m glad to hear it.”
They settled into an awkward silence, the din of 150 or so of Whitney, Smith and Brindle’s most valued clients filtering into the space stretching between them. Ethan shifted, searching for a safe topic of discussion. He’d thought conversing with Hernan would be the difficult part of his evening, but with every passing moment, it was becoming clear Ana Maria really didn’t want to be here, and yet, she stayed. Because her uncle had instructed her to? Because she had nowhere else to be?
Or because she was waiting him out?
Leveraging a long pause and an uncomfortable interaction to see what he’d fill it with? As manipulation went, it was a good one. A tactic taught in interrogation training. Most people tried to fill an awkward or uncomfortable silence, and inane chitchat often revealed more than the speaker intended. But as Ana Maria stood there, chewing on the corner of her lip as she twisted the diamond bracelet at her wrist, Ethan had to admit that if this stretch of silence was intentional, if Ana Maria was playing him, then she was the best operator he’d ever come across.
Because nothing about this woman felt shrewd or calculating or manipulative. And with each passing moment, Ethan’s faith in the program’s conclusion that Ana Maria Vega was the informant within the cartel, the one risking her life to tip off a handful of federal agencies, grew less and less certain.
Ethan’s gut against Parker’s program. There was a showdown he didn’t want to have, and definitely not without something more concrete than a “feeling” to back it up. And if Ana Maria was determined to wait him out, to let him step into the silence, well, then, who was he to disappoint her?
“Any moment, I’m going to remark on the weather,” Ethan said, letting a small smile curl the corners of his mouth. “Tell me about yourself and save me the embarrassment?”
Ana Maria laughed and sipped from her martini glass. “What would you like to know?” she asked, turning away from the window and giving Ethan her full attention.
“Anything you’d like to tell me.”
She arched one fine blonde brow. “What, like where I go to school? My favorite color?”
Ethan shrugged. “Sure. For a start.”
“George Washington and red, though I’m afraid it suits my sister better.” She tipped her head to the side, and Ethan followed her gaze, spotting Natalia Vega cutting her way toward them through the room. He had neither the breath nor desire to disagree. Red was most certainly Natalia’s color. In a sea of black suits and starched white shirts, she approached like the sunrise, a bold slash of color brazen enough to challenge the night, determined and steadfast enough to win. Bright and beautiful and hot enough to burn.
And the worst sort of temptation. The kind of woman who pushed a man to possession, to distraction, to lust.
Natalia Vega, in that bloodred cocktail dress and stormy expression, had the dangerous allure of a woman who could slide to her knees, only to drive a man to his.
“There you are,” Natalia said, stepping close, her hand going briefly to the small of her sister’s back.
Had she been a man, Ethan might have found the gesture a hollow attempt at posturing, but when Natalia glanced to Ana Maria, there was no mistaking the warmth, the love, the devotion. And when her gaze slid from the gentle cut of her sister’s profile to meet Ethan’s stare, there was no mistaking the warning in that look or the ice in her tone. “And you are?”
“Ethan Sullivan,” he said, extending his palm. Natalia slipped her hand in his, the slide of her skin smooth and firm and confident. Ethan didn’t bother to bring her knuckles up for a kiss—he knew without question such a gesture would not only amuse her at his expense but that even the barest taste of her would prove a distraction he could not afford.
“Natalia,” she said, dismissing him with a glance that did nothing for his ego but helped bring him back to the present reality where any attraction, to say nothing of the montage of dirty thoughts he’d just had about a Vega, would be incredibly inconvenient.
“Have you had something to eat?” Natalia asked, glancing at the mostly empty martini glass her sister held.
“Yes, Mom.” Ana Maria rolled her eyes and turned to Ethan. “You’ll have to forgive my sister, she tends to be a little overprotective.”
“Who can blame her?” Ethan asked, lifting the glass from Ana Maria’s fingers and setting it on a passing server’s tray. “I’m sure you look out for each other.” Ethan didn’t need to spend days, hours, or even minutes with the two women to see how close they were. It was written in the way Ana Maria had relaxed the moment Natalia had joined them. The way her shy smile and stilted efforts at conversation had immediately changed to full, familiar grins and easy exasperation.
“It looks like you could both use a fresh drink. Why don’t I see what I can do about that?” Ethan stepped aside, gesturing toward the bar flanking one long wall and overlooking the view of DC.
“The bartender is set up at the end of the room,” Natalia said, nodding toward the line of suits milling about a smaller bar at the far side of the space.
“I had something else in mind,” Ethan said, slipping beneath the break in the bar top and pulling a fresh martini glass and a stainless-steel tumbler from the stack behind him.
“Oh,” Ana Maria gasped, her eyes flitting across the room. “I don’t think you’re supposed to be back there.”
“I won’t tell if you won’t.” Ethan smiled and shrugged out of his jacket. “Now let me see . . . Ana Maria, if memory serves, you had a martini, yes?”
“I did,” she agreed. “Gin. Extra olives.”
“A classic, and coming right up,” Ethan said, shrugging out of his jacket and rolling up his shirtsleeves. “Though you weren’t supposed to tell me. How am I supposed to impress you with my bartending prowess if I can’t even guess your drink?”
“And what would you have guessed?” she asked, her smile full and playful. “Wait, don’t tell me. A Cosmo.”
“Nothing wrong with a little cranberry juice,” he said, pouring a measure of gin into the tumbler. “But not your style.”
“No?” she asked, leaning forward and bracing her elbows against the countertop. Natalia settled in next to her on a huff and a roll of her eyes. “Why not?”
“Too predictable. Too pink. A Cosmo has become a ready favorite of bachelorette parties and sorority girls. It’s fun, a little frivolous, and the message it sends is, ‘I’m just here to have a good time.’ It’s the cotton candy of mixed drinks.”
“And that’s not me?” Ana Maria asked.
“Nope.” Ethan shook the tumbler, eyeing Ana Maria’s open interest and amused expression. She was a sweet kid. Smart, he’d bet, in a bookish, sheltered sort of way. The type of student who studied hard, rarely partied, but was always willing to play the designated driver. Intel had told him as much, though now Ethan wondered who was keeping her sheltered and protected—Hernan or her sister, who hadn’t stopped glowering at him as if she could flay him with the edge of his own flirting. “This,” he said, pouring her freshly mixed martini into the glass he’d set on the bar, “is the right drink for you. Classy. Uncomplicated in its elegance. With a dash of interest”—he plopped a skewer of three olives into the drink—“and just a hint of surprise.”
Delighted, she laughed, picked up the glass, and took a sip. “Very nice. But what’s the surprise?”
“The gin.” Ethan shrugged, braced both hands on the bar, and leaned in close. “I’d have pegged you for vodka.”
“It seems you don’t know me as well as you think,” she said, her smile wide and pleased. For the first time all night, Ethan wondered what else might lay behind her expression. A sense of humor, maybe. A quick tongue to go with a sharp mind. But nothing else. Certainly nothing dangerous or calculating.
“Something I hope to remedy as we work together.”
“Ana Maria doesn’t work for the family business,” Natalia interjected. “So I’m afraid there will be little reason or opportunity for you to get to know each other.” She might as well have gone ahead and used air quotes, the way she’d emphasized the last few words of her statement. It hardly mattered. Beautiful she may be, but Ana Maria didn’t hold Ethan’s interest. And not just because it was taking all his self-control to keep his focus on Ana Maria when Natalia stood beside her. It was like basking in the pale glow of the moon when the sun was just there, waiting to bathe him in warmth.
“I’m going to go check on Tio. Maybe replace his drink with a plate,” Ana Maria said, sliding her fingers along the back of Natalia’s hand. “I’ll be back?” The way she said it, more question than comment, had Ethan watching the interplay between the sisters.
Natalia smiled and dipped her chin in a little nod. “Take your time.”
“I’m afraid you’ll have more of a challenge with my sister, Ethan. No one’s pegged her yet.” Ana Maria grinned, mouthed Good luck, and turned and made her way toward the far side of the room. She had a polite smile and a kind word for everyone who reached out, said hello, or stepped into her path.
He was almost, almost looking forward to telling Parker that his program was wrong. Since that basically amounted to telling Parker he was wrong, it was something Ethan didn’t get to do often. No question, there’d be a fight. A bunch of four-syllable words and geek-speak Ethan didn’t understand and wouldn’t care to decipher. And, when he finally wore him down, he’d get to hear his favorite phrase.
You were right; I was wrong.
Though to be fair, the program’s conclusion had made sense.
Ana Maria had a full life and presence outside the cartel. She was an honor student at George Washington University. Had volunteered at a local women’s shelter. Her digital footprint, while not as open or extensive as most of her peers, had revealed her as an intelligent, educated woman, with a soft spot for animals and at-risk women and children. And yet, by all accounts, she still lived beneath her uncle’s roof, paid for her education with cartel money. She was as close to the major players as anyone yet had been exposed to a life beyond the power and privilege organized crime provided.
So yeah, Ethan got it. Ana Maria should be their person of interest.
Though the tips came anonymously and sporadically, they’d almost always had one thing in common—human trafficking. Women. Children. Sometimes in shipments the authorities intercepted coming into the country, sometimes in small busts of local row houses or seedy motels. Only on the rare occasion did a tip lead to the recovery of drugs or money or weapons. As tips went, these did little to disband or destroy the cartel’s business. Something that had bothered Ethan to no end.
What did the informant stand to gain? This wasn’t a rival cartel trying to destabilize the Vega empire. And it wasn’t someone within the organization looking to make a grab for power. No. This was someone’s guilty conscience. Someone on the inside who didn’t like what they saw but who could do little about it. Someone willing to take the risk, patient enough to wait for the right opportunities, and smart enough to know how to get away with it.
No question, Ana Maria had the brains—a 3.8 at George Washington University didn’t happen by accident—and from what Ethan could tell, she had the sort of soft heart that would bleed for the victims of her uncle’s business.
But the only thing she lacked was the only thing that really mattered—the nerve to go through with it. Careful or not, she had to know that if she were caught, if her uncle realized what she’d done, there’d be hell to pay. Rumor had it Hernan Vega had killed his own brother—Ana Maria’s father—to secure his ascent to power. A man like that didn’t quibble about killing women or children. His own niece would be no different.
So the question remained, was Ana Maria the sort of woman who’d risk her life to save someone else’s?
Parker’s program said yes. Ethan’s gut said no.