FIFTY-NINE
Vitoria went to her brother’s warehouse in as circuitous a route as she could. She was generally no fan of inefficiency, but she had to make sure that none of Detective de la Cruz’s ilk were following her, and it took some time to reassure herself that they were not. When she finally pulled Ricardo’s Rolls-Royce into the facility’s vacant parking lot, however, she was satisfied she was on her own.
That was the only thing she was satisfied by, though—and not just because that detective was proving to be a Latino version of Columbo.
Looking at the passenger seat beside her, she frowned at Eduardo’s journal. Of all the numbers she had called, the man she was meeting was the only one to respond. This was worrisome. She had expected there to be a great hunger for what her brothers had put out on the streets, but she feared that, in the intervening year, the ecosystem had rerouted itself, found other suppliers, and moved on.
Regaining lost business was so much harder than simply stepping into the shoes of a functioning concern.
But she was ready to fight to get back to where things had been.
As she got out of the Ghost, she approved of this location. She had discovered its existence in paperwork on Eduardo’s desk, and she could see why it would be a good place to exchange goods for cash. The building’s floor plan took a sharp corner, one whole wing extending out from a base, and that formation, coupled with an adjacent structure that appeared to be garage space or storage units that angled in, meant that a private courtyard was formed.
And clearly, that had been cultivated. The privacy, at any rate: The security lighting was all trained elsewhere, a dark pit of anonymity enveloping the center area.
No one could see from the street who was parking. Who was getting out. Who was carrying what. Who was going inside or emerging from the interior.
Quite smart.
Proceeding to the door that had a pass code, she entered her mother’s birthday and stepped into the dim, damp interior. No light fixtures came on, but as she turned on the flashlight on her cell phone, she located a switch and flicked it.
Very smart.
All of the windows had been painted black. So there was no way to know anyone was inside.
Vitoria left the door open, using a stopper that was left by the jamb. As was typical of her brother, the interior was neat as a pin and largely empty, although not completely so. Interspersed within the cavernous space, there were large crates, some big as sofas, others the size of cars, even houses. A forklift sat, with the keys in it, off to the side, and she noted, as she walked around, that there was a garage bay at the end for such ungainly deliveries.
So she had been wrong, she thought as she inspected one of the crates and read the address plate. Art for the gallery was actually stored here. This wasn’t a place solely for the illegitimate side of things. Then again, her brother had carried on both businesses from the gallery.
And speaking of business, with any luck, this would result in an order—
The sound of a car pulling up spun her around. She was dressed in her parka and black pants, and she had her gun and her suppressor with her, all of it retrieved earlier in the day from the base of that artwork she’d stashed it in.
There was no way she was attending this unarmed. Even though this client was one Eduardo had marked with a star—indicating, per his system, that whoever it was paid on time, caused no trouble, and regularly ordered—she could trust no one.
Hopefully, however, he was a businessperson, just as she was, and there would be no difficulty.
As a single car door shut solidly, and footsteps came up the concrete steps, she put her hand into her pocket and gripped her gun, flipping the safety off.
She was going to have to find some more help, she thought as the door creaked while it was opened. She was a bit more exposed than she liked—
Vitoria recognized the fine coat first….the fine overcoat that was cut to perfection and hanging off a large pair of shoulders.
And then she saw the face. That…fucking…face…
Of the man who had kidnapped her brother.
It was him. From the security footage. She was absolutely positive—and in a quick slideshow, she saw Ricardo’s body hanging on the wall, battered, bruised, that throat torn open.
Before she had a conscious thought, her rage brought out her gun—and she began to shoot.
Assail saw the family resemblance at the very instant that the woman’s eyes peeled wide—as if, somehow, she recognized who he was. There was no time to think further, however, as she took out a gun and started discharging bullets as if she knew he was going to dematerialize out of there at any moment.
But he didn’t care about himself, as he dropped down and rolled out of shooting range; all that mattered was whether Vishous had hit the gas—and from the flare of headlights that pierced the partially open door Assail had come through, he was willing to bet his life protocol was being followed.
He just prayed the Brother had the sense to lock Marisol in. Or she was liable to come bursting in with her own gun drawn.
“I know you!” the woman screamed as she continued to shoot. “I know what you did!”
Pop! Pop! Pop!
Except it was more than just popping. The slugs of lead were ricocheting around, and thank God for this crate he had found—
The scent of his own blood made him curse. Sonofabitch. She’d gotten him in the shoulder—of his right arm. His shooting arm.
And given the ache in his side, he was pretty sure he’d been hit somewhere else.
With a grimace, Assail got out his gun and waited for her to empty her clip. She was coming forward, closing in—and she had switched to Spanish, her fury more like a Wagner symphony than any kind of speech.
Then came the pause he was looking for.
With a quick shift, he leaned out for a glance into the warehouse proper.
She was smart. She had stepped behind another of the large crates that dotted the interior to exchange clips.
When she reemerged, he had a brief impression of her—long dark hair, dark eyes, just like Ricardo’s, and, Marisol was right, the faces were shaped the same.
And then he shot her.
In the chest.
The impact sent her reeling back, her gun going off in a spray as she tripped off her feet and fell to the ground.
In any other circumstance, he would have closed in and made sure to finish the job, but his shot had been clean and he’d nailed her a good one—more the point, Marisol was in that departing Mercedes and she was all that mattered to him.
In spite of his injuries, he closed his eyes. Tried to calm himself.
Breathed deeply so he could dematerialize…