Locke landed lightly on the roof and quickly unhitched himself from the glider. The moon provided just enough light to guide him as he removed the repelling gear from his backpack and hitched onto the lip of the roof. He watched as the two guards patrolled the property, waiting until he’d synchronized their absence from his side of the house. According to his stopwatch, he’d have two-and-a-half minutes to make his way down the side of the building to the lower rooftop deck and get out of sight before one of them made his way back to that side of the house.

When they were both out of sight he stood at the edge of the roof with his back to the empty space, grabbed onto the repelling line, and jumped. It took him three lengths before he hit the pool deck, and he quickly retracted the line and stepped into the shadows.

Dogs barked somewhere in the distance, and he thought of the background he’d done on the Cancun house, the manifests he’d traced for supply delivery that had included high-end dog food and more raw meat than Glover and his staff could possibly eat.

Locke’s bet was on guard dogs, and he slipped a hand into his pocket, touching the tranquilizer gun he’d brought as a precaution. He wouldn’t like to sedate a dog, but he’d do it if it was his only way out.

He watched from the shadows as a flashlight criss-crossed the lawn. When it passed, he peered into the glass doors that led into the house from the terrace. The room beyond was empty, and he slipped inside, shutting the door behind him with plenty of time to spare should one of the guards look up as they passed on their patrol.

He was in a small sitting area furnished with an overstuffed sofa and chairs. A bar lined one wall, thick candles flickering from tall iron candlesticks in the corners, casting shadows on the plaster walls and tile floors.

A wide hall led away from the room, and he thought back to blueprints of the house. If he was right, the hall would lead him to a back staircase which would in turn lead him to the ground floor. From there he should be able to find the cellar.

He listened for the sound of voices or footsteps, then crept down the hall, wishing for once that Spanish houses featured carpet instead of tile. More candlesticks stood at the end of the hall, their light shining like a beacon marking the top of the staircase. He was halfway toward it when he heard rustling around the corner.

Stopping his forward progress, he trained his ear to the sound and realized it was coming from the room a few feet ahead on his right. He turned his mind’s eye inward to place it as the master suite, then walked slowly toward the set of doors.

One of them was open, and he stood against the wall, listening to the sound, weighing the danger of peering inside the room versus making his way quickly past it. He wasn’t here to spy on Glover; he was here to figure out what kind of stash the man had collected to make his getaway.

But now that he was in the house, his curiosity took over, and he leaned forward, looking through the open doorway.

He was surprised to see not Glover but a voluptuous brunette bent over the bed, arranging something inside a suitcase. She worked methodically, her motions relaxed as she moved clothes from the mattress into the case. When he let his eyes scan the room, it was obvious she’d been at it awhile.

Two large trunks stood against one wall, gowns spilling from their interior, several hat boxes standing next to it. He was still taking it in when she straightened, turning toward the closet.

He pulled back against the wall, listened to her heels strike the tile as she made her way across the room, then back again. Hoping his assumption was correct and that she was back to filling the suitcase, he slipped past the open door and continued down the hall.

He was still thinking about her when he hit the stairs — or more accurately, he was thinking about Glover’s wife, a willowy blonde from a wealthy family similar to Glover’s. From the looks of things, Glover had no intention of making an escape with his wife and daughters. They probably didn’t even know about the house in Mexico.

What a fucking dirtbag.

He had no love for Glover’s pampered wife, but a real man didn’t bail on his family.

He continued down the staircase, glad it was sheltered by thick plaster walls, and emerged onto the main floor. An elaborate kitchen stood to his left, the lights out. An open-air hall on the left flickered with more candles.

He was only half-surprised he hadn’t run into any of the guards or a member of the household staff; if the men stationed outside were any indication, the house was a low-key operation. It was possible Glover kept only the dogs, the two guards, and a couple people to run the house. As for Glover himself, Locke was beginning to wonder if business had kept him in the States.

He made his way down the open-air hall, sheltered only by stucco archways open to a furnished patio. He hurried past the candles to the end of the hall, all too aware that he was dangerously exposed. If one of the guards happened across the lawn beyond the patio, he’d be spotted. Then all hell would break loose and he would have to get out before he got what he came for.

But he wasn’t going to let that happen. He had a hunch Glover would be on the move soon, and he wasn’t going to let the bastard leave without paying for all the shit he’d done.

For what he’d done to Elle and people like her.

He hurried down the hall, stepping into the shelter of another hall that led down one side of the house’s “U”. This one was smaller and darker, a carved wooden door marking the end of it.

He moved toward it, relieved to see an old-fashioned padlock hanging from an iron hinge. He’d come prepared with a laptop to hack the security panel if there had been one, but that would have taken longer and carried more risk; some electronic entries were programmed to sound an alarm if breached, and you never really knew if that was the case until you hacked your way in.

The possibility would have been easy enough to manage if he’d had a man or two with him, but that came with risks, too. It was quicker and easier for him to break in on his own, and that was the name of the game for a recon mission like this one.

Get in, get out. That was all.

He reached into the backpack and pulled out a bolt cutter, then snipped the padlock. It cracked open, and he reached over to remove it, slipping it into his pocket as he opened the door.

He stepped into a dark, narrow vestibule and used the flashlight on his phone to illuminate the space around him. He was standing at the top of a staircase, the smell of must wafting from the recesses below.

He made his way down the stairs and ended up on a slab of concrete that extended about a hundred feet in front of him. The room was narrow and nearly empty except for the hulking mass at its center.

He moved toward it, feeling validated that his hunch had been right.

A series of pallets were clustered together, all of them stacked high with cash, bundled together and wrapped tightly in plastic.

He circled the mountain of money, noting the fact that the bills were a mixture of hundred- and thousand-dollar bills. No big surprise. The cash wasn’t counterfeit, so Glover didn’t have to worry about it drawing attention.

It all belonged to him, a result of the liquidation of his assets.

Locke had figured it would either be gold or cash, and cash was a lot easier to transport. The irony of the modern world is that it had actually gotten more dangerous to move money electronically — especially if you were under investigation by the FBI.

Everything could be traced if the digital forensics were good enough.

Everything.

Glover wanted to disappear. Any electronic footprint would leave him vulnerable for the rest of his life. Maybe the Feds wouldn’t uncover his tracks this year or the next, but they’d always be out there, awaiting discovery.

But cash… anyone could disappear with enough cash.

He was circling back toward the door when the room was light washed over the room. He blinked against the brightness, reaching instinctively for the gun holstered at his side. When he lifted it, he was looking into Malcolm Glover’s eyes.