Ambush (Michael Bennett #11)(14)

“You have to go,” I said at last. “I can’t think with you so close.”

By the time the water turned cold, my tears had stopped and Angelo had vanished. I lifted my chin and shunted aside the self-pity. I was here to find Malik. He was all that mattered, and I would not let myself be sidetracked by grief or guilt or fear. His mother had given her life for the Marines, and, if need be, I would do the same for her son. The life of one boy might seem a small thing against the backdrop of a still-raging war. Against the loss of so many. But if I ever came to believe that, my soul would be forfeit.

I stepped out of the shower, turned away from the mirror.

Despite what I’d told Jesús, I needed some sleep to clear my head before I could plan my next move. A good six hours, then I’d be ready for the world again.

To sleep, perchance to dream.

But not here. The Alpha seemed capable of reaching anyone—of corrupting them, or torturing them, or killing them. I had to find a different hotel. A place where no one would be at risk for the simple sin of knowing me.

I dried off with the rough towel, donned a clean tank top and my filthy cargo pants, placed Jesús’s cap and jacket on the bed, then grabbed my bag and cranked up the volume on the television set.

I went out the window above the toilet.





CHAPTER 4

There are good and bad people on both sides of a conflict. The trick is in figuring out which is which. And who is working for whom.

—Sydney Parnell. Personal journal.

At 2:00 p.m. the next day, I sat at a table in an open-air coffee shop in the Mexico City suburb of Ecatepec with a café Americano and a plate of sugar-dusted pan dulce.

I’d arranged myself with my back to the adobe brick wall, my chair half-hidden by a riotous climb of brilliant-red bougainvillea and the shade cast by the eaves of the roof two stories above. The afternoon was quiet, save for the occasional rattle of cutlery and clink of glasses as a woman set the tables inside. I tried to relax as I took in the mingled aromas of coffee and baking bread and the sweet waft of the flowers nodding in a soft breeze.

Angelo had died a soldier in a war he hadn’t even known was being waged. But the fact that the Alpha’s men had gone so far meant they were desperate. Malik was not yet in their sights. And for the moment, at least, I’d shaken off their pursuit. Over the next hour, perhaps I would learn something that would help me find Malik. And find a way to keep him safe.

I put down my coffee and sat back. I wore a newly purchased embroidered blue blouse, a long skirt, sunglasses, leather huaraches, and a straw hat, bought at a market that morning. I’d dyed my hair a dark brown and replaced my usual braid with a tight chignon coiled at the nape of my neck. I looked minty and new, or so I hoped, the duffel sitting next to my sandaled feet the only outwardly tattered thing about me.

To any casual observer, I hoped to pass as a local, an idle expat housewife enjoying the afternoon while she watched the sun bake the world into a torpor.

The waiter, a friendly twenty-something, appeared at my table.

“You like the abrazos?” he asked, gesturing toward the pastries on the red-and-white patterned plate. “They are a warm hug, are they not? Those with the cream, they are my favorite.”

I smiled and picked up my coffee. “They are very good.”

“Would you like more coffee?”

“Por favor.”

“I’ll be right back.”

The little square in the town of Ecatepec was a sleepy, sun-drenched refuge. After my trip to the market that morning, I’d taken an Uber to the Buenavista subway station, then the suburban railway to Lechería Station. From there, I’d used a combination of taxis, another subway, and a bus before walking the final stretch. When I was absolutely sure there was no one on my tail, I’d selected this table tucked into the afternoon shadows. My duffel was within easy reach on the ground, the stun gun with its remaining three cartridges sitting on top of my filthy clothes.

I was there to meet a man named Ehsan Zarif, who ran security for the Jameh Mosque where Malik had been photographed. When I called him that morning and introduced myself, Zarif had assured me the place was known only to the neighborhood locals. “You won’t find it on any tourist map,” he’d promised. Which made it a good place to rendezvous if you didn’t want to be seen.

And Zarif and I did not want to be seen. I had my own reasons. For him, it would likely raise uncomfortable questions if he were spotted in the company of a young American woman, sharing pastries with her on a Sunday afternoon.

And meeting at the mosque had been out of the question—the Alpha almost certainly knew about it by now. Extreme pain like the kind Angelo suffered sooner or later makes everyone talk.

The waiter strolled out of the café and refilled my cup. He smiled at me, then stretched and yawned, taking in the day before strolling back inside. I was his only customer. I scooted my chair a few inches to the right to avoid the encroaching sunlight spilling across the tables and kept my face in shadow. I slid my phone from my pocket and checked the time. Still early.

Ten texts and two voice mails from Jesús. I’d sent him a text earlier, thanking him and letting him know I was all right. I ignored these newest messages and my guilt and dropped the phone back in the pocket of my skirt.

In the distance, a train blew its horn. The sound pushed against the effects of the coffee and adrenaline, and my heart rate slowed. But the sound also brought a deep desire for Denver and those I loved. If his schedule permitted, Cohen would be out for a midafternoon run with Clyde, the mountains rising in steep blue ridges beyond the park near police headquarters. Clyde would ignore the taunts of magpies and mountain blue jays, and the lure of the squirrels darting between trees. He would stay with Cohen.