Jax (Titan #9)(81)

No one from Mayhem answered, and Jax started spitballing ideas. Maybe one would eventually sound right. "She was about to die. Too old to make the trip. Too wild. Too loud. Too protective."

"No, no," Mayhem disagreed.

What were they missing?

"Glamma's good people," Ethan offered. "Has more energy than half of the old ladies I know. Helps Seven so she can open her shop, stays late when she closes. Sings stupid songs about brushing teeth. She's their—"

"Nanny," Johnny said.

"No, dick." Tex shook his head. "Their grandma. Glamma."

Hawke rubbed his temples. "Esmeralda doesn't have kids. No nannies. No glammas. If this is a last-minute idea—and they didn't know the kids didn't live at Johnny's—they're not planning."

"Hernán doesn't like that shit." Tex ran his hand over his chin. "They need a nanny."

"Why ditch Gennita?" Hawke asked.

Jared turned as Jax's stomach dropped. "Because they're going after the real deal."

"Makes sense to me," Deacon chuckled. "Einstein."

"Deacon," Jared snapped, "get the fuck out of my discussions. If I need you, I'll call. But get the fuck out."

"I'm gone, assholes."

Jax stepped forward, needing to check on Seven. "Boss?"

"Go," he ordered.

No matter the answer, Jax heard it as he left. He was already running out down the hall.





CHAPTER FORTY-ONE


Jorge's phone rang as he laid it on the in-room massage table after four days of little work in sin city. He was so close to escaping without getting his hands dirty. But that was what he did best.

"Go away." He shooed the masseuse toward the bathroom. "But don't go far." Maybe Hernán only wanted another status update.

He answered the phone, knowing that not all of his information had been perfect, but eventually, it had worked out fine, and Esmeralda had the children headed her way. "Hello, Se?or."

"Our friend is not listening," Hernán spit into the phone.

Jorge sat up, wrapping the sheet around his waist and knowing that the masseuse was leaving and so was he. He might not have had perfect information on where Johnny Miller's kids lived, but he'd been rushed, and the request had been last minute. There was a difference between Hernán's irritation and when his father's cutthroat viciousness bled into his work. The only other person Jorge knew who was working on Mayhem and remaining status quo was the CIA spook who played all sides and enjoyed Suarez benefits. Jorge had no idea what they were, but no one did business with Hernán without tangling their integrity.

"Your friend at the farm?"

Hernán grunted, making the disappointment linger. "He's not where he should be."

Jorge shook his head. That dumb motherfucker. For as smart and savvy as Deacon had been over the years… He respected the unsavory spook as much as a cartel man could respect a bureaucrat who ensured drugs passed safely across the borders.

"I have no use for his services anymore."

That was that. Jorge had work to do. "How soon?"

"He's with them now. If they don't already know about your project, they will soon, and all hell will break loose. Take that opportunity to remove him from the conversation."

Jorge lumbered off the massage table, walked over to the bathroom, and threw open the door. He looked at the masseuse and tossed his thumb over his shoulder. "Get out." Then he walked toward the dresser for a change of clothes before he took a quick shower. "Yes, Se?or. I'll let you know when it's done."

###

Despite Deacon's covert measures to remain a ghost, he couldn't be responsible for the people he was with. Jorge had tracked the notable members of the Mayhem MC throughout Las Vegas during his stay, and when he needed to find Deacon, all he did was locate the trackers he had on Mayhem.

Hawke, Tex, Ethan, and Johnny pinged in the same location of the hotel in which they had been staying.

After a quick shower to wash off the massage oil, Jorge redressed and strapped on his custom H & K 9 mm and two nickel-plated throwing knives. The basics would be best to silence a lethal and well-trained CIA agent without any prep work.

If Jorge had his druthers, he would have liked to map out the location, who would be there, and the best ways to kill the guy. But time wasn't on his side. This was one instance in which experience would come in handy.

He filled a syringe with a paralytic, capped it, and slipped it into his pocket. Then he double-checked the subcompact 9 mm tucked under the front of his shirt and the blade holstered against his sock. Jorge wrapped then rewrapped a high-tension length of metal twine in case he had the opportunity for strangulation and put it in his other pocket.

With all bases covered, Jorge moved quickly to scout his location. It took him only minutes to cross the street and bound up the stairs to the floor where Mayhem had converged.

Carefully, he eased out of the stairwell—and backed back in. Several men milled, and the tension was palpable from his view at the far end of the other hallway. How interesting. To make a better assessment, he moved to the vending area. No one noticed as men walked in and out of the conference room. His prey was already in a defensive mode.