Four Seconds to Lose (Ten Tiny Breaths #3)(114)

“Rick knows better.” But after a moment’s pause, he nods in assent and waves a hand to the guy on my left. Within seconds, the camera lens has been smashed. “I don’t know why he even keeps those in here.” He gestures to the chair positioned across the coffee table, facing him.

I take the proffered seat, while Nate stands back. He never sits. It makes him feel vulnerable and, in this situation, where all of these guys certainly have guns and are eyeing his looming figure suspiciously, we are vulnerable.

“So, the famous Cain Ford,” Mendez begins, settling his arms behind his head. “My cousin watched you fight once, years ago, in L.A.”

“Yeah?” I throw one arm over the back of my chair as I lean back. It’s my own version of feigning relaxation. I may not be afraid but I’m no idiot. I’m sitting face-to-face with a cartel member, about to ask him for help. There’s nothing safe or smart about what I’m doing. “Did he win any money?”

“No, he bet against you and he lost.”

“I could have told him not to do that.”

Mendez’s low chuckle fills the room, the casual banter dispersing some of the tension. “Why are you here?”

I assume I have only minutes with him before we’re kicked out, so I get right to it. “There is a man by the name of—”

“Haven’t heard of him.”

I don’t let his abrupt cutoff deter me. It’s probably wise that I don’t say Sam’s name out loud, anyway. “He’s been taking a substantial chunk out of your business lately.” There’s no need be more specific. I’m sure it’s all Mendez has been thinking about. The sudden fire in his eyes is confirmation of that. He recovers quickly, though. “My paving contracts?”

I stifle my smile. They all have “legitimate” businesses in the forefront. Mendez will never admit to anything else. That’s fine. I can dance this little dance with him. “He’s in Miami right now. I don’t know for how long.” I reach into my shirt pocket and pull out the scrap of paper. On it is the code to locate the GPS that John affixed to the bottom side of Sam’s rental car. Next, I pull out the folded picture from my back pocket. With an odd sense of calm, I unfold and toss both pieces of paper onto the coffee table in front of me.

Mendez’s brow furrows for a second but he doesn’t touch them.

“Feds have been trying to nail him for years and they can’t,” I add slowly. “It’s like he’s untouchable.”

And as long as he’s alive, Charlie will never be safe. There’s no chance of her ever coming back to me. I desperately want her back. I’ll do anything. Sell my club, walk away from what I do.

Set the cartel up.

That is, if Mendez takes the bait. I’m counting on his greed, his arrogance, his sense of entitlement.

I finally see it.

In those near-black eyes of his, the wheels begin churning. He knows what I’m expecting he’ll do with this information. “Why?” It’s a simple question. A fair one.

I sure as hell won’t tell him why it matters to me. Information like that may cost me down the road. Standing, the only answer I give is, “Let’s just say that we’re both getting something out of this.”

I walk out of Sin City, telling myself over and over again that I made the right decision.

That there was no other choice.

“Do I even want to know?”

I push my front door closed behind Dan as he stalks into my condo. He’s never been here before. I’m guessing, by his overly calm tone, that he’s not looking for a tour.

“I don’t know. Do you?” I ask.

Dan stops halfway through the kitchen before spinning on his heels to settle shrewd eyes on me. “Sam Arnoni’s body was found in his hotel room this morning by a maid. Beheaded.”

I force myself to take a sip of my coffee, trying to hide the wave of shock that just crashed into me.

Twelve hours.

I walked out of Sin City twelve hours ago. I’ve got to give Mendez credit. He doesn’t waste a second. The guy was probably on the phone with one of his “people” as soon as the door clicked shut behind me.

“Are you sure?”

Dan nods slowly. “I just left the hotel. Saw the body myself.”

A prickle of guilt stirs inside me. “And no one else was hurt?”

Still watching me closely, he says, “No. Looks like a professional hit.”

Passing by Dan, I make my way to my living room to look out over the bay in a dreamlike state.

Sam is actually . . . dead.

And I helped kill him.

“I’m . . . Did . . . ” Dan begins to ask and then stops abruptly. “You know what? I’d ask you if you knew he was in town, but I don’t think I even want to know that much.”

“I was at Penny’s until five a.m. and then at the gym until eight. You can check surveillance if you don’t believe me. I’m not a professional hit man,” I mutter dryly, adding, “or a murderer.”

“I know you’re not, Cain. And it’s definitely a cartel hit, by the signature.” We stand side by side in silence as we watch a sailboat pass by. It probably wouldn’t take much for Dan to find out that I had been to Sin City last night. He could probably also demand to see my surveillance footage to confirm that Sam was at Penny’s last night. If he truly wanted to know.