Mercy Killing (Affairs of State Book 1) (15 page)

Lucius shrugged. “You don’t multi-task? I had heard that was the way it worked. Move people north. Move guns south. Move anything for cash.”

“Not us. We specialists!” Plump Hardy attempted to pull in his belly and stand proud.

“Who can you recommend?” Lucius asked. If his information was correct, these two had once worked for a shadowy figure with a reputation for controlling a large percentage of the weapons smuggling.

Again, nervous glances between the two.

“No names,” Hardy said, scratching his chin with the muzzle of his gun. “You turn out to be a
Federale
and the man find out, he come after us.”

Lucius laughed. “Do I look like a fucking cop?”

Hardy shrugged. “Who can tell these days?”

With a show of reluctance, Lucius opened his jacket and pulled a wad of bills from his shirt pocket. He made sure they caught a glimpse of Glock, to discourage any ideas about gunning him down for the whole shebang.

“A thousand American dollars for a name,” he said, peeling off hundred-dollar bills. “Who do I see?”

“A name for a thousand?” Laurel wiped his palms down the side seams of his jeans.

“There is one man,” his friend said, keeping his voice low so their customers in the brush wouldn’t hear. “His hand in every pot, so they say. Nothing happen without he knows it.”

Lucius nodded. This was what he’d come for. Not to arrest some dime-a-dozen river-wader. Not for some small-time slave trafficker with a false bed-liner in his rusting pickup.

He wanted the man behind the shipments of plastic explosives, rocket launchers, and guns flowing into Mexico. A cool million waited for whoever delivered the big man behind the weapons deals. Wealthy American and Mexican investors with businesses south of the border, smart enough to look out for their assets, had funded the reward. And he intended to collect.

“Who?” He fanned out ten crisp bills. “I need a name.”

“You cannot tell anyone you heard this from us,” Hardy whispered, shooting a look at his partner.

“I don’t even know your names. How can I tell anyone it was you? Two men in the dark on the bank of the Rio Grande.”

Laurel looked increasingly nervous. Hardy laughed and reached for the bills.

Lucius snapped the money out of his reach. “The name,
amigo. El nombre
.”

Hardy met his eyes, and now Lucius saw real fear there. But greed won out. The coyote said, “Hidalgo. Don Sebastian Hidalgo.”

Lucius smiled. “You win the prize.”

He released the bills into the air. As they fluttered to the hard sandstone shelf, both men dove for the money.

Lucius finger-lifted the Glock by its trigger guard, spinning it cowboy-style into his palm. He fired a single bullet into the back of the head of the fat one. His second shot hit the skinny one between his startled eyes before he could raise his gun.

Lucius swiveled around. The little cluster of refugees had evaporated into the silky black of night.

Nothing moved in the brush.

No matter, he thought, satisfied with his night’s work. Even if one of them was able to identify him, was foolish enough that is, what would the idiot say?
While waiting to sneak illegally across the border I saw a guy shoot the two men I hired to smuggle me into the States.
Yeah, right.

Anyway, he’d have been stupid not to cover his tracks. The pair might have contacted Hidalgo, expecting a second reward for warning him. They could describe him. He couldn’t risk Hidalgo knowing he was being hunted.

Lucius retrieved his money from the dead men’s hands and the ground around their bodies. He shoved the bills into his jacket pocket and strolled away, smiling to himself.

Hidalgo. The same man Mercy Davis had already fingered. Perfect.

17

Mercy's menu for her first party consisted of a variety of
antojitos
—delectable little finger foods similar to Spanish
tapas,
inspired by the indigenous and imported cultures that had blended over the centuries to created the modern population of Mexico. She chose flavors and ingredients from the Yaqui, Aztec, Huichol, Trique, Tarahumara and Mayan Indians. Their dishes had become enriched over time by the pungent spices brought by Spanish conquistadors, African and Carib slaves. An informal and relaxed atmosphere, she believed, would encourage uninhibited conversation far more effectively than a formal seated dinner. Instead, there would be buffet tables and servers circulating among her guests.

On reconsideration, she'd decided against using a caterer. Lupe, her housekeeper, and Lupe's daughter, assisted by Mercy, spread the work of cooking over three days. She’d hire only servers and, maybe, a bartender. The day of the party, Mercy devoted the entire morning and afternoon to the final preparations. In the last half hour before guests were due to arrive, the women pulled hot dishes from the fiery woodstove and transferred them to pewter and ceramic serving platters.

Empanaditas
of tender puff pastry filled with spicy meat.
Tortas compuestas
, little sandwich loaves of only a delicious bite or two, plump with sliced avocado, cheeses, ripe tomatoes and peppers, and slivers of roasted beef.
Quesadillas
, cheesy grilled wedges of sandwiches fashioned from corn tortillas.
Huevos a la Mexicana,
eggs lightly scrambled with chilies, onions and tomatoes, served in little pastry cups. Succulent
pescado al mojo de ajo
, fish fillets from the Yucatan, smothered in a wine-garlic sauce. Fried plantains, and delicious chicken in green
tomatilla
sauce, and an abundance of ripe tropical fruits. The entire house smelled amazing.

For dessert, Lupe suggested keeping it simple—chilled squares of rich
tres leches
, literally translated “three milks”. Vanilla milk-cake, soaked in delicious custard, topped with whipped cream and fresh red berries. Finally, Mercy stocked a bar with a selection of fine imported and domestic wines, beers and liquors, alcohol being a fine lubricator of tongues.

Minutes before her company was due to arrive, Lupe shooed her out of the kitchen. “Your guests come soon. Go! Fix you makeup. It melting off.”

“If you’re sure you don’t need me,” Mercy said.

“Go. Everything is ready.”

As Mercy crossed her parlor giving it a final inspection, she felt both exhilaration and terror at the challenge facing her.

Hidalgo was her target for the night. She needed to find out more about him for the CIA agent. But what if he saw through her?

She tried not to think of the consequences as she touched up her makeup in the first-floor powder room then stepped out into the foyer to welcome the first of her guests.

In some ways, flaunting the O‘Brien-Davis wealth in a country so sorely troubled by poverty still felt wrong to her. But as she looked around the first-floor rooms she had to admit that this house did provide an amazing setting for entertaining.

A few minutes later, as she was greeting a second wave of guests, she sensed someone standing behind her. She tensed. A voice whispered in her ear, “Thank you.”

She turned around.

Peter stood there in his tuxedo, clean shaven, redolent of the designer cologne she’d bought for his last birthday. His brown hair trim, hazel eyes soft, jaw level and strong. He looked as if he should be on the cover of GQ. He nearly took her breath away he was so beautiful.

Why can't people who look perfect on the outside be perfect inside too?

Mercy hadn’t forgiven him for his latest infidelity; who he'd been with didn't really matter. She was still so upset she couldn't let herself begin to consider what she would do about her marriage. Hard decisions lay ahead.

“What exactly are you thanking me for?” She returned her attention to the front door, through which Brad Stevens was now stepping. Carlotta Smith, also from Peter’s office, had arrived a little earlier and was now flirting with one of the young bartenders in the parlor, while pretending to assist him.

Peter gestured with one hand. “For this. You’ve done a phenomenal job, darling.”

She stiffened at the endearment. “I’ve planned parties for you before.”

“Sure, in DC. Call a caterer. Abracadabra—instant bash.”

“I need to check on the food,” she said and turned toward the kitchen.

Peter shadowed her down the hallway. “I had just hoped with a little time we’d be able to talk about—”

“Not now,” she snapped.
Maybe never
.

He gave a resigned whimper and walked away. She watched him put on his cheery I-love-the-world face for the arriving Mexican Minister of the Interior.

Mercy shut out the ache in her heart and set to work.

For the next hour she saw that each guest had what they needed—encouragement to try an unfamiliar delicacy, a refill of their beverage, the name of the weaver of her table linens or the boutique in Polanco where she’d purchased her dress, an introduction to an unfamiliar guest.

Then out of the corner of her eye she saw Sebastian Hidalgo enter the room, and her knees went soggy.

His rugged, tanned features triggered an unwelcome return of the disturbing sexual fantasy from days earlier. Chasing the embarrassing image from her mind, she summoned up her courage and moved slowly across the room toward him.

To his arm clung the same young woman she’d seen with him in the embassy garden in Washington. By now she’d learned this was Maria Hidalgo. Not his wife or mistress, his daughter. According to her research, his wife had died when the girl was an infant. Hidalgo never remarried.

Flanking the wealthy rancher and his daughter were two uninvited guests. Hard, leathery-skinned men with vigilant gazes. His bodyguards, she assumed. Their boss checked out the room then waved them outside.             

“Don Sebastian and Señorita Hidalgo.” Mercy stepped toward them with a welcoming smile. “I’m so glad you could join us this evening.”

Bowing his head in acknowledgement, Hidalgo kept his eyes fixed on hers. “Our pleasure, Señora.”

Maria glanced bashfully up at Mercy. “Gracias, Señora Davis.”

Maria’s skin was paler than her father’s, but her hair was just as black. Long, shining strands threaded through with a rainbow of narrow ribbons and beads. Her dress of apricot linen was a conservative and tasteful sheath.

Fifteen years old, Mercy’s sources said. But if the girl had worn makeup she could have passed for 20. One of those budding beauties who turn their father’s hair prematurely gray. Hidalgo probably had to park a tank outside his home to fend off suitors.

Maria’s gaze cast about the room with wide-eyed curiosity.

“I’m sorry there are no other young people here for you to chat with,” Mercy said. “I would have made a point of inviting the ambassador’s nieces if they were still in the city.”

“That’s all right,” Maria responded with a shy smile. “I’m accustomed to being around adults.”

“My daughter is tutored at the ranch,” Hidalgo explained. “She doesn’t have school friends.”             

“Oh?” Mercy immediately thought of the lively camaraderie among the girls during her own boarding-school days. “There are advantages to home schooling, I’m sure. Learning at your own pace, focusing on subjects that most interest you.”

“
Si,
” Maria agreed. “And I learn more quickly without the distraction of classmates.”

Mercy thought that sounded more like the company line—something an adult would say. Her father?

The teenager’s glance lingered on the staircase to the upper floor.

“Would you like a tour of the house?” Mercy asked.

Even as she made the offer, it occurred to her that this might not be a bad way to build Hidalgo’s trust. Only with solid evidence could the U.S. and Mexican governments arrest and shut down the slave runners. If she could work her way into the cattle baron’s confidence and provide proof of his involvement. . .

“
Si, Señora
!” Maria’s eyes sparkled. “I would like that very much.”

“Anyone else for a tour?” Mercy called across the room, but her other guests seemed pre-occupied with the food and their own conversations. She wrapped an arm around Maria’s waist and guided her toward the stairs.

18

Sebastian hesitated for a moment before following his daughter and their hostess up the curved staircase. He observed them with a mixture of amusement and caution as Mercy Davis drew Maria along with her, lowering her head to speak confidentially to the girl. Amused because it appeared the American woman might be in the process of investigating him even as he contrived to learn more about her. Cautious because he wondered if this woman might be a more serious threat than he’d at first anticipated.

He imagined himself involved in a psychological sparring match with her. Each of them peeling away layers of personality and motivation like items of clothing. Trying to get a glimpse of the real person beneath the façade. The image of the two of them stripping each other created an unexpected but potent rush of heat through his body.