Peter's Return. Cynthia Cooke
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should bring the Venezuelan cartel to its knees. All your hard work is finally going to pay off. You’re in the perfect position to help us bring La Mano Oscura down.”
“It’s all I think about, believe me.”
“If you can, get the names of any operatives still set up here in Colorado that we may have missed. We can’t afford for Escalante to get wind of our plans.”
“Got it.”
“Also, Barclay has taken a tumble.”
Peter shouldn’t have been surprised. They had suspected that hotel tycoon Alistair Barclay was the kingpin of the Diablo organization credited with the increase of drug trafficking to hit Colorado Springs, but they hadn’t been able to get the goods on him. Things were looking up.
“Has he confirmed Escalante is El Patrón?” Peter asked. They’d been hoping for something to pinpoint Escalante as the head of La Mano Oscura, but they hadn’t had much luck. “I know in my gut he’s our guy, but he’s kept himself clean and surrounded with well-established, legitimate connections. Has he found out about Barclay’s arrest?”
“Negative, as far as we know. He’s expecting a shipment through General Hadley of cash and high-definition Keyhole Satellite images of his lab on the Colombian border. Expect company in place of the shipment. The operation will go down on the thirteenth at zero-hundred hours. Make sure you’re there. We’ll need you to help tie up any loose ends. This could be it.”
Peter took a deep breath and tried not to let himself hope. He wanted to leave, but wasn’t sure what he’d do next. The jungle and his cover as Pietro Presti had been a part of him for so long, he wasn’t sure how he could ever go back to just being Peter Vance. He glanced out the window and saw Escalante heading toward the bungalow down the main path. “Escalante’s coming, I’ve got to go.”
“Wait…there’s one more thing you should know.”
Peter heard the trepidation in his father’s voice, a voice he knew well enough to know this wasn’t something he wanted to hear. This was something personal. His gut tightened.
“It’s about Emily….”
Emily.
“Mr. Presti?” Baltasar Escalante said as he walked through the opened door.
Peter disconnected the line and turned, the name of his ex-wife ringing in his ear.
Chapter Two
Determination overrode emotion. For three years, Peter had worked hard to establish his cover as small-time drug trafficker Pietro Presti hoping to gain the attention of El Patrón, kingpin of La Mano Oscura. Now was his chance. He was in the perfect position to find out the truth about Baltasar Escalante and his connection to La Mano Oscura. He had to stay focused. He couldn’t afford to let himself wonder about Emily and what his father wanted to tell him about her.
“Mr. Presti, how do you like your quarters?” Baltasar asked as he strolled into the room.
“Very much,” Peter responded. “Thank you for your hospitality and please, my friends call me Pietro.”
“Pietro it is,” Baltasar said, and sat in a teal-and-salmon chair. He rested his long arms against the bamboo trim and watched Peter for a disquieting second. His lips curved into a small, predatory smile. “I hope I didn’t interrupt your phone call?”
Peter forced a casual air. “Not at all, just checking on a few business deals.”
As Baltasar continued to stare at him, Peter hoped the invitation to the compound would turn out to be a friendly one.
“I understand you’ve been having some run-ins with our mutual acquaintance, Domingo,” Baltasar finally said.
Peter held up his hands, palms out, then gave a gentle shake of his head. “I’m just a small-time guy trying to eke out a living in a big-time jungle. Domingo has taken issue with some of my methods.”
Baltasar nodded, his dark eyes narrowing in contemplation. “I understand perfectly. Let’s take a walk,” he said, rising. “There’s something I want to show you.”
Peter followed him out the door, knowing full well when he received Baltasar’s summons it could mean trouble. He’d taken a chance stirring up the pot with Domingo, but he needed to gain Baltasar’s notice. The few days he’d taken to scope out the perimeter of the compound and stash a motorcycle in a strategic location outside the wall could pay off sooner than he’d thought.
In silence, they walked through the gardens on a cobblestone path moving far away from the main house.
“Your estate is incredible,” Peter said truthfully, trying to gauge Baltasar’s mood.
“I enjoy nice things. I work hard to achieve them. You can, too, if you play according to the rules.” Baltasar looked at him out of the corner of his eye.
His gamble with Domingo had been the right one. Now they were getting somewhere. “Rules have never been my strong suit,” Peter said casually, but laced his tone with an edge of steel.
“I’ve noticed. But to succeed in La Mano Oscura, one must never tread too far off the beaten path.”
Peter contemplated his response, but stopped as the snarl of a wild cat pricked the hairs on the nape of his neck. Slowly, he turned toward the tree closest to the path. A midnight-black jaguar with yellow-green eyes watching his every move sat on a low tree branch, its tail twitching, a low growl resonating deep in its chest. Peter’s breath knotted in his throat. He’d seen firsthand what a cat that size could do to a man, and it wasn’t a pretty sight.
Baltasar approached the cat, reached up and rubbed its head. “Hello, Akisha,” he cooed. He took a napkin out of his pocket, then carefully removed a large piece of raw meat and fed it to the cat. He turned back to Peter. “As I was saying, veering too far off the path might not be a healthy choice.”
Stunned, Peter could only nod as he watched the cat devour his treat. He expelled a relieved breath as they turned and headed back down the path toward the main house. He was still groping to get a handle on whether this visit would be agreeable to him when Baltasar said, “I love Venezuela. My enterprises have taken me many places, Pietro, and yet I always come back home where the colors are vibrant and the smell of the jungle heightens your senses.”
“I believe you have the makings of a poet, Mr. Escalante,” Peter said after a moment’s hesitation.
Baltasar let loose a deep, barrel-chested laugh. “My dear late wife used to say the same thing.” He shook his head. “How I miss her. You married?”
“Once,” Peter answered. “Unfortunately, it didn’t work out.”
“It takes a special kind of woman to be married to men like us.” Baltasar patted him on the back and as they approached the main house he led him through a set of French doors into a comfortable yet masculine office.
Peter casually scanned the room, taking in the deep brown leather sofa flanked by two overstuffed chairs. Against the far wall, but still maintaining the focal point of the room, was a large cherrywood desk and credenza. Everything he would need to unearth Baltasar’s nefarious activities would probably be found in that monstrous desk.
“We can talk privately here,” Baltasar said, and took a seat behind the desk.
Peter viewed this as a good sign. If Baltasar had wanted bloodshed, he wouldn’t have brought him into a room sporting a plush Turkish carpet. And they wouldn’t be alone. Baltasar opened a small humidor sitting atop his desk, pulled out a rich brown cigar, and gestured to Peter.
Peter didn’t care for cigars, but he knew it would be bad form to refuse. He nodded and watched as Baltasar used a stainless steel cutter to neatly snip off the cigar’s end before passing it to him. Peter accepted Baltasar’s offer and held it under his nose, breathing deep its strong aroma, and then waited for the