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  None of them spoke English, yet their tone indicated confusion rather than anger. After a couple of thumping heartbeats in which they didn’t shoot her, she turned her head to the side. Her breath caught at the sight of the first man. He was dressed exactly as the men in her childhood nightmares. Khaki-green uniform, shin-high boots, and a long weapon. If that wasn’t enough, the gun was pointed directly at her.

  “Por favor. Help me, please. Por favor.”

  There was a moment’s silence in which the crying bird was the only sound. Then before she knew it, Charlene was dragged to her feet. The adrenaline that’d coursed through her body just moments ago was completely gone. Her legs had become jello. Her captors’ grip on her biceps was the only thing keeping her upright as they dragged her back into the dilapidated Hershey museum.

  Charlene had seen many soldiers in her time. If these guys were soldiers, then they were light on both training and health. They were gaunt and disorganized. They had missing teeth, dirty hands, and bad body odor. She spied gaffer tape on the weapon held by the man to her left, and the man on her right was missing an eye. Besides the two holding her, she counted another five. But that was just the ones in front of her; she had no idea how many were behind.

  “Por favor, do you speak English? I need help.”

  None of them spoke. Instead she was manhandled through the foyer, over a threshold, and into a long corridor dotted with doors that’d seen better days. The corridor offered little light, but they were heading toward a glow at the end. Her heart pounded out a frightful beat with each yard of debris she was carried over.

  They had trouble working out how to get her through the final door and opted to shove her forward. She fell to her hands and knees at the boots of a man who was standing with his feet planted shoulder width apart.

  Charlene pushed back to look up at him and knew instantly she was looking at their leader. With his chiseled jaw, crooked nose, and black eyes that glared with hate, he commanded attention. Where the other men looked to be starving, this guy looked like he always took his share first.

  Charlene snapped her hands over her head. “Por favor, don’t hurt me.”

  “Who are you?”

  “Oh, you speak English, thank God.”

  “Who are you?”

  “My name is Charlene Bailey. Are you Diego?”

  The muscles along his jaw line clenched, but he didn’t reply.

  “I need to talk to Diego about my father, Peter, I mean Pueblo García. Here, I have a picture.” She reached for her bag, and the men shouted and lunged with their weapons.

  She gasped and snapped her arms up. “Don’t shoot. Don’t shoot. I have a photo. Por favor.” Sweat trickled down her back.

  The leader did a little head shuffle, and the men backed off.

  Charlene plucked the photo from her bag and unfolded it. “Here. This is Pueblo García. Do you know him?”

  A flicker of recognition crossed his eyes. He snatched the photo, stared at it for three seconds, then burst out laughing. The remaining men laughed too, and when he said something to them in Spanish, their laughter increased a notch.

  Charlene had played this moment in her head a dozen times, but not once had she considered this reaction.

  “This man your father?” He pointed at the photo.

  “Yes. Do you know him?”

  “Sí. Sí. Come, we will talk.” He offered her his hand to help her up, but declining his grasp, she climbed to her feet and dusted off her hands.

  “I apologize for my men. They are, how do you say . . . eager.”

  She scanned the faces of the seven other men around her. They didn’t look eager; they looked more exhausted than anything. “It’s okay. It was my fault. I was trespassing.”

  He eyes flared. “Sí. You were.” He burst out laughing again, and Charlene had no idea why. She used the moment to dust off her dress and scan the room. It looked like some kind of headquarters—in the crudest form. Maps and spreadsheets scrawled with numbers were pinned to one of the walls. Another wall was pockmarked with bullet holes, which Charlene decided was damn stupid considering the fragile state of the building. Along another wall, a couple of decrepit sofas with stained purple jacquard fabric faced each other; a coffee table loaded with empty beer bottles was nestled between them.

  In each of the corners, wooden crates were stacked to the ceiling, and in the middle of the room was a large metal table surrounded by ten chairs. Half-eaten bowls of food topped the table. This wasn’t the kitchen, though, so she wondered if there were more people in the building.

  “Please, sit. Are you hungry?”

  “No, thank you.” She lied. She was starving, but she didn’t want to waste any more time. Her mind flashed to Marshall. She was already well past her scheduled meeting time. He’d told her about two men who’d missed their rendezvous and how he’d returned to get them the following night. Her only hope was that he’d do the same for her. “May I have my cane back, please?” She nodded at her only weapon.

  “Sí.” He turned to one of the men, barking an order at him, and he stepped forward to give it to her.

  “Please, sit.” The leader tugged a chair at the head of the table, angling it away from the table.

  Charlene accepted the offer, and the instant she did, her body seemed to melt. Exhaustion crept in, liquefying her limbs, but she had to fight it. This was far from over.

  Although the leader was being friendly, the remaining men peered at her like she was an armed alien, and not one of them had let go of his weapon. The man pulled out a chair, sat opposite her, and her stomach churned at the slow, creepy grin curling his lips. “Are you Diego?”

  His hand went to his chest. “My apology. Sí, I am Diego Álvarez. You have heard of me, yes?” His dark eyes seemed to twinkle.

  “No. I’m sorry, I umm . . .” Charlene was about to say that she had only arrived in Cuba last night but quickly snapped that admission from her tongue. “Can you tell me how you know Pueblo?”

  “No, you first. How do you know Pueblo?” He plucked a tiny stick off the table and used it to rub his front tooth.

  “Oh, well, he was my father.”

  “Was?” Diego cocked his head.

  “Yes, he, umm, he died a couple of months ago.”

  He turned to his men and rattled off a series of sentences that had them all laughing. Her insides curled with disgust as she watched them cackle. “What’s so funny?” she demanded.

  “Peter was with us.” He glared at her, obviously keen for her reaction.

  She swallowed, unsure how to answer. After seeing these men, their uniforms, their weapons, she had no doubt that Peter had once worked for him. But acknowledging that would make her look like a fool who’d deliberately walked into the enemy’s lair. She didn’t mind them thinking she was a fool, as it might come in handy later, but she decided it would be better to look naïve. “No. I didn’t know that. He never told me.”

  “Do you know your mother?”

  A gasp left her throat. “No, do you?”

  His creepy smile strengthened. “Her name was Benita Álvarez. She my sister.”

  Charlene’s jaw dropped. “How do you know she’s my mother?”

  “You look exactly like her. When you walked in door, I thought I seeing ghost.”

  “Oh my God. Really? Are you certain?”

  He shoved back on his chair, scraping the metal legs over the concrete. “Come, I show you something.”

  “Oh my God. I can’t believe this. I’ve been dreaming of this day for years.”

  “Me too.” He smiled at her, but his smile didn’t reflect the same elation she was feeling. His smirk had tendrils of dread inching up her spine, and she had no idea why. He’d just declared himself as her uncle. As far as she knew, he was the only family she had. Charlene should be over the moon. But there was something about Diego and his men that wasn’t right.

  The other men were all weedy little rats, simply following their leader. She
knew she could outfight them. Outrun them too. But Diego was the problem. His sinister intelligence bristled just below his skin.

  He paused at the door and indicated for her to go ahead. “You first.”

  Clutching the cane, she stepped ahead of him and walked along the hall. The corridor wasn’t the same one she’d traveled earlier, yet it had a similar feel, with dilapidated doors and a dim glow at the end. The urge to run toward that glow was powerful, but not as powerful as the desire to know exactly what was going on.

  “In here,” Diego announced behind her, and she stopped to turn around.

  He opened a door and stepped through. She followed him, and the second she did, he gripped her arm. “Hey! Let go.”

  He drew her closer; his bloodshot eyes were wild, and she heaved at his rotten breath. “You should not have come back, Claudia.”

  Diego dragged her toward a large hole in the floor. She planted her feet and whipped the cane around fast and hard. It hit him square in the nose. His head snapped back, and blood burst onto his lips and chin. But his grip remained. She clawed at his face and put all her energy into reversing his direction.

  But it was pointless.

  Charlene screamed as he tossed her into the hole.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Noah glared at the defense lawyer across the room, his animosity brimming to a boiling point at the smug look on Ledbetter’s face. Ledbetter had been wearing it all morning, and that had the hairs on Noah’s neck bristling. Normally by now the defense was a quivering mess. Not Randall Ledbetter. His unprecedented cockiness meant Ledbetter had something up his sleeve. Something that the defense obviously considered to be a bombshell. And that was an experience Noah was not accustomed to.

  Yet as much as he dreaded what his opponent was up to, he also welcomed it.

  Noah loved a challenge. And the tougher the better. He was born for this.

  The judge adjusted the glasses teetering at the end of his bulbous nose and glanced over the top of the rim at Ledbetter. “Please, call your next witness, Mr. Ledbetter.”

  Ledbetter’s eyes flicked to Noah with a blaze of excitement; then he stood, buttoned up his jacket, and cleared his throat. “The defense calls Doctor Adam Bancroft.”

  When Noah’s client released a gasp, he glanced down at her. What he saw confirmed that she’d just committed his least-tolerated error in judgment. Bridget Stoneham had withheld information from him. Whatever it was, judging by the fear piercing her eyes, it was critical.

  The double doors at the back of the courtroom opened, and a tall man sporting horn-rimmed glasses and dark hair pulled into a ponytail shuffled into the room. His eyes remained downcast, and it was obvious he was present under duress. Noah had no idea who the doctor was, but Bridget’s ashen face was enough to know that he was trouble.

  Noah leaned into his client’s ear. “I’m very disappointed in you, Bridget.”

  “I . . . I don’t know how they—”

  “They always do.” He cut her off. “I told you, no secrets.”

  The doctor slouched into the witness chair and was read his rights.

  “Please, state your name and occupation for the record.” The judge’s voice was cloaked with boredom.

  “Doctor Adam Bancroft. I’m the senior OB/GYN for New York OB/GYN and Associates.”

  Bridget groaned, and Noah glared at her. The stupid bitch’s decision to conceal information meant she was going to pay the price. He was too. And that meant he had a record-breaking tsunami on his hands. Ledbetter glanced at Noah, then at Bridget, then turned his gaze to the doctor. “Doctor Bancroft, please, advise the court what your specialty is?”

  He cleared his throat. “I’m a board-certified obstetrician with specialized training in abortion.”

  A couple of the jurors gasped.

  “I see. I know you are restricted by doctor-patient confidentiality. However, can you please confirm to the court if you have ever met the plaintiff, Mrs. Bridget Stoneham?”

  The doctor looked like he was about lose his lunch as he nodded his head. “Yes, I have.”

  Ledbetter’s stage show was impressive. And while he did a worthy job of avoiding questions that broke the confidentiality rule, it was enough to cement the implication to the jury that Bridget had indeed visited Doctor Bancroft for an abortion.

  The major stake in his case had been that Mrs. Stoneham’s husband had claimed to be impotent and therefore had not touched her in years. If she’d had an abortion, as Ledbetter was implying, then that meant either her husband wasn’t impotent or Bridget wasn’t as pure as she’d claimed.

  When the court adjourned for recess, the look on Ledbetter’s face was a triumphant one. But there was something else. His look indicated there was more to come. Noah clutched Bridget’s upper arm and led her to his private interview room.

  He slammed the door as she crumbled into a chair and burst into tears.

  “Shut the fuck up.”

  She gasped, and he relished in the fear blazing across her eyes. “I don’t deal with liars.”

  “I’m sorry. I thought—”

  “Well, stop fucking thinking and start talking.”

  Bridget sucked back a sob. “I got pregnant three years ago.”

  “Who’s the father?”

  Remaining silent, she wriggled her head and sucked her lips into her mouth.

  “Tell me!”

  Again, she shook her head.

  He slapped his palm onto the table.

  Yelping, she jumped back. “No. I’ll never tell.”

  “The defense knows, and in about twenty minutes the whole world will know.”

  “That’s impossible. Nobody knows. We were careful.” Tiny blood capillaries snaked across the whites of her eyes.

  God. If Noah had a dollar for every time he’d heard that, he’d be able to update his jet. He chuckled. “You stupid, naïve shit. I’ll tell you now, Ledbetter has his name. So, whether you tell me or not, I’m about to find out anyway.”

  Bridget ran her long pink fingernails dangerously close to her eyeballs, catching the tears before she looked up at him. She swallowed, then sat back with her hands folded across her chest. “I’ll take my chances.”

  A knock on the door indicated the judge was ready for them to return. He made one final plea to his client. But whoever the father of her aborted child was, Bridget was willing to risk everything to keep his name a secret. Noah was both furious and fascinated by the mystery.

  He made a show of portraying confidence as he shuffled Bridget along the aisle of the packed courtroom to their seats at the front. The judge required three bangs with his gavel to quiet the courtroom before he looked down at Ledbetter. “Please, call your next witness.”

  “The defense calls Mr. Timothy Pearce.”

  Noah’s jaw dropped. Bridget gasped. The courtroom erupted into a frenzy of excited voices, and Ledbetter’s grin had Noah’s gut churning.

  Noah’s brain was in a fog as he turned to the back of the courtroom and watched the double doors swing open and his very own business partner walk down the central aisle.

  Noah could count on one hand the number of times someone he knew and trusted had betrayed him. But when Pearce met his gaze, Noah knew this one was going to be the most costly.

  The remainder of the afternoon crawled along like a crippled dachshund, and the realization that he’d lost a case hit him in the final grueling hours of the day. The second the judge hit the gavel for the last time, Noah stormed from the courtroom with Pearce calling after him. But Noah had nothing to say to him. Not yet, anyway.

  He quickly sought out two of his girls, who were standing behind the frenzied reporters salivating at the court steps, before he slipped into his waiting car. As the limo pulled away, he saw his client and his partner crawling through the throng of voracious reporters.

  As Mansour navigated the limo along the busy New York streets, Noah deflected call after call. Every second one was Pearce. But he wasn’t ready yet.
The next time he spoke to Pearce, he’d have an arsenal of ammunition to throw at the man he’d considered his only confidant.

  At his office, he strode to the liquor cabinet, poured a healthy dash of XO cognac and swallowed the shot in one gulp. He poured another and strolled to his window with the glass in his hand. Closing his eyes, he clenched his teeth until his jaw hurt. Noah didn’t lose. But that wasn’t what infuriated him the most. It was the humiliation. He gulped back the cognac and hurled his glass at the floor-to-ceiling window. When it bounced off and landed back at his feet, he kicked it across the carpet, leaving a trail of golden drops in its wake.

  His phone continued to hum in his pocket, and he ignored it. Very few people had his number, and those who did were important to him. But he couldn’t bring himself to respond to what was likely to be a major blip in his career. He needed his brain to simmer, and he needed a plan of attack.

  The door clicked, and he turned to watch Indigo and Tarsha sashay into the room. They strode to him with seductive movements of their hips and an alluring sparkle in their heavily made-up eyes. The girls were young, gorgeous, and handpicked by him at Madam Athena’s exclusive service. Madam Athena was paid well for both the abilities of her team and their confidentiality.

  Confidentiality.

  It was a powerful word. A powerful commitment. One that he’d used many times in the courtroom.

  But never had it been used against him. Indigo touched his shoulder, and he slapped her hand away. He wasn’t ready yet. With the flick of his hand, the women turned to each other. Their lips met, and as Indigo cupped Tarsha’s breast, Tarsha glided the zipper down Indigo’s back.

  Noah topped up a fresh glass and sipped his cognac while watching the erotic show before him with zero interest. Even when the girls were stripped completely naked, his arousal remained nonexistent. That showed the extent of the damage his partner had caused.

  The phone on his desk trilled, and his eyes snapped to it. Only a handful of people had that number, and he knew who it’d be. Pearce. He had no intention of answering it.

  But when the answering machine kicked in, the voice on the phone made his already horrific day a thousand times worse.