Nightfall

by Jessica Meigs

  “Ash, I just need to know,” he pressed. “What you said that night, about it not having happened…were you serious?”

  “I think, as I said before, that this is a matter that should wait until after this,” Ashton said. He pulled a thick red folder out of his duffel bag and dropped it onto the bed; several bullets jostled loose from the pile and rolled a few inches toward the folder.

  “What’s that?” Zachariah asked, eyeing the thick red folder with a mix of curiosity and confusion.

  “That’d be the information you gathered when you were undercover in the cartel,” Ashton explained. “We should go through it and put it together with everything you remember, maybe use it to come up with something resembling a plan for us to get to Chambers.”

  “You’re assuming none of this has changed,” Zachariah said, jabbing a finger at the folder. “Some of that is months old. Hell, the most recent information is over three weeks old. They’ve probably changed everything up by now.”

  “Not necessarily everything,” Ashton said. “Big operations like that can’t turn on a dime. We’re talking about the Titanic, not a rowboat. Sure, there’ll be some differences, but overall, everything should at least be partly the same.”

  “And how much experience do you have with drug cartels?” he asked.

  “More than you would believe,” Ashton admitted. He started gathering up the weaponry scattered over the bed, tucking it all back into the black duffel bag and moving it to the desk before plopping down on the bed. “Get dressed,” he added as he opened the folder and started pulling sheets out. “The last thing I need when we’re going through all of this is a distraction.”

  Despite his mild irritation at the other man for refusing to discuss the obvious tension between the two of them, Zachariah couldn’t help but smile at Ashton’s use of the word “distraction.” Ashton thought he was distracting? Well, that was something he could probably play to his advantage, if he dealt his cards right. But now wasn’t the time to play, so he scooped up his boxers and jeans and slid them on before tossing the towel onto the desk beside the duffel bag. He decided to forgo a shirt for now—it was just too damn hot for any unnecessary layers—and sat on the bed beside Ashton, positioning himself so he could see the folder’s contents.

  Ashton didn’t even look at him as he pointed to a page in the folder. “Tell me everything you remember about that,” he ordered.

  Zachariah examined the paper for a second, realizing it was a hand-sketched map of the cartel’s main territory, and smiled. This was an order he could fulfill.

  * * *

  Later that evening, once the sun had begun to set and the air had started to cool, Ashton emerged from his and Zachariah’s hotel room, his brain swimming with information from the file. It had taken some work, but he’d gotten Zachariah to agree to stay in the room for now while he went out to try to gather more recent intel. Thankfully, the other man had listened to him; last he’d seen him, Zachariah was sprawled out across the bed changing channels on the television while sulking because he wasn’t able to go out with Ashton. Ashton didn’t care; he just didn’t want to risk someone recognizing Zachariah.

  The evening air was only moderately cooler than it had been earlier in the day, the humidity having mostly leeched out. Ashton was grateful for the cooler air as he strolled casually through the market center just beyond the resort’s premises, where locals had set up booths to try to sell their wares to the tourists who were staying there. Ashton barely looked at the items or their sellers as he moved through the crowd, ignoring their shouts and calls to him to the best of his ability. He was on a mission, and he didn’t need any distractions.

  A further ten minutes’ walk brought him to the door of a familiar ramshackle bar he’d been to a week before. He paused before pushing the crooked door open and stepping inside, scanning the dark interior for other occupants—there were none—before going to the bar as if to order.

  “Can I help you?” the bartender, Cedric, asked pleasantly before looking up from his behind-the-bar duties and recognizing Ashton. His face paled, and he dropped the rag he clutched. “Sir, I wasn’t aware you were coming back! Did I do something wrong?” His face flushed as rapidly as it paled, and he dropped his voice to ask, “You don’t want your money back, do you?”

  “No, of course not,” Ashton said. “I gave you that money as a thank-you for your assistance, and I’m not so crass as to demand it back. You earned it. Especially considering your information turned out to be good.”

  Cedric gave him a bright smile. “I try to please,” he said, “and I try even more so when I am paid so handsomely for it.”

  “How would you like to get another payday like that one?” Ashton asked. “Just for a little more information?”

  Cedric’s eyes lit up at the prospect of another motherlode coming toward him, even as his expression became cautious. “I don’t know,” he said. “Passing around information about the wrong people is a fast way to die here.”

  “I understand,” Ashton said. “If you feel it’s too dangerous for you to tell me anything, that’s perfectly okay.”

  “It is,” the bartender agreed with a solemn nod. He paused, scrubbing at a stubborn stain on the counter in front of Ashton, then asked, “Did the information I gave you last time help you?”

  “It got a good friend out of a bad situation that would have probably ended with him dead,” Ashton said. “And for that, I thank you for what information you have given me.”

  Cedric nodded again and scrubbed harder at the stain. “And is there another bad situation that another good friend of yours is involved in?” he asked casually.

  “Not exactly,” Ashton said. “It’s more like my friend has a burning desire to make the assholes who hurt him pay for what they did to him.”

  “Ah, vengeance,” Cedric said. “Vengeance is no way to live a life.”

  “But that’s how I make my living,” Ashton said. He tapped his fingers against the countertop then dug a scrap of paper out of his pocket, snagged a stub of a pencil off the bartender’s side of the counter, and wrote a number on the paper that was about four times what Cedric likely made in a year. He studied the paper for a moment, debating, then set the pencil down and slid the paper over and around where Cedric could see it.

  Cedric’s eyes widened as he read the number. “Sir, this is entirely too generous of you,” he murmured, though his hand closed over the paper and wadded it into his fist as he spoke.

  “It doesn’t come free,” Ashton acknowledged. “I’d need more information to make it worth me handing the cash to you.”

  Cedric’s eyes lit up at the idea that Ashton had the cash with him, ready to hand it over at a moment’s notice. But a cautiousness hovered inside him, too, and Ashton could imagine what was going through his mind: it was a bad idea to get on the wrong side of a drug cartel by informing on them. But the kind of money Ashton was offering would be tempting to anyone. Especially to a family like Cedric’s.

  He could easily seal the deal if he pulled out a wad of cash and flashed it at Cedric. But he wasn’t going to do that; it was playing dirty, and Cedric deserved a fair chance to walk away.

  Instead of distancing himself from the situation, Cedric started scrubbing harder at the stain and began to talk. “The house I directed you to last time you were here has been abandoned,” he said. “It seems that someone broke into and shot up the place, and they took something that made the cartel leaders very angry.”

  Zach, Ashton thought, but he refrained from speaking out loud. Instead, he simply nodded for Cedric to continue.

  “They’ve moved the operations to one of their more permanent places,” Cedric said. “It’s on the outskirts of town, about twenty miles from here. I could draw you a map if you’d like.”

  “Yes, please,” Ashton said. “On a napkin would be fine. They burn easily. Do you know anything about the place? The layout? The number of people there?”

  “I’m sorry,”
Cedric said with a rueful shake of his head. “I’ve never actually been out there to see it for myself. I just know it exists.”

  “That’s fine,” Ashton replied. He fell silent and watched as Cedric sketched out a simple line map in pencil on one of the plain white napkins he kept under the bar. Once Ashton had it tucked into his pocket, he pulled out the rubber-banded roll of cash from his pocket and slid it across the bar to Cedric. The bartender quickly made the money disappear from sight.

  “May I give you a word of advice, Cedric?” Ashton asked, and he waited for the older man to nod before continuing. “I think you should close the bar, pack up your wife and kids, and get out of town while you can. Maybe even out of the country.” He gave Cedric a crooked smile and added, “I hear America is nice this time of year. Just don’t pull any of that swimming-across-the-border crap.”

  Cedric chuckled and said, “I will take that under advisement.” He hesitated then held his hand out. “It was good to see you again, my friend. Perhaps we will meet again some other time.”

  “In much better circumstances,” Ashton agreed, grasping Cedric’s offered hand.

  Then he left to head back to the hotel, hoping Cedric would take his advice and get the hell out of dodge before he or his family got hurt.

  Eighteen

  When Ashton arrived back at his and Zachariah’s hotel room at the resort shortly after his meeting with Cedric, he found himself stepping into a room that felt preternaturally still and quiet. He frowned and caught the door before it could slam shut, instead easing it so it closed with an almost silent click.

  His first, fleeting thought was Zachariah was asleep. But it couldn’t be that; the bedroom had that sense of emptiness to it that wouldn’t be there if it were in any way occupied. He drew in a slow, calming breath and took a step forward, easing his hand underneath his shirt and drawing his pistol from its holster. He really hoped he wasn’t about to be forced to use it. Nothing drew unwanted attention faster than a gunshot.

  A second step forward brought the desk into view. The black duffel bag Damon had given him was still on it, but the desk was now in disarray, the phone on the floor, the room service book’s pages scattered on the carpet. The duffel itself was ripped open, and silver-coated bullets were sprinkled on the floor; a pistol had been kicked under the desk. His heartbeat sped up at the sight, but he restrained himself from rushing forward.

  A third step brought the wall-mounted television into view. The screen had a single round wound in the center, a bullet hole, and the screen spider-webbed out from it.

  Oh God, Ashton thought. He brought his pistol up in a two-handed grip and darted around the corner into the bedroom, ready to shoot at the first thing that moved that wasn’t Zachariah.

  He needn’t have bothered. There wasn’t a living soul in the bedroom.

  A dead one, on the other hand, lay slumped at the foot of the bed.

  Ashton felt like his heart skipped a beat for the split second before he realized it wasn’t Zachariah. He breathed out in relief and nudged the body with his shoe, shoving it over onto its back. It wasn’t anyone he’d never seen before; the man was middle-aged and dressed in black pants and a dark green shirt. And he was very, very dead, judging by the three stab wounds in his chest. A bloodied knife—one with silver on the blade, presumably from the torn duffel bag—was on the carpet nearby.

  Ashton took a knee and started rifling through the man’s pockets, searching for identification, even as he scanned the rest of the bedroom for clues on Zachariah’s location. He didn’t know what he expected—a big note pinned to the wall that said, “I am here,” with an address written under it?—but he didn’t get any answers in his quick skim.

  What he did get, though, was the distinctive feel of the barrel of a pistol pressing against the back of his neck.

  “I suppose I don’t have to tell you how this is going to work,” a man’s voice said behind him. “Stand up and drop your weapon.”

  How in the hell did I miss that there was still someone here? Ashton thought, and he almost didn’t do what the man said. The temptation to whip around and engage him in a fight was almost too much to handle. But he knew if he even tried to turn around, the man would put a bullet in him that would sever his spine and, at best, leave him paralyzed. At that sobering thought, he gently dropped his pistol on top of the dead body on the floor and rose to stand straight.

  “Good,” the man behind him said. “My boss would like to speak with you.”

  “Where is my friend?” Ashton demanded.

  “He’s already been picked up for the meeting,” the man said, and he pressed a hand against Ashton’s back, nudging him toward the door. The man’s hand felt disturbingly like it had claws on the ends of his fingers. “Walk. And behave. If you put one toe out of line…” He trailed off and pressed his pistol more firmly into the back of Ashton’s neck in unvoiced completion of the sentence.

  Ashton got the message loud and clear.

  The pistol stayed at his back until they were out in the hall, but even when it wasn’t mashed against him, it seemed to stay ominously present. He could feel the taut muscles in his back quivering with the need to do something, to not just go passively to what was probably going to end up being his death in the long term, but he couldn’t deny the impulse to help Zachariah if the man was in trouble.

  He had a feeling he was really going to regret this impulsiveness.

  The trip down the elevator to the lobby was wordless, the silence only filled by the armed man’s soft whistling of a tune Ashton had never heard before. He ticked the floors off in his head, and when they emerged into the lobby, he considered making a break for it. But no, not with Zachariah lurking in the back of his mind. He had to ensure the other man’s safety first.

  The man behind him guided him to the hotel’s front doors and out to the covered awning that curved over the circular driveway in front of the hotel. A black car—of course, a black car—waited, the motor purring like a contented kitten, the windows tinted dark enough that Ashton couldn’t see inside from where he stood.

  The back passenger door swung open, as if pushed by an invisible hand.

  “Get in,” the man behind Ashton ordered.

  Ashton got in.

  * * *

  At least this time, where Zachariah was being held looked a lot nicer than the last prison he’d been trapped in. This time, instead of dirt floors and walls, a pleasantly warm office with carpeted floors and wallpapered walls surrounded him. He wasn’t even tied to the cushioned chair he sat on, either. Granted, that didn’t give him freedom of movement; there was still the matter of the men with guns who were lurking in strategic positions throughout the room.

  An empty chair, identical to the one he sat in, was beside his own. He assumed it was waiting for Ashton. He hoped it was. If the chair wasn’t filled soon with his friend and partner, he’d probably melt down right there.

  Real professional, he chastised himself. He was supposed to be a trained agent who dealt with all manner of crappy situations. “Melting down” was a phrase that shouldn’t even exist in his vocabulary.

  The desk in front of the two chairs was an opulent affair, obviously expensive and hand-carved with decorative, nature-related motifs, a matching chair behind the desk completing the set. No one was in the chair behind the desk, and Zachariah had every anticipation of seeing Chambers inhabit it sooner rather than later.

  The thought of seeing the man who’d beaten the shit out of him again both nauseated him and inflamed him at the same time. He realized he was clenching his fingers around the arms of the chair, and he forced himself to loosen his grip; pain darted through his hands, and he flexed his fingers to loosen the ache.

  If he saw that asshole, he was going to put a fist in his face the first opportunity he had.

  The sound of a door opening behind him nearly made him turn around, but he restrained himself, staring straight ahead at the desk as he heard what sounded like a struggle.
He kept his gaze there until his captors had brought the room’s newest attendee in and forcibly sat him on the chair beside his. It was only then that he cut his eyes away from the desk.

  Ashton sat in the chair alongside him, his hands clenched into fists, the look on his face more infuriated than Zachariah had ever seen him. He looked like he was ready to stage a one-man war against all these people; Zachariah wanted to reach across the gap between their chairs and try to calm him down before he got killed, but he had a feeling if he tried that, he’d get himself shot.

  Ashton barely glanced at him, taking him in with a quick sweep of his blue eyes, and then he studied the room at large. Zachariah hoped the man had more ideas than he did on how to get out of there—preferably outside of a body bag.

  The door behind them opened again, and Zachariah felt his shoulder muscles tighten as footsteps thumped on the carpet.

  Then Nathan Chambers came into view, and the urge to lean over and vomit on the man’s expensive rug was almost overwhelming. Zachariah managed to hold it in, though he couldn’t stop the tremors starting to vibrate through his muscles. He swallowed hard, compulsively, and did his damnedest to keep his spine straight and his head held high.

  “Well, fancy finding you two here,” Chambers began, the smile on his face pleasant, but ice underlay the expression. “You left in such a hurry last time you paid my operation a visit that I didn’t even get to say my farewells. I’d have thought you two would have been taught better manners than that.”

  “Fuck you, Chambers,” Ashton snarled. His voice was lower than Zachariah had ever heard it, gruff and almost animalistic.

  “How kind of you to offer,” Chambers replied. “Your friend has already availed himself of those pleasures. He must have told you all about it.”

  Ashton growled and launched himself forward at Chambers, but he’d only just reached the desk when two of Chambers’ guards slammed him against the desktop. Ashton grunted but let himself be pinned down, and Zachariah barely caught a glimpse of him snatching something off the desk before his hands were trapped under his torso.