Dead Right

by Cate Noble

  “What is that?” Rocco pointed to the mark.

  “Cat’s telltale. From our last job.”

  “Who else but you two knew it?”

  “No one. It was a secret sign.” That they missed each other. “Personal.”

  The fact it was drawn upside down was the equivalent of being flipped off.

  A formal declaration of war.

  One that, this time, Dante was damn well going to answer.

  Chapter 9

  Juarez International Airport, Mexico City

  July 3

  (Present Day)

  The customs agent glanced at her passport and ticket. According to those papers, she was Luzia Gomez, en route to Cabo San Lucas.

  Even though she’d passed through a similar checkpoint on an earlier flight, Catalina felt uneasy. Being out in the open, unarmed, and bottlenecked at a queue left her feeling like a walking bull’s-eye. Her skin crawled as she imagined someone tracking her movements through the scope of a rifle.

  Which was ridiculous. Her enemies wanted, no, needed, her alive.

  She watched the agent’s supercilious gaze skim up, then down, dismissing her. She knew what he saw: questionable hygiene, messy hair, frumpy clothes, slumped shoulders. And it worked every time. He handed back her papers without giving Luzia Who? a second thought.

  “Por favor.” The words weren’t directed to her, the man’s attention already focused on the pretty, impatient blonde directly behind her.

  Men were so bloody predictable.

  A plain-looking woman—not ugly, because that frequently rated a second glance—slowly turned invisible beside a beautiful one. Make it a large-breasted beautiful woman and the transition time sped up. Toss in a sheer, low-cut blouse and bingo! The plain-looking woman disintegrated.

  Once upon a time, Cat had turned her share of heads, had commanded the same reaction the blonde did. Hell, she probably still could, if it weren’t for—

  Enough. What was up with all the self-indulgent bullshit today? Wrong time of the month? She hiked her backpack farther up on her shoulder. Hell, what month was it even? June? July?

  The past forty-eight hours had been a blur of juggling too many commitments with too little sleep. Which also explained the migraine that threatened. She resisted the urge to massage her temples. Show any weakness and bang! You’re dead.

  She needed to keep her attention on the crowd, on her surroundings. If what she’d been told was true, if the wrong people were indeed on to her—

  Stop. You’re exhausted.

  God, she hated that voice. Tell me something I don’t know.

  You’re also an emotional basket case.

  Don’t hold back now. If you really think I’m a gutless coward, just say so.

  And you’re grieving.

  “I am not,” she muttered under her breath.

  It’s okay to feel.

  No. It wasn’t. Feeling got her in trouble every time.

  She straightened, hauling her errant opinions back in line as she checked the time—3:27 a.m.—added an hour for Eastern Standard. Had it happened yet?

  She considered making a phone call. Except it would do no good. There was no undoing what she’d set in motion, no washing the stain of death from her hands.

  More favor than debt, it was too long owed. She hadn’t been able to refuse even though it had crushed her to be part of it.

  “Atención!” An amplified voice began droning over the PA system, announcing several gate changes. One of them was Cat’s flight.

  She didn’t react, continuing to move with the crowd, her eyes sweeping from side to side, memorizing faces. Then she ducked into a newsstand and stalled for several minutes before reversing her track. No one gave her a second glance.

  She made her way to the reassigned gate feeling fairly certain she was safe, at least for the moment. Beyond that it was a crap shoot. How big a crap she didn’t know yet.

  That was the problem.

  It had only been a few hours since she’d gotten the news: “They’re looking for you again.”

  She had immediately taken offensive action; changed her flight. And though she felt relatively secure at the moment, she didn’t dare go home now. If someone picked up her trail later, she damn sure didn’t want to lead them back to Rio.

  Not for the first time, she wished she had more information, an outside source of solid intel. Staying out of the loop, while safer, carried the price of ignorance. And putting out feelers of her own, after what she’d done, was too risky. They’d be watching for that.

  The sad truth was she had no contacts left; none she trusted anyway. They had all died; at least the ones she’d cared about. The rest—her enemies—couldn’t die soon enough.

  She moved along the corridor, part of her brain monitoring her surroundings, while the other part rehashed what she knew about the current threat.

  The details had been sketchy. An electronic copy of her death certificate had been accessed twice in the past month. Both hits had been traced back to CIA derivatives. Or Cocksuckers in Action, as Giselle used to call them.

  Giselle.

  God, she missed her friend. Another sin to lie at the Cocksuckers’ door. Sadly, the bearer of the news, Remi’s longtime butler and aide, Alfred, would no longer be of help either, leaving Cat to puzzle over the meaning all alone.

  So what was the CIA sticking Cat with this time? In death, she’d become a highly decorated criminal. They’d supposedly closed a few big cases by pinning the onus on her. Couldn’t go into a Senate committee meeting with a shortfall on the desperado quota.

  Thankfully, she’d died before they could declare her a terrorist. “Enemy combatant” meant they could do anything. Torture. Murder. Oh, sure, they distanced themselves from that last one. Plausible deniability and all that. But it was still the New Inquisition and God help the witches.

  You sound bitter.

  Damn right I’m bitter. They drew first blood. They sold her out; they killed Giselle.

  No, Viktor Zadovsky killed Giselle.

  Cat shook her head, weary of the internal debate. Zadovsky had made it clear who’d sold her and Giselle out. And she’d overheard more than one of his arguments with his contact. There was no doubt in Cat’s mind who was responsible.

  The thought of the CIA even suspecting she was alive made her shudder. Her primary objective in life was to make sure that never happened.

  No, your primary objective is to protect your son.

  The thought was sobering in its clarity. And painful, given that she couldn’t go to him right now. If protecting her son meant staying away from him for a while, then so be it. This wasn’t like the last time, when they’d been torn apart against her will.

  This time their separation was Cat’s choice. She was going to Cabo until she felt certain her trail was cold. With the recent swell of upscale resorts, she could find work there as a housekeeper. Accepting under-the-table cash at less than the going rate would mean working longer hours, but that wouldn’t matter. She’d need the distraction.

  Just the thought of not seeing Marco for that long sent spasms ripping into her heart. Would he forget her? It was bad enough he didn’t even know she was his mother, but at least by posing as a volunteer at the orphanage when she wasn’t working, Cat was able to tuck him in every night. To see him every morning.

  She blinked away the moisture in her eyes and forced her thoughts back to her surroundings. Just ahead was her reassigned gate. A knot of unhappy-looking passengers milled near the counter.

  She tensed, ready to flee. Her gaze swept over the area, quickly memorizing new faces, comparing others. The faces that pinged her radar were ones she’d passed along the way; people who appeared to be legitimate passengers.

  “Delayed due to mechanical problems,” an airline clerk was announcing. The revised departure time was two hours later.

  No one in the crowd seemed expectant. All seemed either perturbed by the news or resigned to the fact that such de
lays were part of modern-day travel.

  Still, Cat moved on. As was her habit, she’d wait elsewhere until her flight actually began boarding. But not so far that she was unable to keep an eye on this gate.

  A short distance up, she spotted a bank of pay telephones and resisted the urge to move straight to one. Better to watch and wait first.

  Taking a corner seat, she pulled a crinkled book of crosswords from her backpack. The cracked spine automatically fell open to a puzzle with a few words filled in.

  Cat could care less which ten-letter word, starting with S, meant “the state of being old.” But erasing and rewriting the word SENESCENCE gave the appearance of absorption. It also gave her a moment to quasirelax.

  The throbbing behind her eyes had steadily grown worse. The last thing she needed was a full-blown migraine. Even if she’d had a prescription medication with her—not that she’d been to a doctor recently—she wouldn’t have risked taking it. Couldn’t risk having her senses dulled.

  Self-pity returned, buzzing like hungry mosquitoes feasting on her brain. God, she had a sorry life. Marco was the sole exception. But outside of him, there was far too little sunshine. Far too little freedom. Way too many snakes and landmines.

  You could change that, her mind taunted. Sell your secrets to the highest bidder.

  She ignored the insidious voice of temptation. She’d considered that option before—what, maybe a thousand times? Unfortunately, it wasn’t that simple; that easy. Or even moral, if anyone was counting these days.

  Try feeding your son morals, the voice taunted.

  The paper ripped. Cat stared at the hole she’d just made with her overly frantic erasures.

  Get a grip.

  Keeping her head bowed, she turned to a fresh page and penciled in a few squares until she regained her equilibrium. Then she put the booklet back and moved to the pay phones.

  It was almost seven in Rio. Sister Dores would be up.

  Sliding the prepaid card through the reader, she punched in the numbers and waited for the connection to click and clack across the airwaves, bouncing off how many spy satellites along the way.

  The orphanage couldn’t afford its own phone, instead sharing a line with the church office.

  That was another problem she didn’t want to think about. With the local parishes consolidating to save money, the Orphanage de Saint Maria was being closed at the end of the year. Cat and her son would have to go elsewhere.

  The phone finally started to ring. She felt the sting of guilt over what she was about to ask.

  No, the guilt you’re feeling is about what you did earlier.

  Cat rubbed her temples, praying that Sister Dores would answer quickly.

  The nun, bless her, wouldn’t question Cat’s need to disappear for a while. Though Sister Dores didn’t know the details, she understood that Cat was hiding from a troubled past; a past that could cost Marco’s life if the wrong people found out about him.

  Sister Dores had even helped set up a series of subterfuges. “Lying to save another’s life is not a sin,” the nun had once told Cat.

  Marco Lopez was purportedly abandoned at the orphanage by his addict mother, who’d died in the streets—a real-life scenario Sister Dores dealt with regularly. The lawyer who did pro bono work for the church handled the details of securing a birth certificate based on the nun’s affidavit.

  Marco’s age had been fudged. He wasn’t fourteen months old, he was really sixteen. That his true birth name was changed didn’t bother Cat. In a maudlin postpartum moment, Cat had named him after his father. Another big mistake.

  The longer the phone rang, the more concerned Cat grew. With thirteen babies, most of whom had been sick before Cat left—and only Sister Lolita and another woman who occasionally volunteered—Sister Dores had her hands full.

  There were many times that Cat wished she could stay at the orphanage full time and help more. Except she had to save for relocating again. And the children often needed extras. Without Cat’s help, things like medicines couldn’t always be purchased on a timely basis.

  That meant when Cat got to Cabo, she’d have to work three times as hard if she hoped to have extra money to send back to the orphanage.

  Sister Dores finally answered.

  “It’s me,” Cat said.

  “I prayed it was.”

  Picking up on the nun’s anxiety, she sat up straight. “What’s wrong? Is Marco—”

  “He is fine. Are you on your way back?”

  “Yes.” She would explain about having to go to Cabo San Lucas in a few minutes. Right now…“Your voice sounds funny. I can tell something has happened.”

  There was a pause. “It can wait.”

  Oh no, it couldn’t. Cat’s mind had already painted a catastrophic scenario: Her enemies had found Marco. “You would have me suffer while I worry about the worst?”

  Sister Dores relented. “It’s not what you’re thinking.”

  “Then what?”

  “Father Silvestri came by yesterday. The diocese is accelerating their plans. He wants the children moved to Saint Bernadette’s right away. Since they’re all sick, he relented slightly. But he made it clear we must be moved before the end of the month.”

  The end of the month. Cat’s spirits plummeted. She had counted on having more time.

  “We knew this was coming,” Cat said, trying to ease the distress she heard in the nun’s voice. “It’s just sooner than I’d planned.”

  Sister Dores sighed now. “I’m afraid there’s more. Father Silvestri brought a couple with him. I was at the market and Sister Lolita let the couple see the children. They fell in love with Marco.”

  “No!” Cat felt her cheeks flame and bent closer to the phone to hide her face. “How dare she!”

  “It is not her fault; she doesn’t know. She acted out of her concern with helping the children find homes.”

  “I have to change my flight.” God, what would that cost her? “But I will get back as soon as I can. It might be late tomorrow, but I will be there! Do not let anyone take him! Do you hear me?”

  “Shhh.” Sister Dores tried to calm her. “You are angry.”

  “I was born angry,” she snapped. “Remember?”

  “Yes. And I also remember that you sometimes act rashly when you are mad.”

  Cat huddled close to the phone, gulping in air, wishing that she could cry or scream. Except she couldn’t afford that either. “Then I promise, this time I will try to act more judiciously.”

  “Good,” Sister Dores went on. “Because I would ask that you think—just think—about what Marco is being offered here. Is a life of hiding, of poverty, fair to him? And what if something happens to you?”

  “We already have an agreement on that.” If Cat ever went more than seven days without contacting Sister Dores, the nun was to assume the worst.

  “The fact that an agreement like that is even necessary speaks loudly of the potential for danger,” Sister Dores said. “Have you thought about what would happen if that danger strikes after you and Marco move away and I’m not around?”

  It was the question Cat avoided. She knew the horrible potential downside, had faced it before.

  “You think I like living this way?” Cat could hear her own voice crack with strain and hated that she was lashing out.

  “Of course not! But your past haunts your son every bit as much as it does you.” Sister Dores made a tortured sound. “You know how I feel about you and Marco. But we both know this can’t go on much longer. Given that…” The nun expelled a heavy breath. “Given that, perhaps it is time you considered what’s best for Marco. To let him have a normal life with a family who would love him.”

  Chapter 10

  Key West, Florida

  July 3

  (Present Day)

  Dante stayed at the Oceanside with Rocco, grabbing maybe two hours of sleep. The rest of the time his mind paced. He’d spent the past hour on the balcony staring out at the Atlantic ev
en though it was still dark.

  Watching the boat blow had been a cruel form of déjà vu.

  After accepting that he’d lost everything, to find his father’s project boat here in Key West, as untouched as when Dante had first inherited it, had been an almost religious experience. Having a tangible connection to his past helped him make peace.

  Its loss now was so personal, he ached. Seeing the boat destroyed reopened old wounds. Made his longing for a little tit for tat even sharper. The question was who’s tit? Was Catalina Dion really behind this? And was she working solo?

  No, he’d guess she’d had help. Perhaps from another enemy of his? So would they come after him again when they realized he hadn’t died in the blast? He’d initially thought the ringing phone was merely a distraction. Now he wondered if the explosion had been delay-set to to allow him to get onto the boat before it blew.

  Last night he’d stopped and stood there for a full half-minute before answering the phone. Did they know enough about his habits—that he typically ignored the phone—and set the charge to allow him time to mosey on down the dock? Hell, maybe they’d even dialed the wrong numbers in the past to observe his reaction.

  The issue of whether Cat was really alive or not was moot. Deaths could be faked for any number of reasons. Look how many months everyone thought he’d been dead.

  He could guess her motive. If Cat knew Dante was alive, she’d have to know he’d come looking for her. Those videos she’d made were self-damning.

  He heard the door open. Rocco stumbled up behind him.

  Dante checked the time. “Are you ready to roll?”

  Rocco yawned. “Yeah. Got any aspirin?”

  “I’ll grab some when I stop for a disposable waterproof camera. You checked e-mail yet?”

  Earlier, Rocco had sent a cryptic e-mail to Travis Franks, requesting a postponement of his trip to Guantanamo.

  “No reply. I just sent a second message telling him I’ve been delayed. If he’s got a problem with that, he’ll call.”