In Good Conscience

by Gardiner, Cat

  He tightened his fist before sliding the boot knife from its sheath followed by a swipe through the top of the envelope with a quick, smooth tear then slid out the folded piece of paper: I accept your offer. Panamá Viejo. Bell Tower, Cathedral de Nuestra Señora de la Asunción ruins—9:45 tonight.

  Since his arrival to Panama, he’d been surveilling a woman who came and went from Morales’s gated compound up near Cerro Azul. Always unaccompanied, she got off the bus at the bottom of a winding dirt road where she then walked a mile up to the hacienda at the very top of the mountain. It was this way every day and yesterday, he finally made his move by riding next to her on the over-crowded bus for the hour-long trip from Panama City. Rightly cautious at first—as was he—she finally succumbed to his charm and smooth accent, but then when her satchel fell from the overhead compartment, she became a willing conversationalist following his gentlemanly assistance.

  All pre-conceived notions of her being a housekeeper at Diablo’s hacienda banished at the curl of her lip when he asked about the wealthy owner of said hacienda: Juan Sanchez-Morales. One thing was for sure, Pilar Montegro—who lived in the unsavory El Chorrio district caring for her mother—was a scorned woman and that he could use to his benefit. He had not failed to notice her curled lip when she described the scar that ran from his left temple to his thin lips. He held her missive in his hands and smiled at his success. She would help him.

  Tearing open the FedEx box Bennet had overnighted, he removed the two modified burner phones they’d discussed on the dark web chat room his father-in-law created. The genius had programmed this handy device to bounce ghost IP addresses and to Bluesnipe with digital recording capability. It would be the key to discovering where Morales’s home base was.

  “Bennet, you’re well on your way to redemption,” he said as he placed the phones back in the box. He walked to the closet, bent to his gear bag on the floor, and removed the false bottom. A brick of fifties—$50,000—were right there. The money was half of the promised reward to get Ms. Montegro settled into a new life after she assisted him with specific intel.

  After tomorrow, he could leave for Bolivia—the place where it all began with Operation Samba and the murder of the Lord of the Jungle.

  ***

  The UNESCO World Heritage Site of the Old Panama Ruins wasn’t unbreachable after closing hours. Well, at least not to Darcy. Located along the shoreline of Panama Bay, a few stone walls and metal railings couldn’t keep him out after dark. At his back, the waves broke onto the beach and above him the gentle sway of trees shifted in the breeze. Somewhere beside the outdoor museum, lively music played and in front of him, set against the rising moon and silver clouds, the ancient church’s bell tower stood dark and portentous on the humid tropical night.

  Back in black, he blended in the shadow, stealthily making his way to the structure, careful to keep out of the spotlights lining the perimeter of the stone foundation. Surrounding the grounds and church courtyard, remnant stone effigies of the crumbling ancient city ominously stood guard over the once-Spanish capital. Nuestra Señora de la Asuncion Cathedral had survived earthquakes, fires, and invaders—and now it would act as a gateway to destiny: Liz’s, Ms. Montegro’s, and Morales’s.

  He silently climbed the steps two at a time, to the zenith 22 meters above the city. “Is that you, Señor Thornton,” she asked in a whisper when he emerged from the shadow. Her dyed blonde hair shined in the moonlight breaching the arched stone window facing the sea. His gaze immediately fell to the nasty bruise on her cheek.

  “It is. How did you get up here after closing?” he asked in Spanish.

  She chuckled. “Mi hermano is security guard.”

  “You didn’t tell him about our meeting, did you?”

  “No. No. But he hates Morales; he would be glad if he knew. Luis, Juan’s secretario, told me yesterday the plans Juan had for me, but he could not do it because he loves me, so he says. I know that is a lie. It is only my body he loves; he is no different than his boss—but he promises to pay as much as Juan has to use my body.”

  Caution still ran in his blood and reason, but oddly, his gut trusted her, feeling bad at how she was used by Morales and others. “I think you’re right about Luis, and I think you need to leave Panama before he has his fill. The cartel is very loyal to its jefe, Pilar, and in the end he will do as instructed.”

  “Sí, and then who will care for my mother? My brother?” She laughed. “He will not. Why do you want to kill Diablo so much?”

  “Because he tried to kill my wife, and if I don’t succeed, then he will.”

  Was it the pain in his eyes that gave it away when she surmised? “You are from Virginia,” she said with a nod to her head.

  “Why do you think that?”

  “Because there is a cruzador—I heard through the door—Claudia is her name and she was at a funeral in Virginia watching the widow. Your widow?”

  He was right; the female at the funeral was cartel sent to observe Liz, but he did not answer.

  “They were to follow her for another two weeks, but that is now over, I think. There is war coming to the cartel,” she informed him.

  Yes there was. The Black Ice. I’m the war. “I’m relieved to hear she’s out harm’s way.”

  She smiled. “How long are you married, señor?”

  He couldn’t help softly smiling at the thought. “It’ll be a year next month.”

  “Do you have a baby?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Then, I will help you.”

  “Thank you, Pilar. Can you tell me if your friend Luis is Diablo’s lieutenant? Jefe de Jefes’ number two man?”

  “Sí. He is and godfather to his children. They are very close; he manages all his affairs and travel.”

  His lips twitched in thought. “Do you know where Morales’ family is? His main residence?”

  “No. He never says, but he, hmmm, brings coconut sweet cakes. The box reads from St. Tropez, always these sweets. I think you Americans call them macaroons.”

  “That’s good; it’s a start, but this will tell us everything we need.” From inside the pouch secured under his pant leg, he withdrew one of the phones. “Pilar, I need for you to get this phone within ten feet of Luis’s phone. The rest will take care of itself.”

  “You do not want me to kill him?”

  “No, that would be too dangerous for you, and right now, I need him for information. The phones will force pair, sync together and his conversations and digital activity will lead me directly to Morales and his dealings.”

  “And his family.”

  “Yes.”

  “And you promise to kill el jefe for me?” Her fingers subconsciously smoothed over her cheek.

  “For you and for my wife. He’ll not hurt either of you again.”

  “And then you will go back to her?”

  “If she’ll have me. I am technically dead.”

  “I think … you are good man, Señor Thornton, but I think she will be very angry with you.”

  He wanted to thank her for the compliment because, man, he needed to hear that he was a good man.

  “I know she will be, but I must avenge her—and protect everyone I love from this madman. He’s involved in so much more than the international drug trade.”

  “Sí, he runs guns and makes slaves of men and women.”

  “I’m sorry. He’ll never hurt you again. I promise.”

  From inside his tactical jacket pocket, he removed the brick of bills; expressing his thanks the best way he knew. “This will help you start a new life. Here’s $50,000. You’ll get half now, and the remaining 50 grand when you return this same phone back to me tomorrow evening at five o’clock. Tocumen International Airport—Gate C. Be ready to leave the country. You cannot go back to Panama City or Cerro Azul.”

  “Can my mother join me?”

  “Sure. Take your family wherever you want. It’s a new beginning.”

  “I think Argentina would be nice
. Maybe I meet a good man there. A man who will protect and love me like you do your wife. Not beat me like the devil.”

  12

  Rock the Boat

  August 30

  Maryland

  Through the rain-streaked windshield of the H2, Dixon craned his head from behind the steering wheel to admire Charlie’s houseboat. “Nice place your sister has here,” he noted when they pulled into the parking space beside the slip.

  “It’s her boyfriend Charlie’s, but it might as well be hers for all the time she spends here.” The man’s perfect for her, yet she can’t make moving-in ‘official’.”

  “Maybe she likes her personal freedom and independence.”

  “In a way she does, but it’s all a deceptive illusion. She’s never been alone, per se. She’s sort of a serial dater, which translates to freedom to come and go without commitment—even though they’re together 24/7. Don’t tell her I said so, but it’s just been bothering me lately.”

  “When she stayed at the farmhouse, she seemed grounded, and looked serious with that fella at the funeral.”

  “Oh, she is serious with him … kinda. It’s hard to tell with her. She gets bored easily, and her frequent way of handling conflict or real emotional stuff is to joke and then just cut and run without a care in the world.”

  “Yet, she did a right proper job of being there when the chips were down after the guys came to see you.”

  “You’re right; she did. I never said she wasn’t a loving sister … just, I don’t know … I just want for her what Fitzwilliam and I have. I mean, had. Although she’s a romantic dreamer, she’s simultaneously commitment phobic.”

  She didn’t mean to share so much about Jane, but it was safe in Dixon’s vault. Just as her drunken breakdown the night before when she took the scissors to her long hair in a mad cutting frenzy was safe with him. The man was as tight-lipped as they came, particularly when it came to her personal affairs. Further, she trusted him with her life and when he offered no explanation to his insistence that she get a new phone with a new number, she didn’t question. Why had he walked beside her not behind her after her visit to the dance school? He hadn’t said—and she hadn’t asked, assuming it was nothing more than a change of protocol.

  It surprised her when the man of very few words stated, “Ya’ know, I knew a woman like that. She had a kind soul, and sure knew how to love a man, but she hated disappointing people. When she had her fill, it was easier to just go than to witness breaking their heart with words and tears.”

  “Did you date her?”

  “Yup.”

  “Did you marry her?”

  “Yup.”

  “Did she leave you?”

  “Yup. And she took my dog with her.”

  “That doesn’t sound very kind or the right way to love a man.”

  “I didn’t say she was an angel, just chicken-shit, and … maybe I deserved it. I wasn’t always this happy go lucky, honorable Marine you see.”

  Happy go lucky? Bwahaha! He made a joke! And she rewarded him with a laugh.

  “Well, go on with ya’. You take as much time as you like, and don’t be so hard on your sister. Most folks hide their pains and put on masks. I’m gonna stay right here with Clarice and enjoy the rain.”

  She glanced over at his sympathetic face. Dixon didn’t like the rain; it made his knees hurt.

  “Let’s hope she’s here. Thursdays are usually Janie’s day off from the museum.”

  “I told ya’ you should’ve called or at least texted her that you’ve come home early.”

  “I thought about it, but then she’d insist that I meet her at her loft, and I really don’t want to stay there. And, I guess, like her, I don’t want to hurt her feelings.”

  She opened the door and stepped out into the rain, bolting through the puddles in a mad dash around the side of the boat.

  Standing on the deck, she knocked against the cabin entry then glanced out at the choppy water while she waited. A memory popped into her head of the day her sister left Longbourn; those red tail lights headed down the dirt drive had broken her teenage heart, had made her sick to her stomach as the awareness dawned on her: she was all alone. Her father’s words echoed in the back of her mind. “She’s just like your mom. It’s just us two now, kitten.”

  She knocked a second time, disregarding the prophetic recollection but it ushered in the familiar stomach churn filled with nervous anxiety. Cutting and running. Is it a pattern in my family? Isn’t that what she was about to do herself? But unlike her sister’s actions when both she and Dad needed her to stick around, no one needed Lizzy of Longbourn/Liz Darcy of Pemberley/or now, just homeless Liz, least of all Jane. Probably due to her slight hangover, bile rose up her throat and she bolted to the railing, depositing her breakfast (meager as it was) in one massive hurl overboard as the rain beat down upon her.

  “Liz? Is that you?” That honeyed accent asked from behind. “Are you okay?”

  Wiping her mouth with the back of her hand, she tried to smile, playing off her vomiting with aplomb, which was impossible given that it was obvious.

  “C’mon inside and I’ll get you something to drink.”

  “Is Ja … I’m sorry. Hi, Dave.”

  “Howdy.” He put his arm around her shoulders and guided her into the cabin.

  Damn he smelled good. Damn his body was warm and supportive. Damn. Damn. Damn. Her breath must stink!

  “Is Janie here?”

  “She went to her apartment in Washington since I’ll be hanging my hat here for a couple more days.”

  “Oh.” Double-damn. I can’t be alone with him. Can I?

  He led her inside, making sure to support her in case she was to get sick again, which was sweet but it made her uncomfortable.

  “I’m mortified. I don’t know what came over me.”

  “Don’t be embarrassed. It took me a couple of days to get used to the boat. As you know, I like my wide-open spaces from the back of a horse or in my pick up. I’m not partial to open water, but I’m mighty grateful Crash and your sister let me stay on here.”

  Inelegantly, she backed up toward the bathroom, just in case she threw up again. “I’ll be right back. Hold that thought,” she said, hoping there was a bottle of mouthwash on hand.

  What is he doing here? And would it be rude if I left abruptly? I could claim severe illness. I mean … I did just throw up. She stood before the mirror and nervously raised her hand to touch her newly cropped pixie hairstyle, still damp from the rain. Well, if nothing would alter his good opinion before, this hair will—and the vomit, of course. Oh, why does he have to be so attractive?

  Leave it to Janie to keep mouthwash, Waterpic—and Dave Wentworth—at the ready.

  Further embarrassed by the sound of her gargling, she promptly spit out the mouthwash then wiped her lips. She pulled the towel from its bar and ran it over her wet shirt and bare legs—mentally willing her sensitive nipples to stay put. She was deliberately wasting time, afraid to join Dave on the opposite side of the door, recalling all too well their initial attraction. But she couldn’t avoid the weird confrontation and exited feeling self-conscious. Honestly, as damned perfect as Wentworth was, there was nothing appealing about her, so there was nothing to worry about.

  “Are you feeling better?” he asked, taking a seat at the banquette, placing two mugs at the table.

  “I don’t know what came over me.”

  Dave smiled thoughtfully, and his blue eyes softly examined her, his lazy drawl comforting, “I made some tea. It might help with your queasy stomach.”

  “Thank you. I used to be such a coffee drinker, but after Fitzwilliam’s death, I oddly switched to tea. The thought of a latte repulses me.”

  “I bet you’re finding that all your tastes have changed.”

  “Yes. I don’t even watch the same TV shows as we did. Every single nuance of my life has altered. We may have only been together for a year, but never had I felt so in-sync with a person
.” Her heart stabbed. “Now I’m outta sync.”

  “I recall feelin’ a similar loss when I left the army. Not that I’m implying that life with your husband was regimented, but it’s just difficult to change gears so suddenly.” He raised the mug to his lips—and they oddly fascinated her.

  “I’m real sorry about your husband’s passing. Was it sudden?”

  Blown to bits. Eaten by sharks like human bait. I’d say so. “Yes. A diving accident.”

  He pursed his lips and shook his head. “Bad luck.”

  “Real bad luck. It’s a struggle to get up in the morning, but I guess I’ll survive.” An uncomfortable silence fell between them until she said, “I’m … uh … getting ready to leave town and wanted to say good-bye to Janie. I think she had high hopes that I’d move into her place until I got my bearings, but I just need to get on the bike and go.”

  “Is that why you cut your hair?”

  “Maybe. I don’t know. Fitzwilliam loved my long hair, but I think this is easy to maintain and, like I said, everything is different now. I don’t care so much about my appearance as I did before,” she positioned, subconsciously touching the moist tendril at her temple.

  Shrugging, he raised the mug again, sipped, then looked directly in her eyes. “If you don’t mind me sayin’, I think you’re real pretty.”

  She sipped her tea, thankful for the warmth and the needed break to consider how to handle his compliments. “You’re sweet, but I can tell when a man is lying.” That wasn’t entirely true. The only one she prided on being able to dissect was Fitzwilliam because when it came to her, he wore his heart on his sleeve.

  “It’s the truth. You’re one of the most genuine girls I’ve met—I told ya’ that back in April.”

  “About that … I’m sorry about how awkward it got.”

  “What happened wasn’t either of our faults; it just happened between us. Sometimes you can’t predict or avoid chemistry. It is what it is. Listen, I’ll be honest with ya’, I stayed in Washington so that I could maybe take you out to dinner or out to a night on the town.”