to translate the English, much better at speaking the language than reading it.
Certificate of Birth.
Birth . . . he understood that.
Quinn Varcek Smith.
He certainly understood that.
Mother. Madre. Yes, Magdalena Varcek. He recognized that name, of course.
Father. Padre.
He sucked in a breath and felt his treacherous heart skip one beat, then another.
“El Viejo?” Pedro asked. “Bad news?”
Bad news. Horrible news. Impossible, wrong, despicable news. His head grew light, his chest felt squeezed by a vise, his powerful fingers trembled.
This could not be real. This was a cruel and vicious joke, played by someone who wanted to speed his demise. The words shattered and changed and ruined everything.
There was the code name he’d been expecting, but never, never like this.
Was it possible? Had she been the betrayer, not Ramon? Had he blamed the wrong person all these years? Did he have men out to kill a son who had not done anything except the crime of stupidity by not watching his woman more closely?
Bile rose in his throat as the harsh reality settled over him.
The boy was not his blood.
Then what did he have left to live for? Nothing. Absolutely nothing but revenge.
He stepped back from the machine, holding the paper as if it burned his fingers. She had to die. No, no, it had to be worse than death.
The whore who had ended his life as he knew it, ruined his business, and put him in prison, had to suffer first. Alonso folded the paper to cover the hateful words.
The puta would watch her own son die. Then she would pay for her betrayal with her life. And when that was over, he’d have one last man to kill.
Michael Scott. This time, his death would be real.
CHAPTER NINE
ONCE MAGGIE KNEW Dan’s former identity, she easily picked up the nuances that made the man she knew similar to the man who walked into the FBI offices with her. Not that his cover hadn’t been thorough, but there were subtleties in his speech patterns, the way he moved his brows and hands, even his gait and posture, that were his regardless of hair color or the shape of his nose.
Not so with Joel Sancere. As the stocky, stiff-backed, military-buzzed FBI agent marched to greet them in the lobby, Maggie stared in amazement that this man was the sloppy, slacky Juan Santiago who had seemed to be kept around more for his off-color jokes than his role in the drug dealing.
In a tailored suit, crisp white shirt, and square-knotted tie, there was nothing slack about FBI Supervisor Sancere.
“Dan Gallagher, you son of a gun.” He reached his hand straight out to Dan and gave it one snap of a shake. “Great to see you again.”
Dan returned the shake and immediately turned to
Maggie to make the introductions, even though he’d already told her exactly what to expect. “This is Joel Sancere, currently the supervisor of—which squad are you running now?”
“Major thefts and violent crime,” he said. “But I’ve worked my way through most every division we have. Mrs. Smith, I understand you are helping us once again with an open investigation. Thank you.”
Like she’d helped on purpose last time.
“Supervisor Sancere,” she said, shaking his hand and looking him in the eye. He had to know how Dan got inside information all those years ago, but she refused to feel ashamed.
His attention was back on Dan. “So you did it, huh?” he asked, a look somewhere between admiration and chastisement in his eyes. “Why am I not surprised? You were always a rule-bender.”
“Getting into the evidence room?” Dan shrugged. “I know people. But I’m afraid they won’t let Maggie in there.”
“That pushover SAC? He might.” Joel shook his head with distaste. “The guy’s a mess.”
“I admit I was surprised when you didn’t get the job.”
Joel waved a hand as if he didn’t care, then leaned closer and lowered his voice. “Like you’ve known for years, Dan, it’s who you know, not how well you do the job. And this one?” He pointed a thumb over his shoulder. “He knows everybody.”
“Who knows everybody?” Another man came around the corner to the lobby, smaller in stature and breadth, slightly balding, with sharp brown eyes behind rimless glasses. “Are you Dan Gallagher?”
Maggie had to agree with Sancere; the “boss” was a mess. He hadn’t even ironed his shirt and clearly thought shaving was optional.
“I’m the special agent in charge, Thomas Vincenze.” He shook Dan’s hand and then nodded to Maggie. “You ready to go Gallagher? I’ve had the ev