Player - A Deadliest Lies Novel - Michele Mannon Page 0,4

of the confusion he’s causing. “Guilty as charged,” he murmurs. “What can I say? Primitive man, primitive needs.”

He runs his hand across his scruff, drawing my attention to it.

Intentionally?

“With a beard that fits the part,” I comment, testing the waters, and now very curious about what he looks like beneath all the hair.

“About that drink,” he says, ignoring my comment and gesturing to the glasses beside the bottle he placed on the coffee table. “Might want to give them a quick rinse.”

He ambles off, no worries, no rush. I stare after him, thinking how his easygoing attitude contradicts the demanding kind of work he’s involved in.

Work that is the reason you’re here.

I’m following a lead on a drugs for weapons deal, the largest of its kind since the Columbian cartels fell apart. A friend of mine from Aleppo, who now works for French law enforcement, tipped me off. Guns. Drugs. Criminal racketeering on a global scale. It’s the sort of corruption that sets governments on edge and the kind of story that could reach all the major airwaves.

I’ve tracked the weapons shipment from Marseille to Acapulco. I’ve confirmed with my informant, El Chulo, the name of the Mexican recipient, one Señor Fahder. I’ve visited the heavily guarded warehouse in Acapulco where the weapons are being stored.

Only, I’m not the only person watching things unfold. I came to discover the CIA is working alongside me in the shadows. It makes sense France alerted them. I still can’t believe my good fortune.

Hard work, grit, and the ability to turn on a dime when an investigation goes ass-up has served me well. But sometimes, when the journalistic gods deem it so, all it takes for an average story to becoming John F. Hogan Award worthy is luck. “Forget the movers and the shakers,” Anchorman Peter Jennings once told my hero, reporter John Quiñones, “Talk to the moved and the shaken.” My spotting this man at the warehouse then bribing my contact into confirming his identity? The world shifted beneath my feet with that stroke of luck.

When the CIA makes this bust, news agencies from Sydney to New York will be scrambling to cover it. This time, I’ll be on the inside looking out. In possession of a comprehensive body of work they’ll be begging me for instead of the other way around.

I’m approaching this assignment from multiple points of view. El Chulo and his men are keeping an eye on things in Acapulco. I paid a hefty sum for the gang leader to notify me the second the weapons are moved or if Señor Fahder makes an appearance at the warehouse.

Things should start shaking up soon because I’m nearly certain Señor Fahder has already sold the goods. After culling through shipping log after shipping log searching for information, I discovered a cargo ship is scheduled to arrive in Acapulco three weeks from now. Not so unusual. What raises an eyebrow is there’s no record of what’s scheduled to be on the ship, where it will head next, or even why it will remain in port until the twenty-second. There are hefty transportation costs for detaining the cargo ship for a significant time period. And those costs were paid in advance—in hard currency. The best leads often come about from what’s not being said. Fahder, the weapons, and that ship are far too coincidental not to be linked.

I’ll be revisiting the port closer to the ship’s arrival date. In the meantime, I’m doing what reporters refer to as “cultivating a source”— that is, this CIA agent. I plan on giving the broadcast networks a heroes-conquer-evil story they’ll be fighting to air. “We won’t air it if viewers won’t watch it,” I’ve been informed time and time again. Exposing the ugly truths and giving voice to the moved and the shaken is what motivates me as a journalist. But if viewers adore happy endings, that’s what I’ll offer them as well.

Like me, I suspect the CIA is waiting for confirmation on the foreign buyer’s identity. Lining up all the eggs in play then swooping in before they hatch. What will it take to get “Antonio” to trust me?

I bite my lip, trying to erase the image of his beard from my head. Focus on his eyes . . .

Yes, he’s repulsive. Yet, in a far less obvious way, he’s attractive. I don’t know what to make of him.

With a sigh, I make my way into the kitchen and rinse the glasses out in the sink.