“Who are you really working for, Suzi?”

He needed to know, not just for his sake, but for hers. He hadn’t seen anybody in this damn city trying to save her butt except him, but there was somebody out there somewhere who was responsible for her being in this mess, the same somebody who had tagged the Memphis Sphinx and lost it, and of all the damn things, they’d sent Suzi Toussi to Ciudad del Este to get it.

Well, that somebody needed to know that the job had gone south.

“One name,” he tried again. “Just give me a name.”

That was a question, straight out, and the girl straight-out ignored it, opening her eyes and looking at him, but not moving her lips-geezus, as cool and collected as a cube of dry ice, even in the ninety-plus heat.

So he put it another way.

“That name isn’t Skip Leonard, is it? You’re working for somebody else, aren’t you?” he asked, and sweet thing, she ignored him again.

Actually, she did more than ignore him. She shook her head, like he should know better than to ask.

“All right, sugar. Have it your way, but the deal we have is fifty-fifty.” No matter who was holding her leash.

And he was going to find out, guaranteed.

“Fifty-fifty,” she said, not sounding any more convincing than he probably did. Fifty-fifty on the finding was one thing. Fifty-fifty on the keeping was where their deal was going to get sticky.

But fine. He was going to let her have it her way for now. He just hoped to hell she was ready.

“Stay close” was all he said.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Outskirts of Ciudad del Este

From where he was working out of the back of the Jeep he and Zach had rented, checking his gear, Creed heard footsteps and looked up. The boss was heading his way.

Yeah, they needed to talk.

They’d loaded the Jeep and the vehicle Dylan and Hawkins had been using for the last six months, getting ready for their morning recon on Costa del Rey, or maybe it would turn out to be a raid, or a snatch and grab.

It wasn’t going to be an assassination. He knew that damn much.

The photograph in the folder had shown a man who looked like J.T., with J.T.’s face, but just a little skewed, not quite right. The basic body build had been J.T.’s, but J.T.’s on steroids. The guy in the photo was big, over six feet and two hundred pounds of ripped muscle and raw power.

The CIA wanted an assassination, and Dylan and Hawkins had decided to go another way, and that was the kind of independent thinking that got them in trouble and, more often than not, got the job done.

Creed would have made the same decision. No way in hell could he pull a trigger on that face-not without knowing one of two things: that it wasn’t J.T., or that J.T. had turned, and the only way to figure either of those out was to talk to the guy. No one at SDF was going to take the CIA’s word for who the man was, not on a bet, especially not Creed, who would have sworn on his grandmother’s grave that J.T. had died in the Colombian jungle.

But that face…that face was almost enough to make him doubt what he’d seen-almost, but not quite.

Dylan stopped next to the vehicle and pulled a cigar out of his pocket.

“You could have told me,” Creed said, loosening the straps on his rucksack.

Dylan lit the cigar and got it going before handing it over.

“Command decision” was all he said.

“Bullshit.” Creed took a long draw on the cigar, letting the smoke fill his mouth. Dylan always had the best cigars.

“Throwing that information, and that photograph, down in front of the whole team would have started a riot, and you know it. I still haven’t figured out how to tell Kid.”

“Bull,” he said again, then blew out a cloud of smoke. “You give the ‘telling Kid’ part to Superman.” That’s what any of them would have done.

“Yeah,” the boss said, wiping his hand over his face, sounding as weary and worn out as the dump they were using for mission headquarters looked. “But we need better facts than we’ve got.”

“I figure that’s why you brought me and Zach down here, boss.” He pulled five empty pistol magazines out of one of the pockets on his ruck and started loading them. “Fact. Finding. Mission.”

“The CIA has those four dead agents on this thing already, and that’s if they’re telling us the truth.”

“Which they probably aren’t.” And that was a fact he would take to the bank.

“Yeah, that’s what I figure, too.”

Taking one last long draw, Creed gave him the cigar back and started in on his second magazine.

Dylan took a short puff and kept the cigar clenched in his teeth. “The spooks were also saying there’s a girl up there at Costa del Rey. That she’s been seen with Farrel in Bangkok and Berlin.”

“That’s convenient.” Damned convenient.

“Hawkins and I thought so, too, and the third time we went up there to run our recon, Hawkins saw her checking the compound’s perimeter. She does that real regular-like.”

“And?”

“She’s good in the woods, and she takes Costa del Rey’s security damned seriously.”

So they were going to grab the girl. Creed was fine with that, whatever it took.

“I put in a request a couple of weeks ago,” Dylan said, then paused for a moment. “I’ve asked Grant to have the body exhumed for DNA testing.”

Fuck. He kept on loading, sliding one cartridge in on top of the last, kept on breathing.

“Body?” he said, when he figured he could do it without chewing up the damn word. “What body, Dylan? We buried bones, burned bones. There was no body.”

Butchered and burned-that’s what the NRF had done to John Thomas Chronopolous. It had been overkill, none of it making sense, except to some twisted cocaine bastard out of Colombia named Juan Conseco trying to make a point, trying to send a message to the U.S. government.

Message received and returned in kind. None of them had been left alive. Not kingpin Juan, not his nephew Ruperto, who had delivered the death order, not the fucking guerrillas who had carried it out.

“Grant’s been working on this thing and coming up with nothing. The file on Conroy Farrel is buried in the Mariana Trench. We’ve got one damn lousy photograph and no corroborating evidence that he even exists. I need some facts, either of who he is or who he isn’t.”

“Whoever he is, it’s a dirty deal, Dylan.” And there wasn’t a man jack of them who hadn’t thought it, who didn’t know it.

“That’s why we’re going to bring Farrel in alive.”

Dylan was right, they needed to capture Conroy Farrel. They needed to talk to the man up close and personal, whatever it took. Nothing else would do. Creed didn’t know what had gone wrong for those four CIA agents, but he didn’t have a doubt in his mind that SDF could bring the guy in.

“What about this snatch on some antique Suzi Toussi was going to tag for the DIA?” he said. “You said Grant had that mission on his priority list.”

“Against his will,” Dylan admitted. “Suzi is in Ciudad del Este. She arrived earlier today and is staying at the Gran Chaco, a luxury hotel near the country club. We were in contact this morning, and she had a meeting set for this afternoon with the gallery owner, a man named Remy Beranger, who is supposed to be selling an Egyptian statue, a sphinx with some kind of special powers that was stolen from the spooks over at DIA.”

Geezus. Creed gave him a look that said he had to be kidding. Dylan just shrugged.

All right, then. He wasn’t going to ask what in the hell the Defense Intelligence Agency had been doing with a magical Egyptian statue, or how in the hell it was important enough to involve General Grant and SDF, but DIA, CIA, hell, yeah, they were definitely on sinking sand everywhere they stepped in this hellhole.

“Suzi’s good,” he said. “She’ll get the job done. I helped her and Cody bring one of her girls out of Bulgaria last year. She had everything set up just so.”