Page 18 of Wicked Suspicion

The young man nodded. “I remember, but Señor Vargas has given the order. No one comes in and no one goes out.”

Interesting. Vargas was canny and cautious, but this hadn’t happened before that Oz was aware of. “Why?”

That got a shrug. “I wasn’t given reasons, only my orders.”

Of course, no one was going to question what they were told. Vargas would view it as disrespectful and handle it accordingly. “Where am I supposed to sleep?” Oz asked, changing tactics. “I live in the barracks on the estate.”

“I’m sorry,” the guard apologized. “Perhaps Trujillo?”

The kid’s voice held honest regret, but also determination. There was nothing Oz could say to change his mind. Not a big surprise, but he’d hoped. “Do you know how long the lockdown is going to last?”

Another shrug. “Check tomorrow morning when Señor Vargas and his leadership team are awake.”

Before he could ask another question, the man retreated, closing the gate behind him. Oz could have made a move, could have forced his way inside because the kid wasn’t skilled, but he also wasn’t alone. If Oz tried something that stupid, he’d be shot so many times, he’d look like Swiss cheese.

Muttering a curse, he headed back to his vehicle. He was fucking exhausted. One of the drug lord’s lieutenants had sent him to Rio Blanco as a courier first thing this morning. After he’d pulled guard duty all night. He opened the door and got behind the wheel. His ass protested. So did his legs. Driving to and from the Puerto Jardinese capital in one day was a hell of a lot of time behind the wheel especially on next to no sleep. The last thing he wanted was another ninety-minute trek to reach Trujillo.

He hadn’t even been transporting anything that might help his team with their mission. Instead, he’d delivered money to another man high up in the drug lord’s organization. The funds would no doubt be used for bribery, but his team hadn’t been sent to stop the drug trade or clean up the Puerto Jardinese government.

Oz checked his phone. Nothing, but he hadn’t expected any messages. Vargas sure as hell wasn’t going to ask someone to fill him in about the lockdown. He briefly considered letting his captain know something strange was happening at the hacienda, but there wasn’t enough intel to justify the risk.

He did not want to drive to Trujillo, but what other choice did he have? He sure as fuck wasn’t sleeping in the car.

San Isidro. It was nearby and there was an inn there with a handful of rooms. The odds of it being full were slim. Getting the innkeeper to let him stay for the night was iffy, though. Señor Alvarez hated the narcotics trade and wasn’t fond of mercenaries.

It took longer to reach the inn than Oz had estimated, but the lights were still on downstairs when he parked the car. The two-story building was rustic. Worn. It was clear effort had been made to fix things, to patch things.

He’d never been inside the place, but he knew in addition to the few rooms upstairs, there was a tavern/restaurant downstairs. That meant there’d be some tables and likely seating at the bar. Probably a kitchen off the main room. He checked the time. The bar would have closed about forty-five minutes ago, so he only had to face Alvarez and his wife.

Maybe he should sleep in the car. Dealing with the innkeeper and his animosity was going to be a pain in the ass. He shifted, his back protested, and he reached for the handle. No fucking way was he spending the night in this tin can. He put his hand on his pocket, felt the familiar tiny bump, and rubbed it idly.

Oz walked in and stopped short. He’d expected to see Señor and Señora Alvarez cleaning up for the night. Instead, he found Alvarez and two other old men sitting at a table. They didn’t see him immediately, and he took in the room. The bar was decorated with bamboo across the front and there were maybe twenty bottles of alcohol on the back counter. In front of the bar, there were stools that appeared hand carved, and round tables throughout the room. Maybe fifteen of them.

The quiet conversation ended abruptly when the men spotted him.

“You, and those like you, are not welcome here,” Señor Alvarez said coldly in English.

“I’d like to rent a room for the night. I’ll pay double,” he tacked on, using Spanish before Alvarez could voice his refusal.

Maybe it wasn’t fair. The inn was barely surviving and the extra money would help.

“No amount of money would entice me to allow one of Vargas’s men to spend the night under my roof.”

A ninety-minute drive loomed ahead of him unless he invoked the name of his buddy. It was a risk, but it should be small. Stony said that everyone in San Isidro believed he was a reformed gunrunner.

“Señor Alvarez,” Oz said, infusing his voice with deference, “we have a mutual friend who has stayed at the inn many times. Perhaps his good name will vouch for me.”

Alvarez’s eyes narrowed. “Who is this man?”

“Finn Rowland. I call him Stony.”

The innkeeper’s expression never changed, but the atmosphere in the room amped up. “You could have heard that name anywhere.”

“Sí, I could have, but I’ve known him for years. We were friends before he met his wife.”

“How did he meet her?” Alvarez asked.

Fuck. Oz knew the answer, but he wasn’t sure Alvarez did. Stony had claimed to be married to his woman for years before they’d had a ceremony. He decided to go with the truth. “His wife was tailing Silva, the second in command to the arms dealer, Jorge Torres. She was searching for her best friend who was missing at the same time Stony was meeting with Silva.”

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