Page 14 of Fast Justice

Manny set his cell phone down on the kitchen table and rested his head in his hands, elbows propped up on the polished antique wood surface. Almost a week now since the attack on Oceane and Anya, and no word yet on their location. As far as anyone could tell, they were somewhere in the States. He’d barely slept since, worry and fear eating at him from the inside out.

He knew who the culprit was, however. Ruiz. That fucking bastard.

Manny should have had him killed years ago and taken over his territory, saved everyone in the organization a lot of embarrassment and spared Oceane and Anya suffering. Instead he’d bided his time, playing it safe and living his double life until Ruiz’s capture by U.S. officials had made it impossible to sit back any longer.

His cell rang, the familiar ringtone alerting him that it was his accountant calling. He stared at it for a few seconds, wasn’t going to answer at all, but a niggling in his gut made him pick up. “Yes?” He sounded every bit as tired as he felt.

“Is this a bad time?”

“No.” He always projected a calm front. It was absolutely necessary for a man of his position in this deadly business. He was surrounded by power hungry men and rivals who would love to do the same to him as he’d done to Ruiz. No matter what, he had to appear to be calm and in control at all times. Make everyone believe he was unshakable. All while letting his enforcers do the dirty work they so enjoyed. “What is it?”

“I’ve just been alerted by our contact at the international bank. Some of your offshore accounts have been frozen.”

“What? By who?”

“The FBI. Just this morning.”

Fuck. “The FBI froze my accounts.”

“Yes.”

He sat up, dragged a hand over his face. They’d been so careful with his finances. Burying them so deep it should have taken years for anyone to trace them back to him. “Which accounts?”

When the man told him, Manny’s stomach dropped. The accounts he used for sending money to Anya and Oceane. All three were compromised. “They’ve been talking to the Americans,” he murmured, feeling ill.

“It would appear so. Or…someone’s forced the information out of them.”

God. “Of course.” He stood, paced aimlessly across the kitchen, not even noticing the beautiful mountain vista out the floor-to-ceiling windows of the house he’d paid a fortune for.

Of course someone must have forced Anya and their daughter to tell them about the money. They would never betray him willingly. They had fled to the States for safety, out of desperation, but instead of finding temporary refuge there, the Americans must have taken them. The thought of them imprisoned in some American prison while investigators interrogated them day and night about him and his activities was more than he could bear.

“What do you want me to do?”

“Create new accounts in Switzerland under a new company and sell whatever shares you need to make up the amount lost. When they return home, they’ll need the money.”

“All right.” The accountant paused. “Are you going to stay in Mexico?”

“For now.” Soon he would slip into Panama and wait there until the immediate threat against him was over. But not until Anya and Oceane were returned safely to Mexico. Until then, he had to pretend everything was as it should be. He had to fooleveryone, not let anyone see him sweat.

“All right. You’ll keep me updated?”

“Yes. Call me when you’ve arranged everything.” He ended the call and immediately dialed his lawyer, a man he paid handsomely to be at his beck and call. “The Americans have Anya and Oceane,” he began abruptly.

They were deep into conversation about what needed to happen next, to protect him, the women and his assets, when the front door opened into the grand foyer off the kitchen. Glancing over his shoulder, he watched his wife sail through the door, her hands loaded with boutique shopping bags, a pair of designer sunglasses hiding her eyes.

“I have to go,” he said to the lawyer. “Call me later when you have more details.” He hung up without waiting for a response and put on a smile for Elena as she swept into the kitchen. “Have a nice day?” he asked, taking the bags for her and setting them on the counter.

She seemed happier now, more like her old self. Things had been strained between them recently. Maybe a couple of months. He wasn’t sure what he’d done, but she’d been distant and cool to him until maybe a week ago, around the time when this latest crisis had happened.

“I did. You?”

He shrugged, slipping into his acting role as comfortably as if it were a second skin. Over the years, he’d perfected it. “Just some business things I had to deal with.”

She stopped, sliding her sunglasses up onto her head to study him with those miss-nothing brown eyes. “Is there trouble?”

He smiled again. “Nothing I can’t handle.” Elena didn’t know about Oceane. She thought that his trips to Veracruz were business-related only, and out of respect for her as his wife, he’d been careful to keep both Oceane and Anya out of her life and never speak about them in her presence.

Elena had been just eighteen when they married, a naïve, uneducated peasant girl from a neighboring village, and he twenty-three. He’d been a nobody back then. A farmer’s son with work-roughened hands who did the occasional illegal deal to get ahead. She’d been loyal to him from day one, long before he had power and money. He owed her for that. Would give her anything.

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