Page 66 of Tide of Treason
The U.S. governmentwas just a more sophisticated Cartel. That was the first thing you learned when you walked into one of these rooms. The only real difference between the suits sitting around this table and the men who reported to me in Rio was that these ones had law degrees and thought they shit gold. The second thing you learned? Power wasn’t about who had the biggest gun, it was about who had the cleanest hands. Or, more accurately, who could convince a room full of self-important bureaucrats that their hands had never been dirty in the first place.
I sat at the head of the long mahogany table, chair kicked back, hands laced over my stomach as Yates droned on about “operational integrity” and “national security concerns,” as ifhalf the men on his goddamn payroll weren’t already on mine and had been for years.
This morning, after arriving back at my penthouse directly below Kayla’s, I’d showered, scrubbed away the scent of her skin, the feel of her mouth, the weight of her body tangled in sheets I had no business being in. Then, I did something that might’ve been the biggest betrayal to my younger self.
Combed my hair.
Not the lazy, half-assed rake of fingers I usually passed through the tight coils. No, I meant I’d stood there in front of my bathroom mirror with a fine-toothed comb, dragged it through every last curl until my scalp stung and my reflection looked like someone worthy of a government ID. If that wasn’t enough, I’d dressed in a clean suit—crisp, charcoal grey, tie knotted so neatly it would’ve made my mama proud.
“We’ve had some . . . concerns about the restructuring of Task Force 81. Your predecessor handled things—”
“Poorly,” I cut in, rolling the glass of water between my fingers, watching the way the ice cracked and splintered. Rafael sat to my right, suit just as immaculate as mine, face unreadable. He did the high-ranking official shtick way better than I ever could, which was exactly why I kept him at my side. “That’s the word you’re looking for.”
A few eyes darted to the CIA rep, then to the FBI liaison, verifying that yes, the U.S. government had been playing puppet master to Sergius Braga’s empire since long before I’d ever stepped foot in it.
I let the ice settle. “Let’s get something straight.” I flicked my gaze over the top of my glass. “Task Force 81 doesn’t exist anymore. It’s been absorbed. Rewired. No more CIA handjobs under the table, no more off-the-books deals with men who traffic children like cattle. That shit ends now. We tighten the leash, focus on controlled burns. You want to move product? Fine. But you keep it clean. No flesh trade, no minors. Cross that line?” A slow shrug. “Well. Then we have a problem.”
Across from me, Yates pressed, “Director Andrade, there’s protocol for—”
“Protocols are written by the men who want to be remembered. I’m not interested in being remembered. Just effective.”
Rafael exhaled sharply through his nose, the closest thing to a laugh he was willing to give in this room.
Yates’ jaw set. “And if certain parties . . . disagree?”
I propped a brow. “Anyone disagree?”
Silence.
A bead of sweat rolled down Yates’ temple.
And then, because every room breeds one, some dumb fucker actually cleared his throat.
“I do.”
The voice belonged to James Weller. Treasury department. Pencil pusher.
I made sure. “You do.”
He straightened his tie, tension etched over his pasty face. “That’s right. You can’t just waltz in here and rewrite the rulebook, Andrade. This isn’t some Cartel—”
I shot him in the fucking head.
Point blank.
The crack of the suppressed round was sharp, clean, barely louder than the ice shifting in my untouched glass of water. His body lurched, a fine mist of red spraying the crisp white collar of the man beside him. Weller was dead before his chair even tipped backward. His glasses hit the floor first, bouncing twice before skidding to a stop near Rafael’s shoe.
I settled my shoulders. “Who else has concerns?”
A round was chambered in my next breath; no other sound in the room, the men across from us frozen in place. I took a sip, cold water sliding over the burn in my chest.
“Anyone?”
Rafael watched with dark amusement, a hint of something almost brotherly in the way he exhaled and plucked a handkerchief from his pocket. Dabbed a stray speck of brain matter off his cuff with more care than I’d ever seen him show a living soul.
A full minute of silence.
“Didn’t think so.” I blew out a breath, nudging my chair back to stretch my legs. “I get it: new management, new rules, and”—I flicked my gaze to the lifeless body—“a little hiccup in the middle of your Monday morning.”
