Page 62 of Vaquero
“She had top-secret clearance while she was in the Army, you know.”
Julio had nothing to say to that. He hadn’t known, but he hadn’t asked, either. One day on the run with Meg Duncan had not made him an expert on the subject. He’d need many days with her for that honor. Perhaps a lifetime. Which was probably why his big mouth blurted out, “Requesting two weeks leave, sir.”
“Granted. Where will you be in case Sec Def needs you?”
That was a good question. Meg had mentioned Texas, but that might only be where her family lived, not her. Julio had once called Naval Air Station San Diego home, but since he’d lost Bianca and Tomas, he’d avoided going back. Couldn’t bear the lonely California nights. But there was that out-of-the-way island off Costa Rica. A tiny, private island, it lay directly east of the sleepy coastal village, Puerto Veijo de Talamanca. The trees should’ve grown back by now.
“Costa Rica,” he replied evenly.
It was on that island Julio had ended the bloody reign of Mitchell Franks with a righteous kill. The mastermind behind several ugly murders and a long streak of brutal chaos, Franks had used Domingo Zapata like a tool to infiltrate three South American cartel bosses’ organizations. Zapata had spied on them, while Franks let them think they were in charge. Instead, he’d used them the same as he’d used everyone he’d ever met—like puppets. Only that time, his puppets were powerful killers.
He’d successfully infiltrated the Northwest state of Oregon’s upper political echelon by befriending then-governor, Mick Tennyson. Acting as Tennyson’s wife’s personal assistant, Franks murdered her while on an alleged ‘business’ cruise. Julio didn’t know for sure, and he’d never ask Suede or Chance, but he suspected Franks and Suede’s mother had been lovers. Julio also believed Franks had done something to Suede, that he’d hurt her during the time he’d lived in the governor’s mansion. That was what Franks did best. He’d hurt, used, and disposed of every life he’d touched, all because he’d aspired to be President of the United States.
Until Julio blew him and his South American buddies, drug lords Viktor Patrone and Benny Garcia, back to hell. Julio knew for a fact that Franks’ million-dollar home on the island was gone, because he was the man who’d detonated the bomb that destroyed it. But...
¡Ay, caramba!That was also the day he’d nearly suffered a massive heart attack when, of all the people in the world! Chance’s woman, Suede Tennyson, had sashayed up the beach toward Franks’ home—in a barely-there bikini. He knew now that she’d gone after Franks to avenge her mother’s death, and Julio didn’t blame Suede for that. He would’ve done the same if Franks had killed his mother. But Suede’s timing couldn’t have been worse. Julio had already planted the explosives under Franks’ house by then.Gracias a Dios,the Sin boys dropped anchor within the hour of her arrival.
But it was Viktor Patrone who’d ended the traitor Franks’ worthless life, once Patrone realized how badly he’d been deceived. In turn, the Sin Boys had rescued Suede, then ended Patrone and Garcia.
Once Chance and his brothers were a safe distance from the island, Julio had detonated the explosives. The Sin Boys hadn’t known he was there until then, and Julio had only stayed to make certain that nothing of Mitchell Franks or his diabolical friends remained. Not one finger. Not one toe. No evidence, no crime, right? And without evidence, no charge of incursion on foreign soil.
Someday, Julio might have to tell President Adams about that unsanctioned foray into Costa Rica. Perhaps. But maybe not. The brotherhood of Sullivan’s SOBs was by far the most solid family Julio had ever belonged to. He would gladly die before betraying his brothers and sisters. All of them. He was faithful. To. The. End.
“Consider it granted,” Sullivan replied. “But stay in touch this time, will you?”
“Yes, sir. I will,” Julio promised.
Sullivan disconnected, and at last, Julio let a belly full of angst go. It was time to track Meg down.
