Page 124 of Beat of Love
Mere days ago, the phrase had meant something else.
Now it stared back at him with cruel clarity.
Never forget what you are, Rafferty Lawson.
Human trash.
Part 3
“I love you and that's the beginning and end of everything.”
—F. Scott Fitzgerald
36
Trust but verify
Lawson’s Landing, early March
The phone buzzed against the nightstand, slicing through hard-won sleep like a blade. Rafferty squinted against the screen’s glare, blinking to make out the name. He sat up, his instincts kicking in before full consciousness did. He answered in a rasp. “Hannigan. You have something?” His hand scrubbed over the fuzz on his scalp, the stubble still unfamiliar after weeks of baldness. He was growing his hair out at Sullivan’s insistence. For the upcoming royal wedding.
“It’s done,” SAC Hannigan, DEA Country Attaché, Brazil, replied.
“Define done,” Rafferty said, low and sharp. He had received no warning that they were this close to a takedown.
“We executed a joint op on the compound south of the Venezuelan border. Hostile engagement. Firefight turned into a full-blown detonation — the place was rigged with incendiaries. Once the blaze was contained, we did a sweep. Recovered Kamila Carvalho’s body in the master suite. Coroner’s got it now for DNA confirmation.”
“And the others?”
“Luis Barbosa and a few others in the top echelon confirmed KIA. We captured several detainees. Foot soldiers, not shot-callers. But they’re cooperating. DEA headquarters is calling this a terminal hit on the Fantasma Cartel.”
Rafferty didn’t exhale. He just sat there, heart hammering.“I want visuals. DNA proof.”
Trust but verify.
While gathering evidence, he’d secured everything in a safety deposit box at a bank in Manaus — including a few strands of hair he’d discreetly taken from Kamila’s brush. It was that collection, meticulously compiled, that he eventually turned over to the Brazilian authorities in exchange for immunity from prosecution for Oliveira’s death.
“You’ll get it. Lawson, I mean this — your intel, your evidence stash from Manaus — this op wouldn’t have landed without it. I know it came at a cost, but you helped dismantle a dangerous organization.”
The line disconnected. There was no relief.
Only disbelief.
Could it really be over?
His phone pinged.
He tapped the message. A secure link. Password-protected.
He entered it and opened the files.
Images populated slowly. Fire damage. Destroyed infrastructure.
Then the bedroom.
The Malfatti landscape above the charred fourposter bed.
A bed he had slept in.
