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There must be something in my coffee — maybe it’s spoiled, maybe I added some chile by mistake, I don’t know — because my eyes feel moist and my breath is shaky, too. The thought of what will happen to my dad if things don’t go right for me flashes through my head. I see him, then, receiving news that I’ve died tracking down the people who killed my brother. I see the agony in his face, in his eyes; I hear his voice break like it did just a second ago, except harder, more sudden; I feel his pain; the same pain we both felt with my brother’s passing.
I can’t do that to him again.
I take a deep inhale, release it, then again. It’s time to be a good daughter.
Before I answer him, I stand, walk to the kitchen, and open Dixon’s liquor cabinet and add a splash of whiskey to my coffee. Then another.
“Alex?”
I take a sip. It burns, but not enough. Another splash goes into my coffee — that does it.
“Dad, his name is Erik Marquez.”
“Erik Marquez?” He says, holding the name aloud like it’s new. “Are you sure this guy is involved?”
“I’m sure. We’re tracking him, now. I think… I think we should have some answers soon about what he knows about Lucas’s death. Dad, do you—”
His voice cuts in suddenly. “Alex, Mateo and Ironside just showed up at the door. Duty calls. Will you call me later if you find anything out? Stay safe. I love you.”
“I love you, too,” I say.
For a while I just stare at the phone while my eyes stare back at me from my reflection in the mirrored screen. That’s the most times that he and I have said ‘I love you’ in a conversation in a very long time. It’s both welcome and startling. Is this what finally getting closure will do for me? Will it bring my dad and me closer together after all these years?
What a strange thought.
I slowly finish my coffee, savoring both the roasty flavor and the warm, alcoholic burn of the whiskey. It isn’t about stress now. It’s about treating myself, and allowing myself to envision a future where I’m not in pain all the time, struggling to pick up the shattered pieces of my heart, and instead, I’m adding wonderful, loving things to my life.
The last drop in my coffee mug goes down and it tastes almost sweet. I shut my eyes and let my head roll back while I swallow.
Yes, I think I’m going to like this.
Chapter Thirty-Three
Dixon
“You sure this is the house?” Hawk says, lowering the night scope from his eye. “Looks like shit. This guy could afford better. I mean, fuck, even his drapes look terrible. So shabby and the color is just fucking bland.”
We’re parked half a block from the supposed safe house. It’s late, the air’s full of gnats and mosquitoes that seem to love me nearly as much as Alexandra. I frown and give Ghost a questioning look. Just as much as I trust him, I share Hawk’s doubt. Because the house in front of us does nothing to inspire confidence. It’s unassuming, dirty, run-down. The weather-wear that happens to all houses by the sea is more severe than the others on this quiet stretch of road by a factor of five. There’s peeling paint, a rusted front gate, a car on blocks in the driveway. None of it speaks to it being the home of a special forces-trained killer.
Still, Ghost nods immediately.
“It is. Beyond a doubt. I’ve watched him take his morning shit through that window every morning for the last three days.”
“You’re positive it’s him? You’ve gotten close enough for an ID?” Hawk says, back to using the scope, scouting the house. If I know him, and I do, he’s already working out three different plans in his head about how to break in and capture our target without notice.
“I have. Waited in line behind him the other day at the coffee shop he goes to every morning. That’s the one time I got in physical proximity to the target, and it was more than enough to visually confirm he’s our guy. Knowing how important this fucking thing is, I went further, and yesterday, I fished his coffee cup out of the trash, took prints, and sent them in to one of my contacts. There’s no denying it: the man sleeping in the second-floor bedroom of that house is Erik Marquez.”
I grunt, meet eyes with Ghost and Hawk. From their faces, I can tell they’re thinking exactly the same thing that I am. Still, I voice it aloud, because, on a mission this important, there can be no mistakes.
“That leaves me with two questions. First, how much longer are we going to wait around out here before we bust in and take this guy?”
Ghost shrugs. “As long as it takes you to make sure you have your guns ready and your big boy pants on. Now, what’s the second question?”
“When you were watching this guy take his morning shit, was it just to verify that’s what he was doing, or did you watch the whole thing?”
“You know I’m thorough, Smokey.”
“Which brings me to a third question: why? If it’s a fetish thing, you need to tell me. I’m not trying to shame you, Ghost, it’s just, there’s only two staff toilets at Reid’s Repairs and I don’t want to be looking over my shoulder every time I’m trying to relieve myself.”
