Page 49 of Four Cards Exposed

Three. Two. One.

It never came.

“Sure. Bring us a few bottles,” Mendoza said, wrinkling his forehead.

“Is there a problem?” Moore asked, glaring at her.

“No problem,” Mendoza said smoothly. “Only one type of Mexican beer? You need to expand your horizons, Sean.”

Moore’s lips curled upwards, though the smile didn’t reach his eyes. “I’m ready to expand my horizons, Miguel. You know that.”

“I do. And my brother knows it too, Sean. It’s all arranged.”

Moore grinned overenthusiastically. “He will not regret it. It’ll be a memorable fight, won’t it, Jay?”

James nodded, his blue gaze cold as ice. “Just tell me who I have to fight, boss, and I’ll be there.”

“I know you will, boy. I know you will,” Moore said. Moments later, he seemed to have forgotten that James was even there. He placed his large hand on Mendoza’s back. “Come into my office, Miguel. We have much to talk about.”

It seemed like Guerrero was going to say something, but a sign from Mendoza had him following the other men to the office. Soon it was just her and James standing there.

“Are you okay?” he asked quietly.

“Don’t worry about me,” she said, then softened her tone. “I wish we could follow them. Something’s going to happen. This fight …”

“The way Moore was talking about it, it’s about much more than a fight.”

“Maybe it’s another shipment ...”

They both knew stopping a shipment wasn’t enough. They weren’t here to stop a single shipment, or even to stop Moore. If they were to succeed, they’d have to bring down the entire enterprise, and most particularly Ernesto Mendoza. Because if Mendoza was left standing, he would just find another group to help him funnel the drugs into the United States.

James seemed to read her mind. “They made it sound like it’s a big deal. They made it sound like Mendoza might be joining his brother.”

“Here? On US soil?” It was more than they’d dared hope. If they could catch Mendoza here, with a shipment, they could try him in the US. He’d never have the chance to hurt anybody, ever again. Susan tried to remember exactly what Miguel had said. But of course, James would remember. James remembered everything.

* * *

James

James gritted his teeth at the pain in his arm, careful not to move.

If somebody had told him six months earlier that he’d be sitting in a corner of a bar, getting a tattoo from a scratcher, he would have laughed in their face.

He tried not to think of where the man had learned his trade, though he had a pretty good idea.

“There we go,” the man said, his voice hoarse from years of smoking. “A fine job, if I say so myself. Are you sure that’s all you want? I could do another one on the other side,” he said, eying James’s other arm.

“Let me see what you did first, old man.”

James took the hand-held mirror the guy offered. It was full of prints. He prayed the rest of the man’s tools were cleaner than that. He’d seen the needle, at least, come straight out of a sterilized package.

A fight scene had been etched on the outside of his arm, from his biceps to his shoulder, showing the profile of an anonymous fighter, fists held up in a defensive stance, against a hazy, smoky background.

The drawing was exceptional—if you were into ink, which James wasn’t. He wondered how much it was going to cost to remove it. He’d be charging the Bureau for that, and fuck if they didn’t agree.

“What do you think?” the old man asked.

“I like it. How much do I owe you?”