She wouldn’t sleep with him if she was afraid of him.
Maybe she didn’t know yet how he felt. He held himself back, not wanting to push too hard and make her run. When he’d kissed her, he had wanted to deepen the contact, taste her with his tongue, but he’d felt the way she’d gone still and she hadn’t returned the kiss, so he’d kept it gentle and light.
She might not know yet how she felt, either, but he could read people and he knew she reacted to him. She too easily accepted his touch, had too easily leaned against him today, buried her head on his shoulder. As a woman she totally responded to him.
It had been a long time since he’d had a woman, but he intended to have Milla. He’d be patient, give her time to get used to him, but he had no doubt of the outcome. She was his.
He didn’t call for his truck this time, but took a cab and had it let him out while he was still a fair distance from Lola’s place. Then he walked, moving quietly, easily, approaching from a different direction, aware that his only weapon this time was the knife in his boot. She’d had time by now to have her thumb taken care of. She should be back at home, cradling her hand, popping pain pills, and cursing him. He was the last person she would want to see, which was why she would be so eager to get rid of him by telling him what he wanted to know. She would give up her own kids to him without even a protest.
He didn’t knock on the sorry door this time. He tried to open it and found it was secured from the inside, so he simply kicked it in.
Lola was lying on her cot, her hand bandaged with her thumb stuck rigidly outward. She was dressed in only a dingy nightgown; evidently she had taken her pain medication and decided to turn in for the night, even though it wasn’t dark yet. She gasped when she saw him, her face going slack with terror.
“I thought of another question,” he said softly.
True wasn’t in a good mood, so when his phone rang for about the thousandth time that day, he snatched it up with a snarl. “What?”
There was a hesitation; then a timid voice with a Spanish accent said, “Señor Gallagher?”
“Yeah, what is it?”
“You said you wished to know if anyone saw the man Diaz.”
True straightened, all his irritation gone, his attention totally focused. “Yes, that’s right.”
“The reward, you are still offering it?”
“In cash. American.” He never welshed on promises to pay. Money kept the information pipeline flowing.
“He was in Ciudad Juarez today.”
Juarez. The son of a bitch was close, too close.
“He was not alone,” the timid voice continued.
“Who was he with?”
“A woman. They came to our fonda. I served them myself. I am sure it was Diaz.”
“Did you recognize the woman?”
“No, señor. But she was a gringa. She had a bandage on her neck.”
True didn’t see how a bandage on her neck meant the woman was American. “What else?”
“She had curly brown hair with a white streak on top.”
True went cold. Automatically he got the information for where he should send the money and made arrangements for payment to be made that very night. With one sentence, Diaz’s presence in Juarez had gone from annoying to catastrophic.
Milla was with him. Milla and Diaz, together.
Son of a bitch.
He had to start tying up loose ends immediately. He had to locate Pavón and make certain the stupid bastard didn’t talk.
17
True was very good at analyzing his options. he knew whom he was up against, and Diaz was nobody’s fool; on the contrary, the bastard was one of the most cunning people True had ever met or heard about. Just his name was enough to send a certain element scurrying for cover, because Diaz always found his quarry, but he didn’t always bring it back alive.
The word was that Diaz was government-sanctioned—both governments, United States and Mexico. Since Mexico didn’t extradite criminals who might receive the death penalty, the country inadvertently became the safe haven of some very unsavory characters. The United States wanted these people either caught or dealt with by other methods. Mexico just wanted them to disappear and stop being a problem. So it was possible Diaz was being paid by both governments. Maybe. Maybe he was just a very good bounty hunter who was also very good at projecting an image. But he definitely had contacts and resources, and the nose of a bloodhound.
True had been able to keep Milla stonewalled all these years, but Diaz was different. For one thing, people were afraid of him. If it came down to a question of who they feared most, him or Diaz, True wasn’t certain what the answer would be.
The key, he thought, was misdirection. Keep Diaz occupied chasing down bogus rumors while he himself found and eliminated Pavón, which was something he probably should have done years ago. Pavón was the one person, other than himself, who knew everything—and True had certainly never intended that to happen. People underestimated Pavón; True had been guilty of the same misjudgment. Pavón was a vicious thug, but he had an instinct for survival and for handling things just right.
That had made him a valuable asset. Pavón could get things done. Tell him what you wanted, and it happened. But valuable asset or not, with Diaz on his trail Pavón’s personal scale had tipped over to the liability side.
The good news was that Pavón had heard Diaz was after him and had gone to ground. The bad news was that Diaz never gave up and would eventually find Pavón. Which meant True himself had to find Pavón first. No one would care enough about Pavón to do more than a cursory investigation into his death.