Enrico called for my cab at the front desk and wished me good luck, adding that he’d check on my room later tonight to see if I needed anything. I knew what that meant – he’d relay my messages back to Javier. I didn’t see why I couldn’t just call him, why this had to be such a secretive operation. Perhaps the cartel had control over the phone lines too.
They certainly had control over the market. I had wondered what the point in all of this was, why did I have to set everything up so delicately and convoluted when someone could just bring a sniper rifle to the market and blow Travis’s head off. Once I got out of the cab, I understood how powerful the man was. He practically owned Veracruz, or at least its army and police force.
Everywhere you looked there were armed guards and army-fatigued police officers, automatic rifles at their sides. They were stationed at all corners of the market, as well as inside the market, patrolling the aisles, hands behind their backs. I did a quick sweep of the surrounding buildings as the cab driver counted the pesos I’d handed him. When you looked for it, you could find them everywhere – a face at a broken window, a couple of guards on the roofs. The entire market was being watched and patrolled from every single angle. Whoever was stupid enough to try and kill Travis here would probably not only fail but certainly die in the process.
All of this protection for one horrible man. A horrible man with far too much power and money.
A man that I was supposed to stop.
It seemed laughable now.
The cabbie gave me back a few pesos – he’d short changed me but I didn’t care. I shoved it in my macramé purse, threw my shoulders back and prepared to enter the chaos of Veracruz’s Saturday open-air market.
Vibrant was definitely one way to describe it. I bet there was nothing you couldn’t buy here. From hanging chickens and chilies to hand-tooled leather bags and expertly woven shawls, it had everything you could want. There was a tiny part of me who thrilled in this, pretending, just for a second, that I was a tourist looking for souvenirs from her trip to Mexico. I smiled politely at merchants, waved my hands dismissively at those who were shoving pig’s ears in my face. I fumbled through my first lines of Spanish, drawing confused looks from a guy I was trying to buy silver earrings from, until I finally hit my stride and was able to communicate the basics. I walked away with the earrings, a white silk shawl, bags of miniature limes (they were cute and I figured in another life I could make margaritas out of them) and brightly-colored chili peppers, a leather belt with a silver buckle that had “bad girl” engraved on it and a greasy paper bag full of churros.
I’d munched through one of the churros and made my way around the market for the second time, the sun beating down mercilessly. I stepped into the shade of an awning, part of a butcher shop where cow hocks were being hung on hooks and flies buzzed around greedily and wiped the sweat off my forehead. I didn’t want to look like I was searching for anything in particular, but I hadn’t seen Travis yet. I figured that was strange considering he’d be easy to spot, no doubt flanked by a whole phalanx of bodyguards, as if all the stationary guards weren’t enough. He really would want to be seen as the city’s Don Vito Corleone.
I stayed in the shade until the sweat cooled and I set off again, this time walking down the middle aisles where the crowd was the thickest. A tiny little shopkeeper in a ruffled dress jumped out from behind her stall and started waving around sarongs, pointing to my skirt and yammering on about how I must buy them.
I did my shake of the head, hands waving no, combined with the polite and sympathetic smile but the woman wasn’t having any of it.
“You American, you buy,” she said in broken English. She was pushy but her gap-toothed smile was so genuine that I felt bad for refusing her. She placed the sarong in my hands, getting me to pet the fabric, as if it were made out of precious gold instead of scratchy cotton.
I was still shaking my head, trying to be gentle about it, when my eyes went over her tiny head and focused on something in the crowd of shoppers.
There was a man, a white man about a foot taller than everyone else, who had stopped down the aisle in front of one of the stalls. I couldn’t see his face, just his profile from behind. Strong tanned neck, short black hair that glinted blue in the sunlight, and ears that stuck out slightly.
My heart hammered in my chest, demanding I acknowledge its presence.
It couldn’t be.
Then he turned around and looked my way.
Looked right at me.
Blue, beautifully blue and soulful eyes behind Clark Kent glasses. Strong, wide jaw, full lips, straight nose. Model looks on a model body, dense muscular shoulders, biceps I couldn’t fit my hands around. I knew because I’d tried. Tight black t-shirt that showed it all off, including a sling that went around one shoulder, propping up his heavily-inked arm.
Camden McQueen.
I dropped the sarong, my bags, everything, caught up in his stare. It couldn’t be him. Why was he here?