It was a lie, but she told it convincingly. Maybe she was being paranoid, but she didn’t trust Nate’s sudden interest in her career or future with the FBI. She certainly had no intention of telling him that she’d never go back to the Bureau. Hell, if everything worked out as planned, they wouldn’t want her, either—except in prison or dead.
After showering, Kendra changed back into her pale green T-shirt, stonewashed Levi’s, and Nike cross-trainers. Declining the cup of coffee Nate suggested, she swung out of the gym. She kept her pace unhurried as she walked down the sidewalk, gym bag over her shoulder, maneuvering between pedestrians. Every once in a while, she pretended to window-shop, using the glass as a mirror to scan the crowds for a possible tail. Phillip Leeds, she knew, was becoming nervous that she was avoiding returning to active duty. He couldn’t force her, of course. Being shot in the head and severely wounded had an upside, she decided wryly. It had given her time to plan.
The government had a shocking amount of eyes and ears everywhere, but she’d been careful. She’d paid cash for a new laptop and burn phone. It had taken her a long time to shuffle funds around. Most Americans didn’t realize the IRS tracked deposits around or above ten thousand dollars. To prevent any IRS triggers, Kendra made sure to stagger the times and amounts of money she wired to the accounts in the Cayman Islands and Switzerland that she’d set up under bogus corporations.
She’d also set up several new identities. The first would be Marie Boulanger. Under that name, she’d rented a charming cottage in the Cote d’Azur for the next six months. Of course, she had no intention of staying there or continuing the identity of Marie Boulanger. Instead, she’d slip into the skin of Angelica Lombardi, and settle into life in Rome for a couple of months at least. She had an aptitude for languages: Spanish, Italian, French, Portuguese. That, she supposed, she had her parents to thank for, and those endless lessons they’d structured her life around. She’d be able to keep a low profile in Europe.
Unlike Sir Jeremy Greene.
The anger rose swiftly inside her, choking her. She’d looked him up, of course. It had taken her two seconds to find him, often photographed with some waif-thin model young enough to be his granddaughter. The latest report was that he’d be attending a fancy-dress ball at some English castle.
It enraged Kendra. He may be feeding Uncle Sam vital intelligence—or so they believed—but he deserved to be in hell.
She had every intention of putting him there.
Kendra left her cell phone in her gym locker, and her car in the parking lot. She took a bus to the other side of the city, getting off six blocks from her actual destination. The Mexican Cantina was crowded with afternoon diners and smelled of frying onions and something spicy. The hostess, a young woman wearing traditional-style dress, smiled at her. “Only one?” she asked as she reached for a plastic menu.
“What I want isn’t on the menu. ?Dónde está Lupe?”
The woman shot her a startled look, and then glanced around nervously. “You want to meet my uncle?”
“I’ve already met him. I have an appointment. Tell him Kendra’s waiting.”
“Un momento, por favor,” the woman said, and disappeared into the kitchen.
Kendra studied the garish paintings on the wall. The cheerful Mexican music blended with the noise of the diners who’d come in for happy hour. The air-conditioning felt good after her six-block walk.
The woman returned, and smiled, although it didn’t quite reach her eyes, which remained uneasy. “Por favor, me sigue.”
“Gracias.” Kendra followed the woman through the kitchen, earning quick looks from the men standing around steaming kettles on the stove. They exited the kitchen, stepping outside onto a small cement area. Flies buzzed around trash bins that reeked of rotting food. The woman crossed to a corrugated metal shack, and motioned to the door. “El tío Lupe le espera adentro.”
Kendra nodded and watched the woman hurry back into the restaurant. She gave the tin door a quick rap before opening it and stepping inside. The room was long and narrow, the walls filled with shelves of canned food. At the back of the room, a fat man sat behind a desk, smoking a cigar that left a pearly haze hanging in the already gloomy interior. He was talking on the phone in rapid-fire Spanish. Seeing her, he gestured her over. “Muy bueno. Bueno. Usted ha hecho bien, Jesus. Adios.” He cradled the receiver and smiled. It was a crocodile smile that revealed crooked teeth. “Senorita, you look as beautiful as the last time we met. Sit. Sit.”
She remained standing. “This isn’t a social visit, Lupe. You have something for me.”
“Ah. Always business. You are too young and too pretty to be always business.”
Kendra said nothing. He met her stare for a few speculative moments, then sighed. Opening his desk drawer, he yanked out a dirty manila envelope and tossed it toward her. “This is what you want, si?”