“I read your file,” Julia said, taking a little pleasure in cutting him off. “You’re ex-MI6. And now work for Labyrinth. Although, why you changed sides isn’t stated. And neither are your Labyrinth missions.”
“How in the hell did you get a hold of my file?”
“You’re kidding, right?” Julia nearly smiled at that. He sounded so indignant. Good. It didn’t hurt him to realize she had a few tricks of her own. “You’re the one who keeps reminding me who I work for.”
“My association with Labyrinth has nothing to do with Jason,” Cal pointed out. “And it doesn’t change the facts.”
“This might.” She pulled a recorder out of her pocket and placed it on the counter. “Listen.” She hit the play button.
“Ms. Cutting, I’m going to get right to the point. I have your husband, Jason Marsh.” The words were brisk, businesslike, the tone deep with a gritty, Latin accent. “He is not dead, but he will be if you do not meet our demands. Arrange for ten million American dollars to be deposited in an offshore account of our choosing. You will be given the details once you secure the money. You will have three days to meet with me personally. Do not test us on this. If you notify your government of this request, we will kill him. A hotel reservation has been made in—”
Julia pushed the stop button. “Sounds like bad guys don’t differentiate between ex-husband and husbands, either.”
“He could be lying,” Cal suggested. “The odds are that Jason is already dead.”
“I’m willing to go against the odds.” Her chin shot up, defiant. “Are you going to help me?”
“Possibly.” When he reached for the recorder, she snatched it away.
He sighed. “Even if you did meet them, there is no way to call their bluff. No one has access to ten million in such a short time. Not these days.”
Julia shoved the recorder in her pocket. “I do.”
Chapter Three
“If you have ten million dollars, you didn’t come by it legally.” Fury set Cal’s shoulders into harsh, unyielding lines.
“It belongs to the government,” Julia acknowledged. And Cal knew the admission cost her. “I’ve already transferred the money into a dormant government account. Right before I took an extended vacation.”
“Tell me how you going to prison for embezzlement helps Jason?”
“No one’s going to prison. I don’t intend on giving Jason’s kidnappers the money. The transfer can easily be considered a mistake later on. An accounting error. I’ll get no more than a slap on the wrist.”
“That’s your plan?” Cal raged. Of course, she’d jeopardize her career for Jason. Whether she loved him or not, Jason had an inexplicable hold on Julia.
Jealousy snapped at his heels, making his next words terse. “You’re traveling into Venezuela without letting anyone know your whereabouts. You plan on dealing with Cristo Delgado and his men by promising money that you aren’t delivering and hope he’ll just hand over your husband?”
“Ex-husband. I haven’t used my married name in years—” Julia stopped, her eyes narrowing. “I never told you Jason was in Venezuela or that he was taken by Cristo Delgado’s men. You haven’t even looked at the file yet.” She glanced back into the living room. “Or have you?”
“Who else would he be dealing with if Ernest Becenti was involved? Becenti is the DEA’s administrator,” Cal argued, cursing himself, not liking the fact that anger and fatigue got the best of him.
“Try again, Cal,” Julia snapped. “You already knew about Jason’s disappearance, didn’t you?”
The teapot whistled. Forcing himself to calm down, he took the pot off the burner and poured the hot water into the cups and added tea bags. “Cain MacAlister called me. He requested that I check into the situation.”
Even though Cain was technically Cal’s boss, the two men shared a history that put their friendship far ahead of the working relationship.
“So Cain thinks Jason is alive.”
“No,” Cal replied, then settled for a half-truth. “I’m to confirm his death. Big difference.”
“Yet, you flew back here from God knows where.” Her brows slanted in confusion. “Why? Jason isn’t here.”
“I needed to get some … equipment before I take off for Caracas,” Cal admitted. He placed one of the mugs in front of her. “I have no sugar.”
“Doesn’t matter.” She dunked the tea bag into her mug. “I have excellent timing then. Delgado wants me to meet with him in Caracas.”
“Where in Caracas?”
“You’ll find out once we get there.”
“No, Julia,” Cal said grimly. “I want you to leave me the file and recorder. Then first thing in the morning, you’re going to put the government money back where it belongs. I’ll take care of everything else.”
“I really wish I could leave this to you. I’m intelligent enough to realize that I’m way out of my league with this espionage business. But you heard them. They’ll kill Jason if I don’t show in Caracas.”
“You’re not going,” Cal repeated, his voice hard, his features set.
“Yes, I am,” she insisted, trying not to let him hear the fear in her voice. Whether she liked it or not, she had to go. “Please don’t force me to hire someone else.”
Cal reached across the counter and grabbed her arm. “You have no idea what Delgado is capable of.”
“No, but you do.” She glanced down at her arm, but didn’t tug free this time. “And I have firsthand experience of what you are capable of.”
Julia heard Cal’s sharp intake of breath. But she hardened her heart, and finished her argument.
“I pulled Delgado’s file, Cal. I’m hoping you’ll fill in the gaps.”
Cal dropped his hand from her arm and grabbed his cup, ignoring the handle. He took a long sip. “Okay, so what do you know?”
“Cristo Enrique de la Delgado. Age fifty-five. Cofounder of the Trifecta Cartel. The largest drug cartel in South America.”
“That’s public knowledge—”
“At one time, Delgado was one of three partners,” she continued, as if she hadn’t heard him. “The others being his best friends, Esteban Alvarez and Felipe Ramos. All three men were born aristocratic but relatively poor. According to Colombian social standards, at least. Rumor has it that while in their early twenties, the three men decided to break into the drug-dealing business during a horse race in which all three lost their shirts. Hence, the nickname Trifecta Cartel. With their contacts in the upper echelon of society, success was inevitable.”
“Because you know his background, doesn’t mean you understand the man,” Cal retorted, not realizing until too late that he’d said something similar when he betrayed her months before.
“I’m learning to,” she commented, her tone stiff, telling him she remembered also.
“Ramos is now deceased,” she continued. “Murdered four years ago. His yacht blown apart from plastic explosives, killing everyone onboard including his three children, his wife, top lieutenants … and his mistress. A few months later, Alvarez was shot by an unknown assailant. Godfather style, in a restaurant. Somehow, he managed to escape with a bullet in his neck. The injury caused permanent vocal damage.
“At