Mile High

MASON

The plane ride from hell is finally near its end when I feel the thunk of landing gear lowering beneath me. The sound reverberates up through my skull where I’m pressed to the coarse carpet on the floor of the small aircraft. I try to roll over but only make it halfway before wincing from pain that lances through my right shoulder. It was dislocated when I was thrown on this thing, but I managed to get it back into its socket despite being zip-tied.

Out of the corner of one swollen eye I see only dark sky through the small windows. There’s nothing to give a clue where the fuck they’ve taken me. Across the border, I assume. Zavala wants in on the action and knows I’m the only man who can get him what he wants.

I’ve been that man to a lot of people—the man who can get them anything, be it guns, drugs, women, anything short of an actual conscience for the soulless motherfuckers who pay me—but for the first time in my life, the thing I want is hanging in the balance.

The demented leader of a Mexican drug cartel stands between me and my redemption, holding collateral that I never believed I’d be forced to fight for, not in a million years, much less want to fight for.

I grunt when the plane shudders as its wheels hit the runway, the pain in my shoulder flaring. The jolt of the quick stop knocks me back against the bulkhead and my teeth clack together from the force. Fucking hell, these assholes could have at least strapped me down. Their boss needs me alive if he wants me to come through for him.

Footsteps thunk toward me, echoing through the metal floor, and a silhouette of legs approaches. The interior lights come on, flooding the cabin, and pain shoots straight through both my eyes. I flinch, unable to shade my face with my hands still bound behind my back.

A shadow mercifully blocks the light just before a big hand grabs me by the upper arm, hauling me upright and half dragging me toward the exit. The door swings open with a hydraulic hiss, a dark abyss gaping beyond the portal.

“Jesus, let me get my goddamn feet under me, asshole,” I mutter. “Where’d you bring me? Texas? New Mexico? A little communication never hurts.”

“Bienvenido California, cabrón,” is all the information I get before I’m literally thrown out the door into the night.

Reflex takes over and I find my arms are miraculously free of the zip tie when I reach to soften my fall. I hit the tarmac and roll, then look back at the plane in time to see a black duffel bag sailing through the air straight at my head. I catch it and jab my middle finger in the air at the two men in the plane.

“Feliz Navidad!” one calls before they haul the door shut again with a thud, leaving me sprawled on the pavement staring in a daze as the small plane trundles toward the runway again, bright floodlights casting a long shadow behind it.

“Merry fucking Christmas to you too, assholes.”

Cali-fucking-fornia.

I guess César Zavala wasn’t joking when he said he wanted in on the deal to help take down Amador, because this is where the deal started. I just never expected this was how I’d wind up back in my home state, with the Sword of Damocles hanging over my head, ready to drop if I don’t get the monster what he asks for.

Yet here I am, and I don’t even have the luxury of enjoying the moment. I get to my feet, wincing at the small twinge in my back from an old injury and the ache in my shoulder from the most recent one. If someone had warned me this was what thirty-one would feel like I probably wouldn’t have argued. I feel ancient after the meatgrinder of a life I’ve had, beginning under my own father’s fists.

I stretch out my limbs, check one pocket for the precious cargo Zavala entrusted to me, and the other for my phone. I power it on and wait, then tap the maps icon to see where the fuck I actually am.

A slew of text alerts pop up the second I get a signal, all from the same number, with escalating urgency. The last one makes me chuckle.

“You’d better be f-ing dead. If you’re not I’m going to wring your g-d neck when I find you.”

Ah, Booth. I love you too.

Swiping the message away reveals the map screen, which displays a whole lot of fuck-all around my location. I zoom out to discover I’m actually not that far from San Diego, but with no wheels it’ll be a hike to get anywhere useful. It’s just past 1AM, two days after Christmas, so very little is likely to be open, but a quick search reveals just what I need only a couple miles down the road. I sling my duffel across my back and start hoofing it, dialing Booth as I go.

He picks up on the first ring. “Black? That had better be you.”

“Nice to know you care,” I say with a smile.

“Jesus fucking Christ, man! I was sure you were dead. I haven’t been able to get any intel out of the compound since Christmas Day. All I know is some shit went down at Rafael’s hacienda and you were planning to spend the day there with them. What the fuck happened? Where are you?”

“They dumped me across the border. Somewhere near Otay, California.” I grit my teeth and keep my eyes on the horizon, blinking back all the rage and pain that I thought I’d managed to bury on the trip from Mexico City. I can’t look back, can’t dwell on what happened if I want to get this mission done. Moving forward is the only way to stay focused so I have to block out what I left behind. Booth is my handler though, so he needs me to give him something. “Booth, it’s bad, really fucking bad.”

When I don’t elaborate, he sighs. “All three of them?” he asks, and I know he means are all three of them dead.

“Rafael and Emilia,” I manage to get out, risking the wrath bubbling over. I can already feel my fist tightening around the phone and force myself to relax. It’s the only phone I have and there are other calls I need to make. I take a deep breath and add, “Amador found me. He knows I’m alive. His attack burned me to Zavala. He has her, Booth. He has Zoe. If I don’t…if I don’t…” I can’t finish the sentence because the bastard’s promise is on repeat inside my brain: “I will kill her if you don’t get me what I want, Black. Or should I call you Santos?”

“Fuck. Okay. Tell me what he wants. He wouldn’t hold that kind of leverage over you if he didn’t want something serious. The man is too smart to waste a chance like this. How much does he know?”

“How much doesn’t he know at this point?” I can’t suppress a bitter laugh. I’ve endured torture before, but César Zavala broke me using the only ammunition he had, which just happened to be the one thing that would work on me.

I spilled my goddamn heart, gave him everything. He now knows that the DEA sent me under cover to gain intel on Zavala’s favorite rival cartel, the Amador cartel, and that said cartel discovered my presence and attacked, hoping to finish the job they failed to do three years ago. That attack was what blew my cover, destroying more than two years of work I’d done in an effort to gain access to Zavala’s files on his enemy.

I told him about the deal Arturo Flores struck with the US government to help take down the Amador cartel. Naturally, Zavala saw that as an opportunity to get a piece of the pie. He has the intel the US government wants, and won’t let it go without ample compensation. In his case, this means securing deal similar to Arturo’s as well as getting his older brother released from federal prison in Texas. I suppose I should be grateful that it gave him a reason to let me go, but it’s only a temporary reprieve. I need to deliver on our deal or else.

Booth sighs. “Maybe this can work to our advantage. Did you at least manage to get the intel before he sent you packing?”

“Yeah,” I say. “But only the pieces he gave me himself. Not all of it. He knows why I was there, under whose orders, and who I’m working with. He knows about my connection to Flores and the DEA. He knows everything. I had no choice.”

“I get it, man,” Booth says in an understanding voice. God, I love this guy. He’s had my back for more than two years while I worked my way into César Zavala’s good graces—not an easy feat considering he’s the leader of the second most profitable—not to mention deadly—cartel in Mexico. Booth knows my darkest secrets so if anyone can guide me out of this shit, he can.

“Zavala wants a piece of the deal,” I continue. “He wants some of what the US government has offered Flores for his help taking down Amador. Amador’s the only cartel keeping him from being king of his little world, so he’ll play ball. He sent me off with what he calls a sample. Not enough to actually help, but enough to prove there’s more. All he wants is this deal, and to get his brother released from custody and delivered to him. If we do that, he’ll give us everything. He said he’d even pull the goddamn trigger if we let him.”

Booth is silent while everything sinks in. I can picture his light blue eyes staring out the window of the ratty apartment in Mexico City he’s been living out of for the past two years. He processes intel like a machine, piecing together a strategy. We’ve made a good team. The only other man I’ve considered as close a friend on this assignment was Rafael, but I never shared the truth with him. Rafael would have killed me if he knew I was a spy.

“But if we don’t bring him in on the deal? What’s his counter?”

“Fucking hell, Booth, does it even matter?”

“Mason, we’re going to get Zoe back one way or the other, but we still need to know what the damage is going to be if we screw him.”

I’m hesitant to share, but perhaps the downside is too damaging for the powers that be to say no to this deal once I bring it to them. “He has dirt on Arturo Flores that he’ll share with Amador if things don’t go his way. Enough to destroy Flores. And if Zavala allies with Amador…”

Booth is quick to put the pieces together. “Together, they’d be unstoppable. Okay, here’s what you need to do…”

Relief washes over me when he lays out a plan. I’m always more effective when I have a plan, though I’m pretty agile when I need to adjust to circumstances on the fly. But that’s what backup plans are for. I firmly believe that you should always have a way out, a back door so you don’t get cornered. I wasn’t prepared for this assignment to go so far off the rails. I am worse than cornered now, but at least Booth has a cooler head than I do and can steer me in the right direction.

The intel I was supposed to steal from the Zavala Cartel would have been funneled through Booth to the local authorities and the special DEA unit they’re collaborating with to combat drug cartel activity in the US and Mexico. From there they’d analyze the intel and use what they learned to flesh out the off-books operation to gut the Amador Cartel once and for all.

Arturo Flores, the Los Angeles kingpin whose cooperation helped get Operation Broken Heart rolling to begin with, just happens to be a close friend of my family. My own dealings with both Amador and Zavala, back when I made my money pursuing extra-legal activities—not to mince words, but I was a gun runner—made me a perfect candidate to insert myself into Zavala’s organization.

Zavala knows me as Mason Black. Three years ago, I was the handy go-between with a friend who had the real contacts for guns at the Naval Weapons Station. What he didn’t know that that “friend” was J.J. Santos, and that we were one and the same. J.J.’s original deal was with Amador, but that deal went bad. As a result, J.J. was killed when Amador’s lieutenant, a psychopath by the name of Gustavo Delgado, shot him point blank in the chest.

Except I didn’t actually die. The bullet to the chest actually happened, but I survived. But it gave Arturo a way in. And with his help and the help of the feds, my death was faked, and I became Mason Black for real.

Only my older brother Maddox and Arturo Flores know the truth, along with Arturo’s daughter and his lieutenant, who Maddox also happens to be fucking. Hell, by now they may be married, but I don’t know how that works in a threeway relationship.

I expect to be sent to Arturo and let him be the go-between, but that’s not what Booth wants me to do.

“You want me to go to Denver? In December? What the hell for?”

“It’s my hometown. It’s a beautiful city in the winter. Don’t you ski?”

“Dude, I’m from Los Angeles.”

“They have ski resorts in Southern California.”

“Ski resorts are for the rich. We barely made ends meet when I was growing up. I’ve never even seen snow.”

“Well, it’s not like we’ll have time for skiing anyway. Denver also happens to be where Senator Katherine Longo lives. She chairs the committee in charge of this operation. She’s the one who can make this deal happen fastest.”

“No shit, a US senator? I guess we aren’t fucking around.”

“I want this to work as much as you do, buddy,” Booth says. “So get your ass to the airport, pronto. I’ll meet you in Denver.”

I clear my throat, conflicted as hell over what I need to ask, but like the fucking oracle he is, Booth pre-empts me.

“Not a fucking chance, Black. I can hear those gears turning. You’re in California so you want to get in touch with your brother. I can’t let you do that. Stay on point so we can get this done.”

“It’s just a fucking visit. I can catch a direct flight from LA and be there in a few hours. You’ve been like a brother to me these past two years, but you aren’t Maddox. I need to talk to him, and I can’t do it over the phone. After what happened, I need this, he’s always been able to set me straight.”

“Not this time buddy. Trust me.”

Not this time? My bullshit detector is pinging because we’ve shared many talks over the past two years about our lives. As my handler, he’s the closest I have to family, and doles out updates on my actual family like rewards for a job well done.

“What the fuck are you keeping from me? You know there’s no way in hell I’m not following through on this assignment. I’d fucking die first.”

“I don’t need you distracted right now. If I tell you, will you promise not to go to LA? To head straight to the San Diego airport and get on a goddamn flight ASAP?”

Not liking the direction this conversation has headed, I say, “Spit it the fuck out or I’ll never make you another goddamn promise as long as I live.”

Booth mutters a soft curse but gives in anyway. “I spoke to your brother last night just before things went to shit. It’s your mom. She had a stroke.”

My hearing goes fuzzy for the rest of our conversation. I vaguely catch his warning to stay on point and to get to the airport, but when he hangs up I think he realizes that’s not fucking happening.

I immediately call my brother Maddox but get no answer. It’s just as well because I’ve almost reached the street corner I was headed toward. I’ll stay on fucking point, but that point now includes getting my ass to LA before I do anything else.

My ride is sitting pretty outside a dive bar, the security lights gleaming on a pair of chrome tailpipes. The bar is still lit up with music pumping out of it, and whoever owns this bike is likely three sheets to the wind already. Not that I need to rationalize, but I’m about to save the asshole from a DUI.

I pull my hood up and skirt the parking lot, scoping the spare, windowless, cinderblock building for cameras. There’s one just above the door, but it’s aimed toward the driveway. It’ll probably catch me at the edge of the frame, but from this distance in the dark, my face is obscured. I slip up to the motorcycle like I belong there, then squat down by the engine, reaching beneath for the wires. Within a breath the ignition turns over and I climb on, donning the helmet left behind and keeping the engine at an idle as I roll it to the street before kicking into gear and riding off.

It’s fucking cold without proper attire, but my rage warms me from the inside out, and the beard I grew to enhance my new persona keeps my face toasty as I cruise toward the interstate.

I’m about to hit the on-ramp when my phone buzzes in my pocket. I pull onto the shoulder and fish it out to look at the screen. It’s a text from Maddox.

“Who is this?”

“Who do you think, shitbird?” I tap back.

Less than two seconds later, the screen lights up and the phone buzzes with a call.

“Are you back? Please fucking tell me you’re back,” Maddox says before I can even say hello.

“It’s complicated.”

“Of course it is. It’s never fucking simple with you, is it?”

I grit my teeth and say in a mocking tone, “Oh hey brother, it’s great to hear from you for the first time in three fucking years. Glad to know you’re alive!”

Maddox sighs on the other end. “I love you, brother. You know this. But I don’t really have time to chat. Are you in town?”

It’s 2AM on a Sunday night, so the fact that he sounds this agitated and impatient makes the back of my neck prickle with dread. My older brother is the rock of the family. Nothing fazes him, so Mom’s condition must be pretty bad.

“Not quite. But Booth told me about Mom. I can be there in three hours. Two if I haul ass. Just don’t tell him if he calls you.”

“Please don’t come if it’s jeopardizing your assignment,” he says, though he isn’t that insistent about it. He wants me there.

“Tell me what happened. Do I need to make a detour to pay Dad a visit?”

“Jesus! No. You need to stay the fuck away from him if you don’t want to blow your cover. He isn’t worth it. She had a stroke during Christmas dinner. She’s stable but they had to do surgery to relieve swelling on her brain, and they put her into a medically induced coma. I’m at the hospital now. If she could hear your voice, know you’re alive, it might help.”

I wince because I know what he’s asking. “I’m not really alive though,” I say. “J.J. needs to stay dead for a while longer. My assignment isn’t over, and I only have a few hours before Booth shits himself because I’m not where I said I’d be.”

“You just offered to pay Dad a visit, so it didn’t sound like you gave a shit.”

A bitter laugh escapes my throat. “Trust me, if I get ahold of him, he won’t be in any shape to ID me to anyone. I don’t have a lot of time either. Just today.”

Maddox sighs. “Like I said, he isn’t fucking worth it. Mom is, but she’s not exactly lucid enough to know you’re here. Hearing your voice could make a difference, even if she thinks it’s a dream. Help give her a reason to fight. Man, I just need you to try. For her.”

I clench back the anger, wishing like hell I could have been there to run interference. “Sam and Elle? Are they okay?” I can’t risk running into any of my family. Dad’s in more danger from me than anyone else, but my younger brother and sister would be safer continuing to believe I’m dead for now.

“They’re fine. Staying clear of the old man as much as possible. They aren’t staying at the house at least. They’re at my apartment for now since I’m living at the Flores estate full time.”

As dangerous a man as Arturo Flores is, I’m grateful he treats my family like his own. “I’m on my way, but if I set eyes on Dad, it won’t be pretty, so if you care about helping me finish this goddamn assignment, keep him the fuck out of my way.”

“You have my word, brother.”