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THE GHOSTS

THE JOE REACHER THRILLERS

BOOK 2

DAN AMES

SLOGAN BOOKS, NEW YORK, NY

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THE GHOSTS

A JOE REACHER THRILLER

Book Two

by

Dan Ames

PART ONE

CHAPTER 1

December 1, 1992 — Lima, Peru

Mark Sullivan knew he was being followed.

The narrow streets of Lima's Barranco district offered too many places for someone to hide. Too many corners. Too many doorways. The air was thick with humidity despite the late hour, and his shirt clung to his back.

Sullivan checked his watch. 11:42 PM. The meeting had run long. Too long. The American Embassy car should have been waiting, but when Sullivan arrived at the designated pickup point, the street was empty. No car. No driver. Just the distant sound of traffic and music drifting from a bar three blocks over.

He'd waited ten minutes before deciding to move. Standing still made him an easy target. The embassy was thirty minutes away on foot. Too far in this neighborhood after midnight. His hotel was closer. Fifteen minutes if he took the direct route. Eight if he cut through the alleys.

Sullivan chose the alleys.

He clutched the manila envelope tighter. Inside were counterfeits. Perfect ones. The kind that shouldn't exist. The kind that could bring down economies if mass-produced.

Sullivan had been tracking this particular batch for three months. The Treasury Department had nearly written them off as a myth until Sullivan found the first one in a bank in Miraflores. Then another at a currency exchange in San Isidro. The third from a casino owner who'd been paid with a stack of them.

All perfect. All undetectable by conventional methods.

Sullivan had worked counterfeiting cases for eleven years. He'd seen good fakes. He'd seen great fakes. He'd never seen perfect fakes. Not until Lima.

But these were perfect. Sullivan had run every test in the book. The paper composition was exact—the correct blend of cotton and linen fibers. The ink had the precise metallic content. The microprinting was flawless down to the microscopic level. The watermarks and security strips were perfect.

Only the bills' serial numbers gave them away. They were sequential. Real currency was never distributed with sequential serial numbers. It was the only mistake the counterfeiters had made.

That, and leaving a witness.

The casino owner had a security camera. Poor quality, but enough to capture the man who'd passed the bills. Sullivan had spent weeks tracking him down. Tonight was supposed to be the payoff—information about the counterfeiting operation. Names. Locations. Dates.

He quickened his pace.

Sullivan took a right turn, then an immediate left. The hotel was three blocks ahead. He could see the neon sign. Safety was close. His hand went to the pistol under his jacket. A Beretta 92. Standard issue. Fifteen rounds. He'd qualified as an expert marksman last time at the range.

Twenty more yards to the hotel entrance. Twenty more yards to safety.

Three figures stepped out from an alleyway ahead. Sullivan couldn't make out their faces. Just black clothing, black gloves.

Sullivan reached inside his jacket for his gun.

Something hit him in the back of the head and he staggered, falling forward. Another blow to the head and pain erupted behind his eyes, followed by flashes of light and darkness.

The blades entered Sullivan from multiple angles. Four men stabbed him, over and over and over before dragging him into the alley.

He was barely conscious, taking his last breaths as they went through his pockets. They took his wallet.

Sullivan was still conscious when his attackers separated and a man in a black suit with vivid red hair and a scarred face stepped through them.

The man smiled down at Sullivan. He leaned down, pried open Sullivan’s jaw and shoved a wad of American money into his mouth, breaking several teeth. Rings on the man’s hands tore Sullivan’s lips to shreds.

Blood gushed Sullivan’s mouth.

The last thing he heard before everything went dark was one of them speaking into a radio. Two words. Spanish, but Sullivan understood.

"Está hecho."

It is done.

CHAPTER 2

Washington, D.C.

The punching bag swung wildly as Joe Reacher hammered it with a left-right combination. Sweat poured down his face, soaking his gray T-shirt. Four AM. The Treasury Department gym was empty. Just how he liked it.

Joe had been at it for nearly an hour. Sleep didn't come easy these days. Too many things on his mind. The new position. The new responsibilities. The memories of his last case still fresh in his mind.

He hit the bag again. Harder. The chain creaked.

Joe had accepted the job as head of the anti-counterfeiting division after the Truax case. It made sense. He'd broken one of the biggest counterfeiting operations in history. Found the legendary engraver everyone thought was dead. Brought down a KGB operation that had been running for decades.

What he hadn't done was bring Truax back to face justice. That was classified. The official story was that Truax had died in the shootout with KGB operatives. The plates had been recovered. The North Korean connection severed. A win in everyone's book but Joe's.

Joe landed a final punch and steadied the bag. He checked his watch. Time for a shower. Then coffee.

The Treasury building was quiet when Joe arrived. He unlocked his office door and flipped on the lights. The space was larger than his old one. Better view. More responsibility.

He'd barely settled at his desk when the phone rang.

"Reacher."

"Joe, it's Jenkins. I need you in my office."

Five minutes later, Joe sat across from Director Jenkins, studying the photos spread across the desk.

"Mark Sullivan," Jenkins said. "Treasury agent stationed in Lima. Found dead yesterday morning."

Joe picked up a photo. The victim was in his forties, face frozen in a grimace. The camera flash made his skin look waxy.

"Cause of death?"

"Knife wounds. Lots of them."

Jenkins handed over another photo. "This is how they found him."

The image showed Sullivan's open mouth. Paper visible between his broken and bloody teeth.

"They stuffed his mouth with counterfeit bills," Jenkins said.

Jenkins handed over another file. "Sullivan's last report."

Joe opened the file. Inside were detailed notes, test results, and photos of hundred-dollar bills. Nothing unusual about them at first glance. But the technical analysis showed something disturbing. Chemical composition of the ink, paper fiber content, microprinting—all exact matches for genuine currency.

"These shouldn't exist," Joe said, closing the file.

"But they do." Jenkins leaned back in his chair. "Sullivan was close to something. He had a meeting scheduled the night he was killed. Contact inside the counterfeiting operation."

"Did the contact show?"

"Unknown. Embassy car was supposed to pick Sullivan up after the meeting. Driver reported the pickup location was empty when he arrived."

"Late?"

"Twenty minutes. Traffic accident blocked his route."

Joe digested the information. "Local authorities?"

"Peruvian National Police have the case. They're treating it as a robbery gone wrong."

"That’s bullshit, obviously. Who robs someone for money and then stuffs a bunch of it into the victim’s mouth?"

Joe continued through the file. Reports. Photos. Bank data.

The office door opened. Ivy Harper stepped in, carrying a stack of files. The knife wound from last year had healed well. The limp was barely noticeable now.

"Morning," she said. "I pulled everything we have on our South American counterfeiting operations."

"Put it on the desk," Jenkins said.

Ivy set down the files. She wore a navy blue suit, and her hair was pulled back in a professional bun. Office 39, as Joe had promised. The promotion had come with a new wardrobe.

"I heard about Sullivan," she said. "Anything I can do?"

"Brief Joe on what we know."

Ivy nodded. "There have been a lot of people maneuvering in Peru after a government shakeup in '85. Lots of private security companies that work for government officials, foreign corporations, and anyone with money."

"Legitimate businesses?" Joe asked.

"On paper. But intelligence suggests many of them are false fronts, running everything from protection rackets to drug trafficking.”

Joe turned to Jenkins. "Why was Sullivan working alone?"

"Standard procedure for early-stage investigations. One agent, low profile. Sullivan was good."

"And now he's dead."

Jenkins nodded. "I'm sending you to Lima."

"When?"

"Tonight. Need you on the ground ASAP."

"What's my cover?"

"No cover. Official Treasury business. The Peruvians know you're coming. They've assigned an interpreter and liaison. Local police detective. Speaks English."

"Name?"

"Ana Salas." Jenkins handed over another file. "Former prosecutor turned cop. Good reputation. Trusted."

Joe flipped open the file. Ana Salas. Thirty-two. Graduate of Lima's top law school. Five years with the Peruvian National Police.

"Flight leaves at 9 PM," Jenkins said. "Embassy car will meet you. Safe house is arranged."

"Good," Joe said.

"There's another complication," Jenkins added. "Under Peruvian law, counterfeiting U.S. currency isn't illegal."

Joe looked up. "I know, even though I don’t understand why."

"Peruvian law only prohibits counterfeiting their own currency. American dollars aren't protected. Sullivan was trying to work around that by focusing on the money laundering angle. But legally, we can't just shut down a press making fake dollars."

"So they can print our money with impunity?"

"Technically, yes. It makes the investigation even trickier. We need proof of other crimes—drug trafficking, murder, extortion—to get the Peruvian authorities to act."

"That explains why these operations are right out in the open,” Ivy added.

"Exactly. Producing the counterfeits isn't the crime. It's what they do with them afterward that gives us jurisdiction."

"Anything else?" Jenkins asked.

Joe stood up. "I'll need the evidence files, Sullivan's notes, and anything else he was working on."

"Already packed," Ivy said. "I'll bring them to your office."

Back in his office, Joe pulled out a duffel bag from his closet. Standard packing list. Two suits. Five shirts. Minimal toiletries. Weapon would be provided in-country.

The phone rang. Ivy.

"Found something," she said. "Sullivan's call log. Night before he was killed, he received three calls from the same number.

"Duration?"

"Short. Under thirty seconds each."

"Setting up the meeting."

“Yeah. The meeting that never happened.”

Joe hung up and looked out the window. The Washington Monument stood stark against the gray December sky. Somewhere in Peru, someone was printing perfect hundred-dollar bills. Someone who'd killed to protect the operation.

Counterfeiting wasn’t a crime there, but murder was.

One way or another, Joe was going to make them pay.

CHAPTER 3

Thomas Parker gripped the headboard of the cheap motel bed. Sweat dripped from his forehead. The young man behind him wasn't gentle. Parker didn't want gentle. He wanted rough. He wanted to feel something. Anything.

"Harder," Parker said.

The prostitute complied. Parker paid well. Two hundred dollars for thirty minutes. Cash.

The bed creaked. The sound of flesh against flesh filled the small room. No conversation. No pretense of affection. Just raw, animal release.

Parker had chosen the Normandy Motel for its discretion. Located in a commercial district where nobody asked questions. Room 114. Second floor. Back of the building. No view of the street.

Parker came with a grunt. The young man followed seconds later.

Transaction complete.

Parker rolled off the bed. Started getting dressed. No shower. No small talk. That wasn't what he paid for.

"Call me again. We can play any time," the prostitute said, lighting a cigarette. He was lean and muscular, and young, just the way Parker liked them.

"Maybe." Parker never committed. Never established a pattern.

"What's your name anyway?"

Parker shot him a look that said, don’t ask stupid questions.

The prostitute shrugged. Clients had their reasons. He didn't care.

Parker finished dressing. Checked himself in the mirror. He was middle-aged, a little thick around the middle but overall, not bad. He had dark hair and bored eyes.

He took time to fix his tie and comb his hair. He shrugged on his suit jacket. Black, like most of what he owned, considering who he worked for.

Finally, he checked his pockets and wallet to make sure he wasn’t bringing any evidence of what had happened here. Nothing his wife would notice.

He placed two crisp hundred-dollar bills on the nightstand.

"I’ll blow you for another fifty," the prostitute said, picking up the money.

Parker said nothing. Opened the door. Left.

Outside, Parker lit a cigarette even though he rarely smoked. Only after these meetings. His wife thought he'd quit years ago.

One more secret in a life full of them.

Parker drove back to the Bureau of Engraving and Printing. He'd worked there for many years as a Senior Press Operator. Security clearance level four. Access to everything that mattered. The printing plates. The ink formulations. The security features.

The Bureau was quiet when he arrived. He badged in, nodded to the security guard.

"Evening, Mr. Parker," the guard said. Reynolds, according to his badge. Young guy. New. Talked too much. Parker didn’t trust him.

"Working late again?" Reynolds asked.

Parker nodded. Kept walking.

The production floor was massive. Two stories of specialized equipment. German printing presses. Custom-built for the U.S. government. No commercial equivalent existed. Each one cost millions.

Parker's station was at the end of the line. Quality control. The final check before sheets of currency went to cutting and distribution. Parker had an eye for detail that machines couldn't match. He could spot imperfections others missed.

In all of his time there, he'd never let a flawed note leave the building.

He settled at his desk. The new plates needed calibration. Test prints showed microscopic flaws in the lower right quadrant.

Most people would never notice.

Parker would.

CHAPTER 4

Lima, Peru

Joe Reacher stepped off the plane into a wall of heat.

Midnight in Peru, but the temperature felt like midday in D.C. His shirt clung to his back before he reached the bottom of the stairs.

Inside, the Jorge Chávez International Airport was chaotic. Customs officials examined passports with exaggerated thoroughness. Security personnel with submachine guns watched travelers with dead eyes. Joe moved through the crowd, diplomatic passport guaranteeing minimal hassle.

His brain felt disconnected from his body after fourteen hours of travel. Somewhere over Colombia, the plane had hit turbulence bad enough to knock a flight attendant off her feet. Joe hadn't slept.

A short man, balding, in a neat suit, waited in the arrivals area, holding a handwritten sign: "J. REACHER."

"I'm Reacher," Joe said.

"David Williams. Assistant attaché, U.S. Embassy." Williams didn't offer his hand. "Car's this way."

Outside, the night air was thick with exhaust fumes and humidity. Williams guided Joe to a black Ford sedan with diplomatic plates.

"First time in Lima?" Williams asked as they pulled away from the curb.

"First time."

"You picked a hell of a time to visit. Country's a mess. President's fighting insurgents. Economy's in free fall. Inflation hit four thousand percent last year."

Reacher said nothing.

"Briefings don't capture the reality." Williams took a sharp turn. "Shame what happened to Sullivan."

"Did you know him?"

"No."

Joe studied the city through the window. Street vendors still hawked their wares despite the late hour. Armed soldiers patrolled in pairs. A military truck full of troops idled at an intersection.

"We're setting you up at a hotel near the embassy," Williams said. "Security's been increased after what happened to Sullivan."

"Take me to the crime scene first," Joe said.

Williams glanced in the rearview mirror. "It's after midnight."

"I don't care."

Williams sighed but didn't argue. He radioed the embassy, switched routes.

Twenty minutes later, they were in the Barranco district. Once an affluent area, now a mix of trendy nightclubs and deteriorating apartment buildings. Williams parked near a four-story building with peeling paint.

"Through there," Williams pointed to an alley. "That's where they found him."

Joe got out of the car. The air smelled of garbage and cheap alcohol. Music thumped from a club two blocks over. A group of young men watched from a street corner. They looked away when Joe glanced in their direction.

Yellow police tape still marked the alleyway. Joe ducked under it. Williams stayed by the car.

A dark stain marked the concrete. Blood. It was little more than a shadow, but Joe could still make out the outline of where a body had lain.

Joe scanned the alley. Too narrow for a car. Killer had to leave on foot. Fire escapes above. Dumpsters. Drainage grates.

He walked the length of the alley. High walls on both sides. Blind corners.

Good place for an ambush.

Joe took a final look at the alley, wondering where Sullivan was going that night.

Back at the car Williams checked his watch. "Hotel now?"

"Yeah."

The hotel was a ten-story concrete building with a nondescript facade. Armed guards at the entrance. Metal detector in the lobby.

"Detective Salas will meet you tomorrow," Williams said, handing Joe a key card. "Lobby."

"Okay."

"Welcome to Lima." Williams almost smiled. "Try to get some sleep."

Joe's room was on the eighth floor. Standard corporate setup. Queen bed. Desk. TV. Mini-bar. Heavy curtains blocked out the city lights.

He unpacked only what he needed for the morning. Showered. Lay down on the bed.

Sleep wouldn't come. His mind kept replaying the scene in the alley. The blood stain. The narrow walls. The perfect ambush spot.

They'd been waiting for Sullivan. Knew his route. Knew his schedule.

So only one question remained.

Who had set him up?

CHAPTER 5

Thomas Parker left the Bureau of Engraving and Printing, most likely the last person to leave.

The night air was cold enough to see his breath. Frost had formed on the windshields of cars parked on the street. Parker pulled his coat tighter, checked his watch. His wife would be wondering where he was. Again. He had promised to be home for dinner. Another promise broken.

He thought about calling her. Making up an excuse. Another technical problem with the plates. Another calibration issue. Just one more lie to add to the pile.

The parking garage was nearly empty. Just his Honda Accord and a few other vehicles scattered across the concrete expanse. Parker's footsteps echoed as he walked to his car. The fluorescent lights overhead buzzed and flickered, creating strange shape-shifting shadows.

He used the key to unlock the driver's side door. The lock was stiff from the cold. He jiggled it twice before it turned. Slid inside. The leather seat was ice-cold against his back. He started the engine. Turned the heat to maximum. Rubbed his hands together while waiting for the warm air.

That's when he saw the manila envelope on the passenger seat. Unmarked. Sealed with a red circular sticker.

Parker's hand remained on the gear shift. The envelope certainly hadn't been there when he arrived. The car had been locked. He was certain of it. He always locked his car. Paranoid habit from years of working for the government.

The heater blew cold air into his face. His heart pounded in his chest. He could feel it thumping against his ribs.

Parker put the car in reverse. Backed out of the space too quickly and nearly hit a concrete pillar. He drove to the exit with shaking hands and managed to keep them steady when he showed his ID to the security guard. The man barely glanced at it. Parker pulled onto the street.

He didn't touch the envelope. Didn't even look at it. But he could feel it there. Like a bomb on the seat beside him.

Parker drove south on 14th Street. Away from his home in Arlington. Away from his wife and his two teenage children who thought their father was boring. Reliable, but boring.

If they only knew.

Traffic was light. Parker drove on autopilot. Mind racing. Who had gotten into his car? How had they known? How long had they been watching him?

The digital clock on the dashboard flipped forward. His wife might have called his office by now. Gotten no answer. Started to worry. Or maybe she'd given up worrying years ago and he had just never noticed.

He took the 395 freeway south toward Alexandria. The concrete lanes stretched before him, empty and gray in his headlights. He turned on the radio. Turned it off again. Couldn't focus on the music.

Parker exited at a rest area twenty minutes later. A small parking lot with a cinder-block building housing restrooms and vending machines. Three long-haul trucks idled near the entrance, their drivers presumably sleeping in the cabs.

Parker parked in the furthest corner, away from the trucks. Away from the vending machines and restrooms. Away from any potential witnesses. He kept the engine running but turned off the headlights.

The envelope sat there. Waiting. Slightly shifting on the seat as the car's heater continued to blow.

Parker knew what it contained. Deep down, he'd been expecting this. Waiting for his past to catch up with him. He thought he'd been careful. Thought he'd covered his tracks. Paid in cash. Never used his real name. Never returned to the same motel twice in a row.

But someone had found him out. There was a dead certainty inside his chest that made him want to vomit.

With trembling fingers, he picked up the envelope. It was heavier than he expected. He tore it open along the top seam. The paper ripped with a sound that seemed too loud in the quiet car.

Photos spilled out. Full color 8x10s. Glossy. Professional quality. Taken with a telephoto lens, judging by the perspective.

Parker in the hotel room with a man. Parker naked on the bed. Parker doing things to and with the other man that would destroy his marriage, ruin his career and demolish his life.

Twelve photos. Different positions. Different angles. Different men, even. Yet they all had one thing in common: Thomas Parker. All unmistakably him. His face clearly visible in every sordid shot.

Parker felt sick and strangely aroused. Bile rose in his throat. He rolled down the window. Let the cold air hit his face. Gulped it down. Tried to steady his breathing.

His hands shook as he gathered the photos. Stacked them neatly. Put them back in the envelope. His fingerprints would be all over them now.

He would tear up the photos, go into the bathroom and flush them down the toilet.

But he knew it was pointless. They were copies and the person, or people, behind it all had the originals.

A folded piece of paper fell to the floor mat. He picked it up and opened it.

A note. Typed on plain white paper. No letterhead. No signature. Just six words that turned his blood to ice.

"Stand by for instructions, lover boy."

CHAPTER 6

The man in the dark suit with the red hair and scarred face was known as Sombra Roja.

The Red Shadow.

Roja entered the room through a hidden passage concealed behind a carved wooden panel, stepping silently across marble floors that reflected stolen masterpieces hung casually along the walls. The vast room, perched high in the decaying mansion overlooking Lima, was a testament to his careless extravagance.

The scent of blood, sweat, and fear permeated the air like a thick fog. Two bare lightbulbs swung slightly from exposed wires, creating shifting shadows across the crimson-spattered floor. What had once been a grand ballroom in colonial times now served as Roja's private chamber of horrors.

At the center, beneath an antique chandelier dripping with crystals, a middle-aged man sat bound tightly to an ornate wooden chair. He had been there for almost thirty hours. His once-pristine white suit was now tattered and soaked through with bodily fluids. The remnants of his fingernails lay scattered on the marble like discarded shells. Three of his teeth had been ripped from his mouth, the bloody gap visible whenever he moaned. His right eye was swollen shut, the skin around it purple and distended to the point of bursting.

Across his chest, burns from lit cigarettes formed a deliberate pattern—the letter 'R' branded into his flesh. His left hand was missing the smallest finger, the stump cauterized with a red-hot poker that had left the flesh black and shriveled.

The man raised his head slightly at the sound of Roja's footsteps. His remaining eye widened when Roja appeared, the man's crimson hair shocking against the sleek black of his tailored suit. Two large men in plain clothes stood on either side of Vasquez, their knuckles raw and bloody from hours of work.

"Leave us," Roja commanded. The men nodded silently and retreated to the shadows at the edge of the room, still within earshot but giving their boss the illusion of privacy.

"You betrayed me," Roja said calmly, his voice barely above a whisper. "You talked to the American."

The broken man trembled violently at the sound of Roja's voice. A dark stain spread across the front of his trousers as his bladder released involuntarily.

"Please," he gasped, desperation thickening his voice. Each word seemed to cause him physical pain as they scraped past his broken teeth and split lips. "It was a mistake. Forgive me, Roja. I told them everything. The American—Sullivan—he caught me by surprise. I didn't know what he was after until it was too late. He tricked me."

Roja circled the chair slowly, examining the handiwork of his men with the detached interest of an art critic at a gallery. He reached out, pressing his thumb into one of the cigarette burns on Vasquez's chest. The government official whimpered, his body jerking against the restraints that bound him to the chair.

"And what exactly did you tell this American?" Roja's tone remained conversational, as though they were discussing the weather over coffee.

"Nothing," Vasquez sobbed. “Nothing about you. I swear on my children's lives."

"Your children," Roja mused, continuing his slow circuit around the chair. "Such beautiful girls. Elena is fifteen now, yes? And little Camila, only twelve. Both at the San Ignacio Academy for Girls. Such an expensive school."

Vasquez let out a wail that sounded barely human. "No! Please! They know nothing! They are innocent!”

“No one is innocent," Roja replied. “Only the dead."

Roja tilted his head slightly, examining the trembling official. His dark eyes held no emotion. "I understand. Mistakes happen. But you know better than anyone the price for mistakes."

He stepped closer to a long table draped in crimson velvet, selecting an ancient ceremonial blade with a gold-encrusted handle. The knife had been used in Inca sacrificial rituals centuries ago, looted from a museum during one of Lima's many periods of chaos. The gold handle was carved with intricate depictions of gods receiving human offerings.

Roja held the knife up, examining its razor-sharp edge with detached interest, as though appraising a rare jewel. The blade gleamed in the dim light, recently polished and sharpened for this specific purpose.

"I've done everything you asked," Vasquez pleaded, his voice barely audible now. "Please."

"Not quite everything. Your silence, for instance," Roja said. "But I'm not without mercy."

A flicker of desperate hope crossed Vasquez's battered face. "Mercy?"

"Your daughters will remain untouched," Roja stated flatly. "Your wife as well. They will receive your government pension. They will mourn you as a victim of random violence. Lima is so dangerous these days."

Vasquez began to sob, a mixture of relief and terror wracking his broken body. He knew what was coming.

"Thank you," he whispered. "Thank you."

Without warning, Roja moved swiftly, stepping behind Vasquez. With practiced ease, he drew the blade sharply across the official's throat in one fluid motion. The ceremonial knife, honed to microscopic sharpness, parted flesh, muscle, and cartilage with minimal resistance.

Blood erupted in a violent rush, spilling down the man's chest and soaking what remained of his white shirt. The arterial spray reached nearly six feet, speckling the marble floor with crimson droplets that gleamed under the chandelier like scattered rubies.

Roja's face remained impassive as he reached forward, grasping the dying man's tongue with his free hand. He jerked it forward brutally, pulling it through the gaping wound in Vasquez's neck. The man's eyes bulged in final agony as Roja arranged the grotesque display with the practiced precision of a floral artist.

The obscene tableau, known among the underworld as the Peruvian Necktie, was Roja's preferred message. Those who betrayed him would never speak of their disloyalty again.

Vasquez spasmed briefly, his body convulsing against the ropes that held him to the chair. Blood continued to pump from the severed arteries for several seconds before his heart finally stilled. His remaining eye stared blankly forward, fixed in an eternal expression of horror.

Roja wiped the blade methodically on Vasquez's sleeve before replacing it on the velvet-covered table.

"Deliver the body to his family," Roja instructed the two men he had asked to return. "Make sure they understand exactly who it came from."

The men nodded and moved forward to untie the corpse from the chair. They worked efficiently, wrapping the body in plastic sheeting to contain the blood before carrying it from the room. They would place it on the doorstep of Vasquez's suburban home just before dawn.

As his men carried Vasquez's limp corpse away, Roja crossed the room leisurely, seating himself comfortably behind a massive mahogany desk that had once belonged to a Spanish viceroy. The leather chair creaked slightly as he settled into it.

He poured a generous amount of rare, imported whiskey into a crystal tumbler, savoring its scent before taking a slow, deliberate sip. The alcohol burned pleasantly as it went down, warming his chest. He unfolded the newspaper lying neatly before him, calmly scanning headlines detailing Lima's rising violence and corruption.

A small article on page three caught his attention: "American Treasury Agent Found Murdered in Barranco District."

Roja allowed himself a small, satisfied smile. One problem eliminated. Now to deal with the new one that had just arrived from Washington.

PART TWO

CHAPTER 7

Joe Reacher woke to the unfamiliar brightness of a high-altitude morning. For a moment, he had to piece together where he was. The cool hum of an air conditioner, the heavy curtains, the muted city sounds filtering through thick windows.

Lima.

He sat up and swung his legs over the side of the bed. The hotel room was decent. Clean, modern enough without being luxurious. A standard embassy-approved place—comfortable, but not flashy enough to draw attention. He liked it fine.

Joe stood and stretched, then made his way to the bathroom. A quick, hot shower helped clear the lingering haze from the long travel day before. He shaved mechanically, got dressed—jeans, a light button-down shirt, and boots—then checked his wallet, passport, and the shoulder holster he had unpacked the night before.

He ignored the hotel restaurant downstairs—he knew the type: Americanized bacon and eggs, watered-down coffee, and English-speaking staff eager to please.

Nothing inherently wrong with any of that, but he was in the mood for something else.

Instead, he stepped out into the humid morning air and made his way to a small café tucked not far from the hotel. A plain wood sign swung gently over the door, and a few tables spilled out onto the sidewalk.

Inside, the smell hit him immediately—fresh bread, roasted meat, strong coffee. The place was half full of locals, a good sign. Joe took a seat by the window. A woman in a simple white apron came over with a nod and handed him a menu, but he barely glanced at it.

"Desayuno completo, por favor," he said. Full breakfast.

She smiled and disappeared into the back.

When the food arrived, it covered most of the table. Thick slabs of chicharrón—crispy pork—piled alongside boiled sweet potatoes. A roll filled with slices of fried pork and salsa criolla—pickled onions and peppers—came on a separate plate. A small bowl of tamales wrapped in banana leaves sat steaming nearby. And the coffee—jet-black, rich enough to stand a spoon in—came in a petite, battered ceramic mug, along with a small metal pitcher of extra.

Joe dug in, drinking deeply from the coffee between bites. It was strong enough to jolt him fully awake. Stronger than anything he'd had back in Washington.

He ate without rushing, using the time to think through the day ahead. There was the meeting with his local contact, but he had something he wanted to do before that.

Joe poured himself another cup of coffee and watched the street through the dusty window. Soldiers patrolled the sidewalks in pairs. Street vendors rolled their carts into place. A group of teenagers kicked a soccer ball across a side street.

Another day in Lima.

And somewhere in this city, someone was making perfect counterfeit bills and killing to protect the secret.

Joe left the café and made his way down the street toward the address he'd memorized back in Washington.

Sullivan's apartment.

No embassy escort.

No Peruvian police.

Just Joe, seeing it fresh before anyone could filter it through their version of the truth.

The morning air had a dampness to it, a clinging mist rolling in from the Pacific. Joe kept his head down, blending in with the morning crowds as he walked through the Miraflores district. The area was decent—clean streets, modern buildings, security gates. Middle class by Lima standards. Good enough for an American agent living abroad.

Sullivan's building was a beige, five-story structure with ironwork balconies and a secure entrance. Joe noted the small security camera above the main door and a doorman seated inside behind glass. He didn't bother trying the front. Instead, he walked around to the side alley where the service entrance was located. No camera. No eyes.

Joe slipped inside without drawing any attention.

The hallway smelled faintly of bleach and fresh paint. Sullivan's unit was on the third floor. Joe took the stairs, moving quietly, listening for any sounds. Nothing.

At the door to Sullivan's apartment, he worked the lock quickly with the set of tools he always carried. Standard deadbolt. No alarm. The door clicked open with a soft mechanical snap, and Joe eased inside, closing it behind him.

The place was neat. Clean. A small living room with simple but good-quality furniture—a leather couch, a dark wood coffee table, a couple of armchairs. A modest flat-screen TV sat on a media console. Nothing extravagant, but everything well kept.

Joe moved carefully through the apartment. The kitchen was tidy, counters clear except for a coffee maker and a few sealed bags of groceries. A half-full trash can showed empty takeout containers—local food, nothing Americanized. Sullivan had adapted.

In the bedroom, the bed was made, military neat. A small nightstand held a stack of paperbacks—mostly crime novels and a worn Spanish-English dictionary. A docking station sat on the desk by the window, cords neatly coiled, but the laptop itself was missing.

Joe noted the empty docking station. Treasury-issued laptops didn't just go missing without a report. Either embassy security had already swept the place—or someone else had gotten there first.

Joe checked the bathroom—equally clean. Basic toiletries. A few prescription bottles in the cabinet—nothing alarming.

He stood in the center of the apartment, absorbing the feel of the place. Sullivan had lived here alone. He hadn't been planning to run. No packed bags. No hidey holes.

He'd been comfortable.

Secure.

Until someone had decided otherwise.

CHAPTER 8

Thomas Parker drove with mechanical precision, following the instructions that had been texted to his pager twenty minutes earlier. Simple commands: Take the George Washington Parkway north. Exit at Chain Bridge Road. Follow it east.

The instructions had been clear: Come alone. Tell no one.

Parker checked his rearview mirror again. No one following him. Not that he could tell, anyway. He wasn't trained for this. He was trained to spot imperfections in currency. Misaligned printing. Incorrect paper weight. Not surveillance.

His mind drifted as he drove. Back to high school. Football team. Senior year. The locker room after everyone had gone. His good friend, the team’s backup quarterback was the only other person there.

It had been his first time, but certainly not his last.

The sex had crystallized his urges and propelled him into action, albeit clandestine.

Eventually, he became so disgusted with his charade that he got married. Had two children. Bought a house in the suburbs. Lived the American dream on the surface.

But beneath...

Parker had discovered the bars in Dupont Circle. Places where men met men. Places where no one asked your real name. Places where cash bought discretion.

Eventually, he'd switched to male prostitutes. Safer, he thought. No emotional entanglements. No possibility of running into someone who knew his face, his name.

He'd been wrong.

The road curved alongside the Potomac River. Gray water churning below steep embankments. Easy to misjudge a turn. Easy to crash through the guardrail.

Easy to end this now.

His hands tightened on the steering wheel. Forty-five miles per hour. Fifty. Fifty-five.

All it would take was a quick jerk to the right.

Parker eased off the accelerator. Slowed back to the speed limit.

Not yet.

The pager buzzed again. He pulled to the side of the road. Checked the message.

"Rock Creek Park. Lot 7. Wait in car."

Parker knew the park. Everyone in D.C. did. Two thousand acres of forest in the middle of the city. Isolated areas. Secluded paths. Places to meet without being seen.

He pulled back onto the road. Changed course.

Twenty minutes later, he entered the park. Saturday morning joggers and cyclists moved along the paths. Children played on swings near the creek. Normal people living normal lives.

Parker found Lot 7. A small gravel parking area near a stand of oak trees. Remote. Three other cars parked widely apart. No one visible inside them.

He pulled into a space facing the entrance. Killed the engine. Waited.

His hands were slick with sweat. He wiped them on his pants.

Parker wondered what they wanted. Money? He had some savings, but not much. Access to the Bureau? To currency plates? To security protocols? The thought made him sick.

He'd worked at the Bureau for most of his career. Respected the institution. Respected the currency he helped produce. Whatever they wanted, it wouldn't be legal. It wouldn't be right.

But what choice did he have?

The sun climbed higher. The car grew warm. Parker didn't turn on the air conditioning. Didn't move. Barely breathed.

Parker waited, watching each car that entered the parking lot, tension building with every passing minute.

Parker's pager buzzed at 10:17 AM. The wait had felt eternal.

He fumbled with the device, nearly dropping it. The message was longer this time:

"Exit car. Walk trail marked with blue blazes. Stop at third bench. Woman in red coat waiting."

Parker glanced around the parking lot. Still no sign of anyone watching him. He got out of the vehicle, locked the car, and headed toward the trailhead.

The blue-blazed trail wound through a section of forest that blocked the view of the parking lot. December had stripped the trees bare, leaving a canopy of skeletal branches against the gray sky. The path was covered with dead leaves that crackled beneath his feet.

Parker counted the benches. The first one, empty. Weathered wood covered with bird droppings. The second, occupied by an elderly couple sharing a thermos. He nodded as he passed them. They didn't acknowledge him.

The third bench came into view around a bend in the trail. A woman sat alone, wrapped in a bright red wool coat. Dark hair fell to her shoulders in casual waves. She wore sunglasses despite the overcast day. A black leather purse rested beside her. She was reading a newspaper.

Parker hesitated. His instinct was to turn back, to run. But where would he go? What would he do when the photos inevitably surfaced?

He approached the bench.

The woman looked up, folded her newspaper. "Mr. Parker." Not a question. A statement.

"Yes." His voice cracked. He cleared his throat. "Yes."

"Please, sit." She patted the bench beside her.

Parker sat, leaving a foot of space between them. Up close, she was younger than he'd first thought. Mid-thirties maybe. Attractive in a severe way. High cheekbones. Strong jaw. Perfect teeth when she smiled.

"Beautiful morning for a walk, isn't it?" she said.

Parker said nothing.

"I'm being polite, Mr. Parker. The correct response is to agree and make an observation about the weather in return."

"Who are you?" Parker asked.

"My name is Leila," she said. Her English was flawless, with no trace of an accent. But something in her phrasing, in her careful enunciation, told Parker she hadn't been born in America. "And I represent people who need your assistance."

"What people?"

"People who want to make sure you keep your job. Your wife. Your children. Your reputation." Leila removed her sunglasses. Her eyes were dark, unreadable. "People who could just as easily take all of that away."

Parker felt sick. "What do you want?"

"Information, for now. Access, eventually."

"To what?"

"We selected you because of your particular expertise and access level."

"Why me? There are others with higher clearance."

"Others who don't have your particular... vulnerabilities." Leila smiled. "Besides, you're the quality control supervisor. You see everything. The security features. The microprinting. The special inks. All of it."

Parker shook his head. "It's impossible. The security⁠—"

"Is designed to stop outsiders," Leila finished for him. "Not trusted insiders like yourself."

This was espionage. Treason. If caught, he would spend the rest of his life in prison.

"I can't do this."

"You've already started." Leila stood. "The moment you drove here, you became part of this operation. The only choice you have now is whether you complete it with your life intact, or whether those photos find their way to your wife, your children, your employers, and the police."

"The police?"

"The young man you paid for services. Did you check his age?"

Parker felt the blood drain from his face. "He was at least eighteen. He had to be."

"Would you bet your future on that assumption?" Leila smiled again, but it didn't reach her eyes. "Think carefully about your next move, Mr. Parker."

"Who are you working for?" he asked.

Leila put her sunglasses back on. "The future, Mr. Parker. We're working for the future." She picked up her newspaper. "Don't follow me. Go back to your car. Go home. Act normal. Wait for instructions."

She walked away, her red coat bright against the gray forest, like a splash of blood on concrete.

CHAPTER 9

Joe closed the door to Sullivan's apartment behind him, locking it the same way he had found it. He walked back down the stairs and out the service entrance, blending into the steady morning flow of people headed to work or school.

On the street, Joe paused. A scrap of folded paper in his pocket. The hotel desk clerk had handed it to him earlier—a handwritten note from Detective Ana Salas, requesting they meet at the Sullivan crime scene.

The note was crisp, professional. Four lines stating time and place. Her handwriting was small, precise. Economical. Like someone who didn't waste effort on flourishes.

Joe checked his surroundings. The address she had given was only a few blocks away. Walkable. He preferred it that way. Driving in Lima traffic was asking for a headache.

He set out on foot, moving with purpose but not hurrying. A few locals gave him passing glances—a tall American stood out here—but most were too busy with their own concerns.

The city pulsed around him. Street vendors set up carts piled with fruit and tamales. Buses belched black exhaust into the already heavy air. Women hung laundry from iron balconies overhead. Murals of saints and revolutionaries faded on crumbling brick walls.

Joe took it all in, cataloging the sounds, the smells, the patterns of life. Useful later if things went sideways.

As they usually did.

He passed a woman roasting ears of corn over an open flame. The smell was tempting even though he wasn’t hungry, but he kept moving.

The neighborhood changed subtly as he walked.

Another block and he saw the alley where his fellow agent had perished.

A woman stood at the entrance to the alley mouth, arms crossed, weight on one hip.

A dog barked nearby, straining at a rope tied to a fence post. A radio blared ranchera music from an open window.

Joe closed the final distance to the alley. As he neared, the woman by the entrance turned to face him fully.

She wore dark jeans and boots, a dark green jacket zipped halfway up. Her dark hair was pulled back, framing a face devoid of emotion.

"Agent Reacher," she said flatly. "You're taller than I expected."

“Detective Salas,” Joe replied.

He had noted the precision of her English. Textbook perfect. No contractions. The careful speech of someone who learned the language in school, not on the street.

She turned toward the alley without waiting for him to follow.

"I am your liaison," Ana said, her voice clipped. "What do you need from me?"

Her tone had changed slightly. Annoyance, Joe sensed.

She studied him a second longer, then jerked her head farther down the alley. "I assume you've already read the autopsy."

"I have."

The specifics from the autopsy flashed in his mind. Seventeen stab wounds. Defensive cuts on his hands. The money in his mouth. Not a robbery. An execution with a signature.

"The neighboring buildings," Joe said. "Anyone see anything?"

Ana straightened up. "On paper, we interviewed twenty-three residents. No one saw anything. No one heard anything. No one knows anything."

"Fear or money?"

"Both," she said. "In Lima, they often go together."

Joe examined the scene more closely. "The embassy car was supposed to pick him up from his meeting. But it never arrived. Traffic accident blocked the route."

"Convenient," Ana said.

"Very."

Joe studied her face. She was holding something back.

"You don't like this any more than I do," Joe said.

Ana rose and faced him. "I do not like people dying in my city. Especially when the killers think they will get away with it."

Joe nodded again. "Then we're on the same side."

She gave a small, humorless smile. "I believe we are both here to do a job."

Joe understood her reluctance. American agents had a reputation for barging in, demanding resources, making promises, and then disappearing when things got complicated. He'd seen it himself in other countries.

"Multiple attackers," Joe said.

Ana nodded.

“Someone might talk to you, though."

"Why?"

"Americans have cash. And everyone here knows your Treasury Department is investigating counterfeit dollars."

Joe understood. "You want me to buy information."

"In Lima, information and justice are both commodities," Ana said. "The only difference is the price."

The cynicism in her voice was palpable. Joe wondered what she'd seen in her years with the Peruvian police.

“Someone’s going to pay,” Joe said. “But it won’t be me.”

CHAPTER 10

Joe stood with Ana, the morning heat already beginning to build.

"We should start with Sullivan's office," Joe said.

Ana nodded. "Agreed."

She drove them in a 4x4 that was totally utilitarian.

They rode in silence for several minutes, weaving through Lima's congested streets, narrowly missing pedestrians and street vendors. Joe watched the city pass by – the mix of colonial architecture and modern concrete, the contrasts of wealth and poverty only blocks apart.

"You've lived in Lima your whole life?" Joe finally asked, breaking the silence.

Ana glanced at him, as if weighing whether to engage or remain professional. "Yes. Born and raised."

"What made you become a cop?"

She looked straight ahead. For a moment, Joe thought she wouldn't answer. Then she said, "I grew up in Villa El Salvador. Poor district. Gangs controlled everything."

They swerved around a delivery truck. Ana continued, her voice matter-of-fact.

"When I was twelve, my older brother was killed. Wrong place, wrong time. Or maybe right place, right time for the gangs. No one investigated. No one cared."

Joe said nothing, letting her tell it at her own pace.

"My father wanted to move the family away, but we had no money. My mother cleaned houses for rich families. I went to school when I could." She shrugged slightly. "I was good at school. Teacher noticed. Got me a scholarship to a better place."

"And then?"

"And then I decided," Ana said simply. "I would study criminology. Join the police. Do the job no one did for my brother."

Joe nodded. He understood that kind of decision. The kind that shapes everything after.

"Not easy being a female officer," he observed.

Ana's laugh was short, without humor. "Not easy being a female anything in this country, Agent Reacher. But the police force?" She shook her head. "Every day is a fight. To be taken seriously. To not be assigned to desk duty. To not be..." She paused, searching for the right words. "To not be protected from the job."

"You don't strike me as someone who needs protection," Joe said.

"No," she agreed. "I do not."

They lurched to a stop at a red light. A young boy appeared at Ana's window, selling gum and candy. She waved him away gently.

"And you?" she asked. "Why Treasury? Why not FBI or CIA like most Americans with guns and badges?"

Joe considered his answer. "Long story."

They accelerated again, weaving through the morning rush. Joe sensed there was more to Ana's story than the brief summary she'd given, but he didn't press.

The U.S. Embassy came into view—a concrete fortress of sharp angles and security barriers. They parked and passed through two checkpoints before being escorted inside by a young Marine.

They were led down a sterile hallway lined with closed doors and humming fluorescent lights until they reached a solid oak door marked "Consular Investigations." The Marine tapped twice, then used a keycard to open it.

Joe stepped inside. Ana followed, letting the door swing shut behind them.

The office was clean and well-appointed. A large desk sat near the window, offering a view of the embassy courtyard. Shelves lined one wall, filled with case files, legal texts, and reference materials. A pair of comfortable chairs faced the desk, and a secure filing cabinet stood against the far wall.

Joe took a slow look around the room. "Sullivan liked his space neat," Joe observed, running a finger along the edge of a perfectly aligned bookshelf.

"Navy," Ana said, examining a framed certificate on the wall.

Joe nodded, moving to the desk. Even in death, Sullivan's personality was stamped on the space - pens arranged by size, papers in perfect stacks, desk calendar meticulously annotated in small, neat handwriting.

On the desk sat a battered leather notebook, a detailed map of Lima with several locations circled in red ink, and a small stack of file folders. A half-empty coffee cup sat in one corner, rim stained and forgotten.

Joe picked up the first file folder and opened it. Inside were surveillance photos of currency exchanges, banks, and casinos throughout Lima. Each photo was labeled with date, time, and location. Names were written on the backs, mostly Spanish, with occasional English notations.

Ana moved to the filing cabinet, tried the drawer. "Locked."

Joe found a small key taped to the underside of the desk blotter. Old trick, but effective. He handed it to Ana without comment.

She took the key, opened the cabinet. Inside were more files, neatly organized alphabetically.

Joe picked up the notebook. Sullivan's handwriting was tight and methodical, lines of dates, addresses, and short notes. Most of it dealt with currency exchanges, casino visits, and local banks. Routine tracking.

Then one name caught his eye, scribbled without a date: Club Dos Palmas.

Joe tapped the page with his finger. "You know it?"

Ana stepped closer, glancing down. "A nightclub. Barranco district. Not the kind of place Americans usually find themselves unless they are looking for trouble."

Joe closed the notebook. "Sounds promising."

Ana's expression stayed neutral. "It is controlled by people who prefer to be left alone," she said. "Especially by outsiders."

"Good thing I have a local guide," Joe said.

Joe continued examining the office, methodically checking drawers, shelves, and cabinets. He found a hidden compartment in the bottom desk drawer - another standard tradecraft trick. Inside was a small leather case containing a backup weapon, a .38 snub-nosed revolver, and a manila envelope with five thousand dollars in American currency.

"Emergency kit," Joe explained, showing Ana. "Standard issue for agents in potentially hostile territory."

"He didn't get a chance to use it," she observed.

"Or didn't know he needed to," Joe added.

He moved to the map pinned to a corkboard on the wall. The red circles marked various locations throughout Lima. Each had a date written beside it. Joe noticed a pattern emerging - Sullivan had been systematically working his way through the city's financial district and into the shadier parts of town.

A blue line had been drawn connecting several of the locations, ending at a point marked with an X. No label.

"What's here?" Joe asked, tapping the X.

Ana leaned in, studied it. "Warehouse district. Near the docks. Not much there except storage facilities and shipping companies."

Joe made a mental note. Another location to check.

He returned to the desk, examining the pile of file folders more carefully. Most contained surveillance reports, financial data, and background checks on various Peruvian nationals suspected of handling counterfeit U.S. currency.

At the bottom of the stack was a thinner file, unmarked except for a small red dot in the corner. Joe opened it.

Inside was a single sheet of paper with what looked like chemical formulas and material specifications. Paper composition. Ink mixtures. Manufacturing processes.

He turned the paper over. On the back was a handwritten note: "DP. Dec 1/10 PM."

"DP," Ana said. "Dos Palmas."

"December first," Joe added. "The night Sullivan was killed."

Joe gathered the notebook and the map carefully. Evidence in hand, he looked around the room one last time.

"Let's start with Dos Palmas," Joe said.

Ana nodded once. "I know the way."

CHAPTER 11

The Bureau of Engraving and Printing was mostly empty by the time Parker made his way back to his small office off the main production floor.

It was late, long past the shift change, and only a skeleton crew remained, mostly janitorial staff and one or two security personnel he knew by name.

He closed the door behind him and locked it, then sat heavily at his desk.

His hands trembled slightly as he reached for the drawer. Not from fear, he told himself. Anticipation.

The bottom drawer slid open with a soft metallic scrape. He removed the black fountain pen he'd modified the week before. It was heavier than it looked, with a polished obsidian finish and gold accents—elegant enough to be believable as a status symbol, but not flashy enough to draw unwanted attention.

Not the kind sold in stores—this one had been hollowed out, the ink cartridge replaced with a small cylindrical cavity barely large enough to hold a roll of 35mm microfilm. The engineering had been delicate work, done late at night.

Parker reached into his jacket pocket and removed a coin envelope, no bigger than a book of matches. The paper was warm from being pressed against his body. He opened it carefully and slid the microfilm into the pen's barrel.

It fit snugly, just as it had during his dry runs.

The plastic felt cool against his fingertips, smooth and slightly tacky.

He screwed the pen back together and clicked it once. Still worked. Still looked like an ordinary pen. He held it up to the light, examining it from every angle.

Perfect.

No one would suspect its true purpose unless they knew exactly what to look for. He slipped it into his shirt pocket and sat back, exhaling slowly.

He stood, checked his reflection in the narrow window, and smoothed his shirt. The face that stared back at him looked older than it had six months ago—new lines around the eyes, a tightness to the jaw that hadn't been there before Leila.

Nothing out of place, though. Nothing that screamed "traitor."

He grabbed his keys, locked the desk drawer, and stepped into the hallway.

The corridors were empty and echoing, each footstep reverberating against the polished floors and concrete walls. The building had a different feel at night—less like a secure government facility and more like a mausoleum.

As he walked, he nodded at the lone janitor mopping near the stairwell. The man barely looked up, too focused on the rhythm of his work to pay attention to yet another bureaucrat leaving late.

Parker took the stairs instead of the elevator. A precaution. Elevators had cameras, and even though there was nothing suspicious about his exit, he preferred fewer breadcrumbs.

The stairwell smelled of damp and decay. Three flights down, the metal door to the employee exit swung open with a heavy clank.

The security guard gave him a tired wave. "Long night, Mr. Parker?"

Parker forced a smile. "Aren't they all." His mouth felt dry, tongue thick. He wondered if his voice sounded normal.

The guard gestured to the security table. "Need you to run through, like always."

Parker nodded and stepped forward. He removed his keys and the pen from his shirt pocket and dropped them casually into the plastic tray. The weight of the pen as it left his fingers felt momentous.

Would the scanner detect the modified interior? The microfilm? If so, he would be spending the rest of his life in a federal prison.

His pulse thrummed in his ears as the guard slid the tray aside, bypassing the metal detector as usual, while Parker stepped through the archway.

No alarm.

Of course not. They weren't looking for microfilm. They were looking for weapons, for sheets of currency paper, for printing plates.

The guard handed the tray back to him. "Have a good night."

"You too," Parker said, pocketing the pen and keys.

He stepped out into the cool D.C. night. The parking lot was mostly empty, just a few scattered sedans and an abandoned bicycle.

He unlocked his car and got in. The familiar smell of fake pine air freshener and old leather enveloped him. He sat there for a moment, the pen burning in his pocket.

Then he started the engine and drove off into the dark.

Traffic was light. The streets felt more hollow than quiet, lined with low-lit storefronts and shuttered offices. The wipers squeaked occasionally across the windshield, clearing mist rather than proper rain. He drove east, toward the river.

About halfway there, he reached under the seat and pulled out a brown paper bag.

It crinkled softly as he set it on the passenger seat. Inside was a snub-nosed .38 revolver. It was old and supposedly reliable.

For Parker’s sake, he hoped so.

The metal was worn in places where countless hands had gripped it before his, and the wooden handle had a slight crack near the base. Parker had used a fake ID and a friend of a friend to set it up. Cash only. No paperwork. Five hundred dollars for a gun that had probably been used in crimes he didn't want to know about.

He checked the cylinder and it was fully loaded. He placed it gently in the glove compartment. The weight of it made the compartment door sag slightly.

As he drove, his mind churned. The radio played softly—classical music, something with strings that he wasn't really hearing.

Leila had what she wanted. She'd get the microfilm and vanish.

But if the opportunity presented itself, if she slipped up, got close enough, he might be able to do something.

Kill her.

The thought came with disturbing clarity. He'd never considered himself capable of violence before. But then, he'd never considered himself capable of treason either. People changed when they were desperate enough. When the alternative was prison, or worse.

Parker ran through the wild plan in his head. Shoot the bitch. Get her keys. Look through her purse and try to find out where she lived. Go there, break in, find the photographs and the originals.

He'd thought it through a dozen times. The odds weren't good. But what other choice did he have?

He kept his eyes on the road. He could feel the sweat beginning to dampen his shirt beneath his arms and at the small of his back. The heat inside the car was oppressive suddenly, but he didn't adjust the temperature.

Ten minutes later, he pulled into the far end of a shopping mall parking lot where she'd told him to meet her. The lights were dim in this section, several rows away from the last open store, and the lot was mostly deserted.

Only a few cars remained, probably belonging to late-shift workers at the department store anchor.

No one would see what happened here.

That had probably been part of her calculation.

He reached into the glove compartment, grabbed the revolver, and slid it into his coat pocket.

A minute later, a black Cadillac pulled in from the far entrance, its headlights off. It coasted to a stop three spaces away and idled briefly, the engine a low purr that vibrated through the night air, before the engine cut out. The windows were tinted, making it impossible to see inside.

Leila stepped out, dressed in black slacks and a dark coat, her hair pulled back, emphasizing her sharp cheekbones and dark eyes. She looked around once, a quick, efficient scan of her surroundings, then walked toward Parker's car.

Her heels made no sound on the wet asphalt.

He got out slowly, pen in one hand, the other resting casually near his pocket. The night air felt cold against his face after the warmth of the car. His breath fogged slightly as he exhaled.

They met between the cars. She smelled of something subtle, cigarette smoke maybe.

Her eyes were flat and businesslike.

"Do you have it?" Leila asked. Her voice was cool, professional.

He nodded and held up the pen. "Inside. The microfilm is tucked in the barrel. Exactly what you asked for." His voice sounded steadier than he felt.

She took it without ceremony, turned it in her hand once, then tucked it into her coat. She hadn't even checked to see if he was telling the truth. Perhaps she didn't need to. Perhaps she knew him well enough to know he wouldn't risk crossing her.

Parker's heart pounded. He could feel his pulse in his fingertips, in his temples. He watched her carefully, waiting. This was the moment. If he was going to act, it would be now. His hand twitched toward his pocket.

She stepped away, just a few paces, scanning the horizon.

Then she turned her back to him.

Parker moved, hand slipping into his coat for the gun.

His fingers wrapped around the butt of the revolver and he drew it up, bringing the sights to bear on the back of Leila’s head.

His finger tightened around the trigger. He was going to do this, he was going to get his life back–

Parker’s head exploded in a sudden spray of blood and bone, the shot silent and immediate. The bullet entered just above his right ear and exited through his left temple, taking with it a significant portion of his skull and brain matter.

He dropped, his body crumpling to the wet asphalt. His outstretched fingers twitched once, reflexively, then were still. A pool of dark blood spread slowly outward from his shattered skull, mixing with the puddles of rainwater.

From the far side of the parking lot, a figure emerged from the shadow between two vehicles, a suppressed pistol still raised. The shooter was tall, dressed in dark clothes. The face was obscured by the angle and the poor lighting. The pistol disappeared beneath a coat, and the shooter turned and disappeared without a word, melting back into the shadows between parked cars.

Leila looked down at the body once, her expression unchanged. She walked calmly back to her car, the pen secure in her coat. The Cadillac's engine started with a low rumble, and she drove away, leaving Parker's cooling body alone in the empty lot.

The rain began to fall more heavily, washing away tire tracks and footprints, but not the body, and not the blood that continued to spread in a dark halo around Parker's shattered head.

PART THREE

CHAPTER 12

Ana’s battered 4x4 rumbled over the broken pavement, rattling with every pothole and seam. The old army-issue SUV, now a police vehicle, suited the rough edges of Lima after dark, blending into the flow of dented taxis and worn delivery trucks threading through the Barranco district.

Joe sat in the passenger seat, watching the city crawl past. Neon signs buzzed in storefront windows. Couples clung to each other on narrow sidewalks. Vendors pushed carts piled with tamales, skewers of meat, and bottled sodas. The humid air carried a mix of gasoline, fried food, and the sharp edge of the Pacific blowing inland.

Neither of them spoke much.

Ana made a turn onto a narrower street, slowing the 4x4 to a crawl. Ahead, half a block down, a strip of neon flickered against the night—a faded sign reading Dos Palmas above a set of heavy black doors. Bass-heavy music thudded from inside, making the windows of nearby cars vibrate.

She pulled the vehicle to the curb a safe distance away, killing the engine but leaving the keys in.

"There it is," she said, resting one hand casually on the steering wheel. "Club Dos Palmas."

Joe scanned the scene. A handful of people loitered near the entrance. The crowd wasn’t large, but it wasn’t friendly either. No lines, no bouncers checking IDs.

Ana leaned back in her seat. "You’re going to get noticed the second you step out."

Joe grunted. "Not much I can do about being six-six and American."

"No, I suppose not," Ana said.

Joe nodded, pulling his jacket aside and checking the pistol holstered at his hip. It was a compact model, easy to conceal but with enough stopping power if things got ugly.

Ana reached under her seat and pulled out her own sidearm, a matte-black Browning Hi-Power, and slipped it into a cross-body holster hidden beneath her jacket.

"Rules of engagement?" Joe asked.

"We’re not here to start a war," Ana said. "We’re here for information."

"And if things go sideways?"

"We improvise."

Joe turned his gaze back to the club. The heavy black doors swung open briefly to let a group of men stumble out. Inside, Joe caught a glimpse of red and blue lights strobing over low ceilings, metal tables, and dense pockets of smoke.

"Place doesn’t look big," he said. “I can’t imagine what Sullivan was doing here.”

Joe watched another man approach the door, exchange a few words with a heavyset guy standing just inside, and slip through with barely a pause. No metal detectors. No pat downs. Entry seemed based on recognition or reputation.

"How do you want to play it?" he asked.

Ana thought for a second. "We go in separately. I’ll enter first, find a spot at the bar. You wait two minutes, then come in like you’re looking for someone. If anyone asks, you’re looking for a guy who owes you money."

Joe shrugged.

"It fits the neighborhood," Ana said.

They sat there another minute, listening to the music pulsing across the street, watching the rhythm of who came and went. No one lingered outside for long. Business inside was brisk.

"One more thing," Ana said, glancing sideways at him. "Try not to shoot anyone.”

Joe nodded. "Always a good policy."

Ana cracked the door and stepped out into the humid night. She adjusted her jacket, gave Joe a last look and crossed the street without a backward glance.

Joe watched her disappear into the club.

He sat back in the seat, one eye on his watch, letting the seconds tick by.

Two minutes.

The music thudded. The street hummed. Somewhere farther down the block, a car backfired.

Joe stepped out of the 4x4, adjusted his jacket over the pistol at his side, and started across the street toward the club.

The heavy black doors swung inward with a low groan as Joe pushed through.

The inside of the club was a narrow, low-ceilinged space thick with smoke and the stink of cheap rum. Red and blue lights flashed intermittently and Joe felt like he was being pulled over for speeding by cop.

Metal tables ringed the edges, most occupied by rough-looking men hunched over glasses or playing cards. A few women in tight dresses leaned against walls, smoking, watching.

The air felt dense.

Joe moved slowly as his eyes adjusted to the darkness as he sized up the clientele. A band in the corner played something with too much bass, the sound system distorting the lower notes into a physical pressure against his chest.

Ana was at the bar, seated on a stool, one elbow resting casually on the counter. She didn't look his way. Her posture was relaxed, but he could see she was watching the mirror behind the bar and the room behind her.

A half-empty glass sat in front of her.

Joe made his way toward the center of the club, pausing near a group of men gathered around a scarred table. He pitched his voice loud enough to be heard over the music but casual, like he had every right to be there.

"Looking for a guy," he said. "Owes me money." Joe held out the photo he had of Sullivan. “Anyone recognize him?”

Several heads turned. A few indifferent glances. But one man, seated against the wall, gave Joe a long, hard stare. He was older than the others, with a worn face and faded tattoos.

Joe held the man's gaze a second longer than necessary, then turned away, moving toward a narrow open space near the back. He felt the room shift around him as word spread.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw two men slide off their stools and saunter toward Ana.

Big guys. Broad shoulders, grim faces.

The first wore a white linen shirt stretched tight across his chest, stained yellow under the arms. The second had a pockmarked face and a thin mustache that looked drawn on with pencil. They flanked her, one on either side, boxing her in against the bar.

Ana didn't flinch.

She sipped from her glass, set it down with deliberate care. When Mustache leaned in close, whispering something in her ear, she smiled.

Joe stayed relaxed but ready. He had grown up on Army bases all over the world. He and his younger brother, Jack, had fought side by side. They were always the new kids in town and usually had to fight to earn respect.

The world never changed.

Mustache put his hand on Ana's thigh. She said something Joe couldn't hear and removed the hand with a precise twist that bent the man's fingers back at an angle nature never intended.

Mustache's face contorted in pain, but she released him before it escalated, her expression never changing.

A warning, not a fight.

Not yet.

One of the men near Ana peeled away, angling toward Joe. Shorter than him by a full head, built thick through the shoulders. Face like a busted cinder block. A jagged scar ran from his temple to his jaw, puckering the flesh around one eye.

From across the room, Joe spotted two more men rising from their table, eyes locked on him. They circled wide, trying to come at him from different angles. One carried what looked like a short length of pipe partially concealed in his sleeve. The other had brass knuckles glinting dully on his right hand.

Joe pretended not to notice. He took a casual step back, creating space, letting the scarred man come to him. The air in the club seemed to thicken, conversations dropping to murmurs as the regulars sensed the coming storm.

Scarface came in close, too close, his mouth twisting into something that was probably supposed to be a smile. His breath smelled of cigarettes and cheap tequila.

"You lost, gringo?" he asked, the words slurred slightly. His eyes were bloodshot, pupils dilated. High on something, which made him more dangerous, not less.

Joe said nothing, just held his ground.

He saw the sucker punch before it even started—the tightening of the shoulder, the shift in the hips.

Joe waited until the punch, seemingly in slow motion, whiffed past his face.

He stepped closer and drove his elbow upward in a brutal arc, smashing it into the man's jaw with the full momentum of his body. There was an audible crack, sharp and wet. The man's head snapped back violently, and Joe followed with a vicious uppercut that lifted him off his feet.

Teeth sprayed onto the sticky floor like white pebbles skittering across stone.

The man dropped to the floor, hitting like an extra bass note.

Pipe Man came at him from the left, swinging wildly. Joe caught the arm mid-swing, stepped inside the man's guard, and drove a knee into his solar plexus with punishing force. As Pipe Man doubled over, gasping for air, Joe wrenched the pipe from his grip and brought it down hard across the back of his neck. The sound was sickening—a dull thud followed by a high, thin wail as the man crumpled to his knees.

The third attacker hesitated for a split second. Joe closed the distance in two long strides, feinted left, then stepped right, bringing the pipe down on the man's wrist. Bones shattered. The brass knuckles clattered to the floor.

The man screamed, clutching his ruined hand to his chest. Joe silenced him with a sharp jab to the throat that left him on the ground, choking and retching.

Back at the bar, the two men near Ana had stopped their advance.

Across the club, heads turned. Conversations stopped. Even the band stuttered to silence, the last notes hanging in the suddenly still air.

Three men down in less than a minute, and Joe hadn't even broken a sweat.

Ana appeared at Joe's side. She barely glanced at the carnage around them.

"Okay," she said calmly, her voice cutting through the stunned silence. "I think we're done here."

CHAPTER 13

Ivy Harper stood on the sidewalk just outside the Treasury Annex, waiting for the crosswalk light to change. The sun had already dipped behind the buildings, leaving the city bathed in the kind of dull, orange glow that made everything look older and sadder than it was.

She wore a gray blazer over a black blouse, heels swapped for comfortable flats she kept in her desk drawer. A man walked past, gave her a second glance, and kept going. She barely noticed. Her mind was already shifting to what she'd pick up for dinner. Something microwavable. Again.

It wasn’t that she didn’t want to meet someone. She did. Eventually. But after days like this—shifting paper trails, chasing procurement anomalies, cross-referencing bank movements—it was hard to imagine sitting across from a stranger and pretending she wasn’t already tired.

She crossed the street and turned down a side block, where the bus stop waited. Her apartment was in Foggy Bottom. Not far. Walkable, but the shoes made the decision for her.

As she approached the stop, she saw a black government sedan idling at the curb. Windows tinted. Engine running.

The passenger window rolled down. Jenkins.

"Get in," he said.

She blinked. "Excuse me?"

"You’re needed. It can’t wait."

She hesitated, glanced down the street, then back at him. "Can’t this wait until morning?"

"No."

Jenkins didn’t do drama, didn’t waste time. If he was in a car with the engine running and the window rolled down, it meant wheels were already in motion.

She sighed, opened the door, and slid in.

"What’s this about?"

"We’re going to the morgue."

She looked at him. "Who died?"

"Guy named Thomas Parker. Worked at the Bureau of Engraving and Printing."

She frowned. "I don’t know the name."

"Neither did I. Until two hours ago. Somebody put a bullet in his head and left him in a shopping center parking lot."

"Robbery?"

"Doubt it. His wallet was untouched. But his Treasury credentials were missing."

She turned toward the window, watching the city blur past as the car accelerated. Something cold settled in her stomach.

"What was his role at the Bureau?"

"Press operations. Senior position. Had access to sensitive equipment."

Ivy didn’t respond. She knew exactly what that meant.

Jenkins continued. "I want you to watch the autopsy. And while you’re there, start thinking like this isn’t a coincidence."

They drove the rest of the way in silence.

The morgue smelled of antiseptic and refrigerated metal. Ivy followed Jenkins through a set of double doors, past a clerk reading a paperback novel, into the autopsy suite. The air was sharp and cold, and the buzzing overhead lights gave everything a pale, sickly hue.

Detective Ron Bell from MPD stood near the end of the stainless steel table, arms crossed over his plain suit, eyes fixed on the body under the sheet. Jenkins gave him a nod. Bell acknowledged it with a grunt.

The medical examiner, a compact woman in her fifties with silver-streaked hair pulled into a bun, looked up from her clipboard.

"You must be Harper," she said.

Ivy nodded. "Yes, ma'am. Treasury."

"Dr. Evelyn Shorr," the ME said. "I’ll walk you through what we know so far."

She peeled back the sheet, revealing Parker’s upper torso and face. His skin was pale, the wound above his left ear stitched from the internal exam.

"Single shot to the head, small caliber, close range. Suppressed weapon, most likely. Entry was clean, no powder burns, no hesitation. Professional."

She glanced at her clipboard. "Time of death estimated between 9:30 and 10:00 p.m. Body was found around midnight in a shopping center parking lot in Anacostia. No signs of a struggle. No defensive wounds. No wallet taken."

"So not a robbery," Jenkins said.

"Not a normal one, at least."

Shorr paused. "There is one other thing. I debated mentioning it, but in a case like this, with a federal employee involved..."

Jenkins gestured for her to continue. "Go on."

She adjusted her gloves. "There are signs of repeated receptive anal penetration. Some recent, some older. Tissue damage, minor scarring, and a small amount of lubricant residue."

Detective Bell shifted his feet. Jenkins said nothing.

Ivy remained still, her gaze fixed on the body.

"Could it be consensual?" she asked.

"Certainly," Shorr replied. "But it’s worth noting, given the missing credentials and the nature of his job. You asked if anything stood out medically. That stands out."

Ivy folded her arms, thinking.

Bell spoke up. "So he had a secret. Maybe someone used it against him."

"Maybe," Jenkins said. "Or maybe the secret’s got nothing to do with why he’s dead. But I want to know either way."

Shorr re-covered the body. "Toxicology’s pending. I’ll notify you when it’s back."

Jenkins turned to Ivy. "Your case now. Start digging. Find out who he was sleeping with, who knew about it, and what else he had access to."

Ivy nodded once. She didn’t need to ask why.

CHAPTER 14

Ana pulled up in front of Joe's hotel just before eight. The sun was already burning off the marine haze that rolled in overnight, casting sharp light across the plaza and the manicured front of the embassy-approved property.

Not flashy, but secure.

Just the way Treasury liked it.

Joe stood near the curb in his usual plain clothes—jeans, boots, light shirt, dark jacket. Back in D.C. it was pretty much expected to wear a dark suit and tie. But on assignment in Peru? The dress code was definitely relaxed.

He held two paper cups of coffee, steam curling up into the morning air. As Ana killed the engine and stepped out, he held one out to her.

She took it without a word, nodded once. "Thanks."

"Figured you take it black," Joe said.

“I do.”

She leaned against the hood for a second, watching the traffic filter past. The coffee was strong and bitter, the way she liked it. Unlike the American chains that had popped up all over the tourist districts, serving milk and sugar with a hint of coffee.

Joe waited. She wasn't one to rush into conversation. Behind her mirrored aviators, her eyes tracked a motorcycle weaving through traffic, followed by a police car that didn't bother to pursue.

Finally, she said, "I got a text last night. Unknown number. Said I should check out someone named Alvaro Torres. No details. Just a name, and an address in El Agustino."

“No idea who sent it?”

His fingers tightened slightly around his cup, leaving an impression in the cardboard. Last night's operation at the bar had been a bust, in more ways than one.

But Ana had struck up a conversation with the bartender while Joe was knocking people out.

"I gave the bartender my card, just in case, and showed him the photo of Sullivan. I didn't think he'd actually use it. But whoever sent the message knew I was there. And knew I'd take it seriously."

She took another long sip, her throat working under the collar of her crisp white shirt. Her badge and gun were concealed beneath her light blazer.

Joe sipped his coffee. "Could be a trap."

"Could be," Ana said. "But it's the first lead we've got. Torres has no priors. Not in our system. But El Agustino isn't exactly a suburb full of honest taxpayers." She pushed away from the hood of the vehicle, straightening her blazer with a practiced movement. “Ready?”

Joe gave a small nod. He crushed his empty cup in one hand, tossed it into a nearby receptacle.

They got in the 4x4, doors shutting with a hollow thump. Ana started the engine, and they pulled into traffic. The air conditioning struggled against the rising heat of the day, blowing lukewarm air.

The drive took them east, deeper into the concrete sprawl of Lima. The city changed slowly as they moved—boutique storefronts and mid-range cafes giving way to rusted gates, weathered stucco, and piles of sun-bleached trash along the edges of cracked sidewalks.

Painted political slogans flaked off the sides of apartment blocks. Promises of prosperity from candidates long forgotten.

Ana navigated the chaotic traffic with practiced ease, one hand on the wheel, the other resting near the gearshift. Motorcycle taxis swarmed around them like insects, honking and weaving between lanes. Street vendors pushed carts through gaps in traffic.

"So what’s your story, anyway? You said it was a long one and we have time.”

Joe looked out the window. “Military brat. Went to West Point and then into Army Intelligence. I was recruited by Treasury and decided rather than chasing criminals, I’d cut off their money. Without funds, the bad guys go out of business.”

A man with a squeegee approached the windshield, but a sharp look from Ana sent him moving to the next vehicle.

"They must think you’re capable.”

“Who?”

“Your bosses back in the US.”

“Why do you say that?”

“They only sent one agent.”

"Budget cuts," Joe said.

El Agustino had the look of a place that had stopped asking for help a long time ago. The streets narrowed. Dogs picked through garbage at corners. An old man leaned against a storefront, shirt unbuttoned, radio playing tinny salsa. He watched their vehicle pass with bloodshot eyes, tracking them until they turned the corner.

Children played in the street with a deflated soccer ball, scattering as the 4x4 approached.

Joe stayed quiet. He didn't need to be told this wasn't the kind of place Americans wandered into without a reason.

They turned, tires crunching over gravel and broken glass. Ahead, the buildings thinned. The city lost its density, becoming more skeletal—cinder block walls topped with broken glass, rusted rebar sticking from unfinished rooftops.

The address led them to the edge of a derelict industrial zone. One structure stood alone at the end of the street, an old warehouse or shipping depot, now mostly collapsed at one corner.

The paint had long peeled away. The windows were either boarded or smashed. Graffiti covered what was left of the doors. Gang tags, territorial markings.

Ana slowed the vehicle and let it roll to a stop. She cut the engine.

Joe looked out the window. He unclipped his seatbelt, letting it retract with a soft hiss.

The 4x4 idled in the silence, the city's noise fading behind them. In the distance, a church bell tolled nine times, the sound warped by the heat and concrete.

"You see that?" Ana murmured, nodding toward a flicker of movement behind one of the broken windows. A shadow shifting against shadow.

"Yeah." Joe said. "Someone's home."

CHAPTER 15

Ana stepped out of the vehicle and unclipped the small radio from her belt and checked the frequency—standard Peruvian National Police band. She turned off the volume.

Joe followed her across the lot. They moved together in silence. His mind flashed to Kandahar, another dusty corner of the world where no one knew what was going to happen.

The sun beat down mercilessly now, baking the concrete beneath their feet. Sweat trickled down Joe's back. The morning breeze had died, leaving the air thick and still. A dog barked somewhere in the distance.

They reached the entrance and the door creaked open at the lightest push. Inside, the place was dead quiet.

They slipped inside. Sunlight knifed through shattered windows high above, cutting across hanging wires and metal debris. The place smelled of mildew and rot, but also something fresher—plastic wrappers, old coffee.

Joe's nostrils flared at another scent. Cigarettes, or cigarillos.

The foyer was dusty and dirty and a sign on the elevator indicated it was out of order.

Water dripped somewhere in the darkness.

Joe gestured to a corner. A pile of food wrappers. A half-empty water bottle. A flattened sleeping mat. Recent.

He squatted down, running a finger along the edge of the newspaper. No dust.

Ana crouched and touched the mat with the back of her hand. "Still warm. Maybe a few hours." She reached for the water bottle, unscrewed the cap, and sniffed. "No mold. Fresh."

They moved deeper into the building until they found the stairs. Concrete, narrow, dark. A perfect ambush point. Joe's hand hovered near his weapon, thumb ready to release the safety.

Water had pooled at the bottom of the stairwell, reflecting fractured light from above. Each step left a momentary imprint that faded as the water settled again.

Joe led the way up, step by step, ears tuned to every creak and echo. The stairs groaned under his weight despite his careful tread.

The second floor was darker, but light shone through where the roof had partially collapsed. Dust motes swirled in the beams of sunlight, disturbed by their movement. The air was thinner up here, less stagnant. A breeze flowed through the broken windows, bringing with it the sound of distant traffic.

They reached a hallway with a row of rooms, most of them missing doors or crumbling at the edges. Graffiti covered the walls—some of it gang markings, but other symbols Joe didn't recognize. Arrows? Numbers? A code of some kind?

One door near the end of the corridor was intact. Closed. Newer than its surroundings—recently installed, or at least recently maintained. Someone had taken the time to secure that particular room.

Ana raised her hand. Joe covered her from the side as she knocked. The sound was jarring in the silence, deliberate and authoritative.

Silence.

She knocked again, sharper. The door vibrated slightly against its frame. The lock looked solid. Not standard issue for an abandoned building.

A soft creak. The door drifted open an inch. Unlocked.

Ana drew her weapon in one fluid motion. Joe followed suit, the Glock familiar in his grip.

They stepped inside, guns raised.

Empty.

The room had signs of recent habitation—a folding chair, an ashtray, a thin mattress on the floor. Cigarette butts filled the ashtray, still reeking. Minutes old, at most.

Joe did a quick sweep, then crossed to the window. The 4x4 was still parked out front, untouched. The street remained empty, the neighborhood eerily silent even for mid-morning. He was about to turn back when he saw something—not movement, but motion.

In a building across the wide lot, maybe two hundred yards away, a faint curl of smoke unfurled from an upper floor window. Not cigarette smoke. Something thicker. And behind it, a flash of movement. Metal catching sunlight.

Joe's stomach dropped. The shape was unmistakable. RPG launcher.

"Down!" he shouted.

He grabbed Ana and drove her to the ground, covering her body with his just as the distant building belched flame. The projectile streaked across the open space, a blur of deadly intent.

A second later, the RPG hit.

The explosion shredded the far side of the room with a deafening roar. Concrete split. Dust and rubble rained down in waves. Beams groaned. The blast knocked out the remaining windows, and shards cascaded around them. The floor beneath them bucked and shuddered like a living thing.

Joe gritted his teeth and took the brunt of the debris across his back. It felt like bricks slamming into him, but nothing sharp. His ears rang, the world momentarily reduced to a high-pitched whine and the thud of his own heartbeat. The taste of dust and cordite filled his mouth. He stayed low over Ana until the last of the rubble clattered to the ground.

The room was transformed—wall gone, floor tilting, ceiling threatening to collapse. Smoke billowed, choking and thick. Fire licked at exposed wiring.

"You good?" he asked, his voice sounding distant through the ringing in his ears.

Ana coughed, nodded. "You?"

He rolled off her, wincing as pain flared across his ribs.

They scrambled up, half-crawling, half-running back down the stairs, through the choking dust. The stairwell had partially collapsed, forcing them to leap the final section. Outside, the 4x4 was still where they left it, apparently untouched.

Joe jogged across the open lot, heading for the building where the smoke had come from. Ana followed, boots pounding the gravel.

They reached the far building—another warehouse, smaller, more intact. The door hung open. Inside, the smell of smoke from the RPG lingered.

They reached the far end, but Joe already knew it was too late.

A dark sedan peeled away from the opposite side of the building, tires squealing as it disappeared down a side road. Tinted windows. No plates.

Joe stopped, hands on his hips, catching his breath.

Ana caught up beside him, watching the dust trail in the distance.

"Bastards." Her voice was flat.

Joe nodded slowly.

“Thanks, by the way,” she said.

Joe said nothing.

They stood there in silence.

Ana holstered her weapon.

“This isn’t good,” she said.

“Yeah,” Joe replied. “Either someone’s been watching us this whole time…”

“Or?”

“Or, we have a leak.”

CHAPTER 16

From a dark window in the upper level of an abandoned apartment building, Roja watched the action through a pair of battered Soviet-era binoculars. The lenses were scratched at the edges, but the center remained clear enough for his purposes. His red hair was copper-bright even in the dim light.

His body barely moved as he tracked the distant 4x4 across the lot. The vehicle kicked up small clouds of dust as it rolled over the cracked asphalt.

Two of his men crouched beside him, quiet, still. They were hired killers, assassins, and they were known as The Ghosts.

He saw them—Reacher and Salas—exit the vehicle and head inside. Reacher towered beside her.

He gave it a full two minutes.

"Ahora," he whispered into his throat mic, the word barely audible even in the silence of their hiding place. Now.

Through the binoculars, Roja watched as a thin tendril of smoke rose.

The grenade launched.

Roja tracked its arc through the binoculars.

Impact.

The target building shuddered under the explosion, dust and debris rocketing into the sky, the sound reaching them a split second after the flash. A flock of pigeons erupted from a nearby rooftop, wings flapping frantically against the darkening sky. Flames licked the shattered concrete, orange-yellow tongues that greedily consumed anything flammable. One wall sagged, concrete and rebar exposed like an open wound, but didn't collapse.

Seconds later, he saw movement—two figures running from the wreckage. Still alive.

His mouth twisted, a slight downward curl.

He lowered the binoculars, sliding them into a weathered leather case with deliberate care.

"Let's go," he said.

Outside, an unmarked van waited, engine already running, driver's eyes fixed straight ahead.

Later, back in the darkened back room of his nightclub—the walls lined with red velvet that had seen better days, one overhead fan lazily slicing the air with squeaking blades—Roja sat behind a scarred wooden desk.

The surface was pitted with cigarette burns and old knife marks, a history of violence recorded in miniature. A glass of pisco sat untouched beside a pack of Gitanes. The blue cigarette pack stood out against the dark wood. The music from the front room pulsed faintly through the wall—driving reggaeton that made the glasses on the shelf behind him vibrate slightly with each bass hit.

The man who had fired the RPG stood before him, shoulders tight, clothes damp with sweat that had soaked through under his arms and around his collar.

Roja didn't say a word at first. He looked at the man for a long moment, then pulled open the drawer of the desk and took out a pistol. A black Tokarev, oiled and cold.

The man flinched, a small involuntary jerk of his shoulders. Roja stood slowly, chair scraping against the tiled floor. The sound seemed unnaturally loud in the tense silence.

The shooter opened his mouth to speak, excuses forming on his lips. His hand twitched upward in supplication.

Roja pulled the trigger. A single shot. Clean through the forehead. The report was deafening in the small room, the smell of cordite instantly filling the air.

The body hit the floor with a heavy, final thud.

Blood pooled across the tile, spreading outward in a widening circle, finding the grooves between tiles and following them.

Roja looked at the corpse, at the surprised expression forever frozen on the dead man's face, then said softly, in Spanish:

"¿Cómo carajos fallas con un RPG?"

How the hell do you miss with an RPG?

He tucked the Tokarev into his waistband, then reached for the untouched glass of pisco. He downed it in one swallow, the clear liquor burning a path down his throat.

PART FOUR

CHAPTER 17

Ivy Harper arrived at the Bureau of Engraving and Printing. The squat stone building along 14th Street looked as it always did: fortress-like, faceless, and humming with the business of printing billions of dollars.

She flashed her credentials at the front desk, signed the logbook, and waited for the duty officer to escort her inside. Ten minutes later, she was in a beige-walled conference room with coffee that tasted like printer toner and a man named Calhoun, Parker's immediate supervisor.

Calhoun was late fifties, bald, and wore a gray suit. He looked like he hadn't slept. Ivy got the sense he was shocked, confused and maybe even a little scared by the murder of one of his employees.

"We're all still processing it," he said, hands folded on the table. "Parker was a good guy. Reliable. Never any trouble."

Ivy opened her folder. "I'll need his personnel file, full access logs, and a list of all projects he was assigned to in the last ninety days."

Calhoun nodded and slid a manila folder across the table. "Already pulled the file. We're compiling the logs. Should have them by this afternoon."

"Any recent disciplinary issues? Changes in schedule? Did he request any unusual time off?"

"No."

Ivy made a note.

"I'd also like to go through his office," she said. "Desk, locker, anything with his name on it."

Calhoun hesitated. "We haven't touched it. You'll need to coordinate with our security officer."

"Already did," Ivy said, rising.

They walked through a maze of polished hallways and controlled-access doors until they reached Parker's office.

Ivy went to work.

She flipped through the desk drawers. Paper clips, sticky notes, a stapler.

She checked the wastebasket. Just wrappers and a crumpled memo from a senior print technician.

Then she turned to the file cabinets. One drawer held nothing but routine forms. The second drawer had print test sheets, some marked with red ink. One folder held what looked like alignment specs for a printing plate, with detailed notations on angle, pressure, and ink temperature.

She tagged those for review.

When she was done, she turned to the security officer waiting by the door. "Who saw him last before he left for the night?"

"That'd be Alvarez, the janitor. He was on duty that shift. Want me to bring him up?"

"Please."

Ten minutes later, Alvarez sat across from her in the same beige conference room. Mid-40s, clean uniform. Slightly nervous.

"I saw Mr. Parker when he left," he said. "He was his usual self."

"Did he say anything to you?"

"Just the usual."

“And that would be?”

“You know, good night, Mr. Parker. And then he would say goodnight and that was it.”

Ivy noted that. "Anything else unusual?"

Alvarez shook his head. "No, ma'am."

Next, she headed down to the security hub, where surveillance tapes were archived.

The department was essentially a windowless room deep in the building's basement, lit by the blue glow of two dozen monitors. A young woman with close-cropped hair sat at the main console, typing commands with practiced efficiency.

"Agent Harper?" The woman stood and offered her hand. "I’m Reynolds. Head of surveillance."

Ivy shook her hand. "Those tapes ready?"

Reynolds nodded toward a workstation in the corner. "Pulled everything from the last 72 hours. I've flagged Parker's movements for you."

She spent the next hour scanning through footage, taking notes on Parker's movements in the days before his death. Nothing jumped out at her.

The last video was of Parker leaving the building on what would turn out to be his last day of…anything.

“Run that back please,” Ivy said.

She watched as Parker put his keys, a pen and notebook into the little basket that didn’t go through the metal detector.

Odd, she thought. I didn’t see any pens that looked like that in his office.

Ivy tracked down the security guard who looked up at her with trepidation.

“Just one more question,” she said. “You said when Parker left it was the usual. What did he usually put in the little basket when he went through the metal detector?”

“Usually, his keys and wallet.”

“Did he have anything else last night?”

The security guard shrugged his shoulders. “I don’t really remember.”

“On the security footage, I saw he put a very thick pen and notepad in the basket.”

“Oh, yeah! That’s right. He did have that. I didn’t think much of it. Most people put pens, coins, all kinds of things in that tray.”

“Hmm, okay,” Ivy said.

She headed back upstairs where Calhoun was waiting for her outside the elevator.

"You said you wanted to see his locker,” he said.

“Yes.”

Calhoun led her to the staff area where rows of blue metal lockers lined the walls. Parker's was number 147. The security officer produced a bolt cutter, and the lock fell away with a sharp snap.

Inside was unremarkable: a spare tie, deodorant, protein bars.

Ivy closed the locker. "Is his home address in one of these?” she asked, holding up the folders Calhoun had given her.

“Yes, his personnel file has it.”

Ivy nodded. "Okay. I’ll let you know if I need anything else.”

Outside, the sunshine made her squint.

She climbed into her government-issue sedan, looked up Parker’s address, and headed out.

Calhoun had said Parker was married with children.

She thought about what the medical examiner had discovered.

Ivy was prepared to possibly have a very uncomfortable conversation.

CHAPTER 18

Joe stepped out of Ana's 4x4 in front of the U.S. Embassy, still brushing concrete dust from his sleeves. His back ached where the chunks of concrete—and who knew what else—had landed.

It wasn’t serious, just annoying.

Ana didn't say much. She just looked at him and said, "I have to file a report. And I'll have one of my telecom guys see what they can do about that number."

Joe nodded.

She pulled away, and he turned toward the secure entrance.

Inside, after two layers of ID checks, he was back in the embassy's secure wing. He wasn't planning on broadcasting the RPG incident beyond his immediate contacts—too many questions, too many bureaucrats eager to tell him to pack up and wait for clearance from Washington.

Instead, he headed straight for the resource room assigned to his task force. A windowless office with a government-issue desk, a phone line, and a secure terminal.

The terminal was clunky—a monochrome CRT monitor running text-based access protocols. It wasn't fast, and even though people were saying computers were going to change the world, Joe wasn’t so sure.

Besides, most foreign criminal records were stored locally, often still on paper. Embassy staff were responsible for inputting case data manually, and even then, what got entered was inconsistent.

Joe logged in and pulled up the limited Peruvian criminal registry the embassy had digitized. The system was basic, but functional enough for pattern searches.

He typed in the name: Alvaro Torres.

Dozens of hits. It was a common name. He narrowed the parameters.

Location: Lima. Approximate age range: 20–50. Any criminal history or employment ties.

That trimmed the list to seven. He scanned the summaries.

One was a petty thief in Lince. Another was a delivery driver with unpaid fines. The rest were noise.

Then one entry caught his eye.

Torres, Alvaro J.

Age: 37

Residence: El Agustino

Employment: Unknown

Known association: Name linked to past raids involving contraband but never charged.

No recent arrests. No photos. But the name had been flagged in a 1989 narcotics investigation. Not enough to make him guilty of anything, but enough to explain why someone might not want him found.

Joe jotted down the internal reference code, then picked up the secure line and called the local intel liaison embedded in the embassy's narcotics division.

"This is Reacher. I'm looking into a name—Alvaro J. Torres. Any chance your people have a file on him?"

The voice on the other end paused. "Hang on."

A few minutes passed. Then: "Yeah, we've heard the name before. Low-level facilitator. Not a boss. Moves goods, people, information. No one's pinned anything on him. He's smart. Disappears when things get hot."

Joe nodded to himself. "You got an address?"

"Not current. Last known was a mechanic shop near the river. Used as a front. We surveilled it a while back, but it went cold."

Joe took down the address anyway.

"Thanks."

He hung up and stared at the screen a moment.

Joe leaned back, flexed his sore shoulders, and began planning the next move.

The pain in his back was intensifying as the adrenaline wore off. He needed some anti-inflammatory pills and a good stiff drink.

The impacts from the blast debris had left scattered bruising across his back, nothing serious but uncomfortable enough to remind him with every movement.

He glanced at the clock on the wall. There was still plenty of time.

Joe pulled a first aid kit from the desk drawer - standard issue in every embassy office. He dry-swallowed two aspirin from the packet inside.

He returned to Sullivan's files. The dead agent's notes were meticulous in terms of locations, dates, suspected currency exchange points. Joe was looking for any mention of Torres or the mechanic shop.

Nothing explicit, but Sullivan had marked several locations in the river district for surveillance. One notation caught his eye: "El Rio area - multiple contact points, high traffic, minimal security presence."

Not a direct connection, but close enough to be worth investigating.

If he moved now, he might catch someone at the mechanic shop.

On his way out, he stopped at the motor pool desk.

"Need wheels," he told the duty clerk. "Something local."

The clerk barely looked up from his paperwork. "Sign here. Blue Nissan. Keys are in it."

Joe scrawled his signature and headed for the garage. The Nissan was old but serviceable, with dents and scratches that would help it blend in around the river district.

Perfect.

As he pulled out of the embassy compound, he kept his eyes on the mirrors, watching for tails.

The streets were crowded with midday traffic - taxis, buses belching black exhaust, motorcycles weaving between lanes.

He didn’t spot anyone following, but instincts told him someone had him under surveillance.

The bruises on his back were proof.

CHAPTER 19

As Joe drove, the river district transformed gradually. Wide avenues gave way to narrower streets, modern buildings to older buildings where men clustered on corners, watching passing cars with practiced indifference.

The mechanic shop was tucked between a concrete warehouse and what looked like an abandoned textile factory. The sign - "Taller Mecanico El Rio" - hung crookedly above a metal roll-up door. Three vehicles in various states of disrepair sat in the gravel lot, only one with all its tires.

Joe parked a block away, where the Nissan would be just another anonymous vehicle.

He pulled a baseball cap from his jacket pocket - Lima University, purchased from a street vendor his first day - and put it on, tugging the brim low. Not much of a disguise, but it would change his silhouette enough to buy a few seconds if someone was looking specifically for him.

The mechanic shop appeared quiet as Joe approached on foot, keeping to the areas where pedestrian traffic provided cover. A dog slept in the shade near the entrance, too thin, ribs visible through its patchy coat. No one moved inside the open bay doors.

He circled once, noting exits, blind spots, potential cover.

Finally, he approached directly, adopting the slightly irritated posture of a tourist with car trouble. A bell jingled as he pushed open the side door.

The interior was dimly lit and cluttered - tools scattered across workbenches, parts shelves overflowing with dusty inventory. The air smelled of oil, metal, and stale cigarette smoke.

A man emerged from the back room, wiping his hands on a rag that might once have been white. Mid-thirties, stocky build, dark hair with premature gray at the temples. Eyes that assessed Joe instantly, categorizing him as a foreigner.

"¿Sí?" The man's tone was neutral, but his posture had tensed slightly.

Joe opted for direct approach. "Torres?" he asked.

The man's expression didn't change, but something shifted in his eyes - recognition, followed by wariness.

"Quien pregunta?" Who's asking?

Joe kept his hands visible, non-threatening.

"No conozco a ningún Torres," he said, but the lie was transparent.

"Are you sure?” Joe asked. The man was lying.

"I fix cars. That's all."

Joe took a calculated risk. "Someone tried to kill me this morning. Used Torres as bait."

That got a reaction - a flicker of genuine surprise.

"I don't know anything about that.”

Joe said nothing.

The man set down his rag, eyes never leaving Joe. "You should go."

"Not until we talk."

The man glanced at the door again. "Not here."

Joe nodded once. "Where?"

The man disappeared through the rear door without waiting for Joe.

Following, Joe stepped through the rear door into a small, fenced yard littered with engine blocks and rusting car frames. The mechanic stood near a stack of tires, smoking a cigarette, eyes tracking Joe's every movement.

"You're stupid to come here," Torres said, blowing smoke into the humid air. "They're watching everywhere."

"Who's watching?"

"Everyone. Police. Gangs. Men who work for people you don't want to meet."

"Like the people who tried to kill me?"

"All I know is the man you’re looking for is rumored to be working with some very bad people."

It wasn't all he knew, and they both knew it.

"And?"

Joe studied the man, reading the tension in his shoulders, the way his eyes kept drifting to the corners of the yard.

"There's more," Joe said.

The man was silent for a long moment, weighing his options.

Finally, he said, “There is a nightclub where they all hang out. That’s where he’ll probably be.”

Joe nodded.

“Listen, gringo, you go there, you won’t make it out alive.”

“We’ll see.”

"You should go. Now. Someone's coming."

Joe heard it then - the low rumble of an approaching vehicle, tires crunching on gravel.

The man was already moving toward a gap in the fence. "Don't come back," he said over his shoulder.

Joe watched him slip through the opening and disappear between buildings before turning back toward the shop. Whoever was arriving, he'd rather face them head-on than be caught in the yard.

He moved quickly through the back room - empty except for a small desk and filing cabinet - and into the main shop area. Through the front windows, he saw a black SUV pulling up outside, tinted windows obscuring the occupants.

Time to go.

Joe exited through the side door, keeping the building between himself and the SUV. He circled wide, using parked vehicles and concrete barriers as cover, making his way back toward where he'd left the Nissan.

As he slipped into the driver's seat, he caught movement in the rearview mirror - three men entering the mechanic shop, their posture suggesting they weren't there for an oil change.

Joe started the engine and pulled away, driving unhurried, just another car in Lima's endless traffic.

He needed to talk to Ana.

Ask her if she wanted to go clubbing with him.

CHAPTER 20

The drive out to Parker's address took Ivy through a stretch of quiet, tree-lined neighborhoods in the Virginia suburbs—comfortable, upper-middle class, the kind of place where people kept their lawns trimmed and their fences repainted.

It didn't look like the home of a man with secrets.

But Ivy had been through enough to know better.

The house was a brick colonial with blue shutters and a narrow front porch. A children's bicycle lay on its side in the driveway. The curtain in the front window twitched slightly as she pulled up.

She knocked once. After a few moments, the door opened.

The woman who greeted her looked hollowed out—shoulders sagging, eyes bloodshot. Her blond hair was pulled back in a loose ponytail, and she wore jeans and a sweatshirt.

"Mrs. Parker? I'm Ivy Harper. Treasury Department. May I come in?"

The woman nodded silently and stepped aside.

The house was quiet. Ivy could hear the faint murmur of a television in another room. A wine glass sat on the coffee table, half full.

They sat in the living room. No photos had been taken down yet. A wedding picture stood on the mantel, alongside school portraits of two young children.

Ivy studied Thomas Parker. Not a bad-looking man.

"I won't take much of your time," Ivy said gently. "I know you've spoken with the local police. I just had a few questions related to Thomas's work."

Mrs. Parker nodded, then took a small sip of wine. "I understand."

"I don't want to pry," Ivy said, "but did he ever mention anything unusual? Stress at work? Concerns about security or pressure from outside contacts?"

The woman stared into her glass. "He was a quiet man. Not secretive, exactly. But he didn't always talk about work. I thought it was just part of the job."

"Did you notice any recent changes in his behavior?"

She hesitated. "No.”

Ivy caught the hesitation. “Anything unusual about his routine?”

The woman sighed. “Sometimes... he worked late. Not often, but occasionally. And once in a while he would have a conference. But one time, a year or two ago—he told me he was in Baltimore for a training. But something didn't sit right, so I called the hotel where he said he was staying. It was where the conference was being held. But the front desk said the only conference was for a union of chicken farmers."

"Did you confront him?"

"No," she said, shaking her head. "I didn't want to. I didn't want to know. We had a good life. He was a good father. Whatever that other thing was—whatever he was doing—I figured it was his burden to bear."

"Did he ever mention anyone specifically?"

She shook her head. "No. He would always say the same thing: 'Just work people.'"

Ivy scribbled a note, but didn't push further.

Mrs. Parker looked at her for a long time. "I always thought I knew who he was. But after the police came to the door, I realized... maybe I didn't. Or at least, maybe I didn't know him…totally."

Ivy stood. "I appreciate your time. If you remember anything, even something small, please call me."

She handed over her card.

As she walked back to the car, Ivy glanced once more at the house. From the outside, it still looked perfect.

But now she knew: Parker had been living a double life.

And it had finally caught up with him.

CHAPTER 21

The loft was nothing special from the outside—just another old industrial space off a forgotten street in northeast Baltimore, across from an empty rail spur and a boarded-up warehouse. But inside, the transformation was underway.

Bright overhead lights hummed against a ceiling of exposed beams. Tables had been brought in, long workbenches laid with precision tools, calipers, chemical baths, and a thick stack of imported cotton-linen blend paper.

Boxes lined the wall, each one labeled with different codes.

Leila stepped through the main doorway.

With her was the man she’d just seen shoot Thomas Parker in the head. His name, or at least the one she used for him, was Foster. He was thin, rarely spoke and was prone to disappear, yet somehow, he was always there when she needed him.

The man waiting at the central table was already pulling on latex gloves. Late twenties, wiry, glasses perched low on his nose. He wore a short-sleeved dress shirt and tie like he was a professor in a laboratory, which wasn’t far from the truth. They called him Trigg.

Leila didn't speak until she was close enough to hand over the pen. "It's inside. You know what to do."

Trigg took the pen with something like reverence. He unscrewed it, pulled out the microfilm capsule, and cradled it as if it were made of glass.

He walked quickly to a small light box at the corner table and set the microfilm in place. He adjusted a lens, leaned over the table, and squinted.

Several minutes passed.

"Jesus Christ..." he whispered. "This is the new redesign."

"You can replicate it?"

Trigg stood straight. "With the right plate metal and substrate, yes. We'll need to fabricate a new die. Might take a little time. But once we do, it'll pass. Even under light. Even at banks."

Leila crossed to the far wall where a massive drafting board had been set up. Taped to it were schematics—bank layouts, security protocols, timing diagrams. She traced her finger over one of them, feeling the raised ink.

Behind her, Trigg had already begun unpacking specialized equipment from foam-lined cases. A microscope with digital imaging capabilities sat beside a modified printing press.

The heavy machine had been disassembled and reassembled on site over the course of four nights. Not a single part had come from the same supplier.

Foster moved silently to the window, his reflection ghostly in the glass.

"How long until we need the paper?" Leila asked, her voice cutting through the quiet hum of the fluorescent lights.

Trigg didn't look up from his work. "A few days, probably. The chemical treatment needs to cure properly. Can't rush that part." His fingers moved with surgical precision as he mounted the microfilm and began capturing high-resolution images.

"The Treasury uses a proprietary blend of cotton and linen. We've got the same thing. It’ll pass anything short of a federal lab test, and it might even fool that."

Leila turned away and walked across the loft, past the high tables and supply crates, to a rolling steel door that separated the work area from a smaller office space. She stepped inside and closed the door behind her.

A rotary phone sat on the desk. It was wired to a dedicated trunk line that ran through a patchwork of stolen telecom lines in three different states.

The room was spartan—just the desk, a metal filing cabinet, and a corkboard covered with newspaper clippings. Market reports. Political developments. The wall calendar was marked with red X's—a countdown.

She dialed a number from memory. There was a long pause and then a single click.

A man answered. "Yes?"

"We have the material."

"Confirmed usable?"

"Trigg says yes. It will take a few days, but he's confident."

There was silence on the line.

Then the voice said, "Proceed."

The line went dead.

PART FIVE

CHAPTER 22

The narrow street in front of the nightclub was dense with parked cars.

Joe sat in the passenger seat of Ana's 4x4, parked half a block down in the shadows between two broken streetlights. He held a thermos of strong Peruvian coffee in one hand - the kind that could strip paint - and a grainy surveillance photo in the other.

The steam rising from his thermos fogged the edges of the window as he studied the image.

"That him?" Ana asked.

Joe angled the photo toward her, catching what little light filtered through the windshield. The man in the picture had a gaunt face, sharp cheekbones, and ears that stuck out just enough to be memorable. "Yeah. That's Torres. Embassy photo, about two years old. Not much to go on, but the ears and chin match."

He had already filled in Ana on his trip to the mechanic’s shop, and the information that resulted. Ana hadn’t been happy about not being included, but they both knew it wouldn’t have been practical.

Now, they both watched as the man in question moved quickly through the club's front entrance, his shoulders hunched against the drizzle that had started up again. The doorman - a mountain of a man in a too-tight black t-shirt - barely acknowledged him with a subtle nod.

"He’s a regular," Ana muttered, shifting in her seat to get a better angle on the entrance.

Joe took a slow sip of coffee.

The cab of the 4x4 fell quiet, save for the soft patter of rain on the roof and the muffled thump of music. The occasional gust of wind stirred trash on the sidewalk - empty bottles, cigarette packs, a torn lottery ticket that danced briefly before settling in a puddle.

In the rearview mirror, Joe spotted a couple arguing loudly in front of a 24-hour market, their voices sharp with alcohol, then watched as they staggered arm in arm into the night, their fight forgotten as quickly as it had started.

Ana leaned back in the driver's seat, the leather creaking softly. Her fingers drummed an unconscious rhythm on the steering wheel. "This place used to be a shoe factory," she said, her eyes never leaving the club entrance. "Before the clubs came in. Before the gangs."

Joe glanced at her, noting the tightness around her eyes. "Did you grow up around here?"

She nodded, a strand of dark hair falling across her face. "Yeah. Grew up maybe four miles from this spot. My mother made sure I stayed in school. Kept me away from places like this." She gestured toward the club with her chin. "I didn't want to be a cop, but...someone else gave me the motivation to make that decision."

The words hung in the air between them. Joe didn't say anything right away.

“How about you?” she asked.

"My dad was military," he said. "Army bases all over. Japan, Germany, Guam. Everywhere but Peru."

"That where you learned to fight?"

Joe shrugged. "Mostly fighting my brother.”

“Who won?”

“Pretty even.”

“Is he tall like you?”

“He’s a hair shorter, but twenty pounds heavier. All of it muscle.”

The beat from the club pulsed through the air, the thump of bass steady and relentless.

People came and went through the club's entrance. Mostly men in expensive shirts untucked over designer jeans. A few women in tight dresses that seemed to defy both gravity and the damp weather, their heels clicking rapid staccatos on the pavement. Some patrons stumbled out laughing, clutching each other for support.

But Torres didn't come back out.

At one point, a nondescript white van pulled into the alley beside the club. No markings. Dark windows. The back door opened briefly as two men carried what looked like supply crates inside.

Joe leaned forward, squinting through the drizzle-spotted windshield.

"Did you see him?" Ana asked, her hand instinctively moving toward her sidearm.

Joe shook his head. "No. Just boxes. Probably liquor."

They continued to watch the club and the alley, watching as shadows shifted in the dim space between buildings. Joe glanced at his watch. The luminous hands showed nearly 3 a.m.

Ana checked her pistol, sliding it partially from its holster before settling it back with a practiced motion, then glanced at him. "We could go in."

Joe shook his head, his eyes scanning the street for any sign of additional surveillance. "Not tonight. Not without backup or a solid exit. Too many unknowns."

They settled back into their watch, the coffee long gone cold.

By 4:00, the club began to empty in earnest. Staff in black polo shirts started dragging heavy trash bags to the curb, the plastic straining with the weight of empty bottles. A man in rubber boots appeared with a hose, methodically washing down the sidewalk, sending cigarette butts and bottle caps flowing into the gutter.

"No Torres," Ana said.

Joe tossed the rest of his coffee out the window, watching as it mixed with the runoff from the hose. "Let's call it. Either he's passed out in there or he's long gone."

Ana started the engine, the 4x4 rumbling to life. Joe gave the club one last look as they pulled away from the curb. The alley was empty again, just another dark space between buildings.

They drove into the fading dark, the city silent around them except for the occasional distant siren and the lonely bark of a street dog.

The next morning, Joe was up early and back at his desk in the embassy.

He’d been working for less than an hour when Ana called.

"Turns out Torres did leave the club.”

Joe waited.

“Want to know where he ended up?”

“Yeah.”

“Hanging from a telephone pole. I’ll pick you up in ten.”

Less than a half hour later, they stood beneath the body. Torres hung by the wrists from a wooden utility pole, his arms stretched above him in a grotesque parody of surrender. His head slumped forward, chin against his chest, his naked body soaked with blood that had dried to the color of old wine.

His face was a mess - jaw shattered, hanging at an impossible angle. One eye missing, the socket a dark cavity. Tongue gone, cut out with surgical precision.

The rest of him had been slashed and burned, probably with cigarette butts or a blow torch.

The flies had already started to gather, their buzzing adding a surreal soundtrack to the scene.

A local cop stood nearby, smoking a cigarette, looking bored.

Joe stepped in close, careful to avoid the blood that had collected beneath the body, inspecting the ropes.

"They made an example of him,” Ana said.

Joe nodded.

They stared in silence for a long time, the weight of failure settling over them like Lima's perpetual fog.

CHAPTER 23

Ivy slid behind the wheel but didn't start the engine immediately. She watched the Parker house through the windshield, thinking. The details never quite aligned in cases like this. The perfect family home. The respected government position. The careful compartmentalization of a life.

A blue station wagon turned into the driveway of the house next door. A middle-aged woman got out, carrying groceries. She glanced at Ivy's government sedan with barely concealed curiosity before heading inside. Neighbors would know things, possibly.

But that was a step for later. Right now, Ivy had other leads to follow.

She started the car and pulled away from the curb, watching the Parker house recede in her rearview mirror. Two blocks down, she pulled over again and flipped open her notebook. She needed to organize what she knew and what she suspected.

Facts: Thomas Parker was dead. Shot execution-style in a parking lot. No robbery. Treasury credentials missing. Medical evidence of a secret sex life.

Questions: Who killed him? Why take only his credentials? Was he targeted for his position at the Bureau of Engraving and Printing? Was his personal life connected to his death, or just a coincidence?

The thick pen caught her attention again. Security footage had shown Parker placing it in the metal detector tray. Reynolds, the surveillance chief, had confirmed it wasn't in his personal effects when the body was found. It wasn't in his office or locker either.

A custom-looking fountain pen. Expensive, possibly. She made a note to check his financials—see if there was a purchase record.

Her next stop was the shopping center where Parker's body had been found. The scene itself would be processed already, but she wanted to get a feel for the location.

The drive took her into a part of Alexandria that had seen better days. The shopping center was anchored by a discount department store, with a row of smaller businesses along one side—nail salon, tax preparer, Chinese take-out. The lot was half-empty even in the middle of the afternoon.

Ivy parked near where Parker's body had been discovered. Crime scene tape still fluttered from a nearby light pole, though the actual evidence had been cleared away. She got out and walked the area, trying to reconstruct the sequence.

Parker's car had been found here. He'd been shot here. But why meet in this location? It wasn't near his home or office. Not the kind of place someone like Parker would normally frequent.

She approached one of the nearby stores—a liquor shop with bars on the windows and faded advertisements taped to the glass.

Inside, a middle-aged man with thinning hair stood behind the counter, reading a newspaper.

"Help you?" he asked without looking up.

Ivy showed her badge. "Treasury. I'm investigating the shooting that happened in your parking lot night before last."

That got his attention. He folded the paper carefully. "Already talked to the cops."

"I know. Just following up. Were you working that night?"

"Till closing. Ten o'clock."

"Notice anything unusual? People hanging around, cars parked too long?"

He shrugged. "Normal night. Steady business. Nothing strange until I heard the sirens later."

"Any security cameras covering the lot?"

"One." He pointed to a corner of the ceiling where a camera was mounted. "But it only covers the store entrance. Lot's too big."

Ivy nodded, unsurprised. "Mind if I take a look at the footage anyway?"

The man hesitated, then shrugged again. "System only keeps three days before recording over. Police already took a copy."

"I'd still like to see it."

He led her to a small back office cluttered with inventory sheets and empty cigarette cartons. A small TV monitor sat on a desk, connected to a VCR with a built-in time/date stamp.

"Got to rewind it," he muttered, pressing buttons.

The tape whirred backward, images flickering in reverse—customers entering and leaving, cars pulling up, the day cycling backward.

"Stop there," Ivy said.

The man hit play. For several minutes, nothing happened. A few customers came and went. Cars moved through the edges of the frame.

Then, a car pulled into view at the far edge of the camera's range—a dark sedan, make and model unclear at that distance. It stopped, lights off.

"Can you zoom in?"

"This ain't the FBI," the man said. "What you see is what you get."

Ivy leaned closer to the screen. A figure—tall, slim—got out of the car and walked out of frame. The angle made it impossible to see more.

Four minutes later, a second car appeared—Parker's Honda Accord. It parked several spaces away from the first vehicle, still within the camera's limited view.

Parker got out. He stood by his car for a moment, then walked toward the area where the first person had gone.

That was the last the camera captured of him alive.

Seven minutes later, a flash of light reflected off something metallic—possibly from a gunshot, though it was impossible to tell for sure.

One minute after that, the first car pulled away, driving fast enough that the image blurred slightly.

Ivy asked for a copy of the tape. The man shrugged and ejected it.

"Police got the original. This is my working copy. Need it back."

"You'll get it back," Ivy assured him, signing a receipt.

Outside again, she walked the path she imagined Parker had taken. From his car to the spot where he was found. The killer had chosen well—a section of the lot far from the stores, poorly lit, with no direct sight lines from the businesses.

Parker had been murdered by someone who knew what they were doing. Someone professional.

And that ruled out a random robbery or a crime of passion.

Back in her car, Ivy considered her next move. She needed to track the missing pen, examine Parker's financial records, and check if he'd had any unusual interactions at work in the days before his death.

She started the engine. The Bureau of Engraving and Printing employed over 2,000 people, but only a handful would have had Parker's level of access.

As she pulled away from the shopping center, her mind circled back to Mrs. Parker, sitting alone in that perfect house with her half-empty wine glass. How much had she really known about her husband?

And how much had Thomas Parker known about whoever killed him?

The answers were out there. Ivy just had to find them before the trail went cold.

CHAPTER 24

The conference room on the third floor of the U.S. Embassy felt like a pressure cooker. No windows, recycled air, and too many bodies packed around a table designed for eight but currently seating twelve. The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, casting everyone in an unflattering pallor.

Joe sat at one end, Ana beside him. Across the table: two Embassy security officers, a DEA liaison named Carpenter, three senior officials from the Peruvian National Police, and the Embassy's Deputy Chief of Mission, Harold Stenson. A secure speakerphone squatted in the center of the table.

"Let me get this straight," Stenson said, adjusting his wire-rimmed glasses. "You’ve been investigating without backup, without notifying the Embassy, and without coordinating with local authorities?"

Joe glanced at Ana. Technically, she was the local authority he was coordinating with. But he said nothing.

Stenson’s voice had that particular State Department cadence—measured, diplomatic, and angry beneath the surface.

"We were following a lead," Joe said. “There wasn’t time to call a meeting.”

"A lead that got your target tortured and hanged from a telephone pole," said Captain Morales of the PNP. He was a thick-set man with a neat mustache and dark, hooded eyes. "In my district."

The speakerphone crackled. "This is Jenkins. Can someone explain to me the point of this meeting?"

Joe leaned forward. "Sir–"

Ana shifted in her seat. "If I may speak⁠—"

"Please," Stenson said with exaggerated courtesy.

"Agent Reacher and I were conducting preliminary surveillance based on information received. Standard procedure would have required multiple approvals, during which time our target could have disappeared."

"He disappeared anyway," Morales said. "After being skinned alive."

The room fell silent except for the air conditioning's hum.

Stenson cleared his throat. "Moving forward, there will be changes. First, all operations require prior approval from this office. No exceptions."

Joe kept his face neutral.

"Second," Stenson continued, "you'll have a security detail assigned. Two Embassy guards."

"That's not necessary," Joe said.

"It wasn't a request. Third, you will check in every day. Fourth, all evidence and leads will be shared with the joint task force within twenty-four hours of discovery."

"The task force that didn't exist until an hour ago?" Joe asked.

Stenson's jaw tightened. "The task force that now exists because you've managed to stir up enough trouble to concern multiple agencies and governments."

Jenkins' voice came through the speaker: "Joe, what were you going to say?”

“We’re going to follow the money, it’s what we do best. I’m still reviewing every counterfeit bill Sullivan found. Every bank, every exchange house, every casino. We are mapping the network. It’s going to take some time."

"Understood," Jenkins said.

"Detective Salas," Morales said, "you will coordinate with Agent Reacher but report to me. We cannot have American cowboys—pardon the expression—operating without oversight in our city."

Ana nodded stiffly.

Carpenter, the DEA liaison, finally spoke up. "We've been tracking increased cash movements through Lima for months. Suspected cartel activity. There's probably overlap with your counterfeit operation."

"Probably?" Joe asked.

"The cartels are always looking for new ways to launder money. Perfect counterfeits would be a dream come true."

Stenson stood. "You have your assignments. Agent Reacher, Detective Salas—try not to get anyone else killed this week."

After the meeting broke up, Joe and Ana walked to the Embassy parking garage.

"Security detail," Ana muttered.

"We'll lose them when we need to," Joe said.

"You think there's a leak."

It wasn't a question.

"Torres was ready to talk. Someone knew we were getting close."

Ana stopped at her 4x4. "So we feed different information to different people. See what comes back."

Joe looked at her. "Exactly what I was thinking."

"Where do we start?"

"Sullivan's notes mentioned several banks reporting suspicious hundreds. We'll hit those first. Make it look like we're being good soldiers, following the money trail."

"While actually doing what?"

"Watching to see who's watching us."

Ana almost smiled. "I'm starting to understand why they sent you."

"Yeah?"

"You don't trust anybody."

"In this business, trust is how you end up hanging from a telephone pole."

They got in the vehicle. As Ana started the engine, Joe noticed a black sedan pull into the garage. Their security detail.

"Let's make their job easy today," he said. "Tomorrow we'll see how good they really are."

Ana glanced in the rearview mirror. "And then?"

"We go full cowboy."

CHAPTER 25

The warehouse reeked of chemicals—acetone, benzene, and something else that made Leila's eyes water. She stood over Trigg's shoulder as he hunched at the workbench, his hands trembling slightly as he adjusted the microscope. Sweat beaded on his forehead despite the December chill seeping through the walls.

"How much longer?" she asked.

Trigg didn't look up. "The paper's right. The ink's right. But the microscopic security features..." He trailed off, adjusting the focus. "They're not taking. Something about the plate alignment."

Leila checked her watch. She needed to make a call. The man on the other end of the line didn’t accept excuses. The last person who'd disappointed him was found in pieces across three states.

She walked to the window, looking out at the Baltimore winter. Gray sky, gray buildings, gray streets. Like the refugee camps where she'd spent her teens, watching American planes overhead, dropping bombs on one faction while arming another. Watching her brother die from a missile attack that came out of nowhere.

Always wars, always money flowing to dictators and death squads while politicians made speeches about democracy.

She'd learned young that the only way to fight money was with money.

"Trigg," she said without turning around, "do you know why we picked you for this job?"

He looked up from his microscope. "My background in polymer chemistry?"

"Because you have an ailing mother in Cleveland who needs expensive treatments." She turned to face him. "And a gambling problem that's left you sixty thousand in debt to some very unpleasant people in Atlantic City."

The color drained from his face.

Trigg's hands shook harder now. "Please, I needed⁠—"

"You need to understand something." Leila's voice was soft, almost gentle. "We own you. Do you want those men in Atlantic City to get your current address? Or, well, you know what else can happen to you?”

Tears welled in his eyes.

"Now," she said, "you have twelve hours to solve this plate alignment issue. Not thirteen. Not twelve and a half. Twelve."

Trigg nodded frantically.

"Good." She headed for the door.

Outside, the cold air bit at her face. She'd learned long ago that conscience was a luxury, like clean water or honest government. In the real world, there were only objectives and obstacles.

She drove to a pay phone a mile away, dropped in some coins, and dialed.

"Yes?"

"Minor technical delays. Nothing significant,” she said.

"You realize the timeline hasn't changed. And that it never will change."

"I understand."

"Get it done so we can begin distribution."

"We'll be ready."

The line went dead.

Leila hung up and walked back toward her car.

She started the vehicle and headed back to the warehouse.

That deadline was going to be met, she thought.

Or she, Trigg and Foster would all end up at the bottom of a river somewhere.

CHAPTER 26

The Banco Nacional del Perú stood like a fortress on Avenida Larco, its art deco facade weathered but dignified. Joe and Ana entered through heavy bronze doors, their assigned security detail—two embassy guards—trailing at what they pretended was a discreet distance.

The bank manager was expecting them. Silver-haired and immaculate in his three-piece suit, he led them to his office on the second floor.

"We understand you've reported suspicious hundred-dollar bills," Joe said.

"Several, yes." The manager spread photographs across his desk. "Perfect forgeries. We only caught them because the serial numbers were sequential."

"Who deposited them?"

He consulted his files. "Multiple businesses. Restaurants, import companies. This one—Comercial Pacífico—made several large deposits."

"Can you trace where their funds went after deposit?" Ana asked.

The manager hesitated. "Banking privacy laws..."

"This is a murder investigation," she said quietly.

He sighed and picked up his phone. "Bring up the Comercial Pacífico files. Yes, all the transfer records from the last six months." He hung up and looked at them. "This will take a few minutes."

They waited in silence until a young clerk arrived with two cardboard boxes. She set them on the manager's desk and left without a word.

The manager put on his reading glasses and began sorting through the files. "Ah, here we are. Comercial Pacífico." He pulled out several folders. "After each deposit, funds were wire-transferred to... let me see..." He flipped through pages of carbon copies. "Various offshore accounts.”

"Never heard of it," Ana said.

"One of hundreds of shell companies down there," the manager replied.

Joe noticed a photograph on the credenza—the banker in military dress uniform, younger, standing with other officers.

"You served?"

"Years ago. Before the reforms."

Joe studied the photo. In the background stood a younger officer with distinctive features. Something about him seemed familiar.

The manager handed over some of the pages. "The funds were transferred mostly through Servicios Globales S.A. in Panama."

They thanked him and left. Outside, their security detail waited by the car.

Back at the embassy, Joe spread the banking documents across a conference table. The pattern was clear: counterfeit bills deposited through legitimate businesses, then quickly transferred offshore.

"Look at this," Ana said, pointing to a name that appeared repeatedly in the transfers. "General M. Rivera. He's listed as a board member of Servicios Globales."

"Military?"

"Intelligence division. Very powerful. In fact, some claim he’s running the country."

Joe remembered something. "Sullivan had a note in his files. Just two words: 'The Ghosts.'"

"There are rumors," Ana said carefully, "about a special unit that answers only to certain generals. They handle... sensitive matters."

"Like murdering American agents?"

She didn't answer.

Joe gathered the papers.

"Rivera has resources we can't imagine," Ana said.

“We have something better,” Joe said.

“What?”

“He sounds like a bully.”

“So?”

“Reachers eat bullies for breakfast.”

PART SIX

CHAPTER 27

Ivy sat at her desk. A half-empty cup of coffee was next to a stack of notes she'd already read three times. Her eyes burned from staring at the same pages for hours, black text blurring against white paper until the words seemed to swim.

The desk itself was standard government-issue—metal with a fake wood veneer that was chipping at the corners. They'd moved her in after the last case, a promotion in title but not much in space. Still, it was hers.

As was the Parker investigation.

The problem was, Parker's financials were clean. That much she was sure of. No strange deposits. No late-night ATM withdrawals. No wire transfers. The man had lived like a textbook federal employee—until someone blew his brains out in a mall parking lot.

She flipped through the call logs from his office line again. Nothing. Not even a call to his wife during the day. That much wasn’t a surprise. If you worked for a sensitive part of the government, odds were, you wouldn’t use the office phone to set up an affair.

Ivy took a gulp of cold coffee, grimacing at the bitter taste. She'd been at it since seven that morning, and the clock now showed almost two in the afternoon. Outside her office, the Treasury Department hummed along, but in here, she was trying to piece together a dead man's secrets.

The Parker file lay open before her: employee evaluation (exemplary), attendance record (perfect), security clearance renewals (on time, no flags). The man was a model government employee.

She rubbed her temples. The headache that had started as a dull throb behind her eyes was blossoming into something more insistent.

Ivy leaned back in her chair and looked at the ceiling. "No way he didn't slip somewhere," she said quietly. "Everyone slips."

Her gaze fell on the autopsy report. Clinical language describing caliber, entry wound, exit pattern. Then that other detail—evidence of sexual activity. Male escort? Personal relationship? Blackmail leverage? The pieces didn't fit yet, but they were all part of the same puzzle.

She stood, stretching muscles stiff from sitting too long. The wall behind her desk had become an improvised investigation board. Photos of Parker—alive at his desk, dead in the parking lot. The missing pen. The preliminary ballistics report indicating a professional hit. Crime scene photos showing the precise position of his body—no defensive wounds, no signs of struggle. He'd known his killer or at least hadn't feared them.

A few minutes later, she walked to the wall map near the back of her office, where she'd started marking key points: Parker's house, the BEP, the shopping center where he died. Then she traced a finger around the block surrounding the Bureau of Engraving and Printing, considering the routines of a man who had worked there for years.

The building itself was a fortress—cameras, guards, metal detectors, badge readers. But people still had to enter and exit. Still had to eat lunch. Still had to make personal calls away from office phones that might be monitored.

She grabbed her legal pad and scribbled: No personal calls. No trail. Pay phones?

It wasn't much, but it was something. A thread to pull.

Back at her desk, she picked up the phone and called Facilities. The phone rang three times before someone answered.

"Facilities."

"This is Agent Ivy Harper, Treasury. I need a list of all public pay phones within three blocks of the Bureau, particularly any that fall under heightened security zones."

The guy on the other end hesitated. "Uh, I can get you a facilities grid, but you'll need to go through Security for the logs."

"I'll take the grid, then, ASAP.”

"Yes, ma'am. I'll send it over."

Fifteen minutes later, she had a faxed map with eight pay phones marked around the perimeter of the BEP. The paper was still warm from the machine, the ink slightly smudged at one corner.

She circled two that were directly adjacent to federal property lines—phones that might have fallen under extended retention protocols for security monitoring.

She made another call, this time to the Office of Protective Operations. The phone rang longer this time before a woman with a nasal voice answered.

"OPO."

"It's Harper from Treasury Enforcement. I need outbound call logs for two pay phones outside the Bureau of Engraving," she said. "Specifically the northeast corner unit on D Street and the west entrance near the old postal annex."

"Hmm," the voice said. "Those aren't tied into secure lines."

"Not asking for wiretaps. Just outbound logs. And only for the last two months. I'll send the phone numbers."

"I'll see what I can do. No promises on how fast."

"As fast as you can do it, that’s when I need it."

Ivy hung up and checked her watch. She should eat something, but the thought of food made her stomach turn. Instead, she pulled out Parker's personnel file again and began to read between the lines. Married. Two children. Mortgage nearly paid off. Pension vesting.

The life of a man with something to lose.

An hour later, another fax came in for her.

They were printouts—pages of numbers, times, dates. Raw data.

The D Street phone had nothing unusual. Calls all over the city, no patterns. But the second one—the one closest to the BEP's northeast corner—had a different rhythm.

The same number. Over the course of two months.

Always around lunchtime. Usually on Tuesdays.

She flipped back to Parker's file, pulling out his timesheet records. He always clocked out for lunch at exactly 12:30 on Tuesdays. Every Tuesday, like clockwork. She checked the building exit logs—northeast entrance, 12:33 p.m., Tuesdays.

Ivy's pulse quickened slightly. This was it—the slip. The one mistake in an otherwise perfect operational security routine.

She picked up the outbound number and ran it through the terminal connecting to Treasury’s mainframe. Nothing. DOJ? Nothing. IRS? Nothing.

Frustration gnawed at her. The number was a dead end in official channels, which meant it wasn't connected to any federal investigation or known criminal enterprise.

But someone was answering that number, and Parker had called them regularly.

She opened her Rolodex and dialed a number she hadn't used in months. The card was dog-eared, coffee-stained, but the number was still legible. An old friend from D.C.’s Vice Squad. They'd worked a currency exchange bust together last year.

Three rings, then a gruff voice. "Vice."

"Harper, Treasury. I need a favor."

"You buying lunch?" Familiar teasing in his tone.

"I'll buy you a whole steak if you get me something good. I've got a number. Landline. Called from a federal-adjacent pay phone. I need a name. Quietly."

He didn't ask any more questions. Just gave a grunt and hung up.

Ivy leaned forward, arms resting on her desk, eyes on the outbound number. She tapped a pen against her notebook, the soft percussion filling the silence of her office. Parker was a professional. Whatever he was doing, it was methodical. Routine. A double life, kept airtight. This wasn't a one-time slip. This was calculated risk management—the behavior of someone who had something to protect but needed something else badly enough to create a vulnerability in his security.

She thought about his wife, sitting in that pristine house with her half-empty wine glass. The children building lives of their own.

Forty minutes later, her desk phone rang, the sharp trill cutting through her thoughts.

She picked it up. "Harper."

"It's your lucky day," the Vice detective said. There was street noise behind him—traffic, voices, the sound of a city in motion. "That number's registered to a message relay service. Legit on paper. But it's been flagged in a couple sealed cases. It's call-forwarded to a private answering service. Guy uses the name Vincent. Works out of the Adams Morgan section of D.C."

"Male escort?"

"Yeah. High-end. Discreet. Works alone. Word is he screens clients hard—likes them clean and quiet. Established professionals only. No rough stuff, no drugs, no drama."

Ivy jotted it down, her pen pressing hard enough into the paper to leave indentations on the pages beneath. "You got a last name?"

"Just Vincent. That's all we have.”

"Thanks."

"About that steak..."

"Ruth's Chris. Next week. I'll call you."

She hung up and stared at the notebook for a long time.

Vincent.

She thought about it from all angles. Parker's sexuality wasn't relevant to the investigation except as potential blackmail leverage.

But the timing was impossible to ignore—regular contact, then sudden death.

Connection?

Coincidence?

She needed to talk to Vincent.

Ivy had a theory, albeit without any real proof. She ran through it: The BEP made the paper money was printed on. Parker had access to the security features, the specialized inks, the quality control measures. Someone had approached him, leveraged his secret life against him, and then eliminated him when they got what they needed.

She opened a new page in her notebook and wrote a single line:

Vincent. Adams Morgan.

Then she stood up, grabbed her coat, and walked out.

It was time to find out the truth behind Parker’s secret.

The secret that resulted in a bullet to his head.

CHAPTER 28

Joe and Ana drove in silence, the 4x4 weaving through the early morning traffic as the city stirred around them.

The grim image of Torres hanging from that telephone pole lingered in the air between them like a dark cloud. The sun was just beginning to crest over the eastern hills, steam rose from food carts already set up on street corners, the smell of frying dough and coffee wafting through their partially open windows.

After a while, Ana broke the silence. "I took down the plate from the van behind the club."

Joe looked over. “I noticed you did that.”

"Partial or full?"

"Full. Old habit. The rear plate was clean enough to see from our angle." She shifted in her seat, the leather holster at her side creaking against the upholstery. Her fingers drummed a nervous rhythm on her thigh.

Joe nodded. "Let’s see where it takes us." He watched a motorcycle courier zip dangerously between lanes, narrowly missing their side mirror. The traffic thickened as they approached an intersection, forcing them to slow to a crawl.

"The registry keeps hard copies," Ana said. "There's a records depot in La Victoria where they keep the transportation ministry files, vehicle permits, registration ledgers. It's not fast, but we should be able to find what we need."

They pulled off the main road and headed toward La Victoria, where the district buildings rose low and beige, tucked behind layers of dust and bureaucracy. The neighborhood showed signs of neglect and a police siren wailed in the distance, its sound fading as they drove deeper into the district.

After a short wait through a police checkpoint, where a bored officer barely glanced at their identification before waving them through, Ana guided them into the gated lot of the Ministry of Transport's archives building. It was a flat, concrete structure with peeling paint and barred windows.

Ana killed the engine, and they went inside where they were met by a clerk seated behind a metal desk. He asked what they needed without looking up from his newspaper, the pages yellow with age and humidity. A ceiling fan spun lazily overhead, doing little to disperse the thick air. The smell of ancient paper and mildew permeated the room.

Joe had been in many rooms like this over the years. They all sort of looked the same, but usually, he found answers in their dusty depths.

Ana leaned in. "We need vehicle registration records. Commercial. Plate number—Z6F-913."

The man glanced at her, then at Joe, his eyes lingering on Joe. "One moment." He folded his newspaper carefully along well-worn creases before standing.

He stood and walked them toward the back, where rows of filing cabinets and microfiche readers lined the room. The floor tiles were cracked, revealing concrete underneath, and water stains mapped the ceiling in brown archipelagos. Ana handed him a small folded bill before he left them alone, the transaction smooth and practiced.

They spent the next half hour sifting through the registration rolls. Most were printed ledgers, handwritten in blue ink and dated by quarter. The paper was brittle, threatening to crumble under their fingers.

Joe sneezed twice from the dust, the sound echoing in the cavernous room. Ana worked methodically, her movements precise and economic as she flipped through page after page.

Finally, Joe pulled one out and tapped a line with his finger. The satisfaction of discovery briefly lightened his expression. "There. Z6F-913. Registered to a company called Sol y Mar Consolidated."

Ana frowned, lines forming between her eyebrows. "Never heard of it." She leaned closer, her shoulder pressing against his as she examined the entry.

"No address?" Joe asked, squinting to make out the faded text.

She flipped to the adjacent column, running her finger along the information. "Here—listed headquarters: Calle Nueva 157, near the industrial port." She wrote it down in a small notebook she pulled from her back pocket, the pencil scratching softly on the paper.

“What’s that area like?” Joe asked.

“Classic port: warehouses, shipping containers, etc. Rumored to be smuggling central, of course.”

Ana closed the ledger with a soft thump, dust particles dancing in the shaft of sunlight from a high window.

"We’ll update the task force afterward,” Joe said with a small smile.

Ana glanced over at him. “Uh-huh,” she said.

They both laughed softly.

CHAPTER 29

Joe rode in the passenger seat as Ana steered the 4x4 through Lima's chaotic late-morning traffic.

The roads near La Victoria were choked with taxis, delivery trucks, and street vendors, and Ana navigated through them with sharp, practiced turns, shifting gears with one hand while the other kept a casual grip on the wheel.

Joe watched the sprawl of the city roll by, neighborhoods changing block by block, the grime of the industrial zones thickening as they moved toward the waterfront.

"Do you like this place?" he asked. “Ever thought about leaving?”

“I’ve thought about it,” she admitted. “But this is home.”

Joe nodded. The concept of home was foreign to him, really. He’d been on the move his whole life.

“We’re close,” she said. “ Calle Nueva runs along the edge of the old warehouses. Used to be mostly textiles and hardware. Now it’s mostly imports and exports."

“Some legal, some not,” Joe replied.

Ana nodded.

They turned off the main avenue and into the port district, where the air took on a metallic tang. Cranes loomed overhead and the buildings grew boxy, utilitarian. Ana slowed as they approached Calle Nueva.

"There," she said. "157."

Joe saw it: a wide, sand-colored warehouse with steel bay doors and a small front office with tinted windows. No signage beyond a small metal rectangle: SOL Y MAR CONSOLIDATED.

Ana parked across the street. They sat a moment, engine idling.

"It’s pretty quiet,” she said.

“Kind of unusual,” Joe admitted.

"No trucks coming or going. No workers."

Ana cut the engine.

“Let’s take a look,” Joe said.

They crossed the street. Joe walked the length of the front while Ana checked the rear lot. No one. He returned to the front door and tested the handle. Locked.

Ana came around the corner. "Back entrance is the same. But there's a window."

They circled to the back and Joe said, “Up you go.”

Joe boosted her until she could pry open the window latch. Then she slipped inside.

Joe waited, and a few seconds later, Ana opened the door.

Inside, it was dim but not dark. There were a few shelving units along one wall, mostly empty. A few crates, tools and spare engine parts.

Joe moved ahead as his eyes adjusted and he immediately saw the van parked in the middle of the space.

He approached it and opened the rear doors slowly.

Blood. Not puddled, but sprayed and soaked into the cargo mat. Towels and a plastic sheet bunched in the corner, red-stained.

Joe crouched, looking for anything left behind—a weapon, a glove, a tag—but the cargo area had been mostly wiped down. Sloppy but rushed.

Behind him, Ana said, “Joe.”

Her tone of voice immediately spurred him into action. He slid his pistol from its holster. Ana was next to him, her gun drawn as well.

Joe heard the voices then, speaking in rapid Spanish.

A split second later, the voices stopped talking.

Not a good sign, Joe thought.

He peeked around the van and gunfire erupted. The first rounds hit the van, sounding like hail hitting a metal roof.

Joe had seen them: two men walking toward the van, with a bucket. They had clearly been assigned cleanup duty but had somehow spotted Joe and Ana.

He turned to her and gestured for her to go around the other side of the van.

When the gunfire stopped, Joe figured: reloading.

He stepped out and raised his weapon with both hands and squeezed the trigger twice.

The first shot went wide, shattering glass. The second caught the man in the center of his chest and he was knocked backward onto the floor, his gun clattering away.

From the other side of the van, Joe heard Ana firing.

The second man was firing at Joe’s position, the bullets punching into metal with high, whining ricochets.

Suddenly, the shooting stopped and Joe emerged from behind the van. The second man was face down on the floor, half of his head blown away.

The sudden silence was absolute. Joe's ears rang with a high-pitched whine. The smell of gunpowder and something chemical from a punctured container filled the air.

Ana stepped out, a sheen of sweat on her face. She moved cautiously to one of the bodies, nudging it with her foot, then crouching to check.

She studied the men.

“Who are they?” Joe asked.

Ana studied the bodies. She noted that each wore black pants and black military-style boots. They both had on gold necklaces, and each had similar tattoos on their necks.

“You’ve heard of Sicarios in Mexico?” she asked him.

“Sure. Mexican hitmen, assassins, mercenaries for hire.

Ana nodded. “These men are Peru’s version of them.”

“The Ghosts, right?” Joe asked.

Anna nodded. She noticed an unblinking red eye mounted near the ceiling. It was a camera mounted above the bay door.

"If you thought we were targets before,” she said, tilting her head toward the door.

Joe saw the camera, too. “Good,” he said, and gave the camera a little wave.

Across town, hours later, in the private back room of a nightclub, Roja stood watching grainy black-and-white footage on a monitor.

The view showed Joe and Ana. The van. The firefight. The murders of his men.

And then Reacher’s smile and wave.

A subordinate stood behind him, silent.

Roja didn't speak until the video ended.

"Find these bastards," he said. "Bring everyone.”

CHAPTER 30

Damn, she was hungry.

Ivy sat alone in her office, leaning back in the government-issue chair. The number on the notepad in front of her was local. She'd run it past internal databases: nothing.

No Treasury employee, no contractor, no flagged source. Just a number. But Parker had called it repeatedly, always from the same pay phone outside the Bureau, always during his lunch hour.

Ivy’s stomach was grumbling and she hadn’t packed a lunch, and her snack supply was completely gone.

Not even a single carrot to eat.

She studied the phone number again. Seven digits that might lead nowhere. Ivy picked up her desk phone and dialed the main number for the Bell Atlantic law enforcement liaison unit. She waited through two transfers before landing on someone who sounded barely old enough to shave.

"Law enforcement support, this is Ray."

"Ray, this is Special Agent Ivy Harper, U.S. Treasury. I'm working a homicide case tied to a federal printing facility. I need a reverse lookup on a local number."

"Uh, yeah, that's not something I can do without authorization. You got a subpoena or a federal request form?"

"Form 1863-B," she said, already reaching for the template from her file drawer. The metal scraping of the drawer echoed in the empty office.

"Yeah, that'll do. Fax it to me with a cover sheet. Mark it urgent, and if it clears, I can give you a billing address."

"How long?"

"Depends. Usually pretty quick. Faster if it's flagged."

"I'll flag it."

She hung up, slid a fresh sheet of paper into the typewriter, and began filling out the form. Federal case number. Lead agent. Type of investigation. Threat level.

The typewriter keys struck loudly in the quiet room, a staccato rhythm that she always found soothing.

She checked the 'homicide' box, then 'possible counterfeiting' as a secondary. A stretch, but not a lie. She typed in Parker's name and ID number, then folded the sheet and added it to the fax with a terse cover page:

URGENT REQUEST. FEDERAL HOMICIDE CASE. RESPONSE NEEDED IMMEDIATELY.

She walked it down the hallway to the central fax station. Treasury used a beige, clunky fax machine that often wore a sign saying Not working, service called.

Luckily, today it seemed to be operable.

Ivy fed in the documents, punched the number, and waited.

The machine beeped as the transmission completed. She stood a moment, unsure what to do with herself. Her stomach rumbled again. She hadn't eaten since the stale bagel she'd grabbed from the break room that morning.

She rubbed her temples, feeling the onset of a headache. The hallway stretched before her, empty but for the portraits of former Treasury secretaries watching her with painted eyes. Men who had overseen the nation's money, who had built the system she now worked within.

She left the building and walked two blocks to a small strip with fast food and diners. A siren wailed in the distance. She settled on a burger joint, ordered a double cheeseburger, fries, and a Diet Coke.

As she waited, she thought of her father—a surgeon at Johns Hopkins. He would've shaken his head at her lunch choice, lectured her again about sodium, cholesterol, and feeding the brain the right fuel. Her mother, Japanese-born and raised, would've packed her something homemade, balanced, delicate.

The plastic booth squeaked beneath her as she shifted her weight. On the radio behind the counter, Whitney Houston's voice filled the space between sizzling grill sounds. "I Will Always Love You."

She ate in the booth by the window, flipping through her notes between bites, brushing crumbs off the edge of the folder. Through the streaked glass, she watched people pass by—government workers, couples heading to lunch, the occasional homeless person pushing a cart of belongings.

She took a long sip of her Diet Coke, ice cubes clinking against her teeth. The burger hit the spot. Healthy eating be damned.

By the time she returned to the office, a small pink phone message slip was taped to her door.

Ray had called.

She grabbed the phone and dialed, her fingers leaving smudges on the beige plastic.

"Law enforcement support, Ray."

"This is Harper. You left a message?"

"Yeah. Got your form. Ran the number. Came back to a landline billed to a Vincent Rogers. No business listing. Private residential. Address is 1427 Linwood Street, Northwest."

She scribbled the address down, her pen digging into the paper. Vincent Rogers. The name meant nothing to her, but it would. Soon. "You get a unit or apartment number?"

"Nope. It’s an apartment. You want the full billing record? I'd need another form."

"Not now. Just the address. Thanks."

She hung up. Linwood Street. That was in the Adams Morgan area her vice cop buddy had mentioned.

Ivy knew she was on the right track.

She opened her bottom drawer and checked her service weapon. Standard-issue Sig Sauer. She ran her fingers over the grip, felt the reassuring weight of it.

She wrote the name and address on a fresh notepad page, ripped it off, and slid it into her shoulder bag. A gift from her father when she graduated Quantico. "For my daughter, the federal agent," he'd said, pride and worry mixing in his voice.

She pushed through the heavy glass doors and stepped outside. The air was cooler now, a slight breeze carrying the scent of the Potomac.

Her car waited in the parking lot, a navy blue Ford Taurus, government-issued and utterly forgettable. Perfect for surveillance. She slid behind the wheel, tossed her bag onto the passenger seat, and started the engine.

As she pulled onto Pennsylvania Avenue, she glanced once more at the Treasury building in her rearview mirror.

CHAPTER 31

The club didn't have a name on the outside. Just darkened windows and a steel door in the rear alley off Avenida Camino Real. Roja pushed through without knocking. The man at the door knew him, but didn't greet him.

Inside, the thud of bass wrapped around him. Dim red lights pulsed overhead. Smoke hung low in the air, clinging to the silk curtains and gold trim.

Roja walked past the main stage without glancing at the woman spinning on the pole. Her lithe body glistened with oil under the spotlight, dark hair cascading down her bare back as she arched against the chrome. The curve of her breasts caught the light as she spun, drawing howls from the men pressed against the stage. Her eyes, heavy with mascara, remained distant and unimpressed.

Roja passed the velvet rope and followed a private corridor to the back.

The VIP section was a world apart. White leather booths. Crystal decanters. The girls were hotter, with better bodies, quieter, and entirely nude. Music was softer here, sultrier. The lighting golden and low.

Rivera sat sprawled across a padded chaise, shirt unbuttoned, smoking a long cigar. Two girls were on their knees between his legs, one laughing at something he'd said, the other running her fingers across his chest.

The laughing one had olive skin and full lips painted deep crimson. Her breasts were small but perfect, with dark nipples that pointed upward. A delicate gold chain draped across her flat stomach.

The other was taller, with high cheekbones and almond eyes. Her copper skin gleamed in the low light, the soft curve of her hips narrowing to a slender waist. When she leaned forward, her full breasts swayed gently, brushing against Rivera's thigh.

A third woman, wearing only stilettos and a red ribbon around her neck, poured pisco into Rivera's glass without being asked. She was statuesque, with legs that seemed endless, sculpted calves tensing as she balanced on her heels. Her back arched as she bent to pour, her round buttocks tensing, a small tattoo of a butterfly visible on the small of her back.

On the couch to his left, Rivera's favorite bodyguard — a thick man with a mustache and tribal ink across his chest — was being straddled by a woman with dyed-blonde hair. Her back was to Roja, showing the delicate line of her spine and the dimples above her ass. Her hips rocked slowly, deliberately, as she whispered in the bodyguard's ear. Her breasts, fuller than the others, pressed against his chest as she moved. When she turned her head slightly, Roja caught the flash of a tongue tracing the man's earlobe, saw her lips part in a practiced moan that was swallowed by the music.

In the corner, two more women lounged across each other on a low divan, their limbs intertwined, fingers lazily tracing patterns on each other's skin. One had her head thrown back, eyes closed, as the other's hand disappeared between her thighs.

Roja stopped just inside the room. He didn't sit.

Rivera didn't look at him right away. He sipped from the glass and exhaled smoke. His hand idly traced the curve of the olive-skinned woman's breast, thumb circling her nipple until it hardened. She sighed, leaning into his touch. Finally: "Well, look who survived the morning."

Roja said nothing.

"You lost two men," Rivera said, still watching the women. The taller one had begun to unbutton his pants, her slender fingers working deliberately at his belt. "Two trained killers. And you let an RPG miss targets in a building with only one way out."

Roja kept his eyes forward. "It was misjudged. The shooter thought⁠—"

Rivera raised a hand, silencing him. "I don't care. They were supposed to be dead. Instead, they're walking around my city making noise. And killing your men. Two of them today, from what I heard."

One of the girls laughed at something Rivera said under his breath. He reached out and pulled her onto his lap, letting her nibble his ear as he refocused on Roja. Her thighs parted as she straddled him, the gold chain on her stomach swinging with the movement.

Rivera's hand slid up her thigh. She gasped, back arching, breasts thrust forward as she began to rock.

"You know what happens when people talk, Roja? The wrong people listen."

Roja's jaw flexed. The women weren't looking at him, but he felt their presence like needles. Watching. Amused. Like he was the entertainment.

Rivera set his glass down and stood. He wasn't tall but carried himself like a man used to being obeyed. The woman slid from his lap with practiced grace, her pupils dilated, lips parted. She returned to her knees, hands sliding up his thighs. Rivera stepped close to Roja.

"I give you money. I give you men. I even let you play king in your little backroom. But never forget — you're not a general. You're a dog with sharp teeth. And I own the leash."

Roja blinked, but didn't move. Behind Rivera, the third woman had joined the others on the floor, her long legs folded beneath her, red ribbon stark against her throat. Her hand caressed the back of the other woman, fingers tracing the knobs of her spine.

Rivera smiled. "You think these girls respect you? They laugh at you. The Ghosts. What a fucking joke. You know what ghosts are good at? Disappearing. Maybe it's time you did."

There was silence.

Then Rivera turned away, plucked a fresh cigar from a cut-glass tray, and bit the tip.

"Fix it. Kill the American. Kill the woman. Burn the city down if you have to. But do it fast. Before someone else decides you're the problem."

He lit the cigar and leaned back as the girls crowded around him again. One kissed his shoulder, her tongue leaving a wet trail on his skin. Another whispered something into his ear that made him laugh, her hand sliding down his stomach, disappearing beneath his waistband.

Roja backed out without a word.

PART SEVEN

CHAPTER 32

The sirens echoed across the port district. Joe stood outside the warehouse, one boot resting on the concrete lip of the loading dock. The bodies lay behind him, the van sat with its rear doors wide open, reeking of death.

Blood soaked the cargo area, already drawing flies.

Ana paced nearby, one hand on her hip, the other gripping the police radio clipped to her vest. She confirmed that officers should approach with weapons down. The message was clear: this wasn't a raid in progress, it was cleanup.

"Copy that," she said and then turned to Joe. "They're five minutes out. Captain wants to know if we need medical."

Joe glanced at the bodies. "Not unless they can resurrect the dead."

Ana's expression didn't change. "They'll want statements. Separate ones."

"Yep," Joe said.

Uniformed officers pulled up and then an unmarked sedan. Someone higher up. The passenger door opened, and a man in a wrinkled dress shirt stepped out. Plainclothes. Mid-40s. No warmth in his eyes.

Ana stepped forward. "Reynoso," she said.

"Salas," the man replied. He glanced at Joe.

"Reacher, U.S. Treasury,” Joe said and flashed his badge and ID.

“What happened?” Reynoso asked.

"The van pulled in. We followed,” Ana said. “When they spotted us, they drew first."

Reynoso stared at her for a long beat. “You know we're going to have to process this through the task force. Ballistics, statements, official documentation."

"Of course," Ana said. "We'll come in."

Reynoso motioned to the uniformed officers, issuing instructions in rapid-fire Spanish. They nodded, moving toward the warehouse entrance, yellow tape already unfurling between them.

Joe exhaled and looked out at the widening police perimeter. More officers were taping off the area, a CSU van arriving with techs already donning gloves and masks.

"Anything else we should know about in there?" Reynoso asked, nodding toward the warehouse.

"Surveillance camera," Joe said. "Inside, mounted high in the northeast corner. Should have captured everything."

Reynoso's expression flickered with surprise, maybe even a hint of approval. "We'll try to pull the footage. I’ll see you at the station. Give me twenty.” He then turned to direct an evidence team.

Joe leaned over to Ana as they started walking toward her 4x4. "We're going to lose whatever trail this place had."

"I know," Ana said. "But you kill two men in Lima, even in self-defense, you sign some paperwork."

Joe didn't argue.

The task force headquarters was a squat, unremarkable building tucked between two insurance offices off Avenida Javier Prado. It didn't look like the center of a multinational operation, but the reinforced door and guarded entrance said otherwise.

Inside, they were led down a narrow hallway, past two small offices with open blinds. Someone was smoking in a place where smoking was no longer legal. Joe could smell the clove cigarettes. The building felt tired, like everyone inside it was either overworked or just didn't give a damn anymore.

A young officer with a badly knotted tie pointed them to separate rooms. Ana gave Joe a quick nod before disappearing through a door marked "Interrogation 2" in both Spanish and English.

They were split up for interviews. Joe was handed a clipboard and told to write everything in English—"just the facts," as the officer said without looking up. He wrote slowly, methodically, every detail from arrival to engagement. He included specifics about the blood in the van, the tattoos on the attackers, the weapons, and the surveillance camera he'd seen mounted inside the warehouse.

The room was small and windowless, painted an institutional green. It reminded Joe of his time with Army Intelligence. The US Army loved green.

The metal chair creaked beneath his weight as he shifted. Joe had sat in rooms like this before, on both sides of the table. He knew the game.

Halfway through his statement, the door opened. A different officer—older, heavier, with the look of someone who'd been a cop for a long time—entered with two cups of coffee. He set one in front of Joe without a word.

"Gracias," Joe said, wrapping his hands around the warmth.

"De nada," the officer replied, settling into the chair opposite. "You are with Treasury?"

Joe nodded, taking a sip. The coffee was bitter but strong.

The cop read through Joe’s statement. He looked at Joe, stood with the statement in hand, and left.

That was easy, Joe thought.

Ana's session lasted longer. When she finally opened the door to Joe’s room, she didn't look angry—just drained. Together, they walked straight past the officer's desk and out to the front of the building.

"You good?" he asked.

"I’m fine. They want me to follow a protocol written for filing reports, not avoiding ambushes."

"We got all the authorization we needed,” Joe said.

"They know that. It's politics." She rubbed her temples. "Everyone’s worried that we—or, more accurately, you—will take credit."

Joe looked down the block. "You hungry?"

Ana didn't answer at first. Then: "Starving."

Joe smiled. "Let's fix that."

"I know a place. You eat beef, right?"

"I eat anything that bleeds."

She cracked a smile for the first time that day. "Let’s go.”

CHAPTER 33

The restaurant Ana chose sat just off a cobbled side street in Miraflores, tucked behind a flower shop and a boutique hotel. A carved wooden sign above the entrance read El Encierro. Inside, the lighting was warm and low, casting amber reflections off polished wine glasses and dark wood paneling.

Locals filled most of the tables. No tourist menus, no English chatter. Just soft conversation, good wine, and the smell of charred meat.

They were seated at a table by the window, close enough to hear the faint music drifting from the back—classic Andean folk, guitar and flute weaving around each other. Joe noticed that Ana relaxed the moment she sat down, like the weight of the day finally left her shoulders. The tension that had been holding her spine rigid throughout their drive seemed to dissolve into the well-worn leather of her chair.

"I come here when I've had a shitty day," she said. "Sometimes when I haven't." Her fingers traced the rim of her water glass, leaving faint impressions that caught the candlelight.

Joe glanced around, taking in the details. The restaurant was intimate without feeling cramped. The walls were adorned with black-and-white photographs of Lima from decades past: fishermen hauling their catches, women in traditional dress at markets, children playing in plazas that still existed, but had changed with time.

The place had character, history.

Much like Ana herself, Joe thought.

They ordered two large cuts of lomo fino, medium rare. Roasted potatoes with garlic, grilled vegetables, and a bottle of Peruvian blended red wine Ana recommended without hesitation.

The waiter, an older man with salt-and-pepper hair and hands marked by decades of service, nodded approvingly at her choice.

"La señorita knows our best," he said to Joe in accented English, with a respectful nod to Ana.

Joe poured their first glasses, the wine's deep burgundy catching the light as it swirled into the crystal. He held his up.

Ana clinked hers against his, the sound clear and sharp between them.

Her eyes held his as she took her first sip.

The wine was rich and complex with notes of dark fruit, tobacco, and something earthy that reminded Joe of the area’s rugged mountains. It coated his tongue pleasantly, warming him from the inside.

Most of the wine he drank was French, thanks to his mother’s influence. This was a nice change of pace.

When the steaks arrived, they were sizzling on cast iron skillets. The aroma hit them immediately. The delicious smells of caramelized meat, butter, and herbs enveloped them.

Ana didn't wait. She cut a thick slice from the center and took a bite. Her eyes closed for half a second, the hardened exterior she maintained softening momentarily in simple pleasure.

"God," she said. "I forgot how hungry I was." A faint sheen of butter glistened on her lower lip before she wiped it away with her thumb.

Joe watched as she polished off nearly half the plate without slowing. No pretense, no dainty bites.

"This is delicious,” Joe said. “Just what the doctor ordered.”

They ate in silence, enjoying the food, the wine, and each other.

Joe watched as Ana speared a roasted potato with her fork, dragged it through the juices on her plate.

He poured more wine into their glasses, noticing how the first glass had already taken the edge off their moods. "We still don't know who runs Sol y Mar,” he said.

Ana wiped her mouth with her napkin, leaving a faint smudge of her lipstick on the white cloth. "Could be a shell company, but the paper trail might lead nowhere. We can check business records in the morning. Maybe go through customs permits."

Joe found himself studying the curve of her neck as she took another sip of wine, the way her collar bone created a shadow above the neckline of her blouse.

They didn't linger long on the topic. The work would be there tomorrow.

A few minutes later, Ana polished off the last bite of her steak, leaned back, and exhaled. Her posture was open now, one arm draped over the back of her chair.

"That's the first time in days I've felt full."

"Me too," Joe said. "And lucky." He meant it.

"Me too,” she said, holding his gaze longer than necessary. Something unspoken passed between them.

The waiter returned, offering dessert—a traditional tres leches cake and something with chocolate and pisco that sounded decadent. Neither was interested. Their hunger, at least for food, had been satisfied.

Joe paid the bill while Ana excused herself to the restroom. When she returned, she had retouched her lipstick—a detail he wouldn't normally have noticed.

Outside, the night had cooled. A gentle sea breeze carried the distant scent of the Pacific. The sidewalks were still busy but not loud. Couples strolled arm in arm. A street performer played guitar in a nearby plaza.

They climbed into the SUV and Ana drove Joe back to his hotel. When they reached the entrance Joe gestured toward a parking spot.

Ana smiled and parked.

Together, they walked into the lobby.

The desk clerk gave a nod but said nothing.

They took the elevator and once inside the room, Joe flicked on a lamp. Soft light bathed the space. The bed had been turned down in their absence, a mint on each pillow. The curtains were open to the city view—a tapestry of lights sprawling toward the dark void of the ocean.

Ana stepped in, kicked off her boots with practiced movements, walked to the window and looked out over the city. Her silhouette was striking against the backdrop of lights—strong shoulders, the curve of her waist, her hand resting on the glass leaving temporary impressions of her fingerprints.

Joe didn't hesitate. He walked to her slowly, with certainty, not saying anything. She turned before he reached her.

"This part won’t get into our reports," she said with a small smile.

"No," Joe said. "It won’t." He stepped closer. The scent of her perfume mingled with the lingering notes of wine and steak.

His hand found her waist, resting there lightly. He could feel the warmth of her skin through the fabric of her blouse.

She stepped into him, one hand coming to rest on his chest, feeling his heartbeat through his shirt. He kissed her—firm, unhurried, the kind of kiss that ends a long day.

Her lips were soft and her hand slid up to his neck.

They undressed with ease. Her blouse dropped to the floor, revealing a simple black bra and he peeled off his shirt. Ana’s hands roamed his broad shoulders and muscular chest.

Her hands were sure and steady as they explored him, finding each scar and muscle with deliberate attention. His were more reverent, discovering the softness that existed beneath her outer armor.

It wasn't rushed. It wasn't gentle either. It was direct and complete. All the stress, all the near-deaths and evasions, all the questions—they burned it off together in the space between breath and heat and flesh.

Her nails dug into his shoulders at one point, leaving crescents that would remain tomorrow. His teeth grazed her collarbone, eliciting a sound from her throat that he immediately committed to memory.

They moved together with the same coordination they showed in the field—anticipating, responding, a perfect synchronization that required no words. When she arched beneath him, her release was as honest as everything else about her—unrestrained, unapologetic.

Afterward, they lay tangled in the sheets, quiet. The hum of the hotel air conditioner. The faint rumble of traffic far below. Her head rested on his chest, her hair spilling across his skin like ink. His fingers traced idle patterns on her bare shoulder.

Ana reached for the glass of water on the nightstand, took a sip, then offered it to Joe. A strangely intimate gesture—more so, somehow, than what had preceded it.

"You still hungry?" she asked. There was a hint of a smile in her voice.

He took the glass and drank. "Not anymore." The water was cool and welcome against his throat.

She laughed softly and rested her head against his shoulder. A car honked somewhere in the distance. The curtains stirred with the artificial breeze from the vent above. Neither spoke.

CHAPTER 34

The apartment building was three floors of cracked brick and weather-warped balconies, just east of the Anacostia River. Ivy double-checked the number on the mailbox panel: Apartment 3C.

Vincent's name wasn't listed.

That didn't surprise her, considering his profession.

A flyer for a local church gathering was taped haphazardly to one corner, its edges curled from humidity. Free yourself from sin, it read.

She climbed the stairs. The hallway smelled like a locker room. The lighting was dim, but not enough to show the stained carpet and faded wallpaper.

Ivy stood in front of 3C and knocked. There was no answer. She looked for a doorbell to push, but there wasn’t one.

She waited and then knocked again.

No one peeked their head out any of the other apartments to see who was making noise.

Ivy rested her hand near the butt of her pistol. The weight of the gun was familiar, comforting in its solidity. Her fingers brushed against the worn leather of the holster.

With a quick glance down each side of the hallway, she put her hand on the doorknob and turned it.

The door opened.

She pushed it open with two fingers, feeling the resistance of hinges that needed oil.

Once inside, she shut the door behind her. The apartment was dim, thanks to the half-drawn curtains. There was soft music playing from a boombox on the floor. Something disco-adjacent, looped and strange. The singer was a woman and her voice was distorted and dreamy, singing about lost love against a backdrop of synthesizers.

Ivy moved through the main room, past the little kitchen and into the hallway. A bathroom was to her right, and a bedroom to the left. She checked the bathroom.

Empty.

In the bedroom, she found a man hanging from the closet doorframe, a thick black rope tight around his throat. The nylon fibers had dug deep into the flesh, creating an angry red welt. He was dressed in full leather fetish gear—straps across his bare chest, the material new and stiff, buckles gleaming in the half-light.

One boot was off, lying on its side beneath him, one still on, its silver-tipped toe pointed toward the floor.

His body twisted slightly with the movement of the air conditioner, a hypnotic pendulum keeping time with the looping music.

His face was mottled with purple and yellow bruising. The tongue protruded more than slightly, swollen and dark, pressed against crooked teeth. His eyes were open, but glazed and sunken, staring at nothing.

The body had gone stiff. Not hours—days. At least two, she figured. The distinct smell of early decomposition hung in the air.

If this was Vincent, he had been a handsome man once, Ivy thought. Early thirties. Thin. Narrow frame with a dancer's body. His hair had been bleached blond, though his roots were dark, a half inch of growth revealing his natural color.

A pair of gold hoop earrings still hung from his ears, catching what little light reached them. His fingernails were painted black, but chipped, the polish flaking near the cuticles. There was a faint outline of old eyeliner smudged beneath each eye, the remnants of a night out never properly removed.

Ivy scanned the room, taking in details. She went back into the main room of the apartment, which was dominated by a couch upholstered in faded blue fabric. There were scattered magazines near the couch—Playguy, Inches, Honcho—creased and worn at the corners, as if someone had thumbed through them repeatedly looking for specific images.

A small stack of VHS tapes leaned against an old CRT television: titles handwritten on white labels in neat block letters. Explicit, all of them. "NIGHT HEAT." "BARRACKS BOYS." "LEATHER PARTY 3." The television's screen reflected the room in distorted miniature, unwatched.

A coffee table held several empty beer bottles, labels facing outward for easier identification, necks all pointing in the same direction. A half-smoked joint in an ashtray. A bottle of cheap vodka, mostly full, the cap screwed on too tightly, leaving indentations in the plastic.

But there was no real mess.

Nothing spilled.

No broken glass.

Ivy saw a condom wrapper on the floor—unused, the foil still perfectly creased, positioned in the sight line from the doorway. No sign of a struggle. No scuff marks on the floor from desperate heels. No dents in the drywall from flailing limbs.

She didn't touch anything.

Ivy went back to the bedroom and stepped closer to the dead man.

She carefully studied the ligature marks and it seemed like they were in the wrong direction. The rope had been pulled from behind, not above. The physics didn't work for self-suspension. The knot was complex, the bruising inconsistent with self-inflicted hanging.

Ivy’s intuition told her this was not an accidental auto-erotic death. Or suicide.

This was murder, designed to look like something else.

This wasn't auto-erotic. This was cold. Professional. A message wrapped in humiliation.

Back in the hallway, she found a pile of clothes near an ancient washer and dryer. Jeans, underwear, a few wrinkled t-shirts. These looked well-worn and lived in. The normality of them was a stark contrast to the theater in the other room.

She crouched beside the jeans, methodically checking the pockets. Nothing in the back pockets of the first pair—just lint and a gum wrapper. The front pockets yielded only a crumpled receipt for cigarettes, dated four days ago.

But in the front pocket of the second pair, she found a single car key on a scratched blue tag, the color faded, the metal worn from years of handling. A barely visible faded Oldsmobile logo was on one side.

There was also a slim wallet, with two dollars, a bank card, and a driver’s license. Ivy plucked the license and looked at the photo.

Vincent Rogers. The face matched the dead man hanging in the bedroom.

She left the apartment, went down the stairs and back outside. The sky had turned a dull red. She went into the apartment building’s lot, and scanned the parked cars, looking for an Oldsmobile.

There was only one.

It was a dusty gray, four-door, tucked in beside a pickup and a station wagon. Ivy used the key to unlock the car.

The inside was fairly clean. A fast-food bag was in the back seat, folded neatly, empty except for a receipt. There was also a half-empty pack of gum in the center console, spearmint flavor.

She opened the glovebox, saw the registration papers, insurance documents, all with Vincent’s name on them.

Ivy checked beneath the passenger seat, running her hand along the underside, feeling for anything taped or wedged against the springs. There was nothing.

She did the same beneath the driver’s seat. Her fingers brushed against paper. A torn envelope, folded in half, secured with a paperclip that had left a rust stain on the corner. Inside was a note written on lined paper torn from a spiral notebook. The handwriting was tight, precise, slanted—definitely not Vincent's loose, looping scrawl.

One handwritten address. One phone number.

Ivy stared at it for a full five seconds, then slid it into her blazer.

CHAPTER 35

The café sat under a rusted green awning at the corner of a narrow street that spilled into the edge of the commercial district.

Joe nursed a bitter black coffee and polished off the last of his toast. He glanced now and then at the morning traffic, dented taxis honking impatiently, delivery trucks belching diesel fumes.

Ana had gone back to her precinct to look into the official records regarding Sol y Mar. She'd needed time, and maybe he did too.

The day was already warming. A boy with a crooked cap sold newspapers out of a plastic bag, calling out headlines in a voice that cracked between childhood and adolescence. A woman in a faded blue apron swept the steps of a butcher shop across the street. The smell of fresh spices drifted across to him on the occasional breeze.

Joe leaned back in his chair and let his eyes drift. He saw motorbike couriers weaving dangerously between cars, their packages strapped precariously to the back. A group of men were unloading wooden crates of vegetables from a flatbed truck. A pair of young women in tight jeans and mirrored sunglasses, arms linked, walked together laughing at some private joke.

Joe saw a man walking down the opposite sidewalk. The face looked familiar. Faces flashed through his memory until it came to him: Dos Palmas.

It could have been coincidence. Or maybe not. Joe tried to remember if the man had been an employee, one of the men outside the door, or a customer. It had been late, though. And a lot of people had gone in and out of Dos Palmas.

Joe dropped a few coins on the table—they clinked against the ceramic as he rose casually, adjusting his sunglasses to hide his gaze. The man was heading west, toward the edge of the market where the stalls grew more sparse and the smells of fish and overripe fruit hung heavy in the air.

Joe stayed a half-block behind, walking slow, pausing occasionally to examine a storefront or check his watch.

It was less of a surveillance operation, than just a walk. He’d felt restless and a long walk around the city wasn’t a bad idea. And he was curious if he could better place the man.

Joe followed him for at least a dozen blocks. He seemed to be in no hurry and would pause now and then to talk to someone selling fruit or cigars.

Ahead, the man took a right into a narrow street and Joe debated starting back.

Instead, he followed the man around the corner.

The man took a sharp turn down an alley barely wide enough for a car, the sun cut off suddenly by the high walls of surrounding buildings.

The street was really an alley, stretching back into shadows and narrow doorways with peeling paint.

A pair of rusted dumpsters overflowing with restaurant waste, flies buzzing in lazy circles. A clothesline overhead strung between opposing windows, a few shirts and sheets hanging motionless in the still air.

No sign of the man.

Trash was scattered along the ground, a mixture of cigarette butts, broken glass that crunched under his boots, and food wrappers dancing in the faint breeze.

Then a quick scuff of movement behind him, the sound of a shoe scraping against concrete.

Joe spun in one fluid motion, but he was already too late. Someone rammed into his side with the force of a truck, driving the air from his lungs in a painful rush. Another figure came from the left, emerging from behind a stack of wooden pallets.

Joe pivoted and drove an elbow into the first attacker's face. Bone cracked beneath the impact and the man fell to the ground.

A pipe struck his ribs with stunning force, the metal vibrating on impact. He caught the pipe under his arm and pulled the man wielding it toward him. Joe headbutted him, breaking his nose and maybe more. The man’s knees buckled and down he went.

Another hit, this time low to the thigh, sending fire through his leg. Joe went down to one knee but managed to draw his pistol and bring it to bear. The man who’d tried to ruin his knees was gearing up for another kick.

Joe shot him in the chest, sending him against the wall where he left a smear of crimson as he slid to the ground.

A blow from behind. Hard. Fast. Something like steel against the back of his head, sending white-hot pain coursing through his skull.

He staggered and fell forward, cheek scraping against the rough pavement. He rolled and fired blindly into what seemed like a crowd of men until his hammer clicked.

Empty.

Another blow to his head.

His ears rang, a high-pitched whine drowning out all other sound.

Voices murmured in Spanish, too quick for his concussed mind to translate. He felt himself being lifted and someone had him in a chokehold.

He heard a vehicle door slid open with a metallic groan. Hands shoved him inside. A smell of gasoline and dust filled his nostrils, along with the copper tang of his own blood. Someone barked a command—"¡Vámonos, rápido!"

His head throbbed. He faded in and out of consciousness, cataloging his injuries every time he reemerged from blackness. Blood dripped from somewhere behind his ear, warm and sticky, pooling at his collar. His hands were zip-tied tight enough to cut into his wrists, plastic edges biting into skin. His gun was gone.

Boots shifted on the floor in front of him, leather creaking.

He opened one eye, the other swollen shut already.

Across from him sat a man. Dark-skinned, unshaven with three days' worth of stubble darkening his jaw.

A faint scar on his jawline, thin and precise like a surgeon's cut. Cold eyes that assessed Joe without emotion.

He smiled then. There was a huge knife in his hand which he seemed to be stroking.

And for the first time Joe noticed something else.

The man had vivid, bright red hair.

CHAPTER 36

The machines were running hot in the abandoned textile warehouse on the industrial outskirts of Baltimore. The December chill had settled deep into the concrete walls of the three-story brick building, but inside the print room, it was sweltering.

Condensation beaded on the metal rafters overhead, occasionally dripping down onto the roughhewn floor. Outside, the Patapsco River rolled sluggishly beneath a thin layer of ice, carrying the city's waste toward the Chesapeake Bay.

Stacks of test sheets lined the counter.

Trigg leaned over the large-format press, his thin frame hunched, tweaking the final alignment just microns at a time. His wire-rim glasses slid down his sweat-slicked nose as he worked, and he pushed them back up with an ink-stained knuckle.

The paper hissed through the rollers, bright and crisp, the ink curing instantly under UV rays that bathed the room in an eerie purple glow. The press was highly modified and running steady now, humming with purpose, its German-engineered components working in perfect harmony.

A single sheet emerged. One hundred-dollar bills. Twelve to the page. Benjamin Franklin's knowing eyes stared up from each note, as if privy to the crime being committed.

Trigg held it up, his pupils dilated in the stark light, exhaled a breath that clouded slightly in the cooler air away from the machine. "Damn, I’m good,” he said.

Leila woke to a soft knock on the door of the back room where she slept. It was a military-style cot with a thin mattress and a wool blanket. Her 9mm Makarov pistol was tucked under a weathered leather coat nearby. Her boots were by the wall, scuffed at the toes and caked with mud from the railroad yard she'd crossed earlier, next to a half-full water bottle and a metal ashtray she'd used as a bedside dish for her rings and watch.

She sat up instantly, alert, her dark hair falling in tangles around her sharp-featured face. A quick glance at the small, red-lit digital clock on the metal shelf: 3:43 a.m.

Another knock, more insistent this time.

She slipped on her boots without lacing them, ran a hand through her hair, slid the pistol into the back of her waistband where it pressed cold against her skin, and opened the door.

Foster stood in the hallway, his tall, lean silhouette barely visible in the dim emergency lighting. His face remained expressionless, and he didn't say anything. Just nodded once, his silver-blond hair catching what little light penetrated the corridor.

She followed him down the hall to the main print room, past pallets of blank paper stock wrapped in industrial plastic, rows of chemical drums labeled with hazard warnings, and a table covered in drying test sheets arranged in precise rows.

The air smelled like ozone and hot ink, with undertones of industrial solvent and the faint mustiness of the building's previous life as a textile mill. A low thrum from the machine echoed off the concrete walls, reverberating through the floor and up through her boot soles.

Trigg was there, the sleeves of his once-white dress shirt rolled up to reveal forearms mapped with blue veins, eyes wide with a mix of pride and adrenaline behind his smudged glasses. His hands were stained, fingernails rimmed with black, a streak of cyan across one hollow cheek. He turned as they entered, his gaunt face lighting up with uncharacteristic animation.

"Check it out," he said. "Took some final tweaking on the feeder arm and the calibration files but look at this. There’s a word for it. Perfection."

He fed a sheet through the final stage, fingers nimble despite his exhaustion. It emerged clean, crisp, and terrifyingly authentic. The detail in the engraving was sharp enough to slice skin. The seal was centered, the ink colors exact and the same distinctive green that had made American currency famous worldwide.

"The serial numbers aren't recycled," he added, pointing to the sequences. "I randomized them using a pattern from the original Bureau input. They'll pass scrutiny. Maybe deeper. We could produce two million a week, no sweat."

Leila didn't speak. She walked over and took the sheet from the rollers, held it up to the light. The security strip caught the overhead glare just right, glinting with embedded microtext.

She ran her fingers across the texture, feeling the raised ink that was the hallmark of genuine currency, the result of intaglio printing that no digital process could replicate.

"Show me how it works."

Trigg beamed and walked her through it step by step, his body vibrating with nervous energy. How the automatic paper feed adjusted to slight warping using a custom tension rig he'd built from medical equipment parts. How the layering sequence mimicked Bureau machines exactly, thanks to the specifications stolen from Parker. How he'd duplicated the ink mix for color fidelity and the UV-reactive ink held its fluorescence without smudging or bleed.

He gestured toward the workstation with the microfilm reader and magnifier, where the plate alignment had been dialed in down to fractions of a millimeter, recording each adjustment in a spiral-bound notebook filled with his cramped handwriting.

"This is industrial-level counterfeiting," he said, pride overriding caution. "This is history. You could destabilize entire markets with this."

Leila listened, nodding, occasionally asking a question.

Trigg answered every one, his words flowing faster than his thoughts. He was sweating slightly, his shirt darkened under the arms and along his spine, but didn't notice, too caught up in his accomplishment to register his body's signals.

When he finished, Leila stepped forward and gave him a hug, her slender arms encircling his narrow shoulders.

"You did it, Trigg," she said quietly, her accent thickening with emotion. Her perfume momentarily overwhelmed the chemical smells and Trigg breathed it in.

His arms hesitated, then wrapped around her. The contact was brief but sincere. A flicker of surprise crossed his face, followed by something like genuine happiness.

She stepped back, her expression softening before returning to its usual mask. "Your work is done. Foster will take you home."

Trigg blinked, confusion clouding his features. "Oh. Sure. Yeah. I just figured I'd help with⁠—"

"You did what we needed. An amazing job."

Foster was already walking toward the side entrance.

Trigg glanced back once at the machine, his creation, then followed, shoulders slumping slightly with sudden fatigue now that the adrenaline was wearing off.

They walked in silence down the metal stairs, their footsteps echoing in the stairwell. The air outside was cooler and for Trigg, it was a welcome relief. He was already thinking about being home. About being free.

Foster walked to a black Cadillac and opened the passenger door.

"Hey, should I grab my coat?" Trigg asked, his breath visible in the frigid air, rubbing his thin arms through his shirt sleeves.

Foster shook his head.

They drove away from the loft, alongside the river. Foster failed to notice a large pothole and the Cadillac rammed into it, creating a horrible sound beneath the car. Foster hit the brakes, put the car into Park and got out. He went around to the back of the vehicle.

Foster cursed loudly and Trigg got out. He walked to the back of the vehicle.

Foster shot him twice in the side of the head, the suppressor muffling it to twin dull thuds.

Blood and brain matter sprayed across the car's trunk. Trigg collapsed onto the ground, his glasses cracking under his face, body twitching once before going still, a final involuntary spasm as his nervous system shut down.

Foster looked around, scanning the empty industrial landscape, then reached down and grabbed him by the arms. He dragged the body down to the culvert, shoes leaving dark trails in the slush, where a shallow canal ran black and slow beneath a skim of pollution.

Rats scattered as he approached, red eyes gleaming in the darkness before disappearing into storm drains. He heaved the body into the water with practiced efficiency. It vanished quickly beneath the oily surface, leaving only spreading ripples that soon dissipated.

Foster lit a cigarette and the flame from his silver lighter briefly illuminated his expressionless face.

PART EIGHT

CHAPTER 37

Ana sat alone in the records room at police headquarters, the overhead lights casting a flat, sickly sheen across the weathered metal desk.

The ancient air-conditioning unit rattled in the corner, struggling against Lima's heat. Ana absently brushed a strand of dark hair from her forehead as she flipped through a stack of customs documents and export licenses.

Each page was creased from multiple handlings but they all bore the same distinctive stamp—a bright sunburst logo with the words Sol y Mar Holdings, Ltd. emblazoned beneath it in navy blue ink. The same company connected to the van, the warehouse, the shootout.

A shell company. Registered out of Guayaquil, Ecuador. Paper trail scrubbed clean, sanitized by expensive lawyers and bureaucrats paid to look the other way. Typical.

But someone had gotten sloppy. They always did, eventually.

The clock on the wall ticked forward. Ana had been at it for hours, eyes burning from the strain of reading fine print in poor light. Coffee cups were scattered across the desk, leaving dark rings on bureaucratic forms that nobody would miss.

She paused on a scanned invoice showing a freight transfer, the photocopy blurry in places but still legible enough. Refrigerated container, contents listed vaguely as "commercial goods."

Port of Callao to a warehouse leased by another front company—Inversiones del Pacífico, S.A. The dates matched Sullivan's notes about increased counterfeit traffic. And at the bottom, in the fine print, beneath authorized signatures and customs clearance codes, a familiar name appeared: R. Rivera.

Ana's pulse quickened. The paper felt suddenly heavy in her hand, a contract signed in invisible blood.

She placed the document carefully in a manila folder and slid it into her bag. Then, running her tongue over lips dry from the building's recycled air, Ana was about to pick up the phone and dial the number for the American embassy.

She needed to tell Reacher what she’d found.

But before she could lift the receiver, the phone rang.

She answered. "Salas."

A voice on the line she recognized immediately as Captain Morales, the local liaison to the embassy detail.

"There's been a shooting." His tone was flat, but there was something behind it. Urgency, maybe. Or possibly concern.

"How bad?" Ana asked.

"Five dead on scene. Three more at San Felipe, critical condition. It was a bloodbath, Salas."

“Okay,” she said, wondering why the call was to her.

“One more thing,” he said. “Your American agent is missing.”

Ana stood, grabbed her coat. “Give me the address.”

By the time Ana reached the alley, the perimeter was already sealed. Blue police lights flashed against dark walls, painting the area in strobing cobalt. The air smelled like cordite, diesel, and blood.

A medic walked past carrying a stretcher, the canvas soaked with something dark that Ana didn't need to identify. The worker's face was spattered with the same substance. Ana ducked under the police tape and moved into the kill zone, her boots leaving prints.

Shell casings littered the ground, brass glinting dully in the artificial light. Someone had marked them with yellow evidence cards, numbers printed in black.

She crouched near one of the bodies still uncovered. Mid-twenties. No ID. Too well-dressed for the neighborhood, wearing expensive leather shoes. A tattoo above the collarbone peeked out from under his collar.

The Ghosts, she thought.

Two officers were bagging evidence nearby, their latex gloves stained dark. One held up a pistol in a clear plastic evidence pouch.

"Recovered here, beneath the loading platform. Serial matches U.S. issue," he said.

Ana nodded.

She stood and swept the scene again, taking in details. Bloody tracks were everywhere. A streak that was maybe a drag trail. Or someone wounded and running. The spatters were consistent with movement, not just impact spray. Her eyes followed the trail to the mouth of the alley where it disappeared.

She found the nearest uniform, a young officer with a notebook. "Witnesses?"

He shrugged. "No one saw anything, as usual. Nobody hears gunshots in this district, apparently." His pen hovered over the nearly empty page.

Ana moved down the block. She stopped at least a dozen people, all of them claiming ignorance of the shooting. They had all been somewhere else, hadn’t heard a thing.

They were all lying, but Ana understood.

Finally, she reached a street vendor who stood by his shuttered cart, chewing coca leaves. He was ancient, probably ninety years old. His hands were stained with food coloring that could have been mistaken for blood in the poor light.

She didn’t even ask him a question. Ana just waited.

His dark eyes were bloodshot and red-rimmed. “Who are you?” he asked.

“My name is Ana. My friend was kidnapped back there,” she said, gesturing toward the alley.

The old man continued to study her.

“You are beautiful,” he said.

“Thank you.”

His face was deeply lined, weather-beaten, with eyes that had seen too much violence, too much poverty, too much of everything. His left hand trembled slightly, arthritic joints swollen and bent.

Ana stepped closer, she could smell the tobacco on his clothes. “It’s okay,” she said.

The old man spoke. "He fought like the devil. One against all of them. They were dropping like flies.”

That would be Reacher, Ana thought.

“There were just too many." His voice was rough and he shook his head.

Ana waited before asking, "Did you see who they were?"

The man didn't answer, just rubbed his gnarled hands together slowly, as if trying to warm them despite the humid air.

"Please," Ana said, letting her desperation show for the first time. "If he isn’t dead already, he will be soon. I need to find him. Now.”

The old man looked up, his deep wrinkles as wide as riverbeds.

His rheumy eyes suddenly sharpened. “Yes. I saw him.”

“What did he look like?”

A soft chuckle emerged from the old man’s chest.

“You hardly ever see it.”

“What?”

“Red hair.”

Anna felt like she’d been kicked in the stomach.

She knew who the old man had seen.

Sombra Roja.

The Red Shadow.

Leader of The Ghosts.

CHAPTER 38

Joe Reacher came to slowly, one breath at a time, each inhalation bringing a fresh stab of pain through his rib cage where something was almost certainly broken.

His head throbbed with a pulsing, subterranean rhythm that matched his heartbeat. Something coppery coated his tongue, thick and nauseating—his own blood from a split lip or bitten tongue.

One eye refused to open, swollen shut and crusted with dried fluid. The other took in a fractured image—shadows above, a swinging light that traced lazy arcs across his field of vision, something glittering overhead that refracted the dim illumination.

A chandelier.

Crystal droplets dangling like tears from an ornate brass frame. Some of the glass pieces were smeared red, as if someone had painted them with a careless brush.

The ceiling beyond was cracked stucco, once white but now yellowed with age and tobacco smoke, water damage spreading in dark blooms across its surface.

He tried to move. Couldn't. The attempt sent fresh waves of agony through every nerve ending.

His arms were lashed to the arms of a heavy wooden chair, the kind that might have once graced a colonial dining room. Ankles bound to the legs with what felt like nylon cord or climbing rope. The bindings bit into flesh already raw from his earlier struggles.

His shirt was gone, leaving his torso exposed. Something sticky had dried across his ribs in tacky patches—blood, either his or someone else's. He could smell sweat, blood, and cigarette smoke.

His back ached from repeated impacts, muscles seized into knots. His face felt like it had gone ten rounds with a brick wall.

A sound echoed across the room—heavy wood settling against metal hinges.

Footsteps followed, measured and unhurried, clicking against what sounded like marble or polished stone flooring.

He turned his head toward the sound. The movement sent spikes of white light through his skull, temporary static overwhelming his vision. When it cleared, he could make out more of the room.

Paintings hung at odd intervals, their frames gilt and ornate, their subjects obscured by shadow and the limitations of his one functioning eye.

A figure emerged from the darkness at the far end of the chamber.

Joe saw the red hair, vivid even in the low light, styled back from his forehead with meticulous precision. The tailored black suit fit his athletic frame perfectly, unwrinkled despite the late hour. The scar that ran from temple to cheek stood out against his skin, a pale ribbon that twisted when he smiled.

He moved with deliberate elegance, like someone accustomed to having his commands obeyed without question. His hands were clean, nails manicured, with several rings glinting on his fingers.

Roja stopped three feet in front of Joe and tilted his head slightly, studying him with the clinical detachment of a scientist observing a specimen. His eyes were dark, almost black in the dim light, revealing nothing.

"You're awake," he said, his English perfect but touched with the cadence of someone who'd learned it as a second language. His voice was smooth, cultured, at odds with the violence that surrounded him.

“Who are you?” Joe asked.

“They call me Roja.”

Joe didn't reply. He cataloged his injuries instead, assessing what still worked. His right hand could still make a fist. His legs could still support weight, if he got free. Which, he had to admit, didn’t seem likely.

Roja reached into his pocket with unhurried grace, removed a silk handkerchief monogrammed with gold thread, and slowly wiped something from his fingers. The fabric came away stained.

"I must say, Mr. Reacher, you made quite the impression. Nine of my men are either dead or dying. A few of them may never walk again." There was something like reluctant respect in his tone, a professional acknowledging another's skill.

Joe's voice rasped from somewhere deep in his throat, scraping past swollen tissue and blood. "Should've brought more."

Roja gave a short, humorless laugh that didn't reach his eyes. The sound echoed off the high ceiling. "You Americans. Always so pleased with yourselves. Always wanting more."

He stepped behind Joe, just out of sight, and the sound of a metal tray being moved echoed through the chamber—surgical stainless steel sliding across a hard surface. Glass clinked against metal.

Liquid poured.

"I know who you are," Roja continued, voice drifting from behind. "Your background. Military police. West Point graduate. Army Intelligence before Treasury. Brother still in the service. Parents deceased. No wife. No children. You've done your research on my operation. But so have I."

Joe thought about his brother. Wished he was here now.

"I want to know what you've learned," Roja said. "Everything you and Detective Salas know about your colleague’s investigation. You know, Sullivan. The one I killed.”

Joe didn’t respond.

“I want to know what your Treasury people have learned. What the Peruvian police know. Names. Documents. Evidence. All of it." His tone remained conversational, as if they were discussing sports or politics over coffee.

Joe flexed one hand against the binding, testing its strength. No give. The knots were professional, tied by someone who understood restraints. Still, he filed away the exact tension points for future reference.

"All you need to know is that I’m going to rip your throat out," Joe said, voice steadier now. He ran his tongue over his split lip, tasting fresh blood.

Roja came into view again. In his hand he held something that caught the light—a slim blade with a gold handle, engraved in ancient patterns. Inca, perhaps, or pre-Inca, repurposed from its original ceremonial use to something profane. The edge gleamed, recently sharpened.

"You're not the first man to be in that chair," Roja said, stepping close enough that Joe could smell his cologne. "But I'm very good at making people talk." His voice was almost gentle, like a doctor warning of minor discomfort before an injection.

He rested the flat of the blade against Joe's chest. Cold. Clean. The metal seemed to burn against Joe's skin despite its temperature, a promise of what was to come.

"I'll start with something small," he said. "Then we'll move on to questions." His grip shifted on the ornate handle, adjusting to the perfect angle.

Joe looked him dead in the eye, unflinching despite the swelling that distorted half his face.

"Only if you tell me where you got that awful toupee."

The blade cut quickly, a whisper of steel through flesh.

CHAPTER 39

Ivy gripped the steering wheel of her government-issue Taurus as she drove into a mixed-use area of Baltimore. The wipers smeared rather than cleared, streaking her view with each sluggish pass. The address from Vincent's car should be up ahead, but the numbers jumped erratically on this stretch of urban decay.

She slowed, peering through the passenger window. Buildings hunched shoulder to shoulder, a check-cashing place with bars on its windows, a liquor store advertising lottery tickets, a boarded-up storefront spray-painted with territorial markers she couldn't decipher.

The address belonged to a small diner wedged between a pawn shop and what appeared to be a defunct electronics repair store. The sign above read Cafe in faded red lettering. Beneath it, in smaller letters: "Open 24 Hours."

Ivy parked across the street. The place looked unremarkable. A fluorescent "OPEN" sign flickered in the window. Through the glass, she could make out a counter with red vinyl stools, a handful of booths along the wall, and exactly three customers.

The perfect place for an anonymous meeting.

She killed the engine and tucked her service weapon more securely against her ribs. The air outside hit her face with cold dampness as she stepped from the car, the Baltimore winter seeping instantly through her thin blazer. The mist had condensed on her dark hair, beading at the ends.

Inside, the diner smelled of burnt coffee and grease that had been recycled too many times. A waitress with bottle-blonde hair barely glanced up from wiping the counter. The bell above the door announced Ivy's entrance with a cheerful jingle that felt out of place in the gloomy interior.

She slid into a booth near the back, positioned to see both the entrance and the kitchen door. The vinyl seat was cracked, patched with duct tape that stuck to her slacks when she shifted. A laminated menu stood propped between a sticky ketchup bottle and a sugar dispenser with a clogged spout.

The waitress approached, order pad in hand. "Coffee?"

Ivy nodded. When the woman was done filling her cup, Ivy added, “I'm looking for a friend of mine.

She showed her a photo of Vincent she’d taken from his apartment.

The waitress's eyes flickered with recognition. "Yeah, I saw him. Kind of unusual to see his type around here.”

Ivy knew exactly what the woman meant by “his type.”

"When?"

"Week ago maybe? Met a woman, if I recall, which sort of surprised me.”

Again, a not-so-subtle reference to Vincent’s sexuality.

Just in case Ivy didn’t understand the reference, the waitress added, "Not the type you'd expect him to be with, if you know what I mean."

"What did she look like?"

"Mmm, dark hair, ethnic-looking."

"Did they talk?"

"Not much. They sat at that booth over there." She nodded toward a corner spot, partially hidden from the street.

Ivy nodded. "Have you seen her since?"

"Nope. But it’s not like I work every shift."

Ivy asked a few more questions but learned nothing else. She left her card with the waitress, along with a twenty-dollar bill and instructions to call if the woman returned.

Ivy used a pay phone outside the diner and dialed the Treasury office. After two transfers, she got a woman named Hoffman. Ivy knew her vaguely. She worked down the hall from her.

"It's Harper. I need a reverse lookup on this number." She read off the phone number from Vincent's note.

"Give me a few," Hoffman said, tapping keys in the background. "How's Baltimore treating you?"

"Cold and uncooperative. How fast can you get this?"

"Should be—" More typing.

While Ivy waited, she looked at the phone. The little placard which displayed the pay phone’s number had been ripped off.

“This might take some time,” Hoffman said. “You know the drill."

Ivy thought about it and then suddenly, she had an idea. “Tell you what. I’m going to hang up. Call the number.”

“Okay,” Hoffman said.

Ivy hung up, waited, and just as she suspected, the phone rang.

“Hoffman?”

“Yeah.”

“I knew it,” Ivy said. “Thanks,” she said and was about to hang up, when Hoffman interjected.

"Hold on,” she said. “Jenkins wants to talk to you."

A moment later, her supervisor's gruff voice came through. "Harper. You're in Baltimore?"

"Yes, sir. Following a lead on the Parker case."

"Just got word from Baltimore PD. They pulled a body from a drainage canal half an hour ago. Industrial district. Male. Young. Preliminary suggests execution-style."

"Location?"

"Near the waterfront. Where Potomac Street dead-ends at the water. Harbor Patrol found him during a routine sweep."

"I'm a few minutes from there. I’m going to check it out."

She hung up, went to her car and started it. From her glove compartment, she pulled out her map and saw the exact location Jenkins had described.

Minutes later she pulled up to the police barricade near the harbor. Red and blue lights flashed against brick warehouses and the black water beyond. A light rain had begun to fall, forming halos around the emergency lights. She flashed her credentials at a young officer.

"Treasury? What's Treasury want with a floater?" he asked, lifting the tape for her.

"Possible connection to an ongoing case," she said, stepping through.

The body had already been removed, but the crime scene technicians were still working the area. Yellow evidence markers dotted the concrete where the canal met the harbor. A police photographer crouched near the water's edge, capturing the outlet pipe where the body had been found.

Ivy approached a detective writing notes on a waterproof pad. "Harper, Treasury Department. What can you tell me?"

The detective looked up. Fifties, heavy jowls, eyes with dark circles underneath. "Male, late twenties or early thirties. Gunshot wounds to the head. Been in the water less than 24 hours."

"Any ID?"

"Nothing on him. Prints are being run now." He gestured toward the canal. "Body got caught on the grate at the outlet. Otherwise, might have gone into the harbor."

"Where does this canal run from?"

"Feeds in from the industrial area. Collects runoff from about six blocks." He pointed north. "Mostly warehouses, some light manufacturing. Place has been in decline since the shipping moved to the new terminals."

Ivy looked where he pointed, then back at the diner's location in her mind, then to the pay phone. They formed a rough triangle.

"Can you send me the autopsy results when they come in?"

"Sure."

Ivy handed him her card. "Call me as soon as you ID him."

“You mean, if we can ID him.”

Ivy nodded and walked back to her car, the pieces rearranging themselves in her mind. The diner where Vincent met a woman. The pay phone used for contact. Now a body dumped in a canal that ran through the same area. And Vincent was dead.

She sat in her car, rain drumming on the roof, and opened her notebook. On a fresh page, she drew a rough map of the locations—diner, pay phone, body recovery site. Then she traced her finger along the canal's likely path.

Somewhere along this line, someone was involved in Parker’s death, Vincent’s murder, and possibly the body in the canal.

Someone was cleaning house.

Ivy started her car and pulled away from the police barricade. She was close. The answers were here in Baltimore, somewhere along this vector she'd traced.

As she drove slowly through the rain-slicked streets, she studied each warehouse, each faded sign, each building. One of them might contain what she was looking for.

And whoever was inside, was playing for keeps.

CHAPTER 40

Ana hurried through the corridors of San Felipe Hospital, her steps echoing against the polished linoleum.

The intensive care unit was on the third floor, behind double doors with small wire-reinforced windows. A sign warned in Spanish and English: Authorized Personnel Only.

The duty nurse—a middle-aged woman with streaks of gray in her tightly bound hair—glanced up from a stack of charts. "Visitors aren't allowed after nine," she said.

Ana flashed her badge. "Detective Salas. National Police. I need to see the men brought in from the warehouse shooting."

The nurse's eyes narrowed. "There's already an officer posted."

"That's why I'm here. Change of shift."

The nurse studied Ana's face, then nodded toward a clipboard. "Sign in."

Ana scrawled her name, then asked, "Where are they?"

"Rooms 312 and 314. The one in 312 is critical. Still unconscious." The nurse's expression softened slightly. "The other one's stable but heavily medicated. Not sure you'll get much from him."

"I'll manage," Ana said.

The hallway beyond was dimly lit, overhead lights dimmed for the night cycle. Ana passed a uniformed officer slouched in a chair outside Room 312, flipping through a newspaper. He looked up, startled when she approached.

"Officer Salas," he said, recognizing her. "You're not on the rotation."

"Special assignment," Ana said. "Captain sent me to get a statement before the painkillers kick in too deep. Any change?"

He shook his head. "This one's been out since they brought him in. Two bullet wounds, punctured lung. They don't expect him to wake up tonight." He jerked his thumb toward the next room. "Other one's conscious but pretty messed up. This American really kicked some ass."

Ana nodded. "Take a break. Get some coffee. I'll cover both rooms."

The officer shrugged and left.

As he disappeared down the hallway, Ana glanced through the window of Room 312. The man inside was ghost-pale, tubes snaking from his arms and nose, machines beeping steadily beside him. No help there.

She moved quickly to Room 314. Through the small window, she could see a man with bandages covering much of his torso. One arm was secured in a cast. His face was a mess of bruising, jaw swollen. An IV drip fed clear liquid into his arm.

Ana slipped inside, closing the door softly behind her. She went to the man in the bed. According to the chart clipped to the foot, his name was Vargas. Multiple gunshot wounds, fractured arm, broken ribs. Stable but serious.

His eyes were open now, watching her warily. Recognition flickered across his battered face.

Ana pulled a chair close to the bed and sat, leaning in. "Do you know who I am?" she asked in Spanish.

The man nodded slightly.

"Good. Then you know I'm looking for my partner. The American."

His eyes shifted away.

Ana reached over and pressed her thumb against his ribs where a bandage covered what the chart described as a through-and-through gunshot wound. His eyes bulged, but his battered jaw prevented him from screaming. Only a high, thin whine escaped.

She released the pressure. "Where did they take him?"

Vargas shook his head weakly.

"Let me explain something," Ana said, voice calm despite the pounding of her heart. "You have a morphine drip." She tapped the IV stand. "Right now, it's keeping the pain manageable. But this little button here—" she held up the patient-controlled dispenser "—controls how much you get."

She leaned closer. "I can disconnect it. Or I can increase it until you stop breathing. Either way, no one will question it. Gunshot victims sometimes develop complications."

To demonstrate, she pressed the button once, releasing a dose. Vargas's eyes fluttered as the drug hit his system.

"Now," Ana continued, "I'm going to ask you questions. You can't speak, so blink once for yes, twice for no. Understand?"

One blink.

"Did Roja take the American?"

One blink.

"To interrogate him about Sullivan's investigation?"

One blink.

Ana pressed her thumb against his wound again, not quite as hard. A warning. "Where is he? The warehouse district?"

Two blinks.

"Miraflores?"

Two blinks.

"Barranco?"

One blink.

Ana knew Roja was rumored to have a home base in Barranco.

"The big mansion? The one by the cliffs?"

Vargas hesitated.

Ana increased the pressure. The machines beside the bed beeped faster as his heart rate spiked.

One frantic blink.

She released her grip. "What are they planning to do with him? Kill him like Sullivan?"

One blink.

"The Peruvian necktie?"

One blink, his eyes now wide with a mixture of fear and the morphine flowing through his system.

"When?"

She realized her mistake—not a yes/no question. She tried again. "Tonight?"

One blink.

"What time is it scheduled?"

Again, not yes/no. She cursed silently, then thought of a different approach.

"Before midnight?"

Two blinks.

"At dawn?"

One blink.

Ana checked her watch. Just past eleven. Less than six hours.

"One last question," she said, reaching for the morphine control. "After they kill him, they're going to stuff his mouth with counterfeit money, aren't they? Like Sullivan?"

One slow blink.

Ana stood. She'd gotten what she needed. She pressed the morphine button twice in quick succession. Vargas's eyes rolled back, his body going slack against the sheets.

She replaced the chair, picked up her badge, and slipped back into the corridor. She needed help. No way she could storm the place on her own. She found a phone in the hallway and called one of the few people she knew she could trust in the department.

Ortega. He was former special forces, and he had friends.

The call went through and after a quick explanation, she said to Ortega, “Bring all the guns you can carry. No uniforms. Nothing official." Ana checked her watch. "Get who you can trust and meet me there as soon as possible."

Ana left the hospital and got behind the wheel of her 4x4. She gunned it out of the parking lot and headed for the house on the cliffs.

The streets of Lima blurred past as she pushed the vehicle faster, pressed the accelerator harder.

She knew what Roja had planned for Reacher.

It was time someone gave Roja what he deserved.

His very own Peruvian necktie.

CHAPTER 41

Blood trickled down Joe's chest in a thin line where Roja had drawn the ceremonial knife across his skin.

The cut was precise—deep enough to hurt, shallow enough to avoid any real damage. A warning, not a serious attempt to injure.

Not yet.

"You Americans," Roja said, wiping the blade clean on a silk handkerchief. "So confident. Always thinking you're untouchable."

Joe watched, as best he could, Roja as he moved around the chair.

"Let me tell you something about Peru," Roja continued, his voice carrying the cadence of a professor giving a lecture. "This country runs on two things: corruption and blood. Sometimes it's hard to tell them apart."

Joe tested the bindings again. Maybe just the slightest of give this time.

Roja ran the blade lightly across Joe's shoulder, just enough pressure to dimple the skin without breaking it. "That's why I like this knife," he said. "It's precise. Controllable. It allows me to determine exactly how much pain to inflict."

Joe said nothing.

“Did you study the bills stuffed into your colleague’s mouth? Good, no?”

Joe didn’t answer.

“I would have thought you admired the craftsmanship." He moved back into Joe's line of sight.

"No,” Joe said.

"Quality. Detail." Roja said, ignoring Joe’s answer. "The difference between something real and something fake is in the details. And if you thought those bills were good, you should see the new ones. Perfection."

"You can always spot a phony,” Joe said. “I’m looking at one right now.”

Roja stepped away toward a small table where a crystal decanter sat beside a stack of what looked like crisp hundred-dollar bills. He poured himself a drink and returned, swirling the amber liquid.

Joe said nothing, watching as Roja sipped his drink.

"General Rivera sends his regards, by the way."

"I knew this wasn’t your operation," Joe said. “You’re not smart enough.”

Roja smiled, the scar on his face stretching. He leaned in close, his breath smelling of expensive liquor. "Smart enough to make sure I’m here, and not the one in the chair.”

“Funny, I remember fighting about twenty guys. You weren’t one of them.”

"A man must delegate,” Roja said. “Are you curious to know more about your colleague? The one who died with our bills in his mouth?"

"Sure, would love to hear all about it."

Keep him talking, Joe thought. Time is what I need right now.

"Rivera ordered it. Called me personally. Said Sullivan was getting too close." Roja took another sip. "The man was a nuisance and was about to discover the bigger picture."

"What bigger picture?" Joe asked.

Roja smiled. "You think this is just a local operation? That we're printing money in some basement in Lima?" He laughed. "This is global, Reacher. We have people inside your system. People with access to everything we need to create perfect counterfeits."

"So you’ve got some good fakes. Big deal.”

Roja laughed again. "You think too small, Reacher. This isn't about money."

"It’s always about money.”

Roja set down his glass and picked up a different implement from the table—something that looked like metal shears. "Whatever the case, you won't be alive to worry about it."

"Is that what the General told you to do? Kill me like Sullivan?"

"What Rivera wants for you is special." Roja's expression darkened. "He's going to display your severed head in his private collection. A trophy to show what happens to those who interfere with his operations."

"Seems excessive."

"It's symbolic." Roja tested the cutting tool, opening and closing it with a metallic click. "Your decapitated head will be a message to your Treasury Department. Something even bureaucrats can understand."

"And when I don't report in, and more agents come looking?"

"By then, it will be too late."

"Nah," Joe said. "You’re already a dead man."

"Not quite." Roja smiled. "Before I cut off your empty head, I would like to know what your Detective Salas has discovered. What she knows."

"She doesn’t know a thing. I’ve kept her in the dark. I don’t trust locals."

"I don't believe you."

"I’m an arrogant American. Do you really think I’d work with her?”

Roja's expression shifted subtly. Uncertainty flashed across his features.

Roja put Joe’s index finger between the jaws of the heavy shears, applying pressure.

Joe prepared himself for the pain.

"When this is over," Roja hissed, "I'll find your Detective Salas. I'll bring her here. Her punishment will be very different."

Joe's face betrayed nothing, but inside, something cold blossomed.

He needed to stall. And wait for an opening, however small.

But he wasn’t fooling himself.

Time was about to run out.

PART NINE

CHAPTER 42

Ivy sat hunched over her desk at the Treasury Department, a half-eaten sandwich pushed to one side, surrounded by stacks of printouts. Her eyes burned from hours of scanning microfiche and property records for Baltimore's industrial district.

She'd started with a two-mile radius around the canal where the body was found, methodically working through sales and lease documents, utility hookups, and building permits. Most of the properties in the area had been owned by the same companies for decades – remnants of Baltimore's manufacturing heyday, now largely abandoned or operating at minimal capacity.

But something caught her eye on the fourth page of a commercial property transaction log. A warehouse at 1857 Potomac Industrial Way had changed hands six months ago. Purchased for cash by a company called East Coast Holdings, LLC, incorporated in Delaware just two weeks before the sale.

Ivy circled the entry and pulled a property map from her stack. The warehouse sat less than half a mile from where the body had been found, less than half a mile from the diner and the pay phone.

She picked up her phone and dialed a number for the Maryland State business registry.

"This is Special Agent Harper with Treasury. I need information on a Delaware incorporation, East Coast Holdings, LLC." She flipped open her notebook. "I have reason to believe it may be connected to a federal homicide investigation."

Twenty minutes and three transfers later, she had what she needed. East Coast Holdings was a shell company – no employees, no actual business operations, just a paper entity registered to an international law firm that specialized in creating anonymous corporate structures. The kind of arrangement favored by those who wanted to hide ownership.

Her desk phone rang as she was marking the warehouse location on her map. She picked it up, wedging it between her ear and shoulder.

"Harper."

"Detective McCauley, Baltimore Homicide. Got an ID on your floater."

Ivy straightened, reaching for a pen. "That was fast."

"Fingerprints were in the system. Guy named Andrew Triggs. Ph.D. in polymer chemistry from MIT. Did a brief stint with the Federal Reserve as a consultant on currency security.

Ivy's pen halted mid-word. "Currency security?"

"Yeah. Officially he resigned, but there's a sealed personnel file that suggests otherwise."

"Any criminal record?"

"Nothing major. Gambling debts. Unpaid taxes. No violence."

Ivy thanked him, hung up and stared at her notes. Currency security expert. Polymer chemistry.

Parker had access to the security features of U.S. currency. Trigg had the expertise to replicate them. Vincent was used to blackmail Parker.

And all three of them were now dead.

She picked up the phone again and dialed Jenkins's office.

His secretary answered. "Director Jenkins's office."

"This is Harper. I need to speak with him immediately."

"I'm sorry, Agent Harper. He's in a meeting with Treasury Secretary and won't be available until late afternoon."

"This is urgent. I've identified a potential counterfeiting operation in Baltimore with multiple homicides connected to it."

"I understand. I'll have him call you the moment he's available. Do you need me to request a tactical team?"

Ivy glanced at her watch. Nearly four in the afternoon. Even with expedited approval, a tactical team would take forever to assemble and brief.

"Tell him I'm conducting surveillance on a suspect location. I'll call in when I have visual confirmation."

She hung up, gathered her notes, and checked her weapon. The weight of the Sig Sauer was reassuring as she headed for the elevator.

Forty minutes later, Ivy was parked a block away from 1857 Potomac Industrial Way, using a pair of binoculars to study the building. The warehouse looked unremarkable from the outside – three stories of weathered brick with loading docks on one side and a small office entrance on the other.

Most of the windows were either boarded up or covered from the inside. A chain-link fence surrounded the property, topped with rusted barbed wire.

There were no company signs, no markings of any kind except the faded address numbers above the office door. No vehicles in the small parking area. Nothing to suggest the building was occupied at all except for a thin wisp of steam escaping from a roof vent.

And a single security camera mounted above the entrance, too new and too well-positioned to belong to an abandoned building.

Ivy lowered the binoculars and checked her watch. She'd been there for over an hour. No movement. No deliveries. No signs of life.

The winter day was already fading, darkness settling over the industrial district like a shroud. Streetlights flickered on, casting pools of sickly yellow light that barely penetrated the gloom. A light rain began to fall, tapping against the roof of her car.

She was about to call it quits when a door opened on the side of the building. A man emerged, tall and thin, wearing a long dark coat. He looked up and down the street before locking the door behind him.

Ivy slipped out of her car, leaving the door ajar rather than risk the sound of it closing. She moved quickly across the street, staying in the shadows between pools of streetlight.

The man was walking toward the corner where a black sedan was parked. His movements were unhurried.

She closed the distance, her footsteps masked by the rain and the distant rumble of a freight train. When she was fifteen feet away, she called out.

"Excuse me."

The man turned, his face expressionless. He was older than she'd first thought – late forties, maybe early fifties. Silver-blond hair cut short and neat. Eyes that assessed her with cold efficiency.

"Federal agent," Ivy said, deliberately not reaching for her badge or her weapon. "I'd like to ask you a few questions about this building."

The man's expression didn't change. "Private property."

"I understand. And you are?"

He gave a small, cold smile.

“They call me Foster.”

CHAPTER 43

Roja circled back to face Joe, the large knife gleaming in the dim light.

Joe's arms strained against the ropes binding him to the chair. The hemp fibers had cut into his wrists, leaving them slick with blood.

Roja tilted Joe's head back with his free hand, exposing his throat. The blade's edge felt cold against Joe's skin.

"I love killing Americans,” Roja said.

He pressed the knife harder, drawing a thin line of blood. Joe felt the sting, then the warm trickle down his neck.

The rattle of gunfire erupted outside, distant at first, then closer. Staccato bursts of automatic weapons, then the deeper boom of a shotgun. Shouts echoed across the grounds.

Roja's head snapped toward the sound. The knife wavered.

More gunfire. Breaking glass. The sound of splintering wood.

Roja cursed. He stepped back, listening. Someone was shouting orders—a woman's voice.

Joe recognized it. Ana's voice.

Roja pocketed the knife and pulled a pistol from his waistband. He moved to the door, opened it a crack, then slid through the doorway.

The door slammed shut behind him.

Joe didn't waste a second. He rocked violently in the chair, throwing his weight from side to side. The heavy oak creaked but held fast to the floor. Again he rocked, harder this time, feeling something give slightly.

The bolts. They were working loose.

Joe threw his weight sideways with everything he had, once, twice, a third time. On the fourth attempt, he felt the chair tip, crashing sideways onto the marble floor with a splintering crack.

The impact sent pain shooting through his shoulder, but he heard what he wanted: the sound of wood splitting. One arm of the chair had broken off.

His right arm was still tied to the broken piece, but now he had mobility. Joe maneuvered his bound hand, reaching across his body to his left wrist. His fingers, slick with blood and sweat, worked at the knots.

The gunfire outside intensified.

Joe freed his left hand, ignoring the burning pain as circulation returned to his fingers. He twisted to reach his ankles, working the ropes loose with both hands now. The broken chair arm was still attached to his right wrist, but it would have to wait.

He stood shakily, his legs numb from hours of immobility. The room tilted, then steadied. His body was a mass of cuts, burns, and bruises.

Joe scanned the room, looking for anything he could use as a weapon.

There was nothing

The door handle turned, slowly at first, then with more force.

The door swung open. A man stepped in—not Roja, but one of his henchmen. Dark hair, muscular build, gun drawn.

"Estás—" The man never finished his sentence.

Joe lunged from behind the door, caught the man in a headlock, twisted, and heard the spinal cord snap like a muted gunshot.

Joe dropped the dead man on the ground and took his pistol—a Beretta 9mm—and checked the magazine. Nearly full.

Outside, the gunfire had become sporadic. Single shots rather than bursts. The fighting was winding down, but who was winning was impossible to tell.

Joe moved to the door, peered around the frame. The hallway beyond was empty, lit by ornate sconces that cast eerie shadows on the walls.

He moved silently down the corridor, Beretta held ready, ears straining for any sound of approach. At the end of the hall, a staircase curved downward to what appeared to be the main foyer.

A body lay crumpled at the base of the stairs. One of Roja's men, a pool of blood spreading out beneath him on the marble floor. Further in, the elaborate foyer showed signs of a firefight—bullets had chipped the columns, shattered a chandelier, and left jagged holes in the plaster walls.

Joe heard movement and pressed himself against the wall. Footsteps approaching from a side corridor. He raised the Beretta, aimed at the corner where the sound was coming from.

Roja appeared, walking backward, firing a submachine gun toward the main entrance. He hadn't seen Joe yet.

Joe stepped out.

The red-haired man whirled, swinging his weapon around, but Joe was already moving. He closed the distance in two long strides, grabbing the barrel of the gun and forcing it upward. Bullets sprayed the ceiling, bringing down a shower of plaster dust.

Roja snarled, dropping the now-empty submachine gun and reaching for the knife in his pocket. Joe slammed him backward against the wall.

He caught Roja’s arm and wrenched it sideways, heard the bone and elbow joint pop.

Joe slammed his forehead into Roja's face, feeling the other man's nose shatter. Roja howled, blood streaming down his lips and chin.

Joe seized Roja's wrist and twisted with savage force. Bone snapped. The knife clattered to the floor.

Roja struggled, spitting blood and curses, but Joe had him pinned now, one hand on his throat, the other keeping the broken wrist immobilized. The red-haired man's face purpled as Joe applied pressure to his windpipe.

Roja sagged against the wall, his eyes bulging.

Joe reached down and grabbed the fallen ceremonial knife.

With a single swift movement, Joe drew the blade across Roja's throat, exactly as the man had done to so many others.

Blood gushed, hot and thick, soaking Joe's hand and spattering across the marble floor. Roja's eyes widened in shock, then dulled as death took him.

Joe leaned in, drew the knife across again, and again until Roja’s head broke free from his body. Joe held the dead man’s head by the red hair and then tossed it aside.

From somewhere in the building, he heard Ana's voice calling out commands in Spanish.

He hurried down into the main entrance where dead men were scattered like confetti.

Ana saw him and lowered her weapon.

Joe crossed the room.

“Thank you,” he said.

She smiled. “I just wanted a second date.”

CHAPTER 44

Ivy maintained her position, weighing her options.

The man looked odd. Not a worker. Not a businessman. Just…odd.

“Federal agent,” Ivy said. “Let me show you my badge.” But instead, she drew her weapon.

The man didn’t move.

"Federal agent," she repeated more firmly. "Treasury Department. I need you to keep your hands where I can see them."

Foster's expression remained impassive, his eyes tracking her movements with cold precision. "Nothing to see here," he said, voice flat.

"Sir, I need you to place your hands on top of your head."

Foster didn't move. His pale blue eyes, almost colorless in the dim streetlight, assessed her with clinical detachment.

“Why?” he asked.

"This building is part of a federal investigation," Ivy continued, taking a half-step to her right, seeking better positioning. "I have questions about recent activities here."

"Can't help you," Foster said.

Ivy noticed how he had shifted slightly, maintaining the same distance between them despite her movement.

"My colleagues will be arriving shortly," she said, the lie rolling easily off her tongue. "We can discuss this at the local field office if you prefer."

A nearly imperceptible twitch at the corner of Foster's mouth—not quite a smile. "No one’s coming."

Ivy was surprised by his response. HE wasn’t scared. Wasn’t looking for an excuse. He seemed to be enjoying himself.

"Who else is in the building?" she asked.

"Rodents."

Ivy took another careful step, attempting to maneuver Foster away from the direct line to the warehouse door. He countered with subtle precision, maintaining his position between her and the building.

"What were you doing inside?"

Foster cocked his head slightly, like he was examining a rare species of bird.

"You should leave," he said.

"I'm afraid I can't do that." Ivy said. "I need you to put your hands on your head and turn around."

Foster remained silent. He didn’t move.

"We’ve been tracking this operation for weeks," she continued, the fabrication building momentum. "We have the building surrounded. You have nowhere to go."

Foster's gaze never left her face, but she could sense him listening for sounds of movement, verification of her claim.

"Last chance," she said. "Hands on your head."

For a moment, neither moved. A train whistle sounded in the distance.

Foster moved with startling speed, his hand emerging from beneath his coat with a pistol already aligned. He had drawn his gun so fast, it had practically been a blur.

Ivy had been expecting it, but not at that speed.

Two shots exploded from her Sig Sauer in rapid succession, just as Foster fired.

Her first bullet caught Foster in the throat, just above his collar. The second hit higher, entering just above his right eyebrow.

His head snapped back, just as two muffled thuds punched into Ivy's chest in quick succession, driving the air from her lungs.

The impact lifted her off her feet, sending her backward onto the wet pavement.

She landed hard, her head cracking against the concrete. Pain exploded through her chest as she gasped for air that wouldn't come. Her vision tunneled, darkness creeping in from the edges.

Through narrowing vision, she saw Foster crumple to his knees, then pitch forward onto the rain-soaked pavement. Blood mixed with chunks of brain tumbled out of his shattered skull.

Ivy couldn't move. Couldn't breathe. She tried to lift her arm, but it wouldn't respond.

Her last conscious thought was of her father, how he'd warned her about the dangers of field work, how he'd made her promise to always be careful.

Darkness closed in and settled over her like the darkest of nights.

CHAPTER 45

Joe winced as Ana pressed a cloth to the deepest cut on his chest. The mansion's eerie silence after the gunfire made every sound stand out—her breathing, the drip of water from a damaged pipe, the occasional crackle of radio communication from the men she'd brought with her.

"You look terrible," she said.

"What are you wearing, Versace?" Joe replied, nodding at her blood-spattered clothes.

Three of her men had died in the assault. Two more were wounded. The old colonial mansion had become a battlefield, its ornate halls now littered with bullet casings and bodies.

"Ortega is securing the perimeter," Ana said, taping a makeshift bandage over the worst of Joe's wounds. "No sign of any more of Roja's men. Most of them were killed or fled when they realized they were outgunned."

Joe nodded toward a hallway. "We need to find where Roja had his office.”

"You need medical attention."

"Office first."

"This way," she said.

They moved through the grand hall, past the ornate staircase where two bodies still lay sprawled in pools of congealing blood.

At the end of a long corridor, they found a heavy mahogany door, partially open. Inside was a spacious office that might once have been a library. Bookshelves lined the walls, mostly empty now except for a few leather-bound volumes and scattered trinkets.

A massive desk dominated the center of the room, its surface cluttered with papers, a telephone, and a half-empty glass of liquor.

Behind the desk, a modern filing cabinet stood out—steel and utilitarian, incongruous against the faded luxury.

"What a mess," Ana said, noting the drawers pulled open, papers scattered.

Joe moved to the desk, rifling through the documents. Most were in Spanish—invoices, shipping manifests, personnel records for what appeared to be legitimate businesses.

"Shell companies," Ana said, looking over his shoulder.

Joe nodded, continuing to sort through the papers. A ledger caught his eye. He opened it carefully.

Inside were handwritten entries—dates, amounts, and code names. Each transaction detailed payments moving through something called "Servicios Globales S.A."

"This matches the banking records we found," Ana said. "Servicios Globales is Rivera's shell company in Panama."

Joe flipped to the most recent entries. The amounts were substantial—millions of dollars flowing through the accounts in the past three months alone.

"Look at this," Ana said, pulling a document from beneath a blotter.

It was a letter, written on heavy cream-colored stationery with an embossed letterhead: a stylized globe with the letters "SCG" intertwined beneath it.

"Strategic Consultation Group," Ana translated. "I've never heard of them."

“Neither have I,” Joe replied.

The letter was written in English:

Production capacity has been achieved. American operation is now capable of producing $2M daily with security features intact. Perfect plates have been confirmed. Distribution channels secured through established networks.

Phase Two ready for implementation.

Security concerns regarding chemist have been addressed. L. will handle cleanup and relocation.

Next communication through established protocol only.

Joe read it twice, committing the details to memory. "This connects Roja—or more likely Rivera—directly to an American counterfeiting operation. That's what Sullivan must have discovered."

"The 'perfect plates' would be for U.S. currency," Ana said. "And 'L' must be their American operative."

"A chemist," Joe said. "You'd need one to get the ink composition exactly right."

He continued searching the desk while Ana moved to the filing cabinet. The bottom drawer contained a secured metal box, locked with a combination dial.

"Can you open it?" Joe asked.

Ana examined it carefully. "Four-digit combination. I’ll try 1,2,3,4."

She tried the sequence. The lock didn't budge.

"Any ideas?" she asked.

Joe studied the office, looking for anything that might suggest a meaningful number. His gaze settled on a framed photograph on the wall—Roja alongside a middle-aged man in military dress uniform.

The insignia identified him as a general.

Rivera, presumably.

Beneath the image, someone had written August 1985.

"Try 1985," Joe suggested. "It was when the Peruvian military consolidated power here. Rivera’s power grab.”

Ana rotated the dial. The lock clicked open.

Inside the box were several folders, and a small notebook. Ana took out the top folder and opened it.

Joe picked up the notebook. It contained handwritten entries—dates, times, and brief notes of conversations.

The most recent entry caught his eye:

Chemist elimination complete. L. confirms materials secured.

He showed it to Ana. "This is from yesterday. Their American operative—this 'L'—eliminated someone they refer to as 'the chemist.'"

"And secured the materials," Ana added. "The counterfeiting supplies, most likely."

Joe continued reading through the notebook, flipping back several pages. Another entry stood out:

Nov 18 – American agent surveillance confirmed. R. authorizes termination.

"Here's the order for Sullivan's murder," Joe said. "Signed off by Rivera himself."

Ana took out another folder from the box. This one contained photographs. They were surveillance shots of various locations in Lima, including the U.S. Embassy and Sullivan's apartment building.

"They were watching him," Ana said. "Tracking his investigation."

"I need to contact Treasury," he said. "This American operation is happening now. They don’t have any idea it’s connected to what’s going on here. Based on these shipment schedules, we've got almost no time before they distribute the first batch of counterfeits."

Ana looked at the papers spread across the desk. "And Rivera?"

"He’ll either run, or hole up," Joe said.

"He has a private estate in the mountains," Ana said. "Remote. Heavily guarded."

Joe nodded, already dialing. "Then that's where we're going next."

But first, he needed to alert Treasury about the counterfeiting operation, before this person called “L” could finish doing her dirty work.

As he dialed, a name entered his mind that sent a cold knife through his insides.

Ivy, he thought.

CHAPTER 46

Ivy’s eyes snapped open.

I’m not dead, she thought.

Pain exploded in her chest as consciousness returned. Each breath felt like being punched in the stomach.

She tried to move and immediately regretted it. A fresh round of pain radiated from her sternum.

The vest.

Thank God she'd put on the Kevlar vest underneath her coat before approaching the building without backup.

It was standard procedure for entering an unsecured location, though she hadn't expected to need it quite so literally.

Ivy raised up slightly, saw her Sig Sauer on the ground.

She attempted to sit up, each movement sending fresh waves of agony through her chest. That bastard had shot her in the chest.

If not for the vest, she'd be dead.

The thought gave her strength to roll onto her side, then push herself up to a sitting position. She reached for her gun, checked the magazine. Still had rounds.

She needed to get inside that building.

Foster's body lay motionless, blood still seeping from the head wound. His gun remained clutched in his lifeless hand. She forced herself to search his pockets, ignoring the warm stickiness of his blood. A wallet with no ID. Cash.

And…a set of keys.

Getting to her feet was an exercise in controlled agony. Her chest felt like it had been hit with a sledgehammer—which wasn't far from the truth. The Kevlar had stopped the bullets from penetrating, but the kinetic energy had to go somewhere.

She staggered to the building entrance, leaning against the brick wall for support. Her hands were shaky as she tried the keys, one after another, until she found the one that fit.

The door swung open with a metallic groan.

Ivy moved slowly, gun held ready despite the pain in her chest. A hallway stretched before her, leading deeper into the warehouse. She followed it, passing empty rooms.

At the end of the corridor, a heavy steel door stood ajar. Beyond it, the warehouse opened into a vast space filled with industrial equipment. The stark fluorescent lighting revealed what she'd been looking for.

A printing press. Not just any press—a modified version of the specialized equipment used by the Bureau of Engraving and Printing.

Ivy also smelled gasoline and now, she noticed the gas cans placed strategically around the entire area. Foster, the man she’d killed, must have been leaving, and had planned to burn the place down after he’d left.

Destroy evidence, Ivy supposed.

Around the press, workbenches held stacks of paper, chemicals, testing equipment, and microscopes. The air smelled of ink and solvents. Nearby, drying racks held what appeared to be freshly printed sheets of hundred-dollar bills.

"My God," Ivy whispered.

She moved closer, examining one of the sheets. Twelve bills to a page. Perfect in every detail. The paper felt right—that distinctive cotton-linen blend texture that no ordinary counterfeiter could replicate. The ink had the correct metallic quality. The security features, microprinting, color-shifting ink, embedded security threads, all looked flawless.

Ivy searched the rest of the space but found no one. She holstered her weapon and began searching systematically, looking for anything that might identify who was behind this. The place had been partially cleared out. There were empty spaces on shelves, clean rectangles on dusty surfaces where equipment had been removed.

She moved to a bulletin board where a world map had been pinned. There were red thumbtacks marking London, Paris, Berlin, Hong Kong, Sydney, Tokyo, Moscow, Dubai and, with a red thumbtack and also circled with a red marker, Lima.

They’re planning worldwide distribution, Ivy thought. Lima is key. It hit Ivy, then. Sullivan murdered. Joe sent to Lima.

Both operations were intertwined.

Back near the printing press she saw detailed descriptions of chemical formulations, paper compositions, detailed schematics of printing plates. Everything someone would need to replicate U.S. currency.

She also spotted photographs of the actual Bureau of Engraving and Printing security features—close-up shots of components that shouldn't be accessible to anyone outside the Treasury. Thomas Parker's betrayal laid bare in high-resolution images.

Ivy saw the big picture at once: a plan to not just distribute counterfeit currency but to provide partner organizations in major financial centers with the means to produce their own.

If there was a simultaneous release of counterfeits into banking systems worldwide, the result would be systemic collapse.

It was economic warfare.

She saw a name at the bottom of one of the documents. Strategic Consultation Group.

Ivy had never heard the name before.

Despite the very legitimate-sounding name, she wondered if it was something else. Not exactly a terrorist group, but maybe a coalition dedicated to destabilizing Western financial systems.

Ivy continued to search, and found a spare room with a cot, sheets and a pillow. There were some clothes on the ground. A woman had been living here.

She searched through all of the belongings but found nothing. Ivy pulled the cot away from the wall and found a photo of a woman leaning against a stone wall with the ocean in the background. In her hands was a machine gun.

Ivy turned the photo over. A note read: Leila Varna. Bad ass.

The woman who’d used Vincent to blackmail Parker. And who then had both of them killed once they’d done what she needed.

The mystery woman had a name. And a face to circulate.

Ivy gathered the most important documents, sliding them into her jacket. She needed to get this information to Jenkins immediately.

As she turned to leave, a red light on the wall caught her attention. A security camera, its lens focused directly on her. Whoever was monitoring it now knew she was here—and alive.

She had to move fast.

Outside, the rain had stopped. Ivy staggered to her car, each step sending fresh waves of pain through her chest. She slid into the driver's seat, wincing as she reached for the radio.

"Dispatch, this is Agent Harper. I need to speak with Director Jenkins immediately."

Static crackled, then a voice came through. "Agent Harper, we've been trying to reach you. Stand by for Director Jenkins."

The seconds stretched into minutes, pain throbbing with each heartbeat. Finally, Jenkins's voice cut through the static.

"Harper, where the hell have you been? Are you all right?"

"Sir, I've located the counterfeiting operation. Baltimore warehouse, 1857 Potomac Industrial Way. I've got documents connecting it to an international organization—Strategic Consultation Group. They're planning a global distribution of perfect counterfeit currency, along with the technology to produce them.”

"I just got off a secure line with Reacher in Lima," Jenkins interrupted. "He's made the same connection."

"We need to find a woman named Leila Varna. I have a photograph. Dark hair, mid-thirties, Eastern European features. She is running the operation and she’s probably trying to leave the country with everything – the actual plates and formulas to produce counterfeit currency on a global scale.”

“I'm sending a team to secure the warehouse,” Jenkins said. “Full hazmat, document recovery, the works."

"Yes, sir." Ivy winced as she shifted in the seat. "Sir, I shot someone. One of the counterfeiters. He’s dead.”

“Are you okay?”

“Um, yeah. He shot me but I had on a vest.”

“Harper, get yourself to a hospital. Now. That’s an order.”

“Yes, sir.”

She didn’t want to, though.

Leila was still out there.

PART TEN

CHAPTER 47

The mountain air was cool at this elevation, but inside General Rivera's private quarters, the temperature was stifling. Cigar smoke hung in thick clouds, the air reeked of cognac and cologne.

Rivera sat on the edge of the bed and studied the two young women in the corner of the room, barely out of their teens, eyes downcast, hands clasped before them.

They didn't speak or move unless commanded. The daughter and niece of a local village leader who had opposed Rivera's land seizures had been "invited" to the general's compound three days ago.

Once Rivera was done enjoying their bodies, and their pain, he would send them back to their village.

In pieces.

"What?" Rivera barked.

His second-in-command, a man named Vega, stepped in, his uniform dusty and disheveled. His face was tense, his eyes wide with apprehension.

Delivering bad news to Rivera was never a good thing. In fact, surviving it was often the exception.

Vega swallowed hard. "General, there was a shootout in Barranco. Roja is dead."

Rivera stood and left the bedroom, Vega in tow. They went to Rivera’s office.

Once there, Rivera sat in a huge leather chair behind a massive desk. He fired up a cigar and poured himself a glass of whiskey.

"Explain,” he commanded.

Vega cleared his throat. "It was the American Treasury agent named Reacher, and the police detective, Salas. They came with a team." Vega's words tumbled out in a rush. "The Ghosts were overwhelmed..." He faltered.

Rivera's face remained impassive. "And Roja?"

"The American..." Vega's voice dropped. "He took Roja's head. Cut it clean off. Left it on the front steps as a message."

Rivera's eyes narrowed. "So they’ll find everything Roja had?"

"Yes, sir. Word is, they took everything."

Rivera's expression darkened. He reached for a drawer in his desk and removed a nickel-plated Colt .45, ornately engraved with his initials. He checked the chamber methodically.

"Sir?" Vega's voice cracked slightly.

The general sighed. He raised the pistol in one fluid motion and fired twice. The shots were deafeningly loud in the confined space.

Vega crumpled to the floor, two neat holes in his chest, surprise etched on his face. Blood pooled on the expensive carpet.

Rivera pressed a button on his desk. A door opened, and his chief of security entered.

"Prepare the helicopter," Rivera said. He gestured to Vega's body. "And get rid of him, and the girls."

The man was about to respond when he was interrupted by the compound's alarm system, a shrill, pulsing wail that echoed throughout the building.

Rivera moved to the window. In the valley below, he could see vehicles approaching—police SUVs and what looked like military transport trucks, moving up the access road at speed.

"Stall them," Rivera ordered. "I need ten minutes."

His head of security nodded and left, already barking orders into his radio.

Rivera opened a wall panel to reveal a hidden compartment stuffed with cash, passports, and a small black notebook. He swept these into a leather bag, then crossed to a private elevator that would take him directly to the helipad.

As the doors closed, he smiled thinly. Let Reacher come. By the time the American reached the compound, Rivera would be airborne, headed for a private airstrip where a jet waited to take him to safety.

And once he reconnected with Leila and the Strategic Consultation Group, they would rebuild. The counterfeiting operation was too valuable, too perfect to abandon.

Rivera had survived three coups, two assassination attempts, and countless political purges.

He would survive this too.

CHAPTER 48

The mountainside estate loomed against the early morning sky, its stone walls and guard towers silhouetted against the pink-orange glow of dawn. Rivera's private compound sprawled across a natural plateau, accessible only by a single winding road that snaked up the mountainside, or by air. A helipad was visible on the eastern end of the property.

The convoy of vehicles raced up the winding mountain road toward Rivera's compound—three armored police transports, two military trucks filled with soldiers, and Ana's 4x4 leading the charge. Inside the lead vehicle, Joe checked his weapon one final time, the AK-47's weight familiar in his hands despite his injuries.

Ana was behind the wheel. She'd explained the evidence they’d found that implicated Rivera in the murder of an American Treasury agent, and that he was responsible for crimes committed outside the country.

She suggested Rivera might try to flee the country with key evidence.

"ETA two minutes," she said, accelerating around a sharp curve. The fortress-like compound came into view ahead, perched on the mountaintop. High stone walls, guard towers, and a heavy steel gate that stood between them and Rivera.

The military truck behind them surged forward, overtaking Ana's vehicle. On its roof, a soldier manned a mounted .50-caliber machine gun. The truck didn't slow as it approached the gate—instead, it accelerated, the driver hunched low behind the wheel.

"Here we go," Joe said.

The armored truck hit the gate at full speed, the impact shuddering through the mountain air. Metal screamed as the hinges gave way, the gate collapsing inward. The truck kept going, pushing through into the compound's outer courtyard.

Immediately, gunfire erupted from the guard towers and windows of the main building. Bullets pinged off the armored truck as the soldier on the .50-cal returned fire, the heavy rounds tearing through the guard tower and silencing one of the positions.

Ana brought their vehicle to a skidding halt just inside the breached gate. Joe was out before they'd fully stopped, diving for cover behind a low stone wall as bullets kicked up dirt around him. Ana was right behind him, her own weapon already spitting fire toward a group of Rivera's men rushing from a side building.

The courtyard became a war zone in seconds. Police officers in tactical gear poured through the breach, taking positions behind vehicles and walls. The military forces deployed with practiced precision, setting up a perimeter and laying down suppressive fire.

Joe spotted a machine gun nest on the roof of the main building. He nudged Ana and pointed. She nodded. Together, they sprinted to a new position, bullets tearing up the ground at their heels.

From this angle, Joe had a clear shot. He braced the AK against his shoulder, lined up the sights, and squeezed the trigger. Three-round burst. The gunner jerked backward and fell out of sight.

Ana was already moving again, advancing toward the main house. Joe followed, every muscle screaming in protest, the wounds from Roja's torture still fresh. Adrenaline numbed the pain, but he knew he'd pay for it later—if there was a later.

A group of Rivera's men emerged from the building's side entrance, attempting to flank the police position. Joe saw them first, shouted a warning, and opened fire. Two went down immediately. A third took cover and returned fire, forcing Joe to duck behind a stone planter.

The firefight intensified. The military brought up heavier weapons—grenade launchers and light machine guns. The compound's defenders were well-armed and determined, but they were caught by surprise and outnumbered.

Joe heard the distinctive thump of a grenade launcher, followed by an explosion that took out a section of the main building's façade. Through the dust and smoke, he could see police and soldiers advancing, clearing rooms as they went.

Then came a new sound—the high-pitched whine of helicopter rotors spooling up.

"Rivera's making a run for it!" Ana shouted, pointing toward the east side of the compound where the helipad was located.

Joe looked up and saw the helicopter, its rotors already turning.

He sprinted across an open space, bullets kicking up dirt around him. A round grazed his arm, tearing through fabric and skin, but he didn't slow. Ana and several police officers laid down covering fire, forcing Rivera's men to seek shelter.

Joe reached the east side of the compound just as the helicopter began to lift off. Through the side window, he could see Rivera's face, a mixture of smugness and rage as he surveyed the battle below.

Twenty yards ahead, one of Rivera's soldiers lay dead, an RPG launcher still clutched in his hands. Joe changed course, diving toward the fallen man. He rolled the body over, yanked the launcher free, and checked for a rocket. There was one still loaded, ready to fire.

The helicopter was gaining altitude now, turning toward the south, away from the compound. Rivera's face was clearly visible through the window, his eyes widening as he spotted Joe with the RPG.

Joe hoisted the launcher onto his shoulder, ignoring the fresh blood soaking his sleeve. The weapon was Soviet-made, old but deadly. He'd trained on similar models years ago. The basics came back to him instantly, safety off, sight aligned, backblast area clear.

The helicopter banked sharply, the pilot having spotted the threat. Joe tracked it, leading the target, compensating for its movement and speed.

He could see Rivera shouting something to the pilot, gesturing frantically.

Too late.

Joe exhaled slowly and pulled the trigger.

The rocket erupted from the tube with a deafening roar, leaving a trail of smoke as it streaked toward the helicopter. For a split second, Joe thought the pilot might evade—the aircraft lurched upward, trying to climb out of the rocket's path.

The RPG caught the helicopter just below the main rotor. The explosion tore through metal and fuel, ripping the aircraft apart in a blinding fireball. Burning debris rained down onto the mountainside as what remained of the fuselage spiraled toward the ground, trailing black smoke.

Joe lowered the launcher, watching as the wreckage crashed to the ground. The secondary explosion when the fuel tanks ignited was even larger than the first, a mushroom cloud of fire and smoke rising into the clear mountain air.

Nothing could have survived that.

Ana appeared at his side, her face streaked with soot and blood from a cut above her eye. "Nice shot,” she said.

“I got lucky,” he replied.

The fighting in the compound was dying down. Rivera's men, seeing their leader's fiery end, were beginning to surrender. Police officers moved methodically through the buildings, securing rooms and taking prisoners.

Joe and Ana made their way toward the crashed helicopter, joined by a squad of soldiers with fire extinguishers. The wreckage was still burning furiously when they reached it, twisted metal and melted plastic scattered across a wide area. The heat kept them at a distance.

Joe nodded, watching as the soldiers began picking through the cooling wreckage. One held up something that might have been a skull fragment, blackened beyond recognition.

Joe knew he needed to call Jenkins, update him and also check on Ivy, see if she'd made progress on the American end of the operation. And that she was safe.

Ana touched his arm gently. "Let's get you to a doctor. I've had enough of watching you bleed for one day."

Joe looked down. Blood was indeed soaking through his makeshift bandages, staining his shirt in multiple places. He probably looked as bad as he felt.

"After I make a call," he said.

CHAPTER 49

Leila Varna drove with one hand, the other resting protectively on the leather attaché case beside her. Inside was everything that mattered now—the backup plates, the chemical formulations, and microfilm containing the paper specifications.

The perfect counterfeit.

Her Cadillac Seville ate up the miles of empty highway, headlights cutting through the gray morning mist. She'd timed it perfectly. Early enough to avoid traffic, late enough that the night security shift would be drowsy and inattentive.

The radio played softly, a news station reporting developments in the Middle East. Nothing that concerned her.

Leila allowed herself a small smile. Foster would be finished with the cleanup by now. The warehouse would be nothing but ashes, every trace of their operation consumed by fire.

She knew they’d found Trigg’s body, but that didn’t matter now.

In the trunk were two pieces of luggage. One contained clothes, toiletries, and identification documents for three separate identities. The other held two million dollars in flawless counterfeit bills.

She had done her job and would deliver the attache to her handler. But they didn’t need to know about the suitcase loaded with currency. Leila was going to use it to build a new life.

She took the exit for the closest private airfield to D.C. A jet was waiting for her.

As she drove through the gates, Leila mentally reviewed her extraction plan. The jet would take her to Montreal. From there, a series of connections would lead her to Zurich, where new documents and a substantial bank account awaited. The Strategic Consultation Group had always planned for contingencies.

Leila parked in the small lot beside the private terminal. The rain had slackened to a fine mist that beaded on her leather jacket as she stepped out. She took a moment to scan her surroundings.

Two men in maintenance coveralls were working on a small Cessna. A sleepy-looking receptionist visible through the terminal window. A janitor emptying trash cans near the fence line. Nothing suspicious.

She popped the trunk and removed her luggage. She secured the attaché case under her arm, never letting it leave her possession. The plates were too valuable to risk.

Inside the small terminal, a wall clock ticked loudly in the silence. The receptionist looked up. "How can I help you?"

"I have a charter to Montreal. Under the name Wilson."

The woman checked a ledger. "Yes, Ms. Wilson. They're prepping your aircraft now. Would you like some coffee while you wait? Should be about fifteen minutes."

Leila nodded, giving the woman a practiced smile. "That would be nice."

She settled into one of the vinyl chairs, positioning herself to watch both the entrance and the tarmac doors. The attaché case remained on her lap, one hand resting on it casually but firmly.

Through the large windows, she could see her plane—sleek and white against the gray morning sky, a ground crew performing final checks. Freedom was just steps away.

The receptionist brought coffee in a styrofoam cup. Leila took a sip. It wasn’t bad. After this, she would drink only the best coffee in the world, along with martinis and maybe caviar.

Leila wasn’t prone to self-aggrandizement, but she was quite pleased with herself. The operation had been a long time in the planning, and as far she was concerned, the execution had been flawless.

Her thoughts were interrupted by a gate agent. "Ms. Wilson? We're ready for you."

Leila rose, gathering her belongings. She wheeled her luggage through the door and out onto the tarmac.

The morning air was cool and damp, cutting through her jacket. The plane waited fifty yards away, stairs lowered, engines beginning their warm-up sequence.

Leila allowed herself to relax slightly. Minutes from now, she would be airborne. By the time Treasury figured out what had happened, she would be across the Canadian border. By nightfall, she would be overseas, beyond their reach–

Something slammed into her from behind, driving her forward onto the tarmac. The attaché case flew from her grasp, skidding across the wet surface. Her cheek hit the ground hard, pain exploding through her face.

"Federal agents! Don't move!"

Strong hands gripped her wrists, wrenching them behind her back. Cold handcuffs encircled them and were ratcheted tight against her skin. More hands searched her roughly, finding and removing her pistol.

Leila twisted her head, trying to see her attackers. Men in dark jackets, one of them standing by her fallen attaché case, already opening it to examine the contents.

"Jackpot," he said.

Leila felt sick. How had they found her? Foster should have eliminated any trail. The warehouse should have been destroyed.

They hauled her to her feet, half-dragging her back toward the terminal. Blood trickled from her split lip, metallic on her tongue. One of the agents grabbed her luggage, hefting the case of counterfeit bills with a knowing smile.

They marched her past the terminal to where several vehicles waited—unmarked sedans and a police cruiser. The receptionist and gate agent watched, surprise on their faces. Even in D.C., where anything can happen, this was a shock.

The men pushed Leila into the back of the police cruiser, slamming the door behind her. Through the window, she could see the agents examining her luggage, opening the case of counterfeit bills.

Leila tested the handcuffs. No give.

She leaned her head back against the seat.

Minutes passed, stretching into half an hour. Agents conferred outside the vehicle, occasionally glancing her way. The attaché case and luggage were loaded into one of the sedans.

Leila was calculating her odds of eventual release when the cruiser's door opened. A young woman leaned in, studying her with intense dark eyes. She was small-framed, with East Asian features, wearing a dark blazer that seemed slightly too large for her slender frame. Despite her youthful appearance, she carried herself with the confidence of someone far more experienced.

"Who are you?" Leila asked, genuinely curious. This wasn't the type of agent she had expected.

The woman's lips curved in a small, tired smile. Her complexion was unnaturally pale, and she moved as if in pain, but her gaze never wavered.

"I'm Ivy Harper, Treasury Department. And you're under arrest."

EPILOGUE

Three weeks later, Washington D.C.

The conference room on the seventh floor of the Treasury Department building had the sterile feel of all government spaces. Off-white walls, industrial carpet, and furniture chosen for durability, not comfort.

Joe Reacher sat with his back to the wall, a position that offered a clear view of the door. Most of his visible injuries had healed, though his ribs still protested when he moved too quickly.

Across the table, Ivy Harper looked good. Two bullets to a Kevlar vest had left her with extensive bruising.

Jenkins entered the room, carrying a thick folder stamped with security classifications. He looked tired, the kind of exhaustion that came from explaining complex operations to bureaucrats and politicians who preferred simple answers.

"Sorry I'm late," he said, settling into a chair at the head of the table. "Had to brief the Director. Again."

"How'd that go?" Joe asked.

Jenkins shrugged. "About as well as you'd expect. He wants to know how we let Leila Varna's operation get so advanced before we detected it." He flipped open the folder. "Speaking of which, she's talking."

"Really?” Ivy asked. “I wouldn't have bet on that."

"Turns out she's practical," Jenkins said. "Her lawyers worked out a deal. Limited cooperation in exchange for certain considerations."

"What kind of considerations?" Joe asked.

"Nothing too generous. No death penalty. Possibility of eventual transfer to a facility closer to her homeland." Jenkins spread several photographs across the table. "In return, she's given us this."

The photos showed various individuals—men and women in business attire, military uniforms, government offices. Names and locations were typed neatly beneath each image.

"The Strategic Consultation Group," Jenkins explained. "At least the parts of it Leila was familiar with. Cells in nineteen countries, each with its own specialty—distribution, production, security, intelligence. Rivera was their South American coordinator."

Joe studied the faces. "How many have we picked up?"

"Eleven so far. Operations are ongoing for another fourteen. The rest have gone to ground."

"And the money?" Ivy asked.

"Quality's perfect. Our experts say they would have passed any standard detection methods."

"What about the plates?" Joe asked.

"Secured. Along with the chemical formulations and paper specifications." Jenkins closed the folder. "We got lucky. If their operation had succeeded, we would have been looking at potential economic destabilization on a scale we’ve never seen."

Jenkins looked between them. "The Director has authorized commendations for both of you. There'll be a small ceremony next week. Nothing public, given the nature of the operation."

"Pass," Joe said immediately.

Jenkins sighed. "I told him you'd say that. Harper?"

Ivy shrugged. "I'll think about it."

Jenkins headed for the door, then paused. "Oh, and the Peruvians sent over their final report on Rivera. Seems he had connections to at least three other counterfeiting operations in South America. Detective Salas is heading up their investigation now."

"She got promoted?" Joe asked, his tone casual.

"Full Detective, heading her own unit. Seems your operation made quite an impression." Jenkins smiled slightly. "I'll leave the report on your desk, Reacher."

After Jenkins left, silence settled over the conference room. Joe and Ivy regarded each other across the table. They'd spoken briefly since Peru, mostly about case details and recovery progress. This was the first time they'd really been face-to-face since it all ended.

"I can’t believe you got shot while I was gone.”

“Very insensitive of me,” she said with a smile. “Peru was rough?”

"It had its moments."

“I heard you and that detective worked well together,” Ivy offered, again with a small smile.

"She saved my life."

"Look at you, improving international relations.”

Joe laughed. “Want to grab a drink after work?”

“Sure,” Ivy said.

A stack of files waited on Joe’s desk. There were reports requiring his signature, briefings he should review, analyses of the counterfeiting network they'd disrupted.

Joe was about to sit when he noticed a package beside the files. Small, wrapped in brown paper, bearing Peruvian postage stamps. His name was written in a neat, precise hand.

He unwrapped it carefully. Inside was a bottle of clear liquid. It was pisco, the Peruvian spirit he'd tasted that night with Ana. An expensive brand, from the look of the label. Alongside it was a folded note.

Joe opened it and read:

"Reacher—

Thought you might appreciate a proper souvenir from Peru, not just scars and bad memories. This comes from a distillery near Lima that's been operating since 1684.

My promotion came through. Head of a new financial crimes unit focusing on international operations. One of my primary objectives is to establish better working relations with the U.S. Treasury Department. (Okay, I made that part up, but you never know.)

—Ana

P.S. The second glass always tastes better than the first."

Joe opened the desk drawer, extracted a glass tumbler kept there for occasions requiring liquid fortification, and poured a measure of the pisco.

The clear liquor caught the late afternoon sunlight streaming through the window. Joe raised the glass in a silent toast to a woman five thousand miles away, then drank.

It burned pleasantly going down, warming him from the inside. It tasted good, or maybe it was just the memory that made it sweeter.

Joe set the glass down and picked up Ana's note again. Better working relations. He could think of several interpretations for that, each more appealing than the last.

He poured another measure of pisco and leaned back in his chair.

The second glass really did taste better than the first.

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ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Dan Ames is a USA TODAY Bestselling Author, Amazon Kindle #1 bestseller, GoodReads Readers Choice finalist and winner of the Independent Book Award for Crime Fiction.

www.authordanames.com

dan@authordanames.com

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