Undercover Nightingale

“But he did come along, and I didn’t go back.”

“And now that makes you a man of respectability?” Stillman snorted. “I have a list of your atrocities, so don’t pretend that you’re a changed man. We never shed our old skin completely, Toriago, and your status at Onyxx proves that. You’re a drug-dealing ex-con who traded one prison for another when you agreed to become one of Merrick’s elite marauders. This mission isn’t any different from those you’ve done for Onyxx, except that you have a new jailer. Me.”

“You overestimate my talent, Stillman.”

“Perhaps you underestimate it. You’re Estabon Toriago’s son. The most ruthless drug lord in Mexico, ever. Like father, like son?” Stillman glanced down at Ash’s feet. “I thought I told you to get rid of those old boots. You’re trying to impress a billionaire.”

“My boots stay, Stillman. It’s the one part of Marco Toriago that never died.”

“Let’s hope there is more left of Toriago than a pair of worn-out cowboy boots. You’ve been given a limitless bank account. Dress the part and convince Salavich that money is what drives you. Convince him you’re back in business. Big business.”

“And if Salavich doesn’t bite?”

“He’ll be wary at first, but an alliance with Estabon Toriago’s son…” Stillman’s grin was back. “Even the most cautious criminal wouldn’t be able to resist going into business with the son of a legend.”

“And if Salavich decides to kill me instead?”

“Then I’ll concede I was mistaken about you, and I’ll send my regards to your family.”

The car sped into the parking lot at the Paris airport. Ash got out and Stillman followed. The driver popped the trunk and Ash grabbed his one piece of luggage.

“I’ve seen to everything you’ll need. Passport. Money. Credit cards. You have a suite at the Corinthia Grand Hotel Royal in Budapest. Good luck.” Stillman patted Ash on the back. “You’re once again in the drug business, Mr. Toriago. Let’s hope, for your family’s sake, you still remember how to play the game.”

An hour later Ash found his seat on the plane in first class. Before the flight took off he located the minitransmitter inside the cell phone. He dropped the pill-size electronic bug on the floor and crushed it beneath the heel of his boot, then found the one in the watch.

So much for Stillman keeping track of him. He intended to see the mission through, but without his jailer tracking his ass.

He skimmed the file on Salavich, then moved on to Jazmin Grant’s profile. He studied the photo, read her stats. Stillman’s blond beauty was five-seven, weighed one-twenty-five, had brown eyes, a nice rack and great legs—she could have made a fortune as a stripper.

The striking blonde reminded Ash of the old days. If he’d seen her in a bar in Mexico, Marco Toriago would have definitely singled her out of the crowd and paid any amount of money to get her naked.

But it had been years since he’d played hard and partied even harder. He wasn’t kidding when he had told Stillman that Marco Toriago had died in prison eight years ago. He wasn’t the same man, but somehow he was going to have to resurrect the dead to play this game and win.

On the flight Ash brushed up on his Spanish, and four hours later Marco Toriago exited the plane in Budapest and made two phone calls. The first one went to Casso Salavich to make an appointment to discuss a business proposition. Prepared to be put off, he was surprised when Salavich invited Estabon Toriago’s son to his bastion on the Danube for drinks at four o’clock the next day.

The second call he made to Girona, Spain. After talking to his mother and learning all was well, he asked to speak to his cousin.

Naldo was anxious for a change in scenery, so he invited him to Budapest.

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