Hostage Situation. Debra Webb

the three-story home through binoculars from her position aboard the Salty Dog, a for-hire touring vessel. The two-acre estate of which her guide spoke was located on a desirable shore with not one, but two magnificent vessels—a speed boat and an enviable-sized yacht—moored at the private dock. The residence reminded her more of a compound than a home. Not exactly the sort of place one expected to find a self-professed starving artist. Though his work was well known in the southeastern region, he was no Picasso.

      “Concrete walls. High-tech security system.” Her guide pushed up his Miami Dolphins cap and scratched his head. “A nightmare, logistically speaking, if you’re planning an unexpected visit.”

      Renee lowered the binoculars and slid her sunglasses back into place. She’d spun quite a tale to explain her need to do this type of surveillance. Thankfully, her guide had accepted her bitter story of betrayal and hadn’t asked any more questions. At least her past experience had allowed her to sound genuine. “I don’t see any security personnel.” It was possible a bodyguard or guards were inside, but one would think guards would do routine rounds of the property. Maybe the security system was so state-of-the-art that walk-arounds weren’t necessary.

      “He doesn’t have any bodyguards. At least not that anyone has ever spotted.” Henry Napier shot her a look that suggested he was as befuddled by the idea as she. “No one can figure out that part. He drives a Maserati Gran Sport that cost six figures. That’s new, by the way. So’s the yacht.” He gestured to the property that could easily be showcased in the glitziest of lifestyle magazines. “With all that you’d think he would be afraid to go to sleep at night without at least one bodyguard, but, apparently, he isn’t.”

      Typically a man of such means would have personal security. But the man who lived in that house was no typical homeowner. She turned her attention back to the estate worth at least five million. Paul Reyes was the younger brother of Victor Reyes, a drug lord whose own compound was so carefully protected that only his closest confidants knew its location somewhere in Mexico. The concept that Paul lived so openly and clearly unprotected just didn’t fit with the facts known about his older brother.

      “This is as close as I can take you,” Napier said. “City regulations. The rich folks don’t like us getting too close. You still have another hour left on your tour. You want to just sit here?”

      Renee didn’t answer right away. She was too focused on the idea of the man beyond those well-fortified walls. Her target, Paul Reyes. Quiet, withdrawn, a mystery. That was pretty much all anyone knew about him, other than the artwork he sold through a local gallery. She’d stopped this morning at the gallery and looked at his work up close and in person. He was good, no question.

      What made this man the polar opposite of his older brother? By all reports, Victor was cruel and vengeful. He had achieved his fame and fortune by taking advantage of the weaknesses of others. He didn’t care who was hurt or what damage he caused to society as a whole. He cared only for himself. No one—not a single law enforcement agency—had ever come close to taking him down.

      The client, Darla Stewart, who had hired the Equalizers, was the sister of a murdered New Orleans narcotics detective. Victor Reyes was responsible for her brother’s death. The police and even the DEA had failed to get this guy for using New Orleans, among other seaside cities, as ports of entry for the evil he spread. When Stewart’s brother, Detective Chris Nelson, had made stopping Reyes his personal quest, he’d been squashed and pushed aside like a pesky fly.

      Desperate to bring her brother’s killer to justice, Stewart had sought out the one man her brother had insisted he trusted in all this, DEA Agent Joseph Gates. According to Gates, he had a solid case built against Reyes for his drug crimes, but Mexico refused to acknowledge his existence, which rendered the extradition request invalid. According to the Mexican authorities, they didn’t even know Victor Reyes, much less where he lived. That was possible, but it was far more probable that law enforcement south of the border had been paid off. Money could buy most anything, especially in a country such as Mexico, where poverty prevailed among the masses.

      For Renee, the assignment was simple. She would use Paul Reyes as bait for luring his older brother onto American soil. Agent Gates and the DEA would take things from there. Until then, the agent’s hands were tied. The DEA had spent endless resources monitoring the movements of Victor’s brother here in Florida, his single connection to the U.S., with absolutely no results. With numerous other cases popping up every day, resources were already too thin. Reyes, until he appeared on American soil or the Mexican government changed its mind about extradition, was no longer a priority. Darla Stewart had been devastated when the Reyes case was put on a back burner by the DEA. With no other options, she had gone to the Equalizers for help. Agent Gates had promised to help in spite of his orders to refocus his energy, but ultimately there was nothing he could do until Victor Reyes entered his jurisdiction. All Renee had to do was make that happen.

      Sounded like a piece of cake. But there was a hitch. The setup had to be legit as much as possible. Since Paul Reyes surely wouldn’t be game for co-operating, then the trickery used to gain his unwitting assistance had to be on the up-and-up. Gates didn’t want any snares to serve as reason to have his case torn apart by a team of legal eagles. Renee understood exactly how the legal system worked and how it could be twisted to serve an incomprehensible purpose. She had always won her cases. Even when she should have lost. She’d been set up by someone she trusted. That wouldn’t happen again in this lifetime.

      Though she had an understanding of sorts with Jim Colby, and she respected him, she would never totally let down her guard to him or anyone else. Complete trust was out of the question. She wouldn’t be going there again. Hell, she didn’t even trust herself beyond a certain degree, so how could she possibly trust anyone else? She’d trusted her former boss and mentor and he’d let her down.

      She pushed the troubling thoughts away. No rehashing the bitter lessons of the past.

      “Thanks, Mr. Napier. We can go back now. I’ve seen enough.”

      The old man nodded as he prepared to turn the vessel about. After her arrival late yesterday, she’d been told that Napier was the man to go to for the lowdown on island residents. Napier was a Key Largo native. He loved retelling island lore and made it his mission to keep up on the most famous and/or infamous residents. Judging by his weathered skin, the man had spent most of his life floating about these waters spying on those who made the exotic locale home. She had not been in the least disappointed by her guide.

      The sun and wind and water made her feel more alive than she had in a very long while, she realized as they journeyed back to the dock lined with touring vessels. Or maybe it was the case. Working undercover like this was a first for her. Most of her time in her former career had been spent in an office or library doing research and prep work with witnesses, or in the courtroom arguing her case. This was definitely a change for the better. It felt far more purposeful.

      It gave her the opportunity to be someone else.

      She’d left her uptight—as her Equalizers colleague Sam Johnson called them—business suits in Chicago. For this assignment, her first actual fieldwork, she’d chosen to dress as the natives did. Casual and sexy. She had the figure for it; she’d simply never had the desire. A conservative mentality had gone along with her previous career, at least on a personal level. She’d been anything but reserved in the courtroom.

      She’d been good, damn it. She just hadn’t been smart enough to see what was coming that one time.

      Again, she ordered the memories away.

      Back on shore, she generously compensated her guide and climbed into her rental car. She drove directly to her hotel. The cool air inside her room was a much-appreciated respite from the Florida heat. She turned on a light and retrieved her file from its hiding place inside the ventilation return in her room.

      She considered the picture of the Reyes brothers. Victor was thirty-eight, with dark hair and eyes. If she were casting a thriller with a drug lord as the villain, he would definitely fit the bill. As handsome as he was, there was an air of menace about him. Partly posture, but mainly the way he looked directly into