Peter's Return. Cynthia Cooke

can talk privately here,” Baltasar said, and took a seat behind the desk.

      Peter viewed this as a good sign. If Baltasar had wanted bloodshed, he wouldn’t have brought him into a room sporting a plush Turkish carpet. And they wouldn’t be alone. Baltasar opened a small humidor sitting atop his desk, pulled out a rich brown cigar, and gestured to Peter.

      Peter didn’t care for cigars, but he knew it would be bad form to refuse. He nodded and watched as Baltasar used a stainless steel cutter to neatly snip off the cigar’s end before passing it to him. Peter accepted Baltasar’s offer and held it under his nose, breathing deep its strong aroma, and then waited for the business to begin.

      “Along with your aversion to rules,” Baltasar said after lighting and inhaling deeply off his cigar. He rolled the smoke around in his mouth before exhaling and finishing his thought. “Your reputation as an innovator and a man of action precedes you. I can use someone like that in my organization. You interested?”

      Peter took a deep drag off the cigar and let Baltasar stew a moment, then said, “Perhaps. Depends on what you have in mind.”

      Baltasar held his gaze. “Right now I’m in a position to expand my operations and I need someone in the States to head it up for me. You are an American, sí?”

      Peter nodded and gestured with the cigar. “But you already knew that. You see, your reputation precedes you, too, Mr. Escalante, and I know you wouldn’t have brought me here if you didn’t already know everything there was to know about me.”

      Baltasar smiled, his expression moving from benign indulgence to sharp respect. “Good, then we can drop the pretenses?”

      “Please do.” Peter leaned back in the chair.

      “I know you’re good at what you do. I know you’re considered a bit of a hothead. I also know you’re American, and a trip back home might not be such a bad idea, since our mutual friend Domingo isn’t too enamored with you at the moment.”

      “Domingo is a fool,” Peter countered. “He doesn’t have the foresight, the imagination, or the guts to run an organization that will have the success and the reputation of La Mano Oscura.”

      Baltasar nodded, his fingers coming together to steeple beneath his chin. “I appreciate the compliment.”

      Bingo. Baltasar was indeed El Patrón, leader of La Mano Oscura.

      “But I didn’t bring you here to hear compliments, Pietro. Personally, I could care less if Domingo hacks you up and feeds you to his beloved crocodiles. But I believe you can help me and if you turn out to be worth my trouble, then you’ll get a free ticket back to Chicago and a piece of the La Mano Oscura pie. You interested?”

      “Perhaps. How big a piece?” Peter asked, and couldn’t help flashing a predatory smile of his own.

      Baltasar laughed. “I think I could like you, Pietro.” He was silent for a moment, his fingers tapping out a simple beat on his desk. “I know you have a small but well-run organization in Chicago. How would you feel about expanding that operation?”

      “Depends if the returns are as big as the risk. I like to stay small because it keeps me under the authority’s radar.”

      “It also keeps you living in shacks in the jungle.”

      Peter snuffed out his cigar in a crystal ashtray. “You got me there.”

      “I’m expecting a large payment soon that will cover all the expenses necessary to set you up properly. I have one thousand kilos of pure powder processed and ready. I can have half that shipment sent to Chicago. Can you handle it?”

      “I can, but I’ll have to increase my base.”

      “Think you can have it done by the thirteenth?”

      Peter nodded. “Absolutely.”

      “Good. I’m cutting back on my organization in Colorado. I want to transfer operations to Chicago consecutively.”

      Peter schooled his features not to show too much excitement. This was a bigger break than any of them had anticipated. Baltasar must be very unhappy with Barclay to be cutting him out. Either that or he was on to Barclay’s arrest. And if that was the case, this whole conversation could be a setup and Baltasar could have wind of the sting operation the CIA had planned.

      Peter’s stomach turned, and it wasn’t just from the cigar.

      “All communications will be directly between you and I. You won’t use my name, but will always refer to me as El Patrón. Each month I will send an e-mail communication of when you can expect the next shipment of kilos and where—”

      The door burst open and a woman rushed in, her long, flowing wheat-gold hair, bouncing across her shoulders.

      Baltasar stood.

      The woman stopped dead in her tracks, her arms frozen in midswing, her large hazel eyes staring in widened shock. At him.

      Emily.

      Peter’s heart slammed into the side of his chest.

      A man dressed in the tan uniform of Baltasar’s guards came running up behind her, grabbed her by the arm, and pulled her back.

      Peter stood, and had to stop himself from rushing forward and ripping the man’s arm off. He must be dreaming. It couldn’t possibly be his Emily standing in Baltasar Escalante’s office being manhandled by a guard.

      “I am so sorry, Mr. Escalante,” the guard said. “The señorita is faster than she looks.” His lips quivered in disgust. “I won’t let her get by me again.”

      Emily’s shocked gaze hadn’t left Peter’s.

      It was her. And if he didn’t do something fast, she would say or do something, and the jig would be up, his cover blown.

      “It’s all right, Esteban,” Baltasar said, and walked toward them. “You may leave us.” He made a sweeping gesture with his arm. The guard nodded and backed out the door. Peter took advantage of Baltasar’s diverted attention and held a forefinger to his lips. For a brief second, Emily’s eyes widened.

      Once the door clicked shut, Baltasar turned back to Emily. His Emily. What was she doing there? Why wasn’t she back home in Colorado Springs working at Vance Memorial and raising babies? His mind felt wrapped in several layers of cotton. He forced out three quick breaths, then took a deep one and tried not to think about how fast his heart was beating. He had to calm down. He had to make sure neither one of them gave the game away.

      Baltasar turned back to his desk and snuffed out his cigar. “Dr. Armstrong, is everything all right with Marcos?” he asked.

      Emily still hadn’t spoken. She just stood there staring, her emotions playing across her face—shock, pain, regret.

      Peter held his breath. Come on, Emily. Pull it together. Don’t give me away.

      “Dr. Armstrong?” Baltasar said again.

      Peter didn’t like the way Baltasar’s gaze kept shifting from her to him then back to her again.

      “Is everything all right?” he asked again.

      She took a step toward Peter, her mouth opening to speak. He lifted his hand a fraction of an inch, gave a slight shake of his head, and hoped she could still read him as easily as he could still read her.

      “Sorry,” she said, regaining her voice, though it was obvious how much of a struggle it was for her.

      “Is everything all right with Marcos?” Speculation ran high in Baltasar’s tone.

      Peter turned toward the window, breaking their connection before Baltasar’s speculation turned to suspicion.

      “Yes. I’m sorry,” Emily said, seeming to pull it together. “I didn’t mean to frighten you. Marcos is coming down with a cough that we’ll need to