Page 52 of Fixed Asset

The rest of us stood to say goodbye to a woman who had given her life to serve her people.

To guard her women.

To fight an unending war of cruelty and brutality.

“The villa is yours for as long as you wish to stay.”

“Appreciate that, but we’ll be heading out tonight,” Pete informed her.

Berta made her way to Pete, reached up, and patted his cheek. “Until next time, Saint Young. Be well.”

Before Pete could respond, the perimeter alarm sounded. I unholstered my sidearm, saw Catarina and the rest of the men do the same, with the exception of Ryan. He pulled his phone out of his pocket.

“Well, I’ll be damned,” Ryan drawled. “Tom Washington is at the gate.”

“Alone?”

Ryan tapped his screen a few times to cycle through the different camera angles.

“Looks like it.”

Pete transferred his Sig to his left hand and pulled his cell from his back pocket.

“Unknown number,” he announced to the room before he answered. “Mr. Green, what a surprise.”

He was making a point using a color as a name, something the spooks were known for.

There was a brief pause. “Sure, with the warning you tell your men to stay the fuck back, and, if you pull any shit, I’ll shoot you if Catarina doesn’t do it first.” Another pause. “If you think I believe that, then you’re dumber than I already think you are.”

With that, Pete disconnected. “Ryan, open the gate. Tom would like a word.” Pete’s gaze went to Berta. “He knows you’re here. If you’d like Ryan and Aiden to escort you off property so you can go about your day, we can do that.”

“I’d like to stay.”

Berta glanced at her two guards, reached behind her, and pulled a weapon I hadn’t seen in years—a gold-plated .50 cal Desert Eagle AE. To make it even better, it was the Patriot version with United States of America engraved across the six-inch barrel and We the People scrolled behind the front sight. I knew there would be an image of George Washington’s face etched into the top rail. The weapon was a pop-culture icon. How she sat with that beast in her waistband, I couldn’t imagine.

“A gift from an American who thought Honduran women were for the taking,” she explained.

A gift, my ass. More like a trophy from a dead man.

“I think I need one of those,” Cat murmured.

Jesus.

“You may have this one. After our friend leaves,” Berta offered.

“No, no, I couldn’t.”

“Every woman needs some bling, Catarina. As a thank-you. I have three more just like this one, though not gold. Men with small penises tend to like big guns.”

She wasn’t wrong.

“How are we playing this?” Fallon inquired.

“Tom talks. We listen. He leaves.”

“And if we don’t like what he says?” Mason asked.

“Lady’s choice,” Pete returned. “He played her, not us. We back Catarina’s play.”