Page 57 of Fixed Asset

He was off too. There was an edge to him that ratcheted up his intensity tenfold. And whoever this Rafael Quintero was, he seriously tweaked Pete and Mason both. Pete had said he was dead, but clearly his ghost still haunted both men.

“Why’d you wait three weeks?” Fallon inquired.

Tom blew out a breath and almost looked human, and not like the conniving, manipulating bastard he was.

“As Berta explained, she’s on a mission to save the world. Sometimes I don’t hear from her for months. And before you ask why I haven’t stopped this insanity, there’s no stopping Calista when she sets her mind to something. Before her father died, he tried. Her mother worries, but after they lost Liliya, she became emotionally unavailable.”

“Is that a nice way of saying the mother’s checked out?” Fallon stopped Tom to ask.

“Completely and totally,” Tom clarified.

“If you don’t hear from her often, how do you know she’s been taken?” Pete asked.

“I have a source in Juárez. He’s not always reliable. But he tells me there’s an auction, and among the women there’s a Russian.”

“She’s Russian,” Fallon spat, like the word tasted bad. No, scratch that, Fallon was staring at Mason with a brow lifted. Maybe it wasn’t dislike; maybe it was something else that had Fallon forcefully saying the word.

“By blood. Her father’s Irish American, her mother is Russian. But you could say the Russian in her overpowers the Irish or the American genes her father gave her.”

“That explains a lot,” Jack muttered, and my eyes shifted to him. “You ever get on a Russian’s bad side?”

I shook my head. “I don’t think so.”

“Then you haven’t. You wouldn’t have to think, you’d know. I knew this Russian kid in school. We were in like seventh grade. Some assholes picked on him, mostly trash talk, but one of them tagged up his locker. This kid said nothing. Did nothing. Years later, we’re seniors, the kid’s now six foot, and I swear he worked out every day since the locker incident. He was huge. He waited, found his time, then beat the hell out of the boy who messed with his stuff. Right before he knocked him out, the kid said something about his locker being vandalized. Four years he held that grudge. If you can avoid it, never piss off a Russian.”

“Truth,” Fallon chimed in.

“So this auction.” Pete brought the conversation back around. “When and where is it taking place?”

“According to my source, a week. Again, he can be unreliable. As to the where, Juárez. He doesn’t have a location.”

“Anything on the buyers?” Berta asked.

“Just murmurs the final destination is Dubai.”

Berta made a disgruntled humming sound.

Dubai was a hotspot for prostitution. More, it was a hotbed for trafficking—buying and selling of women to rich and powerful men from around the world.

“Is she pretty?”

Mason’s question had Berta’s shoulders snapping back. “Why does that matter?”

Mason softened his features and injected a healthy dose of respect when he answered Berta.

“Because a beautiful Russian woman would attract a certain type of buyer, especially if they’re going to Dubai. Anyone in the trade would know this. There are those who want to buy women for their stables to rent, and there are those who want to own a harem of beautiful women. Two different types of animal.”

“Calista’s mother was a model in Russia. She’s a very beautiful woman, and Calista and her sister inherited those looks. Calista resembles the model Kate Grigorieva, or so her father used to say.”

I didn’t know who Kate Grigorieva was. I looked around the room, hoping someone would offer some insight. No one did, at least not verbally, but Fallon was staring at Mason again.

“Then she won’t make it to auction,” Mason announced. “Her pictures would’ve been sent out. A private buyer will come inspect her and buy her before the rest of the girls get sold.”

“Mason’s right,” Pete concluded. “We need to get home and prepare an extraction before she’s moved—if she hasn’t been already. And we need to make arrangements to get the other women out and someplace safe.”

“El Paso’s full,” Mason returned.

“I have an idea,” Pete said, then turned to Tom. “You owe me a marker. You also owe Catarina one. Or you can owe me two, and I’ll talk her man outta kicking your ass the next time he sees you. And I want .223, .308. and 9mil ammo delivered to my place in Jamul. Enough for six shooters.”