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“We’re taking you to meet the boss.”
I point at the rental I picked up last night. “I’ll follow you.”
They shake their heads. “No, we’re taking you with us.”
“I understand your orders, gentlemen, but if your boss wants me, he’ll allow me to have some freedom—as stipulated in the contract we signed.”
One of them pulls out his phone, and after nodding and shaking his head a couple of times, he mumbles. “Fine, follow us.”
August 13th
The Zamudio compound is guarded better than the Pentagon or Buckingham Palace. They sweep my car and search me for weapons. I’m clean. The car with the equipment is at one of my houses. I made sure not to bring anything with me today. Not even my pocketknife.
Ricardo Zamudio is by the entrance of the house, his arms folded across his chest as his men search me. He studies me without expression, but I can feel the intensity of his gaze. He’s not what I expected—which is an old man smoking a cigar. But he’s average size with an athletic build and only a few gray hairs on the sides of his otherwise dark hair.
“Señor Zamudio,” I greet him.
“Mr. Doyle.” He nods. “Glad to see you. I hope you can help our boy.”
“Of course,” I say, shaking his hand.
“Please follow me.” He tilts his head, entering the house.
The room is on the first story of the house, right next to the kitchen. “This is usually the maid’s quarters. We thought it’d be easier to move Travis in and out of the house if he was close to the main door and garage.
“Good thinking,” I say, scanning the small room.
It has a hospital bed, a dresser with water and pills, and there’s a door. “Is that the closet?”
“No, the bathroom.”
“Do you have a bathroom with a tub? This is too small to bathe him. We won’t be able to fit at the same time.”
Zamudio scratches his chin. “Upstairs, but moving him around will be more difficult.”
I smirk, trying not to snap at him. “Lucky for you, I can carry him when necessary.”
I only get a huff. Why is he upset?
If I was his son, I’d be fucking mad to learn that my father just shoved me into a room without thinking about my basic human needs. Has he showered since he arrived back home?
“How long has he been in this room?”
“We just brought him here a couple of days ago,” he says.
Somehow, I don’t believe him, but I don’t plan on contradicting him. I finally look at Travis, his son. They don’t look anything alike. Travis’s hair is almost pitch black, which contrasts with his gray eyes.
“Did the doctor leave his file?”
Zamudio shakes his head. “As his doctor explained, he needs to relearn everything while helping with his muscle strength.”
I don’t want to assume, but I’m guessing this kid was part of the cartel up until his injury.
“Did he hit his head? I don’t recall the doctor mentioning a head injury.”
Zamudio shrugs. “I guess. We found him unconscious, with only a few broken bones. They didn’t say there was brain damage, but he was in a coma for several months.”
“How many?”
