Total pages in book: 61
Estimated words: 59119 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 296(@200wpm)___ 236(@250wpm)___ 197(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 59119 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 296(@200wpm)___ 236(@250wpm)___ 197(@300wpm)
Riv didn’t respond. He just started the engine and pulled away from the curb.
Crew Finlay
Monaco really was glitz and glamour. Literal glitz, too. As I drove through a tunnel, the whole fucking road sparkled. No lie. No exaggeration. Glitter in the street. What the fuck.
The country was smaller than Central Park and packed with high-rises nestled along the mountainside.
It was almost two AM, so everything around us was just shining dots in the dark.
“Latest update from Squeezy,” Ryan said absently. “This is everything we have on Delgado, and it’s based on information from two airlines, profiling from credit card purchases, and a handful of car rental places. He recently turned forty-eight, he’s 6’4”, Mexican citizenship, he only rents high-end cars, he travels in first class and business, last time he was in Mexico—at least under his name—was October of last year, a couple months after Carillo had been arrested. Judging by the ingredients he buys when he goes grocery shopping, he likes to cook. He has a cleaning service for the house here in Monaco, but that seems to be all in terms of having others do shit for him. He’s bought gardening tools, cat food, and… Huh. He bought spark plugs last year. Is that something you need to change on a new car?”
Un-fucking-likely. “So he’s handy, and maybe he has an interest in vintage cars? That’s a rich-dude hobby.”
“And on that note, he probably has a boat and definitely plays golf.”
Of course.
“How many languages do you think he speaks?” I asked. “Elliott assured me he knows English.”
My Spanish was no bueno whatsoever.
The boss, though… Christ. I’d heard Elliott speak Spanish multiple times, and he sounded like he was from Mexico. Not a hint of American in his accent. I couldn’t even shake the New York outta my English, much less try another language without sounding like a tourist.
“Given what Delgado does for a living…” Ryan weighed his options, thinking about it. “Spanish, English, maybe Arabic and Russian. I wouldn’t rule out German either.”
I guessed that made sense. From the intel we had, we knew Delgado was a freelancer with strong ties to the Blanco Family, primarily Carillo Mesa’s crew. But Elliott believed that Delgado knew Blancos with even higher ranks, considering his responsibilities. Because someone whose main job was to deliver messages and strike deals between cartels and other criminal organizations across the globe…? He wouldn’t work exclusively with a man like Carillo, who, in comparison, was a nobody.
Carillo Mesa only had a high rank in the local territory of Southern California. Anything that happened outside that turf, outside Vincente Blanco’s jurisdiction, was off-limits, at least without the approval from the top-level management in Colombia.
We could safely assume he had no such approval, because that wouldn’t happen without Vincente’s input and knowledge—
“Jesus fucking Christ.”
I side-eyed Ryan, seeing his expression turning dark as he read on his phone. “What?”
“Squeezy found an offshore bank account,” he muttered. “It looks like it belongs to Delgado.”
And? Was that shocking? I thought an offshore bank account came with the membership.
“Is the shock that it’s only one?” I had to ask.
I took the next exit and started our climb up a narrower road toward Delgado’s address. My “guess” had been accurate earlier. He lived high up in the mountains, with plenty of neighbors but still with generous space in between the properties. Which meant Ryan and I would be able to find a hiding spot for lookouts. According to the satellite image Squeezy had sent, Delgado had about sixty yards to the nearest neighbor in the west, forty yards to the one in the east, and approximately one hundred to the neighbors in the south and north. The in-between space was just thick forest.
“I’m not shocked. I’m disgusted,” Ryan grumbled. “Every time Squeezy finds more intel, she integrates it with what she already has in order to establish patterns and living habits. And right now, she’s matching dates of transactions from the offshore account with flight info and credit card purchases of children’s items. Diapers, toys, blankets, even baby food and formula.”
Holy fuck. That sick son of a bitch.
“He’s involved in human trafficking,” I said.
“He’s a buyer. He’s buying kids.”
I was gonna kill him. Rafael Delgado was a dead man.
“Last two matches were about eighteen months ago,” he said. “He paid twelve thousand US dollars for something after a trip to Mombasa, and at the same time, he ordered children’s clothes and—”
“Twelve Gs? That’s nothing.”
“It’s roughly the going rate for a street kid in third-world countries. Sometimes even less,” he replied. “Thing is, with what he does, it’s the smaller transactions that stand out. The larger sums are undoubtedly drug-related.”
Hearing this shit was making me sick to my stomach. Some people really didn’t fucking deserve to breathe.
“Twenty grand during a trip in Laos,” Ryan continued. “Then he ordered formula and diapers as soon as he was back in Mexico. And you wanna know what’s more depressing?”