Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Veronica’s never been great at reading people. She tends to interpret behavior through the lens of her hopes and fears, which is why she’s such a stickler for proof. From her vantage point in this jeep, though, parked five miles past the bare-bones airport, it’s not hard to guess Toad’s mood. He’s pacing out of earshot while he pleads her case by phone, and if he had enough hair to rumple, it would be a mess.

Sighing, she cracks another Coke and takes a sip. It’s already hot in the desert, two hours past dawn, and she’s craving a McMuffin in the worst way. Toad’s CO, whoever he may be, seems unreceptive to her theory, which means a critical squad gatekeeper is short on loyalty or brains.

That’s no surprise; it’s obvious at this point Team USA’s been kneecapped, and Logan’s a world-class magnet for douchebags. She’d be more shocked if he WASN’T getting screwed. But it stinks that this particular obstructive jerkoff just wasted most of her scant remaining time.

Toad disconnects and strides back, kicking up puffs of dust. Despite his clear frustration, he keeps his tone civil and makes eye contact as he climbs into the driver’s seat.  “It’s a no-go,” he says needlessly, revving the engine. “I’ve been ordered to put you on the plane. I’m sorry—I did my best-- but I won’t risk a court-martial, just to let you warn Mouth in person.”

“You’re sure your CO realizes lives are at stake?” She lifts her brows in emphasis. “Including HIS?”

Toad’s nose wrinkles, and he see-saws his hand before flipping a competent u. “I caught him mid-biergarten bar fight, or at least that’s how it sounded, so he wasn’t in the mood to shoot the breeze. We might have better luck with your escort at the airfield. They’ll be higher up the food chain anyway, and they’ve got comms with the top brass.”

“Could I at least call Mouth, while we’re still in signal range?” She extends a hand for his cell, but he pockets it instead, shooting her a sardonic look.

“Sure, you know his number? ‘Cause I’m just some grunt he orders around, not a part of his phone tree.”

“Sounds like a recipe for disaster.” She polishes off her soda, since she doubts there’ll be an in-flight meal, then tosses the can in the backseat. “While we’re stuck out here on our lonesome, mid-desert, and your radio gets nothing but static.”

“The Navy spends millions teaching its teams to handle trouble.” He smiles, unfazed by her rancor. “I guess my LT assumed I could hold my own with the likes of you for an hour.”

“Further proof the guy’s an idiot,” she quips, and his smile gets bigger.

“Nah--just a perfectionist with too many details to juggle. He’s in charge, though, and in my line of work, we always do what we’re told. It’s a downside of the job, along with waking up too fucking early and tolerating dumb nicknames.”

“What’s wrong with your call sign?” Deliberately, she relaxes, slumping in her seat. Her next move in this game of Survivor isn’t clear yet, so why not give winning friends and influencing people one last shot? “Maybe it’s not as cinematic as, say, Cowboy, Hotshot, or King, but at least it isn’t obscene.”

“It’s based on a stupid human trick I do sometimes when I’m drunk. Exhibit A…” He takes a deep breath, holds it, and his cheeks puff out wider than she thought possible. “If my teammates are gonna razz me, I’d rather the reason be job-related.”

“Take comfort they don’t call you Mouth,” she says, playing along. “A nickname I THOUGHT was earned due to rampant insubordination, but now I’m starting to wonder.”

Toad cackles. “Well, he does have a quote for every occasion, and they’re usually way obscure. Drives Animal crazy; I caught him googling a reference once. Turned out to be Baudelaire.”

Before she can ask who Animal is, the jeep’s engine groans; with a shudder and clank, the vehicle dies. Bracing against the dash as Toad jolts to a stop, V checks her watch while hope blooms inside her.

“Piece of shit Humvee.” Toad sighs as the dust settles. “I spot-checked the motor while I waited for you, since we got shot up pretty good last night, but I couldn’t find any evidence of damage.”

He pops the hood and climbs out. She lets him puzzle over it fruitlessly for a minute before joining.

“Bet you a dollar the alternator belt’s torn.” After crouching in the dirt to confirm her suspicions, she points at a bullet hole in the grille. “It’s probably been hanging on all morning by a thread.”

“You know how to fix cars?” he asks, and she winks before climbing on the fender for a better view of the engine.

“Your fearless leader used to sabotage mine, back in tenth grade.” She leans in, testing the metal’s temperature with a fingertip. “It was his peculiar way of showing affection. I was usually too broke to pay for repairs, so…” she shrugs. “I learned to make do.”

“Wow, he’s so overprotective, I would have bet money he grew up playing hero.” She snorts, and Toad peers over her shoulder, adding, “Any chance you can patch this fast? ‘Cause the plane was due ten minutes ago, and machines aren’t my forte.”

“Well, the good news is, the repair’s simple.” Reaching surreptitiously beneath the block, she rips the belt’s last connections, then displays the remains. “Bad news is, the rubber’s shredded. Unless you stashed a spare in the glove box, we’ll be hiking back to the airfield.”

He checks his cell, frowns. “Three percent charge,” he says. “If I try to call anyone, this dies. Here’s hoping Bosco can stall the pilot, ‘cause we’re looking at a forty-minute stroll.”

With calm efficiency, he stashes the radio in a pack from the backseat; he’s just handed her a cooler to carry when a plane whooshes overhead. “Shit,” he murmurs, watching it veer right and descend, then sets off at a punishing pace.

Veronica quickly regrets dressing in black. Her eyes are protected by the stolen sunglasses, but sweat pools beneath her arms.  Bright side, the scarlet heat flush on her cheeks makes it easy to pretend she’s out of shape.

“Any chance your CO climbed off his high horse and called Mouth?” she asks, breathing as hard as seems plausible. “If the whole team knows we left the airfield to reach him, they might convey that to the folks on the plane.”

Toad shrugs, which tells her nothing. “What’s that guy’s deal, anyway?” she persists. “I’m something of a perfectionist myself, but even I know how to delegate.”

“To be honest, I have no clue.” Toad slows his pace to match hers, ever the gentleman. “I barely know him. My impression is, he started out spit-shined and destined for glory, but the job has taken its toll. From what I’ve heard, he’s been through the wringer, so I guess that’s not surprising.”

“The wringer as in difficult tours of duty?” She makes a face. “No wait, don’t tell me…it’s classified.”

Toad shrugs, his movements not noticeably affected by the massive pack. “Same shit that’s happening to all of us, these days. Too many 1-800-Call-a-SEAL trips to the sandbox, not enough down time. He got sent here to kick his heels after some hairy mission went sideways, but this deployment hasn’t been what you’d call restful.”

“No situation involving my husband ever is.” She stops, hands on her knees, and he obligingly trails to a halt. “For an officer who hates losing control, working with Mouth must be torture.”

“Torture or not, he’ll hang in there, as long as it earns his team a second chance.” Toad checks his watch, impatient, so she takes a few deep breaths and resumes walking. “Problem is, it’s impossible for us to be in three places at once, no matter how well we perform. If we don’t slow down soon, someone in the squad will lose it—Bosco, most likely. That guy’s messed up in the head.”

“So Animal’s savior complex has run amok?” Her mouth twists. “I’m familiar with the type.”

“And there’s the irony,” he says. “People call him Animal like he’s got a rep for being OUT of control, for violence--but he’s one of the most careful, wound-tight, career-military guys I’ve ever met. I told you, the nicknames are the worst.”

“In other words, he’s exactly the kind of person bosses overburden until they snap.”

“Navy doesn’t have a choice, geopolitics being what they are.” Toad kicks aside a rock. “They’ve been passing us around like cheap weed for years now, to anyone looking to get high, and sounds like your husband’s in the same boat.”

“Maybe, but Mouth lives for the thrills. He’ll be dead before he slows his roll.” She smiles, remembering Logan’s look of admiration, when he said you’re the bitch who never quits. “He’ll smirk and spit blood in his last moment on earth, then dare God to try a little harder. It’s how he’s made.”

Toad meets her eyes. “In other words, the kind of guy the world needs, to keep clueless civilians safe.”

The world can burn, she thinks, but doesn’t say. I need him more than anyone. Whatever reply she might make is forestalled, though, by the whoosh and roar of the departing plane. She tilts her head back, watching it go; beside her, Toad covers his face with one hand, and mumbles, “I’m in so much fucking trouble.”

“Why? You followed orders, mostly.” Since it looks like they’re officially no longer in a hurry, she flops down on a nearby rock. “My info was critical for the safety of your team, and they can’t penalize you for acts of God, can they?”

He makes a face—they can and will—but sits beside her and opens the cooler, handing her one of the last two cokes. “What now?” she asks, taking a sip.

“The Barreras keep a vehicle on the airfield; it’s in a carport off the hangar. If we jack that, at least we’ll have transportation, and a way for me to charge my cell. Then, I guess…” he sighs. “I’ll call and get my ass chewed, see if I still need to run the next errand. I was supposed to be back at HQ by nine, but at this point, I’d need time travel.”

“Am I allowed to ask what your errand is?” She rises, stretches, and begins to hike again, since the sooner they’re in a car with air conditioning, the better they’ll both feel.

“We still don’t know whether Bosco and your friend boarded the plane.” He studies the empty cooler, as if evaluating its utility, then abandons it to follow. “If they didn’t, I was told to track them down.”

“Bosco, the poor bastard who’s seconds from snapping?” she asks, and he nods. “Is he so unreliable, he might not follow orders?”

“Who knows? He drinks a shitton, barely sleeps, and goes hard when there’s no reason to--that’s never a good symptom cluster. If I was in charge, I’d ship him back home for a psych eval, but the brass hates to admit mental health could ever be an issue.”

“L…Mouth would listen, if you brought up the problem,” she says, not without bitterness. “He cheerleads for therapy like it’s the best invention since penicillin. He’s constantly trying to convince me to get my head shrunk.”

“Mouth has The Art of War memorized.” Toad covers a yawn with the back of his wrist. “And lives in a state of continual peril. If he needs to talk to someone about lingering PTSD, I’m the last person who’d judge.”

The Art of War, she thinks. It freaking figures. I’ll bet he sneaks a Sun Tzu quote into every after-action report.

The sun’s fully up now, and the prison plane’s gone, so V abandons the third degree in favor of saving her breath. Toad doesn’t question her lapse into silence; but then, he’s got plenty to consider.

By the time they reach the hill above the now-deserted airfield, she’s truly spent. They jog-trot down into the meager shade of the hanger, and V stands panting in a patch of shadow while Toad messes with the carport door. “We should have saved those last two sodas,” she manages, as he fiddles ineffectually with the knob. “I feel like I might pass out.”

“Heat increases metabolic stress.” He prepares to kick, but she lays a restraining hand on his arm and brandishes her lockpick set. “We’ll feel better once we’re out of the sun. Wow,” he adds, as she makes short work of bypassing the cheap mechanism. “Definitely not a pie-baking sweetheart. You’ve got skills.”

“Blame my misspent youth.” The door swings wide, revealing a dim and empty space; dust motes glimmer on sunbeams that spear through cracks in the slats. “So much for our dream of bad Tejano stations and frosty AC.”

“Tracks are fresh.” He points at tread marks in the dirt, dug in deep and clear. “This car hasn’t been gone for more than an hour.”

“Someone disembarked the plane and took it.” She tucks a grimy hank of hair behind her ear. “You should use that last 3% charge and make an SOS call.”

“By now, the phone is bricked.” He removes his pack with a groan and sets it down; digs through and extracts a canteen. “The Barreras let everyone and their dog use this airstrip, though—it’s how they stay in the loop about local events—so we shouldn’t make assumptions about where the car went. Come on, let’s check inside the hangar. Sometimes there’s a golf cart. We could at least drive that back to the jeep, then strip it for parts.”

She accepts the water, drinks deep, and he follows suit; pauses after screwing on the cap as several engines become audible in the distance. Holding up a hand in the universal symbol for quiet, he peers out through a space between boards, then beckons her to look while he carefully shuts the door.

Two trucks are approaching from the other side of the valley, the small-store-delivery kind, painted pale blue. “Ciudad de Pan,” Toad murmurs, as the vehicles reach the tarmac and park. “Local business. Good conchas, and they do a lunch menu with a carnitas plate that’s fucking amazing.”

“Bet those things have AC,” she replies, and he glances at her sideways with a faint smile. “What do you think they’re doing here?”

He shrugs as four men emerge and begin unloading crates, which they carry, one by one, into the hangar. They work silently and quickly, in deference to the heat. “Guess another plane’s coming soon,” Toad murmurs, master of the obvious. “Glad Mouth had the foresight to dress you in a vest. You know how to use that gun?”

She nods, watching the group below climb back into the vehicles. They don’t leave, however; they just pull over to one side of the hangar, and sit idling like they’re waiting. “If we plan to steal a ride, I suggest we do it now, before reinforcements arrive.”

“Agreed,” he says. “But bad news, I have to check the contents of those boxes first. Our team’s looking for some crates just like them, and I won’t be the guy who lets victory slip through my fingers.”

“Then we should get a move on.” She gestures for him to lead the way, thinking how many weird weapons went missing? And from where? And how’d they make it all the way to Chihuahua without appearing on anyone’s radar?

Hugging the rear of the hangar, which provides their only cover, they cross to a rusted door in the far corner and again pick the lock. The interior is lit only by a rectangle of sunshine beneath the half-mast, motorized main entrance; its sole contents are an old green plane and the neat stack of boxes along one wall.

“I’ve seen these markings.” She traces the symbols inked along one side of a crate. “In a storage room, at El Despiadado’s fortress. This shipment must be his.”

Toad snaps on latex gloves instead of answering, then locates a tool in his pack with which to lever up the lids. Quickly and methodically, he shifts and sorts, lifting and restacking crates as if their weight is negligible. Once done, he tosses the gloves into a bin in the corner, then draws her back into the dark recesses of the hangar, behind the rusting aircraft.

“Why cover your hands?” she asks. “Fingerprints? Toxins?”

“Contreras ships fentanyl inside packs of hibiscus tea,” he says. “But usually, it goes by land across the border, to Tijuana and Eagle Pass. The fact that he’s sending this stuff on a plane today opens up a whole new can of worms.”

“I thought El Despiadado was a gunrunner.” She takes a seat, her back to the hot metal wall. The hum of the trucks continues outside, pitched one note above silence.

“He’s a gun BUYER. Sends drugs to Eastern Europe, and they send back weapons, which are mostly used in local warfare. Guy’s not above selling the surplus, primarily cheap AK’s…but there’s no real market in the US for foreign weapons in bulk. We make all the best firearms in the world already, and we’ll hawk them to any citizen with cash.”

“Well, this shipment would have caused a kerfluffle if it arrived before our plane left, but since it didn’t…” she pauses, considering. “Oh, I see. The problem isn’t that it’s happening HERE, it’s that it’s happening NOW…on the same day as the mission you’re late to assist.”

He sighs. “I didn’t tell you a damn thing about operations past or present. I want to state that for the record.”

“Never fear.” She winks. “Just deliver me to Mouth in time to warn him, and I’ll keep my trap shut forever about anything I learn.”

“Fine, you win,” he says. “Without getting into specifics, a shipment being sent this morning means my team has to leave town by dinnertime. But I’ve been ordered to help Mouth, Bosco’s whereabouts are unconfirmed, and we’ve got no comms. Our new priority is to find a phone ASAP.”

“Then we need a distraction,” she says. “One that clears those guys out of their vans and keeps them from following us when we steal one and flee.”

“I’ve got a couple flash bangs,” he says, rummaging through his pack. “And some smoke bombs. If we make some noise in here, they’ll rush over to check the goods.”

“While we exit through the back door and circle around? Works for me.”

He fishes out and hands over a hexagonal grenade, ringed with holes, then a canister that reads M18 Smoke White. After screwing a silencer onto his gun, he dons goggles, and they creep to the door, easing it open. A passing lizard skitters away, leaving a serpentine trail in the dust.

Toad may not be a planner, but in motion, he’s impressive. She can barely keep up as he grabs the devices from her, activates, tosses, and runs; the first explosive crack’s so disorienting, he has to drag her around a billowing, acrid cloud. “Two in the left van,” he mutters, as she struggles to match his pace. “Don’t get squeamish on me now, okay? I need you to veer right and catch their attention, so I can take them both out.”

She nods and runs, heart jackhammering, in the direction he points…into the expanding smoke cloud, where the idling trucks have become vague, pale shapes, like mist-shrouded icebergs in an Arctic Sea. Shots ring out behind her, and she spins, then staggers, as her left hand strikes the van’s smooth side. In front of her, a window rolls down, and a man’s dark, tousled head emerges, face contorted…

Then he slumps, mouth slackening, is dragged backwards, and disappears.

The door he just tried to exit through swings open, and she stands rigid, knowing she’s supposed to dive inside; her breath comes faster, the smoke burning her nostrils. But she can’t see, she feels like she’s suffocating, and the only words her brain conjures up are I don’t want to sit on a bloody bench.

Toad reaches out of the van and grabs her before she can spiral, tugging her up beside him. She manages to close the door while he leans past, so he can shoot out the neighboring vehicle’s tires; accepts the pistol he gives her and clutches it in both hands, as he squeals off up the dirt road. Close call, she thinks, when gunfire erupts behind them. She folds in half before he tells her to duck, pressing her face to her knees.

“We’re clear,” Toad says, after who knows how many minutes, and she realizes the shooting has long since stopped. “I need you to sit up now and engage the safety on that weapon. Then I need you to unscrew the silencer and hand both pieces to me.”

Gritting her teeth, she complies. It’s hard to see; she discovers she’s still wearing sunglasses, behind which her eyes are smoke-stung and streaming tears. “I don’t usually freeze,” she apologizes, after he’s disarmed her. “I investigate murders all the time--I’ve seen some awful crime scenes--and people have tried to kill me more times than I can c-count…”

“Waiting until you identified me before getting into the car was SMART,” he says. He doesn’t look at her, or try to comfort her, which in itself is soothing. “Putting your head down when bullets were flying was also smart. You did exactly what I asked you to, and we made it out of there in one piece.”

She nods, watching him unsnap a pocket and dig out his cell. “Check the zipped section front-center on the pack behind my seat,” he instructs. “There should be a phone charger that plugs into a cigarette lighter. We need to ditch this vehicle for another at the first populated location, then call some people and figure out next steps.”

“Doesn’t your team have a rendezvous point?” She takes off her sunglasses, rubs her eyes on her sleeve, then cleans the lenses with the tail of her shirt before unearthing and connecting the charger. “I mean, I’m no expert on military operations, but it seems foolish to depend on phones or radio.”

“There WAS one, but it’s coming on eleven now, and nobody’s likely to wait for me if I’m late. Plus, my most recent orders were to get you to safety, then confirm the locations of Bosco and Ruiz. My instinct is to head for the place they were last seen and find our bearings there. That way, even if Mouth’s in the wind, I can still get you, and maybe your friend, to the airport by five for extraction. It’s tricky these days to cross a border without ID; you could end up stuck at the embassy, in limbo.”

Like your bosses will let me anywhere near an embassy, she thinks, but all she says is, “Where were they last seen?”

“Ruiz was camped out in some shut-down mine all night, Animal told me. People got scared of the shelling, so they hid there until morning. Most folks have probably crawled out and left by now, but there might be stragglers in the bars who can tell us where she went.”

“You mean the mine on 45, west side of the road?” She squints into the sunlight, trying to get her bearings. “Near Aquiles Serdan? Javi drove past it—he’s Carmen’s cousin—the morning after I got here. It’s a risky place to hole up, though; the big tunnel’s collapsed.”

“Less risky than getting shot.” His mouth twists as a plane descends overhead, its tailwind making the van rattle. He speeds up.

“So what am I supposed to tell her?” Veronica asks, mostly to distract them both from fear of pursuit. “Carmen, I mean? Mouth wanted me to pretend this trip was a wild goose chase, but who’ll believe that now? Her brother’s friend watched me get kidnapped by El Despiadado’s men, and I’m currently fleeing drug runners in the company of GI Joe.”

“When in doubt, play dumb,” he says. “And stick close to the facts. My cover is as a bodyguard, working for a company called Accelerus, and I was near the Fortaleza during the attack. Just tell them you paid me to help you escape, and I’m trying to find you and Ruiz a ride home.”

She nods, accepting the story, then slumps in her seat as they creep along the highway, navigating through traffic and numerous abandoned cars. These increase in quantity as they near their destination; based on the milling spectators and emergency vehicles, it’s not hard to guess the reason.

“Some days, it’s all snake eyes.” Toad parks the van, grabs his gear, and climbs out, grimly surveying the smoke billowing from the mine. “Bright side, this might be the reason Bosco was so fuckin’ late.”

Spotting a tired fireman, he waves and calls something in Spanish; Veronica scans the crowd during the conversation that ensues, but sees no familiar faces.

“Some of the locals joined the attack on Contreras and got chased here after the Fortaleza didn’t fold,” Toad translates, once the guy’s walked off. “They tried to hide in the tunnels with their friends, but the shooters followed them, and…” he gestures, fatalistic. “Ammo plus fuel equals bad news. That dude thinks the fireworks are over, but a few veins may keep smoldering down there for a while.”

She makes a face. “Why haven’t all these looky-loos gone about their business, then?”

“Not everybody’s made it out yet.” He lifts one shoulder in a tired, half-assed shrug. “They’re still not sure whether the missing people are dead or trapped.”

“Veronica!” It’s a woman’s voice, distant. “Veronica Mars! Javi, she’s over there!”

“Carmen?” Toad asks, and V nods as she spots Javi, weaving through gaps in the crowd. “Finally, something goes our way.”

Using his bulk, he creates a path, and she follows in his wake, gripping the back of his t-shirt. Carmen elbows her way under an EMS tech to bestow a hug; she’s damp with exertion and smells of smoke.

“You scared us!” she chides in a hoarse voice, shoving back a coal-streaked hank of hair that’s escaped from her braid. “Sal said you got mixed up in a shootout, and then the Fortaleza was bombed!”

“I know.” Veronica nods as Javi approaches; he’s dirty, with a torn shirt, blood crusted on one shoulder. “I was down in the basement when the shells hit. This guy helped me escape.” She jerks her thumb at Toad. “He got separated from his coworkers in the process, so he’s trying to track them down.”

Recognizing his cue, Toad produces a photo. “You seen any of these guys in the last day or so?”

Carmen shakes her head, but Javi squints at the image, then taps one end before handing it back. “These three showed up in town around February, looking for work, but last time I noticed them was maybe a week ago. The red-haired one, I don’t recognize at all. Sorry, man.”

Toad nods. “Look, Veronica, I need ten minutes to make a couple calls. You mind hanging with your friends while I do that? It should be relatively safe here; the fireman said the shooting stopped around dawn.”

She agrees with a thumbs-up, but keeps track of where he goes; though he doesn’t seem inclined to ditch her, she can’t let her sole connection to Logan skate. “Why are you guys still here, anyway?” she asks, distracted. “I thought the plan was to rush your family to Chihuahua City before the fighting began.”

The look Carmen pins her with is reproachful. “Martin and Rafa drove them up last night, after their Accelerus friends warned us something big was going down—they took our car, since you offered. Javi and I didn’t trust that Leo guy, though, so we stayed behind with Manuel and Uncle Marco, in case you needed help. We lost track of them too, though, in all the chaos, and now we’re afraid they’re stuck in the mine.”

“You know that puto wanted to hand you over to the alliance?” Javi’s expression telegraphs I told you so. “Your fake friend Leo, I mean? He tried to get Wilmer at the bar to broker, but since he didn’t pay much, Wilmer just took his cash and blew him off. Sal went to the rendezvous in his place, planning to bring you back to me--but I guess El Desesperado heard about Wilmer shooting his mouth off and decided you might be valuable.”

“Sal the man with the flag pickup?” V asks, and he nods. “He showed up, but he couldn’t get to me before the shooting started. Luckily, I ran into Toad a short while after.”

“Not sure I’d call that lucky.” Javi glances at the merc; he’s talking on his cell a fair distance away, a frown twisting his broad, placid face. “You know this guy’s been working up at the Barrera place, right? Guarding some arms dealer from South America who’s dating the lady in your picture? You and Carmen should take my car and get out of here while he’s distracted, or whatever happened to your husband might happen to you, too.”

So Logan’s posing as a gunrunner, she thinks, but all she says is, “Toad’s a bodyguard, not a criminal. Just like the rest of you, he’s in this for a paycheck.”

A wrinkle appears between Carmen’s brows, and V feels a flash of guilt. These two put themselves in harm’s way to rescue her from a bad decision; they don’t deserve her snark. To change the subject, she adds, “And what’s this alliance, anyway, to which Leo failed to sell me? Some gentlemen’s agreement, only for gangsters?”

“It’s complicated.” Javi squints into the distance like he’s scanning the crowd. “Besides, from what I can tell, the alliance blew up last night, so nobody knows what’s happening anymore.”

“We heard some rumors this morning, though, about more trouble coming, soon,” Carmen says. “Everyone says we should book, but we still need to find my uncle and make one other tiny stop. Oh, and before I forget, there was looting yesterday, so I sent our bags up to Rafa’s in the trunk. We’ll have to swing by there on our way out of town.”

“I can’t leave yet, so you’d better go without me.” V yawns, covering her mouth with her wrist. “There’s something important I still need to do.”

“Are you two nuts?” Javi throws up his hands, then winces and experimentally rotates his shoulder. “If you haven’t heard anything about your husband by now, he’s probably dead. And as for you, Carmencita, that girl’s in town because she WANTS to be here. You won’t talk her into skipping out on her boyfriend before the next throwdown starts.”

“Wait, what girl?” V narrows her eyes. “Just how many shady friends and relatives are you guys currently rescuing?”

“Don’t be so dramatic, Veronica.” Carmen wrinkles her nose. “I’m doing a favor for a friend, same as you. Weevil gave me the car and enough money to make this trip, so I could ask around for his sister while I was here. I finally figured out where she is this morning, but it’ll take a little work to get in there and convince her to leave.”

“Which sister?” Veronica frowns. “Eliana? Is this where she took off to, all those years ago?”

“Nah, she’s in New York,” Carmen says. “Last I heard, she got married again. It’s Claudia--she was fooling around with that guy Lozano in Neptune, and Weevs is pretty sure she came along when he left. He said she’d have found a way to call home, unless she COULDN’T call, so he thinks Lozano won’t let her leave.”

She shrugs. “I told him I’d bring her back, as long as he promised to leave Fern out of his business from now on. He lectured me for hitching my wagon to crazy Veronica Mars and tried to talk me out of coming in person, but he was worried enough about both you and her that he wasn’t hard to convince.”

Fucking Weevil and his games. V shuts her eyes for a moment, mustering calm. “And what is it you heard about Claudia yesterday?” she asks.

“She’s been living in El Despiadado’s compound, in the employee wing.” Carmen’s lip curls. “Lots of times, girls the cartel guys get sick of end up dumped in the kitchen, doing laundry or whatever. The gang takes their IDs and money, so they can’t leave and go to the cops.”

“And Claudia’s got that typical-Navarro loathing of injustice,” she says. “If Lozano behaved in ways she didn’t like, which I’m sure was the case within a week, she wouldn’t keep quiet and bide her time.”

“Marco promised to bring her back from the compound last night, if he could,” Javi puts in. “But now Marco’s missing. Sal told me the kitchen staff at the Fortaleza spent the night in the rec center, while the guards were digging out tunnels, and this morning they got bussed into town to cater some big event. Contreras runs a bunch of businesses in the area with trafficked staff.”

“Would this caterer be Ciudad de Pan?” V asks, and Javi’s eyes widen in confirmation. “What kind of uniforms do they wear? Are they custom, or standard waiter black-and-white?”

“Black skirt, white shirt, black vest, and tie like a man?” Javi considers. “High heels? Nothing fancy, but they all dress the same.”

Pressing fingertips to the bridge of her nose, Veronica considers. As an infiltration strategy, it’s not bad. They could drive right up to the arms fair in the stolen van, dressed as kitchen staff. Carmen could rescue Claudia, Toad could rejoin his team, and Veronica could warn Logan before El Despiadado’s doomsday countdown begins. But it would be easier and safer to accomplish these things before the event starts, so no one has to enter the lion’s den.

“Would Weevil’s sister be at the venue already, this early in the day?” she asks. “Setting up? Or would she be in some kitchen, cooking and boxing?”

“There’s a restaurant in town where they make the food,” Javi says. “They sell breakfast and lunch from a counter out front, but it’s too dangerous. They’re catering the criminal meeting my brother mentioned today, so there are guns and soldiers all over the place. You can’t sneak around stealing workers from under the cartel’s nose at a time like this.”

“In all the fuss, who would notice?” V smirks at his expression, and adds, “Besides, it wouldn’t be dangerous for you to swing by the shop in a Ciudad de Pan van, just to see if Claudia’s around, right? You’re pretending to work for El Despiadado anyway--you won’t seem out of place. While you’re there, you could even steal a few uniforms, in case we need them later.”

His eyebrows contract, since he hasn’t told her squat about his double-agent scheme. But before he can argue, a dust-covered guy grabs his arm, and a rapid conversation in Spanish ensues.

Carmen gasps at whatever’s said, then covers her mouth with both hands. “Marco and Manuel aren’t in the mine,” she explains, voice quavering with relief. “Some guys sent Jaime Cruz a text around ten-thirty; they made it out through a side tunnel. The three bodies that got left behind were from another town up the road.”

“Hey yo, Veronica, we gotta hit the road!” Toad calls, and she turns to see him jogging towards her, his expression uncharacteristically stern. “My plans just imploded, and I’m out of free time for you to chit-chat with your pals.”

“Then you’ll love my news!” She dons her brightest smile, sending her friends a let me handle this look. “Javi will loan us his car and drop off the catering van, since he can do so without arousing suspicion. Why don’t you guys trade keys, then make plans to return the Jeep later, while Carmen shows me where it’s parked?”

She sails off without waiting for an answer, since it’s likely that answer would be no, Carmen firmly in tow. Shushes her friend when she starts to protest. “I’m sure you have questions,” she murmurs, with a glance backwards to be certain they’re out of earshot. “Most of which I can’t answer, but you’re the only person I trust, and you ought to know we’re up shit creek.”

“No kidding.” Carmen indicates the red Cherokee, then halts beside it, arms folded. “But if you want me to get in a car with some random strange mercenary, you’d better have a really good reason.”

V sighs. “I’ve been instructed to tell you Logan’s dead, and it’s critical that you pretend I did, should anyone ask. But the truth is, he’s fine, and he’s never been a prisoner. He’ll be walking into that catered event in a few hours--of his own free will, unlike Claudia--and the disaster you’ve heard rumors about will start there, unless I warn him first. Toad’s got contacts who can locate them both beforehand, if he feels inclined to help us, meaning we’d be able to leave town BEFORE the shitshow starts.”

“And if he doesn’t feel inclined, using the van to sneak in as waitresses is plan b?” Veronica lifts her brows, impressed, and Carmen grins. “Whereas manipulating this guy into helping during the car ride is plan a?”

“Bingo.” Tapping the tip of her nose, V adds, “Toad’s been ordered to get the two of us back to the US on an Accelerus company plane, and if he does that, we’ll be detained by the Navy once we land; but if you vanish into the crowd right now and circle back to Javi, he won’t have time to track you down. Lady’s choice.”

Carmen considers, then pulls a cell from her pocket and sends a text. “I told Javi to hide the van for now and ask someone to follow us,” she says. “If it’s necessary to choose plan b, we can make an excuse and bail.”

The car’s locks click open as Veronica nods; then Toad appears between two vehicles, and the time for vacillating is over. Climbing into the driver’s seat, he starts the engine, clearly harboring no doubts that Carmen will cooperate. With a shrug, she takes a seat in back.

Veronica accepts shotgun, buckling her belt as she asks, “Did you track down your friend?”

“Everybody’s accounted for, now,” he says, voice glum. “Bosco’s hurt—that’s why he was delayed.”

He avoids her eye as he backs carefully out of the tangle of vehicles, then pivots onto the road. Makes no further comment, so after a moment, she says, “I guess we’re meeting up with the rest of your team tout suite, then?”

“That’s the plan,” he agrees, with an attempt at a smile, before turning north onto the highway.

Veronica cocks her head, trying to gauge his mood, which has taken a turn in the wake of the phone calls. Out of the corner of her eye, she spots Carmen frowning, and essays a tiny shrug in response.

He talked to his CO, she thinks, as the sign for the junction to Highway 2 flashes by on the right. Heard about Bosco and reported details of the drug shipment, as a result of which, his plans ‘imploded’. If he turns left towards Cuauhetemoc, he’s headed for the arms fair, having been ordered to render aid to Logan. If he doesn’t, some other mission’s taken priority, and Carmen’s text better fucking well have borne fruit.

He takes the exit, clicks the right blinker, and V lets out a breath, slow and quiet. “So we’re choosing the scenic route, I gather?”

This elicits a sigh, but Toad still completes the turn. “We lost two people this morning, Veronica, which means I now have to do Scoot’s job. We’re heading to Villalobos International, so we can be strapped in and ready to leave when the plane’s cleared for takeoff. I’m sorry.”

And who cares if Logan’s mission fails as a result goes unsaid, as does you’re not allowed to object. The message is clear, though. Toad’s out of time to do her favors, and it’s doubtful Animal will pass along her warning.

In the backseat, Carmen pipes up. “You won’t make it all the way to the airport without stopping for gas. There are like five miles left in the tank, and the only station open today is a little way up ahead.”

Toad checks his watch but nods, since the gauge indeed reads empty, and Veronica feels a spurt of pride. Carmen’s kind, but she’s no idiot, and she’s correctly calculated the odds.

They pull into an ancient Pemex, its green sign cracked and missing strategic chunks. As Toad pops the gas cap and climbs out, Carmen says, “I need to pee; I’ll be back in a minute. And just so you know, this place is cash only, and they won’t let you pump until you pay.”

Toad gives a thumbs-up, patting his pockets…falling for this con as easily as he fell for Veronica’s stalls. It’s disappointing, she reflects, as she saunters after Carmen into the disreputable mini-mart, then down the hall towards the john. She felt safer traversing this war zone with a friendly Special Forces member in tow. But she lacks interest in making the acquaintance of whoever’s waiting on the plane.

Carmen’s phone pings, and she checks it. “Beto’s waiting in the El Paisano lot next door. I take it our attempt at manipulating that guy just fully crashed and burned?”

“Big time.” V glances back, making sure they can’t be seen from the cash register, as Carmen pushes through the emergency exit, then follows her across a cracked road to a dark and obviously-closed market. They skirt the perimeter of the building at a jog to find a battered Jetta waiting, its engine rustily rumbling in the hot silence. Two men in cowboy shirts sit in the front seat, drinking bottles of Jarritos and listening to the radio, like rescuing friends kidnapped by commandos is a standard day in the life. And hey, in this law-challenged part of the world? Maybe it is.

“Javi is SO pissed.” Carmen sinks back against the threadbare seat as the car lurches into motion, turning down a dirt road. “He loves his jeep. And he complained that you need to be rescued more than anyone he’s ever met.”

“I was locked in a fridge once, before it was set on fire.” Veronica rubs the points of her jaw, trying to make it unclench. “The events of this week feel like small potatoes by comparison.”

“I bet you’re one of those whaddayacallits.” Carmen considers. “Adrenaline addicts? People with the need for speed?”

“More like even when I try to live a quiet life, trouble somehow finds me. For instance, you’d think Stanford would be slow, right? At least compared to Neptune? I had a punishing course load my sophomore year, and I was doing my damndest to go cold-turkey on detecting. Yet six months in, I was breaking up fight clubs, tracking my professor’s stalker, and investigating a hit-and-run perpetrated by a Merit scholar. Something shitty happens in my sightline, and I can’t help but intervene.”

“I rest my case.” Carmen leans forward to talk to the driver, who responds briefly. “Beto says Javi went to Cuauhtemoc to check on Claudia. They’re gonna drop us at a restaurant called Rancho Viejo, and he’ll meet us there in like half an hour.”

Veronica nods and shuts her eyes against the blazing sun. The next thing she knows, Carmen is shaking her awake.

They exit the car, which honks and drives off, leaving them in front of an adobe building; it’s painted red, and its roof comes to a point over large, arched, green double-doors. Inside, the place resembles a log cabin, with lanterns hanging from the ceiling beams and tables shoved cheek-by-jowl. It’s doing a brisk business, despite the chaos in the region; maybe the locals are immune to violence. Or maybe the food’s just that good.

“What time is it?” V asks as they take a seat against the far wall. She rubs her eyes with the heel of one hand while Carmen calls to a passing waitress. Cold bottles of tamarind soda arrive, and she grabs one and methodically drinks half.

“Like twelve-thirty?” Carmen pulls her phone from her pocket, makes a face, and puts it back. “Ugh, Manuel lent me this thing so I could keep in touch with everyone, but he forgot to give me a freaking charger. I swear to God, Veronica, I love my cousins, but they never THINK.”

“They’ve got a lot going on.” V chugs the rest of her beverage and sets the bottle gently down. “What with double and triple-crossing gunrunners, while trying to make a buck off me.”

Carmen shrugs. “We all do what’s necessary, to protect the people we love.” She picks up her own soda and gestures with it. “For instance, you’ve been hunting killers to rescue Logan Echolls since you were old enough to drive.”

V snorts as chips and salsa are set between them. “And yet he always finds another rake to step on,” she says, through a mouthful. “I can’t decide if he’s cursed or just the world’s biggest sucker.”

The door swings open and Javi strides in. “Don’t start,” Carmen warns him as he sits and asks the waitress for a cup of coffee. “It was worth a try to see whether that guy was willing to help us. He’s got more connections and training than all your dumb drunk friends put together.”

“How much is his help worth, if you outsmarted him by sneaking through a back door?” Javi rolls his eyes at her expression. “I just better get my car back soon, is all I’m saying. I’m still making payments.”

“Whatever, he’ll probably ditch it at the airport, if he doesn’t drop it where you agreed. All he wants right now is to board some plane.” She selects a chip and swirls it through the salsa. “What did you do with the van?”

“I checked the bakery—the girl is there.” He accepts a steaming cup with a smile and asks the waitress for eggs. “Took some uniforms too, like you asked. Then I hid the truck in Tino’s garage, so you two can figure out what suicidal plan you want to try next.” He takes a sip. “But if you’re thinking of sneaking into the stadium, you should take the tunnel from the restaurant instead of driving there. None of the staff will be going in the front door.”

“There’s a tunnel?” Veronica considers. “For what purpose? Is this stadium one of the places El Despiadado loads and unloads product?”

“The guy’s got tunnels everywhere,” Javi scoffs. “He’s like a prairie dog. I bet he watched some reality show about El Chapo one night and decided, ‘that’s the secret to this dude’s success! A million tunnels!’”

“Will they leave guards at the bakery?” Veronica asks, ignoring this sally. “When they move the servers?”

“People will be rushing back and forth all day.” Javi smiles thanks as breakfast plates are set before them. “Some girls gotta stay in the kitchen and keep cooking, while others move the food and drinks. But it’s not like the women at the bakery are a high priority for anyone—the guards will be more focused on protecting VIPs.”

And weapons, she thinks, staring at her plate with an uncharacteristic lack of appetite. She feels dazed, still, from her impromptu cat nap. “Then I guess you get to play the part of handler and lead us into the stadium through the tunnel. Since we seem to be pretty much out of better options.”

“I’m curious.” Javi douses his eggs in salsa verde and takes a bite. “I know Carmen wants to rescue that Claudia girl, but why put yourself in danger? What did Rambo promise you, anyway, before he changed his mind? ‘Cause if you think an arms dealer will bring an American hostage to this event, you couldn’t be more wrong.”

“Let’s just say I need to talk to one of the guests before I leave the country.” Veronica considers. “Unless you know the way to a deserted country bar, northwest of here? Not too far from the fortress?”

“The old cumbia dance hall?” Javi shakes his head. “I heard it got shelled. From the top of the hill outside, you can still see the smoke.”

“Then the stadium it is.” Veronica sighs and picks up her fork, bowing to the necessity of filling her stomach. “Let’s do our best to get in and out before the stampede begins.”

XXXXX

“You don’t even speak Spanish, Veronica,” Carmen insists forty-five minutes later, while they try to change clothes in the jolting, shuddering back of the van. “How will you convince people you’re a waitress if you can’t communicate with the guests?”

“Are you one of those women who seems like a cupcake, yet somehow always gets her way?” Veronica tugs on a pencil skirt that’s a size too large, rolling the waistband twice to make it stay up. “The invitees hail from all corners of the world, so English will be the lingua franca. Besides, I do a decent Martina Vasquez impression, and I’m a trained investigator with interrogation skills. Whereas you’re a kindergarten teacher, and you mostly get by because you’re impossible to dislike.”

“And isn’t El Despiadado just a giant toddler having a midlife tantrum?” She arches a brow to drive home her point, then braces a hand on the van’s side as it lurches abruptly to a halt. “What the heck?”

V crouches, her hand going to the butt of her gun, which rests atop a pile of discarded clothes. They wait in tense silence for a moment, but nothing happens, so with a shrug, Carmen resumes her harangue. “I’m just saying,” she continues, buttoning her vest, “I’m the one who agreed to rescue Claudia in the first place, and my disguise actually fits. It doesn’t make sense for me to wait in the tunnel while you do all the work. And you know it.”

“Fine.” Veronica shrugs on the white shirt she was given, then re-dons the holster. “Javi can monitor the tunnel, while you track down Claudia and take her straight back to him. Then the three of you need to get out of the line of fire, and we can rendezvous someplace less dangerous. I have a bad feeling things will go south at this event, and you’ve risked enough on my behalf.”

“Aw, Veronica, it’s nice to know you care.” Carmen bats her lashes, and V groans. Then the rear door swings open, framing Javi in a rectangle of light.

He extends a hand, proffering a straggling black mass, which on closer inspection proves to be a wig—long, with bangs, like some video-game fetish character in skintight pleather would wear. “You’re too much of a gringa,” he says, by way of explanation. “This will help you blend.”

“How am I supposed to keep this on without hairpins?” She casts around the truck’s filthy interior for anything resembling a rubber band. “The first time I turn my head too fast, it’ll slide sideways like a bad toupee.”

“There’s a backpack in the corner.” Carmen points with one elbow as she expertly knots her tie, as if she’s had a lot of practice. “But if you sit over here, I can French braid your hair, then bind it off with a strand. When it comes to girly stuff, I have MAD skills.”

Veronica dons a too-large vest to hide her gun, then grabs the bag and plunks down at Carmen’s feet. “This looks like it belongs to a college student,” she says, shifting a remedial-math textbook, a binder, and a fraying pouch full of pens, before locating a cell phone so ancient, it’s got an antenna, decorated with a fading Jujutsu Kaisen sticker. “No joy on hair accessories, but here’s an unexpected jackpot. This thing’s still charged, and it’s too old a model to be protected by a password lock. Hand me your cell, so we can exchange numbers.”

Carmen opens up her phone with one thumb and relinquishes it, while somehow still continuing to braid. “Done,” she pronounces, patting the back of V’s head, then grabs the wig and maneuvers it into place. “You look so pretty, it’s a shame to cover up my work.”

“Pretty’s low on our priority list at the moment.” After handing back the cell, V checks to make sure her hairline is covered, then compares the shoes Javi brought with her feet. They’re too large, but wearable if she stuffs notebook paper into the toes. “But fingers crossed this wig color will bring out my eyes?”

She dumps out the backpack’s contents and methodically begins to fill it with their clothes; she’s just claimed victory over the recalcitrant zipper when the van halts again. A moment later, Javi reappears, wearing a baseball cap that casts his face in shadow and carrying an Uzi.

“You need to keep your eyes on the floor,” he warns as they climb out, Veronica testing her balance in the oversized heels. He shoulders the pack he’s handed without comment. “Don’t talk to anyone or attract attention, or there’s no way we’ll make it into the arena.”

Veronica nods and complies, adopting the hunched, defensive posture she’s seen on way too many abuse victims. They walk, single file, into a pale-blue adobe building with a corrugated tin roof. The front door opens onto an industrial kitchen that wouldn’t pass a food inspection, in which a handful of cowed women sweat and toil, while armed men stand around looking bored.

Javi says something in Spanish to one of them; the guy rolls his eyes and jerks a thumb towards the back. As they cross to an open door where stairs lead down into a basement, V uses peripheral vision to case the room’s inhabitants. “Claudia’s not here,” she murmurs, as they descend into dimness. “She must already be at the event.”

A bare bulb on the far wall illuminates the wood-framed entrance to a DIY tunnel. Several men bracket it, smoking and talking. One greets Javi with a lift of his chin, then jerks his jaw sideways to indicate they can pass.

Within, the tunnel is dim and claustrophobic; Javi produces a flashlight to help them scuff along, while Veronica struggles not to feel trapped. “There are branches up ahead,” he says. “But Marco told me if we keep going straight, we’ll reach the stadium, no problem.”

“Is Marco all right?” Carmen asks, as they pass a fork grading up. Javi nods, but before he can reply, a large figure drops down behind them, gun in hand, smoothly blocking their escape. It’s Toad.

Best laid plans, Veronica thinks, bracing to run. Javi turns, lifting his gun, but Toad murmurs, “Relax guys, I’m not here to ruin your day. I’m just asserting my right to lend a hand with whatever scheme you’ve cooked up.”

“I thought your priority was catching a plane,” V accuses in an angry undertone, as Javi relaxes. “I thought you single-handedly decided you’d done enough to help, and it was time to detain us without our consent.”

“Flight’s not cleared for takeoff yet,” Toad says, ignoring the accusations. “A lot of folks are scrambling to escape this town. And you’re high if you think I’m leaving the region without both of you in tow—even if you are determined to ditch me and get yourselves offed. Besides, as long as I’m on the premises, maybe I can help at least one of my teams.”

“That tunnel goes outside?” Javi points behind them with his gun, at least partially to make the point that Toad shouldn’t try anything. “I thought the only entrance to here was through the restaurant.”

“Valet stand in a parking lot,” Toad says. “That’s our best path to exfil; it was locked but not guarded, and it’s past the stadium walls. We’ll be walking beneath those soon, by the way, but I don’t know much about the layout of the structure beyond.”

“The arena’s just a stadium with a ring and seats,” Javi says, deciding, apparently, that Toad’s not a threat…or could be he wants to up his chances of someday retrieving his car. “There’s a big room in front of the entrance where they’re putting the food on trays; then off to the left are stalls and some storerooms for horse stuff. We need to stay away from those—guys were moving bags and boxes up when I stopped by earlier, and you know El Despiadado hates people messing with his guns.”

“Guns,” Toad says, fatalistic. V glances over her shoulder to meet his eyes, realizing she’s abruptly dropped to the bottom of his priority list. She shrugs and makes a shooing motion to convey go deal with it. I can handle myself.

He sighs and nods, coming to a decision. And as they crest the top of an incline, and Javi warns her again to stay quiet and look submissive, Toad fades quietly into the shadows and vanishes from view.

They pass through a warren of rooms full of milling people—bodyguards, men with clipboards and headsets, women filling trays of food from a buffet table piled with boxes. “No Claudia here, either,” Carmen murmurs as they cross to the table, alongside other servers. One of the clipboard holders barks a command, and she adds, “I’m supposed to take the seafood stuff out before it goes bad, and you should carry champagne.”

Veronica grabs a tray and begins filling it with glasses, elbowing Javi, who’s scanning for the now-absent Toad. “You stay here, and don’t make waves,” she tells him. “Keep an eye on the tunnel, so we’re sure it’s clear. We’ll text each other with updates right away, and we’ll move as fast as we can, agreed?”

They nod, and Carmen hefts her tray, following another waitress into the noisy, echoing adjacent space.

The stadium’s a horse dressage competition ring, filled with maybe a hundred international bigwigs, plus their hangers-on. V clocks the cartel bosses right away—dressed like cowboys, lounging on a raised dais—and begins methodically to quarter the crowd, targeting groups for service that speak English, so she can deploy her fake accent to best effect.

It's poorly air-conditioned in here, and the scents of sweat, cologne, and vestigial dung are strong. She checks her watch—one-fifteen--though she hasn’t got the least idea when or how Logan’s plan will go down; and as she’s squinting at the tiny minute hand, she hears his voice.

It carries, Hollywood-style, though he doesn’t raise the volume, as he mounts the stage to talk to El Despiadado; he motions, offhand, and she halts in her tracks, arrested by the quality of his acting.

He looks like Logan, sounds like Logan, but the personality he displays as he hobnobs is someone else’s entirely. Gone are the perfect military posture, the calm demeanor, the smug smirks and elaborate hand gestures, rendered slightly more subtle by time. He’s relaxed, unbothered, but not in the slinky, nitroglycerine way that defines him; instead, he’s serving peacock arrogance, a stagey ode to insecurity and ego. This character’s rich and entitled, making a good, but not perfect, pretense of being urbanely cultured. Specifically, this character is…

…Aaron.

The impression’s so dead-on accurate, she’s surprised someone doesn’t compliment his performance in Breaking Point.

As she watches, something she’s never understood about her husband abruptly falls into place. Lying’s not just what he does for a living, now; it’s a fundamental part of who he is. She’s never transformed this completely for a case…not even Dad can, though he’s fantastic at running a con. But the way she has a nose for guilt and corruption, like they’re a stench that wafts off the unworthy, Logan has an instinct for camouflage. He can literally become someone else, while he waits for a chance to strike or flee. While he plots the most advantageous move.

She wonders if he’s ever manipulated her this way—if she’d even recognize it, should he try. But then she recalls their conversation last night, and realizes EVERY public version of him has been fake in some way. Very few have met the real man.

Veronica’s seen him physically and emotionally naked, though, when he’s too stressed to perform. She’s heard his confessions when he’s desperate and hope’s fading fast. She’s watched him cry for his mother and pull a gun on her assailant. She knows what’s true.

Shaking off reverie, she moves in his direction; almost misses Claudia when they cross paths. The woman’s hair is long now, framing a thin, pale face, and her stance is bent in on itself, brittle, as if bracing for a punch.

Veronica spins, searching for Carmen, and spots her near the far wall, handing out crab puffs to some shady-looking Americans. But Logan’s descending the platform’s stairs, trailed by some angry blonde guy. And though he seems abstracted, doesn’t notice, it reminds V of the way the PCHers and surfers stalked each other through the halls of Neptune High.

Before she can act, a man snaps in her face to get her attention, speaking to her in rapid-fire Arabic. She feigns confusion, and one of his friends, also dressed in a Saudi thawb, translates. “We require beverages that contain no alcohol.”

“Then you definitely don’t want what I’ve got,” she quips, gesturing to the tray. Watches from the corner of her eye as Logan’s pursuer inches closer and makes a snap judgment. Lowering her voice, she adds, “Warn your boss. That blonde man in the blue suit behind him has been following your group around, and I don’t think he has your best interests at heart.”

The guy’s eyes widen, and as he turns to whisper-yell at his compatriots, she sidles away. Passes Claudia, who’s standing stock-still and shell-shocked now, and grabs the woman’s elbow to get her attention. Fear and concentration struggle against what must be drugs, and Claudia frowns. “I know you,” she says, the words slurred. “And I could swear I just saw Logan Echolls, too.”

Instead of arguing, Veronica rolls with it. “Yeah, we’re here to rescue you—Weevil sent us.” Claudia gasps, and she adds, “Do you remember Carmen Ruiz? She’s over there at the bottom of seating row F, and she’ll help you get out. Logan and I will create a diversion to mask your exit.”

Claudia nods, visibly gathering herself, summoning from her depths that old Navarro ruthlessness. She startles as shouting erupts behind her, then squares up and marches off towards rescue. Veronica angles her head, so she can watch the sheik’s bodyguards grab the blonde; they drag him towards a gap in the stadium wall, toward some private room no doubt built for mayhem. Smiling in satisfaction, she turns to search for Logan, only to find him five feet away, staring at her.

He's muttering to someone called Bravo one—must be wearing an earpiece—asking where the hell they’ve been, and did they have to relocate for bugs again? His rapid clip as he approaches belies the Aaron impersonation entirely. “Why aren’t you on the plane?” is how he greets her, once he’s close enough to speak. “And what’s with the Betty Blue wig and potentially-fatal shit-stirring?”

“I’m rescuing Claudia Navarro for Weevil,” she explains, “and trying to get a word with you in the process. Plus, that big guy was stalking you with evil intent, so you’re welcome—I kept you breathing.”

“At the expense of two security guards’ lives, as soon as they give him an opening.” Logan’s expression doesn’t soften. “After which, he’ll walk back in here and start chasing me again.”

“Look, we can’t stand around arguing in full view of the crowd--I’m supposed to be hired help.” She casts about for a hiding place; sets her tray on a chair and quickly drags him behind a large mounting block.

“Veronica, glad as I am to see you in one piece--after escaping the guy put in charge of you, just like I said you would--I’m kind of in the middle of an important…”

“I know,” she interrupts, “but I realized Animal wouldn’t warn you in time. And Toad kept trying to put me on planes, so he could fly off on some new mission. But no way will I sit in custody for my own protection, while you and many others get hurt, just because you’re not in full possession of the facts.”

“What other mission?” He runs a hand through his hair. “I thought they finished their other mission last night. And what warning? I just talked to Animal two minutes ago, and he hasn’t said…”

“Keep up, Logan, I just EXPLAINED all that. And by the way, Toad didn’t end up flying anywhere—he followed me here, and he’s securing any ray guns on the premises as we speak. What I need to tell you ASAP is that this whole arms fair is a red herring. El Despiadado’s not throwing it in a desperate bid for cash, because he doesn’t NEED money to defend himself; he’s a CIA informant. He’s using it to attract an audience, so he can showcase his power, and those weapons you’re trying to retrieve? I think he plans to use them in a few minutes.”

Logan blinks, blinks again. Doesn’t bother arguing about the weapons or the CIA, which tells her clearly that she’s right on all counts. “If he uses them here, he’ll kill associates of the most ruthless people in the world. Even he’s not that dumb. He wouldn’t live a day, afterwards.”

“He might not do anything TO them,” she agrees. “But in FRONT of them? Absolutely.”

Logan’s gaze drifts to the stage, positioned at the center of the ring. Up, to the jumbotron hanging above it, then to all the chairs facing both, like seats in a movie theater. Refocusing on her, he taps his ear.

“Bravo one, do you copy? Is there any info on that convoy you tracked from the tunnel entrance?” He pauses, listens. “All units, be advised, we have a major WMD action happening in a matter of minutes—location unknown, but somewhere within an eight-hour-drive radius of here. I think he’s gonna show it on the jumbotron for free advertising, over.”

“He’ll attack the person he hates most,” Veronica puts in. “Probably his father-in-law, or some other member of the ‘alliance’.” She makes air quotes to punctuate, and he clocks the gesture, arrested.

“What alliance?” he asks, and she rolls her eyes.

“The one between the two other gangs in the region?” she says, pointed. “To take out El Despiadado? Javi told me about it this morning. Apparently, they had a falling out last night, but nobody knows why.”

“Javi, the cousin of the girl I’m supposed to remember from high school? Who dated some guy in the Navy I’m also supposed to remember?”

“Well, you drank so much back then, I’m shocked you recognize anyone,” she says. “And if you make a who are you? joke right now, I swear to God. But yes, Javi’s pretending to work for El Despiadado while secretly assisting the father-in-law, and he got me in here today.”

Logan waves an impatient, dismissive hand. “So this alliance is between Herrera and which other gang?”

“Romero?” she says slowly, confused. “The father-in-law?”

“No, Marco is the father-in-law,” Logan says. “Contreras goes off about him constantly. He’s deranged.”

“Jesus, Logan, focus, they’re both named Marco. Marco Romero, the father-in-law. Marco Herrera, the guy Leo tried to sell me to for protection. There’s also Marco Ruiz, Carmen’s uncle, who’s up to something shady—maybe the whole double-agent thing was his brainchild, but I haven’t connected the dots. It’s like you didn’t grow up in So-Cal. Next, you’ll be complaining a lot of guys are named Jesus.”

“Oh my GOD,” he says, spinning in a frustrated circle. “All units, why was there no mention of an alliance between Marco Herrera and Marco Romero in our briefing materials? Because it seems KINDA important right now that Contreras has multiple enemies, over.”

He pauses for a moment, then says, “Alpha Three, you were in Piedras NEGRAS, over?”

V nods; it makes sense. That town’s across the border from Eagle Pass, one of the drug-trafficking choke points in the US; Martina Vasquez keeps doing stories about the region, since the Texas governor barbed-wired the river there. A few months ago, corrupt cops were arrested for letting product pass the crossing, and Toad hinted just this morning that their mission involved Fentanyl shipments.

Logan rubs a spot between his eyebrows. “All our information about El Despiadado appears to come from the CIA,” he tells her. “Which explains SO much. Bravo one, the WMD event will likely be at the Romero compound in Coyame, or the Herrera compound, which is who the fuck knows where. Or both. Get our drones in play, get on the sat phone, and figure out the details yesterday, over.”

Veronica starts to speak, but he holds up a warning finger. “I do not copy, Alpha Three, please repeat, over.” He listens intently for a moment, then mutters, “Finally some good news.”

“What’s going on?” she asks, and he grimaces.

“Toad turned up with no comms in the tack room, where he managed to take out the guards, so my guys could disable the other team competing for our objective. Sounds like they were Romero’s people, by the way, meaning the alliance I just found out about already knows these weapons exist.”

“They’re probably his weapons,” she says. “And he’s trying to steal them back. Wasn’t he El Despiadado’s boss, till the guy’s marriage recently went sour?”

Logan squeezes his eyes shut, as if in pain, and she adds, “Guess you didn’t think of that.”

“We believed the weapons we’re hunting were crated, so we were tracking crates,” he says. “But my team just searched the storeroom, and the handful for sale on the premises were in a fucking GYM BAG. Contreras must have unpacked them and moved them out pell-mell, when shooting started in the Fortaleza. They could be ANYWHERE by now.”

“Not anywhere,” she corrects. “You were right; El Despiadado has guys at some enemy compound. He wants to show how badass he is by crushing whoever hurt his feelings.”

Logan pauses to listen. “Herrera’s compound is west,” he says. “The jeeps went north, so it’s Romero. Do you have a phone?”

She pulls out the ancient cell from the truck, and he curls his lip but programs in a number. “Gather up any gullible friends you involved in this mess and get them out of the stadium now,” he says. “Once you’re clear, call this number, and Goose will pick you up. We need to take you, and your friend, and Weevil’s fucking sister, across the border with us, quiet-like, as soon as the mission’s finished. If you try to cross the normal way now, one of the MANY unfriendly factions in play is likely to grab you. And you know the American government has a poor record of freeing hostages.”

“What are you planning to do while I flee?” she asks, folding her arms.

He smiles without humor. “I’ll be videotaping whatever atrocity unfolds in this stadium, so we can use the recording forensically. Then I’ll relieve El Despiadado of a few key possessions, before fading into the sunset.”

“Okay,” she says. “But don’t you dare die, after I went to all this trouble to clean up your mess.”

Logan smiles at her audacity, a faint, admiring twist of his mouth, and she launches up on tiptoe to kiss him. For a second, their lips cling, soft and warm, and the world feels irrationally safe. Then the microphone crackles, El Despiadado steps up to speak, and she lets go and walks away.

“When I was a kid,” Contreras says, in perfectly creditable English, “Some of you guys know, I liked to play soccer. Me and the others in the neighborhood, we had a field a few blocks down from my house where we would practice every day—we wanted to master the sport, right? We wanted to win the World Cup.”

Blah, blah, blah, V thinks, grabbing her abandoned tray from the chair, so an angry-faced woman in a red suit can sit. She starts making her way through the tightly-clustered crowd, handing off coupes as she goes. The film industry owes the rest of us big-time, for teaching villains to make speeches.

“My dad was an accountant,” the guy continues, like this room full of arms dealers gives a shit about his trauma. “He did the taxes for local businesses; only he was honest, and at that time—” he shakes his head, “—being honest wasn’t a great thing to do. Neither was getting crime out of neighborhoods, the way he and his friends tried. So one Saturday, I’m off playing soccer, and Marco Romero, he takes exception to that honesty. He ended my mom and dad, their friends too, like this.” He snaps. “Like a light turning off. And then, us kids on the soccer field? They rounded us up, and they took us all.”

Oh boy, this is revenge served cold. At the end of this speech, heads will clearly roll, so V abandons the tray on a nearby trash can and starts pushing past bodies towards the waitresses’ prep area. But nobody’s interested in letting her through—she’s repeatedly shoved aside, so people can watch the show.

“It wasn’t easy working for that asshole,” El Despiadado continues, “None of those other kids survived. But I did—I PROSPERED—‘cause I decided hey, business is business, and the best way to stay safe is to take over the reins yourself. So I got tough, and I did what I had to. But then a woman came along.” He shrugs, inviting the crowd to sympathize. “And you know how women are. They try to control us, instead of just spending money and shutting the hell up. Silvia and Marco, they tried to control ME. But you can’t let that happen, you know? You gotta stand up for yourself. So I took care of them by seizing control of some big weapons. And with these in my pocket, from now on? I’ll ALWAYS be the one in charge.”

Veronica can’t help herself…like Lot’s wife, she turns to witness the fallout with her own eyes. El Despiadado’s pulled the gun from his holster, displaying it to the audience; behind him, the jumbotron flares to life. The image onscreen, which dwarfs him, is that of a masked man holding a similar weapon. It’s an act of terrorism simulcast by Jake Kane’s streaming video.

“This thing, it’s a lot more effective than a bullet,” El Despiadado boasts. “It hits anyone you can see and cooks them from the inside.”

She spots Logan in the crowd, a fancy cellphone tilted quietly at his hip to catch the presentation. Onscreen, the masked man peers around a corner at guards near a gate. He shoots, and they disintegrate like rotten fruit, the same way Lozano’s victims did, during yesterday’s skirmish.

Didn’t overheat this time, she thinks, ruthlessly suppressing her gag reflex. Not all these Geneva-convention-violating torture devices are defective.

“It has other uses, too,” El Despiadado continues, as the video switches to a man in a camo-green hunting mask, who’s standing in the doorway of a room full of crates. “If it hits ammunition, it causes a big explosion.”

The guy fires, and the resulting maelstrom blows him backwards like a tossed sock. The GoPro with which he was filming rocks, then settles, showing smoke pouring from the caved-in roof of what remains of the building.

In her pocket, the ancient cell she ripped off shivers; she digs it out to find a text from Carmen. Where are you? We have Claudia, and we need to GO!

“And finally, this thing works better than any other hand-held on large groups,” Contreras says, not noticeably affected by the on-screen death of his henchman. The jumbotron’s view shifts to a shot from high elevation; ten people are laughing and brunching in a courtyard, which is covered by a flower-bedecked metal pergola.

Oh shit, she thinks, her brain going blank with fear, but Contreras just keeps talking. “They tell me it excites electrons in metal. And that electricity tries to go somewhere that won’t conduct it—for example, living things. I don’t know, you guys, I’m no scientist. But I recognize power when I see it.”

The unseen attacker fires, in concert with beams from four other directions—this is a planned and synchronized operation, which is shocking, considering its mastermind. Lightning crackles to life within the pergola, as if it’s suddenly become a gateway to hell. Arcs down, a localized storm, toward the breakfasters before they can flee, incinerating them on the spot.

These are MICROWAVE weapons, she realizes, as the guns the brunchers were carrying explode. Nearby trees go up in flames, and the flowers on the pergola crumble into ash. Veronica begins pushing harder through the crowd, every member of which is now watching avidly. And that pergola was the spoon someone left in their oatmeal bowl.

She’s thirty feet from the archway when she sees him…the blonde guy on whom she sicced the Saudis. He emerges from the archway just like Logan predicted, straightening his tie, not even visibly mussed.

Once again, Logan doesn’t notice; he’s still standing in the same spot, watching El Despiadado cackle as flames dance. So it’s not as much a choice as an inevitability when she refocuses on her phone and texts, leave without me. I’ll call you later.

“I’ve got ten of these for sale!” El Despiadado shouts, over the growing chatter of the crowd. “You can have your scientists examine them after purchase, to figure out how they work. We’ll start bidding at fifty million dollars per unit, which, when a gun’s this good? That’s a bargain.”

The blonde man strolls purposefully along the side wall, towards the spot where Logan stands near the stage. V hurries to intercept, typing don’t leave the country yet. It’s not safe.

She’s just hit send when El Despiadado yells, “Which of you wants to be as powerful as a god?” Then there’s a hissing sound, a crackle-clap like a sonic boom, accompanied by sharp, white light, and all the people around her begin to scream and run.

Veronica hunches to avoid being tackled, blinking to dispel bright afterimages. Lightning’s strobing in the rafters, now, a couple men lie on the ground, in flames, and El Despiadado is slumped motionless on-stage, an auction graphic on the jumbotron above him. Someone shoves her from behind, making her stumble—a bodyguard, dragging his protectee under cover—and her husband’s blonde rival flees past her toward a dark hallway, Logan in hot pursuit.

She kicks off her loose shoes and follows at a run, fumbling away her cell before drawing the gun from her holster. The two men disappear into the darkness, Logan wearing the focused, anticipatory expression that means trouble, and she steps up her pace, the soles of her feet stinging.

Even over the crowd sounds, she can hear the fistfight in progress when she nears—the meaty thunk of flesh on flesh, the clash and clatter of objects thrown and fallen. She peers around the corner and sees the blonde swinging a knife, muttering something under his breath in Russian as a shallow, slashing cut opens across Logan’s chest.

He replies in the same language, a clear taunt including the name Josefina…gleeful almost, like he’s ENJOYING this. She focuses on getting a bead on his opponent without shooting her spouse in the process. But before her wavering gun barrel can settle on a target, Logan grabs his assailant in a headlock, goes running UP the wall like a freaking ninja, and flips back to earth behind him, breaking the guy’s neck.

He stands there for a minute, after, staring down at the body and panting, before wiping his forehead with one arm. Then he bends to remove two weapons from the blonde’s bulging pockets, only noticing her as he straightens.

They stare at each other across the length of the hall, his eyes widening in shock before his face goes blank; he braces himself, a visible straightening, as if preparing to take a blow.

And she probably ought to be horrified, but he told the whole truth last night; however you think you’ve failed, I promise I’ve done worse. This soft-hearted guy, who took the gun away before she could shoot Beaver, now knows how to kill with his hands, unhesitating.

She realizes what it means, that he can speak Russian, Arabic, and Spanish like a native. Why his storeroom code is the day he beat up Gory Sorokin, and what he must have done to protect her from the consequences. And instead of backing away in disgust, as he obviously expects, she runs to him and flings her arms around his neck.

“A backflip, Logan?” she says into the shaky silence, after his hands come to rest at her waist. “You couldn’t step aside and let me take him out with a bullet? You had to fanboy Simone Biles?”

He huffs laughter that sounds almost like tears into her shoulder, and she strokes his hair. “Did he cut you badly with the knife?”

“No.” His grip tightens, tucking her more securely against his chest. “It’s a flesh wound. You keep ignoring me when I tell you to go.”

“Because you’re not the boss of me.” She presses her face to his pectoral, breathing in his scent. “And your self-preservation instincts are so terrible, I have no choice but to intervene. For instance, right now, you want to cuddle, when clearly, it’s time to leave.”

“Good point.” He kisses her forehead, takes her hand, and taps his ear as he leads her down the darkened hall. “All Alphas, I’ve achieved my objective, and I’m moving now to the extraction site. Do we have transportation waiting, over?”

They round a corner as he listens, then tells her, “The getaway vehicle’s en route. We just need to make it out of the building without getting shot.”

“Shouldn’t be hard. Everyone and their mother started yelling and fleeing when El Despiadado offed himself by accident.”

“He didn’t.” Logan takes her gun and pushes her behind him in one smooth motion; peers around a corner, then gestures for her to follow. “He just shot that thing in the air like he was play-acting the Zapata Revolution, and the Russian used the ensuing chaos to take him out.”

“I’m guessing the Russians are after these weapons too?” she asks, as they pass through a storage room filled with English riding gear, and he snorts.

“EVERYONE’S after these weapons.” He pauses to listen to his earbud, then adds, “Stay behind me and hold tight to my jacket. We’ll have to move fast.”

He shoves a door on the far wall open with a crack, and they go careening through a series of rooms that look like they recently hosted a gunfight—there are bodies on the floor, crates overturned and smashed, and sulfurous cordite smoke still hangs in the air. They flee down a tunnel, dark and uneven; almost careen into Nicole, who stands with her foot on the back of a guy she’s clearly just shot. “FINALLY,” she snaps as she takes off running, beckoning for them to follow. “What happened with the Russian? I was afraid you met a bad end.”

“I may not be as fast with my fists as you, but I can handle one guy in a fight,” he says. “Besides, Veronica turned up holding a gun—she’d have neutralized him if I failed.”

Nicole glances over her shoulder as she halts beside a ladder, which is attached with u-bolts to the tunnel wall. “At least the girl’s still in one piece,” she says, beginning to climb. “Word of advice, Mars—when guards are assigned for your own protection, it’s not smart to slip the leash.”

She flips open a trapdoor as she speaks, flooding the tunnel with light, then disappears through the hole. V follows in lieu of replying and finds herself in an alley near a bus stop; the cracked concrete of the sidewalk is hot against her toes.

Logan emerges just as Javi’s jeep rolls up, and she spots Toad slumped against the passenger window. Another guy’s driving, handsome and dark-haired, late twenties maybe, with a cut down one cheek. “Hurry it UP!” he shouts as they climb inside, then goes squealing off down the street before Nicole’s got the door shut.

She peers around the seat at Toad, who has a bloody rag tied around his forearm. “Against all odds, you managed to warn him,” he says, a half-laughing undertone, and she sits back, confident he won’t expire.

“Goose and Gibson collected drone footage of the Coyame attackers fleeing the scene,” the driver reports, voice clipped—this must be the mysterious Animal. “They were ambushed by another team before they made it ten miles. The new folks took their gear and climbed into a chopper headed due west. Goose thinks they’re making for Herrera’s compound.”

“Can we intercept?” Nicole asks, pulling up a pant leg to check her calf, which is bleeding sluggishly.

“Negative,” Animal says. “Gibson wanted to send the owl drone and arm it remotely, but it was too far away to catch up. We’ll have to track them and assault after they land.”

“So we were handily outmaneuvered by this alliance I just learned about.” Logan leans forward on his elbows, sounding pissed but not surprised. “Hererra knew what El Despiadado was up to enough hours ago to make a plan, and he used this act of terrorism to distract us, while he stole the prize.”

“I told you,” Animal says, taking a corner on practically two wheels. “I didn’t KNOW about the alliance—it wasn’t my job to collect local intel. All I did was provide credible cover and boots on the ground…every one of whom is now out of commission, by the way.”

“And yet SHE figured it out within a day.” Logan points at V, and yeah, here comes the over-enunciation that precedes one hell of a scene. “She’s not even an OPERATOR, but she connected every dot based on inference. We have her to thank that we figured out this scheme in time to see where the weapons WENT.”

“Speaking of, we slagged the eight in the storeroom,” Nicole interjects, as they race the wrong way down a one-way street, then turn sharply onto a thoroughfare. “Where are the ones Contreras had on his person?”

Logan hands them over, and she goes to work disassembling, having deftly calmed him down. “We should assume everyone with eyes in the sky can do what we did and track the objectives,” he says, pressing the heel of one hand against his forehead. “It’s critical we extract them from the Herrera place fast, or we may find ourselves in a Smoking Aces situation. And we are not in great shape to out-compete other professional teams.”

“Mission creep,” Toad mutters, slumping lower and closing his eyes. “Par for the fucking course in this town. At least we all escaped intact.”

“Mostly.” Veronica reaches for Logan’s shirtfront, trying to get a look at the cut, but he brushes her hand away. “Why are we driving like bats out of hell, anyway? We must be miles from the stadium by now. Are you trying to beat a clock?”

“She hasn’t noticed we’ve got a tail?” Animal’s tone is snide, as he weaves between a Honda and a gardener’s truck. “Yet you’re telling me this lady is better at our jobs than we are?”

“Three vehicles are in pursuit, Mars,” Nicole confirms, turning in her seat to squint out the back window. “White trucks, maybe armored—could be El Despiadado’s guys or Romero’s. I don’t know who clocked our exit, but they’ll try to overtake us if we don’t get off this straightaway soon. And then they’ll box us in and shoot.”