FINN ROWLAND STOOD in the vestibule of La Brisa Griega, hands over his head, and waited for the bodyguard to finish a second pat-down. It was unnecessary. The first search had been thorough enough to find the weapons he’d concealed. All of them.
But it wasn’t a surprise that Henri Silva had hired pros.
The invitation to meet had arrived out of the blue, and Finn had broken every posted speed limit to make it on time. There’d been no opportunity to check out the café beforehand or to get any of his teammates in position.
He was on his own.
As the bodyguard ran his hands down Finn’s legs, Finn scanned the place. Getting out of here fast would be difficult.
To his right, the cash register sat on a waist-high counter. And beside it, his two pistols and four knives. The woman standing there was carefully ignoring everything happening in front of her. Finn didn’t blame her. No one wanted to get on Henri Silva’s bad side.
No weapons, no backup, and no quick way to escape. If it hadn’t taken him three months of maneuvering to get a meeting with Jorge Torres’ second-in-command, Finn would leave and wait for a safer opportunity. The problem was there might not be a second chance.
Yeah, if this was a setup, he was fucked.
The bodyguard finished and straightened. “Come,” he said in English, “Señor Silva doesn’t like to be kept waiting.”
Finn lowered his arms slowly. “What about my things?”
“The señora will keep them safe until you leave, won’t you, Rosa?”
The woman nodded vigorously, and Finn inclined his head in a wordless thank you before following the bodyguard into the dining room. The second bodyguard fell into step behind him.
It took a nanosecond to locate the man he’d come to see. Henri Silva sat with his back to the wall—more bodyguards on either side—and tapped at the screen of his phone. He glanced up and stowed his mobile as the three of them grew closer. Silva’s expression remained neutral, but Finn knew he was being studied. Measured. He tamped down the burst of adrenaline and took a breath, trying to slow his pulse.
Torres’ right-hand man was slim, a couple of inches shy of six feet tall, and his hair was almost completely white and cut short. Conservative. He was clean-shaven and he wore round-rimmed wire glasses and a precisely tailored suit. In another life, Silva might have been a businessman, but in this world, he was an arms dealer.
The US Army wanted Jorge Torres’ band of gunrunners shut down, the weapons supply line identified, and they’d sent in Finn and the rest of his Special Forces team to make it happen. But getting anywhere near Torres had proven to be difficult. This was the first break they’d had, and they needed it to pan out.
They reached the table, but Silva didn’t stand, offer his hand, or greet him.
“Señor Silva,” he began, but he was interrupted when the first bodyguard pulled out the chair across from Silva and gestured for him to sit.
Finn didn’t like it—his back would be to the room—but it wasn’t as if there was another option. At least the tables around Silva’s were empty. Finn sat where he’d been ordered, and his two escorts assumed positions that would make it impossible for him to leave if their boss wanted Finn to remain.
“Señor—”
“Coffee first.” Silva picked up a menu.
There was another beside him, and Finn reached for it, opening it slowly. Coffee was serious business in Puerto Jardin, but he already knew what he’d order, and he doubted Silva needed to consider the available choices either.
He didn’t know why they were going through the motions, but he’d play along. Whatever it took to get the job done. Finn felt eyes boring into the back of his skull, and he fought to keep his muscles from tensing. A fifth bodyguard hidden among the diners?
The silence lengthened. Finn closed his menu and returned it to the table. Staring at the man wasn’t a good idea, so he looked around the café. One wall had a chalkboard menu with the day’s specials, and the others had landscape paintings of Greece. He glanced back at Silva in time to catch the man’s gaze as he studied him.
Silva raised a hand, and the waiter immediately appeared. He indicated Finn should go first. He ordered Narino coffee and waited while the arms dealer ordered his own cup.
“You are a persistent man,” Silva said in barely accented English as their