Beverly Barton: This Side of Heaven

What would Evan have done in this situation? she asked herself, and immediately knew the answer. Evan would have gone after Bobby and Casey. He would have talked to the boys and, in his own loving yet professional way, would have talked Bobby into returning to the shelter. Cyn had become just enough of a realist in the past four years to know that Casey might be a lost cause.

Did she have the nerve to go to a place like the Brazen Hussy? She'd be a fool to go alone at night to one of the most notorious bars in town. But what choice did she have, other than calling the police?

She would just put her can of Mace and her whistle in her purse, dress appropriately and pray that her guardian angel would protect her.

Chapter 2

"Ryker is in Miami," Nick Romero said, then took a lei­surely sip of his Scotch and soda, eyeing Nate Hodges over the rim of his glass.

Instead of replying immediately, Nate let the informa­tion soak in as he glanced around the smoky bar. Tonight the Brazen Hussy was as loud and smelly and crowded as it had been the last time he had stopped by, over a year ago.

Noticing the small group of teens crowded around a ta­ble at the far side of the room, Nate took a deep breath be­fore turning his attention back to Romero. "Some of them aren't dry behind the ears, but the scum that owns this place doesn't give a damn. He's been busted twice for allowing minors in this place, but somehow he manages to stay in business." Nate grunted with disgust. "Just look at them. They're smoking pot and waiting around for their dealer to show up."

"When did you start worrying about kids you don't even know?" Romero asked. "I'll bet if you bothered to check every boy would have an ID to prove he's of age."

"Yeah, fake ID."

"They really think they're tough, don't they? I was just like them once. I thought that growing up in a tough neigh­borhood had prepared me for anything. Until I went to Nam."

"They'd all flip out if they knew a big, badass DEA agent was sitting across the room from them."

"I'm not here tonight as an agent." Romero gave his old SEAL comrade a hard, intent look. "I'm here as your friend."

"Yeah, I know, and I'm grateful even if I don't act like I am."

"I've arranged for some protection for John's family. Unofficially, of course. By the way, how is he now that he's a happily married man?" Romero grinned, then took an­other sip of his drink.

"Happy," Nate said, not looking directly at Romero, but at some point over his shoulder where a tall, buxom bru­nette was giving him the eye. "He says he's in love, and damn if I don't believe him."

"Who would have thought it, huh? The three of us shared some good times together, didn't we?"

"Yeah." Nate gave his head a negative shake when he noticed that the brunette was coming straight toward him. He wanted her to know he wasn't interested. He'd lost his taste for her type years ago. "But you and I shared some bad times, too."

"Mm-mm, starting with when we first got to Nam and our entire platoon got the runs from drinking the Vietnam­ese water."

Nate chuckled, the memory distant and harmless enough to laugh about. "So, Ryker's made it to Miami. No big news. We knew it was just a matter of time." Nate lifted the glass of straight bourbon to his lips, savoring the taste when it hit his tongue.

"He's working for the Marquez family as a bodyguard."

"Big-time drug dealers." Nate wasn't surprised. Ian Ry-ker had been a mercenary, a soldier of fortune and a drug smuggler. He was the type who understood the system and used it to his advantage. No matter what, he always found a loophole, a back door out of trouble. "What else does Ryker do for them?"

"He's an enforcer," Romero said. "He's been with the family for over a year, first in South America, now here."

"Were they the ones who got him out of the prison where we thought he'd died?" Nate asked.

"Our information is sketchy, but it's possible. All we know is that Ryker was reported killed five years ago when he was serving a sentence for smuggling, then miracu­lously, he reappeared a few months ago, alive and well and back to business as usual."

"Who spotted him?" Nate knew that Ryker would have taken no chances of being seen, of making himself visible, and, with his looks—a patch over one eye and his left hand missing—it would have been difficult for him to move around Miami incognito.

"Not one of our guys." Romero looked squarely at Nate. "Remember the man I asked you about earlier today?"

"Ramon Carranza?"

"It seems Señor Carranza's right-hand man made a dis­creet phone call to someone at the agency. He knew the connection between you and Ryker. He used your name. The man knew too much about you, Nate."

"Just what was the message, and why didn't Señor Car­ranza make the call himself?"

"Carranza never gets his own hands dirty. You know the type. But I'd say, for some reason, he wants you to know that he's involved," Romero said, shrugging. "As for the message, well, I'd call it a warning."

Nate grunted as he rubbed the side of his jaw. "A warn­ing from Carranza?"

"Oh, yeah. From the big man himself. You've been ad­vised to go into hiding if you're smart."

"Just who is this Ramon Carranza?" Nate asked.

"He's a retired businessman. A former Miami resident. He moved to St. Augustine a few years ago, about the same time you came back home." Romero picked up his glass, downing the last drops of his Scotch and soda.

"Are you saying there's a connection?" Nate narrowed his eyes, wrinkling his forehead.

"I was hoping you could tell me. Carranza is associated with all the right people and all the wrong people. The man knows everybody, and I mean everybody. He ran a ritzy ca­sino in Havana back in the forties and fifties. When he moved to Miami before Castro took over in Cuba, he al­ready had connections." Romero opened his dark eyes in a wide if-you-know-what-I-mean stare. "He's an old man, late seventies, but he's still powerful."

"Did you get the name of the guy who called the agency for Carranza?"

"Emilio Rivera. They've been together for years."

Nate shook his head. "Never heard of him."

"We've been doing some checking—"

"We?" Nate didn't like the sound of this. Something was damned queer about the whole thing.

"When a man like Ramon Carranza starts giving us in­formation, it's only natural that we'd wonder why."

"What did you find out?"

Romero glanced around the room, motioned for the bar­maid, then ran one dark, lean hand across his face. "This isn't the first time Carranza has shown an interest in you. It seems that, through both legal and illegal sources, he's been keeping track of your activities for years."

Nate felt a hard tightening in the pit of his stomach. Some man, some fonner godfather figure, had been keeping tabs on him. "How long?"

"Best we can figure out, ever since Nam."

"Ever since I first met Ryker. Is that what you're say­ing?" Nate asked.

"Carranza and Ryker have friends and associates in common. Presently the Marquez family. Who's to say that Ryker wasn't working for Carranza back in the seventies? The black market, drugs. Could be Carranza's been keep­ing tabs on you as a favor for an old buddy."

"Then why would Carranza have his man send me a warning?"

"To add a little extra pressure, maybe?"

"Ryker wants to see me sweat," Nate said.

The barmaid appeared, took the men's order, and left.

"The DEA is very interested in Ryker, and even more in­terested in his connection with the Marquez family, so we're in on this with you Nate, whether you want us or not."

"I don't have much choice, do I?" Nate finished off his bourbon just as the barmaid set his second drink down in front of him. "And what interest does the DEA have in Carranza?"