My new suit is fresh off the rack, not tailored. Yes, it's a problem. Its sleeves are set high to make normal men's shoulders look square. My shoulders require no such enhancements, so it pinches, restricting my arms' movement. I hate it, and I'm afraid to stretch in it, because the stitching is so bad, it would rip if I look at it funny. This isn't a suit, it's an abomination and I'll toss it into Tuxtla's charity bin as soon as I'm done with the Romero Arquitectura.

That's said, I stride inside Juarez's firm like they fit me for it in Hong-Kong and I own this whole damn town.

Attitude is half-of-everything in my business. The other half is living up to your hard-earned rep. Simple, right? If only...

Anyway, my attitude takes me to the second floor where the woman I'm eager to meet sits at her desk. I scavenged her name along the way. "Good morning, Esme."

She smiles with a drilled-in ease. "How are you? Do you have an appointment with Mr. Veracruz?"

It went so smoothly until then, that a pinch of discomfort takes me by surprise. The pinch has nothing to do with the cut of my garbage suit. Or because we're holding on in Spanish.

Spanish is no big deal. In school, getting 60% in any subject was lucky for me, because I'm a dumbass. I only stuck it out because I promised my mom I would. She raised me bilingual, and I picked up more from my wrong crowd of buddies. Obviously, not everything out of their mouth came in handy on a test, but it helped me to get my diploma. I can't explain why I get frustrated when an email is too long to read, but when talking, there's a switch in my head that flips between English, French, Spanish and Italian. It's just how I am.

So, yes, I understand Esme without a hitch, but I pause for a split second before replying.

Esme's an example of beauty through effort and packaging. Her dark hair falls in waves fresh from a curling iron. Mortification of flesh meets natural curves for a lovely figure. The eyelash extensions are two inches long. Above them, smoky eye-shadow is so thick that I'm tempted to call the fire department.

I respect packaging to maximize one's value. I do. It proves ambition.

I like Esme enough to make a mental note to tell Mila that we have to make sure she's not harmed. Mila would probably tease me for growing soft, but I'm saving Bryn, and I don't need karma to bite me in the ass. I don't need her life. I just need her card.

This leaves me to trickery of the obvious kind, the game both men and women have played since the dawn of the spying business: flirting to get what you want.

Alas, there is a tiny problem.

Before Bryn, my relationships with women were transactional. Bryn is one-of-a-kind, so our courtship, our relationship, is also one-of-a-kind. It wouldn't work for anyone else in the world—and that's how I like it—so I'm a rusty seducer.

Well, Esme's waiting for my answer and Bryn is in danger. So, here goes nothing.

I fiddle with the collar of my shirt, straightening the non-existent tie. I might know that I phoned it in on the suit, but I'm not a boy, nor a rich old man either. I'm a foreigner with an air of success. It imparts mystique.

"I don't have an appointment with Mr. Veracruz, no." I smile with only the right corner of my mouth, lean onto Esme's desk to take her into my confidence. "But if Irene Juarez is still here, I'd appreciate it very much if you let her know Dorato is here. Victor Dorato, yeah?"

Because who haven't heard of Victor Dorato, am I right?

"Oh." Uncertainty flickers in her eyes, informing me I'm on the right track.

"Did I just miss Irene then?" I dig my fingers through my hair. "Nuts!"

Esme tilts her head, neither confirming, nor denying. Like I said, she's a smart girl.

"Would you like to leave a message for Mrs. Juarez?" she asks me.

I shrug my shoulders like I don't care all that much where Irene is. "I'll just catch up to her in Guatemala. She promised to tour a couple of prospective sites with me there and in Belize." I let my eyes rove the walls of the office. "Places to escape New York's winter."

Tastefully framed photos show sea-side villas and eco-resorts. Romero Arquitectura is upmarket, and if they weren't, you hardly expect them to display gambling dens, bunking houses for trafficked women and meth-cooking labs...

"Something like that one, with the veranda overlooking the sea. Loving it!" I'm not lying. Bryn's favorite downtime is to stretch on a lounge chair, counting the waves with a glass of wine forgotten on the floor.

"You have good taste, Mr. Dorato."

"Mr. Dorato is my father. Call me Victor, please."

We give this worn-out joke the miniscule smile it deserves.

"I'm serious," Esme says. She sounds serious. And warm. "Spanish style is not for everyone. Most clients want clean, modern lines."

She points them out, and to be fair there's no shortage of clean and modern examples on the photos. Parallel and perpendicular lines with impressive backlighting, fish tanks-like balconies overhanging rectangular pools, minimal individuality for maximum price.

"I prefer curves." I switch the topic so fast that the cheesy compliment can pass for an accidental slip-of-a-tongue. "Are you studying to become an architect, perchance? Seems like an exciting profession."

"No... I'd pick environmental design if I could." Her lips pucker a little. "It's quite hard to get a degree or employment in this field."

Barely a few blocks separate her office from the college. On my way in, I passed at least a dozen men working for the firm's front. Is that what stops her, the casual parochialism of the professional careers that Bryn rallies against, or just money?

Whatever it is, in my experience, money never hurts.

"Don't give up. Never give up!" I lean on her desk to write out a check—the first time this account would pay for something legit. Five thousand dollars, US. Generous, but not too generous. I rip it out of the book, slip it to her. "For your studies, Senorita."

The artificial eyelashes tremble with genuine emotion. "Mr. Dorato!"

"Victor, please."

"I can't accept this!"

"Of course you can, and I shouldn't be distracting you from your work." I try to say work like a guy who doesn't know what it means to earn one's living. I've met guys like that and even enjoyed shooting some of them. But, in the interests of fooling Senorita Esme...

I walk to the doors that separate Mr. Veracruz, and, by extension, Esme from the 'open concept' part of the second floor. I pass through them, walk until I almost disappear from her sight, before I slow down to a stop and turn, very slowly.

Her gaze lingers on me.

Bingo!

I allow the crooked half-smile I perma-wear around Esme to straighten, as if a nebulous thought has finally taken shape. "Esme, if I can't catch a flight to Guatemala tonight, would you be so kind and join me for dinner? Eating alone always ruins a meal for me."

"I shouldn't! it's a weeknight..." Her objections trail off. It's weak. Vanishingly weak.

"An early reservation and absolutely no shenanigans, I promise. Just a friendly chat and a cup of coffee to relieve my boredom and practice my Spanish."

I keep lowering my voice to hide my impatience. This is a job for a conman, not a muscle, but I don't have a crew. Actually, I do, but they are sailing the seven seas. That's too bad, because Ryan probably would be smoother. The fucker...

"I know it is completely egotistical of me, but take pity on a wanderer, Esme."

Just say yes and save yourself some unpleasantness. Say 'yes' already, before I sound even more like a moron.

Her computer dings, reminding her of a meeting. Fortunately, it serves as a catalyst for her decision. "Very well, Victor. I get off at seven."

"Seven? Veracruz is a slave-driver!"

Two dimples dent her cheeks—this is Mexico, her expression says, that's our work-hours. "Maybe you'll luck out with the flights and will be in Flores by then."

A small sigh trickles through her red lipstick, a smoke of anywhere-but-here dream.

"I'll call you if I do," I promise. Her face remains blank. It doesn't matter that she doesn't believe me, but I insist: "I have no intention of ruining your night, Esme. I want to brighten it."

"Thank you."

I leave with an unpleasant aftertaste in my throat. I have no romantic designs on Esme, but she deserves better than men demanding things without a single thought given to obligations. Who doesn't? It's just fucking sad.

Once in the hotel, I lower myself on the bed, kick off my shoes, peel the socks off, while waiting for Mila to pick up the phone.

"Does 'Flores' help us narrow down Irene's location?" I ask without a preamble as soon as she is on the line.

Mila also skips hello. She repeats my question to Ryan.

"Flores? As in Flores, Peten?" he echoes on the speaker and bites into something crunchy. Apple, I suppose.

I was about to remind the asshole I'm paying for his services, so he can at least pick the fucking phone, but the chomping sound stops me. I don't need his juicy lips in my ear.

"Yes, they had something in Peten. Hold on. Give me a sec."

He takes his time, with the chewing sound approaching and receding, while I massage my foot. What Mila sees in this guy, God only—

"Got it. About a year ago, a resort development was frozen by Guatemalan authorities. Apparently, there were irregularities in the way the archeological survey was conducted, but LiDAR blew a whistle on that..."

"In English?"

Ryan groans and his wife steps in. "LiDAR is a high-tech air survey that lets you see landforms under vegetation. It's done magic for jungle archeology. In Guatemala in particular they found these huge Mayan cities. Don't you watch TV, Scali?"

"Only when wrestling's on, Lee." If they gonna fucking call me by last name, I don't owe them separation into Mila and Ryan. "It's been a hot, dusty, frustrating day. I'm tired. I have a fake date later. So, if you can cut the crap..."

Ryan takes over. "Fine. LiDAR's discoveries caught the international spotlight. And then someone notices, Ay, Caramba! This development is encroaching on our national treasures, while the paperwork is saying there's nothing there older than 1995. Big scandal, accusations of corruption—"

"Corruption? In Guatemala?! No way!"

"Yeah, Scali. I too nearly lost my mind from surprise. Anyway, to the authorities' credit, they shut the site down as it was. No further work."

Mila butts in. "Three guesses who the developer was?"

"Romero Arquitectura?"

I can hear a pout in her voice from half-way across the globe. "You're no fun."

"How much did they build before it blew up in their faces?"

Mila or Ryan tap the keys furiously—most likely fighting over the laptop—and, in bits and pieces, they reveal to me what comes up.

"An access road."

"The main building. Right? The largest one?"

"Makes sense, luv."

"Over a cliff... ravine?"

"Also looks like they've cleared a lot of the site, but it would be over growing again by now."

I jump off the bed, my fatigue evaporating. "That's it. I feel it. This is the place. Mila, please tell me your guy in the South is ready to rock. Actually, whatever! I'll find my way into Guatemala. Just give me the address!"

"Scali, Scali!" Mila takes a deep breath. Closes her eyes, probably. "Matteo, I know you want to be there like now. And my man is on standby, but..."

"Mila, Bryn! Think of Bryn!"

"It's a big place! Lots of rooms! Fortified!" she yells over me. "Choke-full of Juarez fighters! In a remote area! Matteo, snap out of it!"

I shut up, licking my lips and stifling curses.

"So... Get inside Romero and scrape everything you can from their server," Mila's crisp voice dictates from the other end of the line.

Then the FBI weighs in. "Get us blueprints, Scali. We'll have entry points for you and your partner. We'll talk you through the hostage rescue with minimal risk to Bryn. You are not rolling in with your guns blazing."

I choke down more and better expletives, even though I haven't heard from Lizzy on this call at all. What did they do with her? Let her swing off the mast? "Okay, okay... I'll do it. But can you at least tell me I have time for this ah... shrimps? Does Bryn have time? Did you get into those dark chat rooms?"

The pause on the other end lasts only a millisecond too long. "Your partner will have all the details," Mila says. "Just focus on getting into Romero for now."

Like on a cue, Lizzy shouts for Mommy and Daddy to come see what she has in her bucket—I wouldn't put it past her parents to charge her with running interference.

Robotically, I change out of my bad suit into tourist attire and fill my time with prepping for tonight.

Arrange a limo to pick up Esme at seven—because that fucking Acura would destroy my American playboy cover. Hit warehouses and department stores for some odds and ends. Find a blank office card with a lanyard that matches the one Esme was wearing. Visit a barber.

Then, the hardest thing of them all: I wait. Forty-five slowest minutes of my life drag on, as I agonize over questions lodged in my mind like splinters.

What is Mila not telling me about Bryn?

What does she know that she's not telling me?

Is it bad? How bad?

How bad?