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“Of course, but—”

“Then, if I told you they agreed two guys from his team will be the agents assigned to take charge of your protection, would that make you feel any better?”

I shrugged. “I guess, but I don’t understand why anyone would think Miguel is being targeted anyway. No one could have known he’d be at that coffee shop and in case it’s escaped anyone’s notice, he wasn’t the one shot by a cartel hitman. That guy had been targeting that Modelo guy, not Miguel,” I said, sure I was right about this.

“Raven?”

I looked down at Miguel. “Who says the cartel was targeting me? That guy outside Trader Joe’s hadyouin his sights. He tried to shootyouin the back of the head, not me.”

I opened my mouth and then shut it before turning to Mike and Cassidy. “Me? Why? I don’t have any connection to the Sanchez Cartel…or any cartel.”

“No, but we think Benedict Flores did and that makes both of you targets.” Cassidy lifted his face and sniffed the air. “I’ll tell you why after we get that coffee.” He smiled.

“Oh, shit.” I jumped up. “Be right back.” I ran into the kitchen and returned with a coffee mug for each of them. “So, tell me.”

Mike took a sip before setting it down on a coaster and leaning forward. “The fact that you were driving Miguel’s old Ford and not your own truck, probably saved both of your lives,” Mike said. When I opened my mouth to say something, he held up a hand. “As you know, the Ram was towed to our impound lot. It was broken into last night. There’re very few personnel on duty at night, but it’s protected by a fence and cameras. On surveillance tape, a man matching the description of the shooter out in Compton, scaled an eight-foot-high fence, threw a coat over razor wire at the top so he wouldn’t get all cut up, and strolled across the lot right to your truck. He looked inside, wrote something down, and then got away before anyone could stop him.”

“Huh?”

“We think he was confirming the truck was yours because he seemed to be reading the VIN number off the dashboard,” Cassidy said.

I flashed Miguel a look before turning back to them. “How could he check the VIN number?”

“A cartel contact working at the DMV or any number of other ways, Raven,” Mike said. “We think they were looking for the Ram but if the cartel hitter had been searching for Miguel’s older F-150, things at that coffee shop, might have turned out to be a win-win for the cartel. The hitter could have taken Miguel and you out at the same time as Modelo if he’d put two and two together. As it was, driving the Ford, probably saved his life.”

“That’s pretty thin, Cassidy,” I said.

Cassidy smirked at Mike. “He thinks we woke up as detectives yesterday and don’t have a combined thirty-five years of experience on the job.”

“That’s not what I meant,” I said, knowing I probably sounded like a pouty kid.

“He didn’t mean any insult, guys,” Miguel said. “Why do you think the hitter went to the extraordinary length of looking at the Ram’s VIN number?”

“Mike’s theory, and it’s a good one, is that the cartel thinks you two are undercover FBI agents,” Cassidy replied. “By confirming that your truck was in an LAPD impound lot and not released to you by the FBI immediately, they have confirmation that their theory is maybe wrong about you being undercover.”

I felt a chill go through me as I realized the implications. “But that might mean the cartel now thinks we’re undercover LAPD cops.” My stomach was doing flip-flops.

Cassidy and Mike nodded. “That’s entirely possible and either way, that makes you targets in the FBI’s mind. Thus, the polite request that you remain in their protection.”

“That’s fucked up,” I muttered, glancing down at Miguel. “Isn’t it?”

He shrugged. “It’s reasonable, Raven. We should cooperate with the FBI if Lincoln is assigning his own guys.”

Cassidy cleared his throat and we both looked over. “Where’s your grandmother?”

“She went to stay with her nurse, Dolly. That’s why we were in Compton. We’d just dropped her off at Dolly’s house.”

Mike smiled. “Good thinking.”

I shrugged. “Well, it seemed like the best thing. With Miguel hurt, rogue CIA fuckers trying to get us to do their bidding, and now a fucking cartel hot on our trail, I’m glad we made the decision.”

“Me too,” Cassidy said.

“So, what were you saying about Benedict Flores having a connection to the Sanchez Cartel?” Miguel asked.

“We looked into your new client, Mr. Leopard, and his partnership with Benedict Flores also,” Cassidy said.

“Yeah?” I asked, sitting up straighter.

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