Page 101 of Wicked Intention

Present Day

IT WAS LATE when Finn got back to Ramos’ compound, and later still by the time he made it through the gate. Security had stripped him of his weapons—he’d known they would—but it would look odd if he didn’t try to smuggle something inside.

“Gracias,” he said to the houseman as he entered the hacienda.

Finn had his foot on the first stair when Ramos called to him. “Come, join me for a cigar, Señor Rowland.” It wasn’t a request.

Reluctantly, he pivoted and did as ordered. Finn wasn’t sure what to label this room. Den? Lounge? It wasn’t as formal as an office, but he sure wouldn’t call it a man cave. Ramos opened a wooden cigar box and extended it toward him. “No, gracias,” Finn said. “I don’t smoke.”

Ramos shrugged, removed one for himself, and closed thebox. “Have a seat,” he said, gesturing toward the four brown leather chairs arranged around a circular table.

Finn took the chair that gave him the best visibility of the room and which exposed his back the least. Ramos was edgy, and Finn prepared himself to deal with the drug lord’s mood. Fuck, he wanted to go back to the suite, take a shower, and crawl into bed beside Zo. He swallowed his impatience. This man was dangerous and needed to be placated, so he’d mollify him and make sure his loquita would be safe here tomorrow when he was off the grounds.

Cigar smoking involved ritual, and Ramos rushed none of it. He used a cigar cutter to carefully trim the end. Then, he flicked open his lighter, and there was a ping. Finn might not smoke, but Tom Finley had gotten around and learned a few things. Like the fact that there was one brand of lighter that made that sound, and it cost over a thousand bucks.

He toasted the end of the cigar over the flame, rotating it so that the entire tip was heated. Ramos continued to turn it until there was a burning ring, then he blew on the embers and brought it to his lips. One outward puff, and then he took a draw.

“Cuban?” Finn asked.

“Nicaraguan,” Ramos said. He moved to take the seat across from Finn.

“I’m surprised you smoke. Zo said you’re into physical fitness.” The cigar smoke drifted his way, but he’d been surrounded by cigarettes in the bar, and his hair and clothes couldn’t smell any worse.

“Every man must have a vice,” Ramos said, his lips curving slightly.

Finn resisted the urge to point out that running a drug cartel was probably a big enough sin.

Ramos enjoyed a couple more puffs on his cigar before he spoke. “You were out late tonight.”

“I met up with some buddies of mine from before.”

“Before? Ah, before Zofia, I see.” He nodded. “Why waste time with them?”

Finn leaned back, crossing his arms over his chest. “It’s good to see old friends again.” Before Ramos could voice the irritation that crossed his face, Finn continued, “And mercenaries keep their ears to the ground. They hear things. Sometimes they hear helpful things.”

Ramos appeared skeptical. “And did they share something helpful with you?”

Quirking up the left side of his mouth, Finn said, “Helpful? I don’t know, but it was definitely interesting.”

The drug lord stopped mid-puff. “How interesting?”

Pausing only long enough to pique Ramos’ interest, Finn said, “It seems there’s a new high-tech weapon on the market. One that can fetch a hell of a lot of money if there was an international auction. Chinese and Russian agents have already started trawling the waters, looking to make the buy. Or so I was told.”

Ramos’ good humor disappeared, and his eyes narrowed as he stared at Finn through the haze of smoke. “Did they say anything else?”

“No, that was all they knew.” He tried not to think of his captain’s reaction if he heard this conversation. Everything Finn had said was the speculation that he himself had laid out at the bar, but it was guaranteed to light a fire under Ramos and speed up the arms deal. It was a calculated risk. If the drug lord called Silva, and the man denied it, he’d either believe the arms dealer was lying to him or that Finn’s information was wrong. Neither one should rock the boat too much.

Finn was pushing. Hard. And things could fall apart fucking easily at the speed he was aiming for, but it also wouldn’t allow either Ramos or Silva time to second-guess what was happening. And it might help keep those arms in Puerto Jardin.

“Auctioning my weapons?”

Finn shrugged one shoulder. “Could be. Or it could be the ARADs. Those are newer, too, and a lot of players want their hands on them.”

“No, it’s the new US rifle. Señor Silva didn’t want to sell it to me, you said.” Ramos looked pissed.

“I didn’t say he wouldn’t sell it to you. I said he was unsure he had any to sell, but I believe he does. Señor Silva is a businessman as you are,” Finn said, working to soothe his temper. Finn wanted a motivated Alfonso Ramos, not an angry one out for blood. “Wouldn’t you look to maximize profit if the situation was reversed?”

“Sí,” Ramos agreed slowly, taking another puff on his cigar. “You believe profit is his primary motive?”

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