“I could use something to eat, sure, if it’s not a bother.”

“It’s not. What would you like?”

“Anything—I’m not fussy.” Enrique looked up, craning his head back. “Thank you,” he said, eyes filling with tears of gratitude. “Thank you so much.”

Sebastian placed a hand on the kid’s shoulder and smiled. “You’re welcome,” he said, and grabbed Enrique in a headlock. As he strangled the kid, Sebastian made a promise to himself to send some money to Enrique’s widow so their boy could see that specialist. And if she did something else with the money, well, then that was on her.

* * *

The air outside seemed warmer than earlier, as though the temperature had risen another ten or fifteen degrees in the last hour—which, obviously, it hadn’t. Sebastian had been sweating underneath his down jacket—sweating from excitement. Finally, after all these months, he had the son of a bitch.

He had a powwow with Frank and Ron’s men, and then, by phone, with Ron himself.

“I’ll put together a team,” Ron said. He was still at the hospital, waiting for his daughter to give birth. “We’ll start surveillance tonight. Then we’ll—”

“Surveillance?”

“We don’t know how many people he’s got working for him, what kind of hardware he and his crew are carrying, how this place is laid out.”

“It’s a house, not some goddamn military installation.”

“And that’s the fatal flaw in your thinking. Paul and Guidry are military,” Ron said. “If they’re bunkered in that house, using it as a lab, keeping their carriers there, whatever, they’ve taken steps to secure it. They’ve got people watching it—people who are probably ex-military, too.”

“As are your people. Guys with me right now, I’ve already talked with them. They said they’re trained for this exact kind of midnight op—get in and out without making a peep.”

“I know you’ve got a major hard-on for Paul. I get it. But you’re going to need to keep it in your pants until I—”

“We’re doing this now.”

“No, we’re—”

“I’m running a democracy all of a sudden? ’Cause last time I checked, you work for me. You and your boys.” Sebastian’s voice was clear, but his face was flushed with heat. “Make it happen. Tonight.”

A long silence followed.

“Where do you want them to bring Paul?” Ron asked, barely keeping his anger in check. “The Bungalow?”

It was Frank’s pet nickname for his den of torture, a funeral home Frank owned, under some dummy corporation, on the other side of the city. It was a one-stop shop for all your diabolical business needs: a private torture chamber with easy cleanup and cremation in less than half an hour.

“Long Beach,” Sebastian said. “It’s closer—and I’m going to take the next few days off, spend some one-on-one time with Paul until I get him situated in a more permanent living situation. Bring Paul there.”

“What about Guidry?”

“I don’t give a shit about Guidry or the others.”

“Let me speak to Marty.”