“Is Dr. Raskin still with you?”

Kruger had never told the syndicate leader about the doctor or the work he had done for the CIA.

“Yes, she is,” he said.

“And your buyer is a Mr. Yoshida from the CIA, who is being financed by Tivoli Loria, correct?”

Kruger said nothing.

“You see, Yoshida and Loria’s superiors know that they’ve been betrayed. Your friend Raskin took with her a great deal of information when she set fire to her lab before they could shut her down. The files she stole are of a very sensitive nature, and her former employers want those files back.”

“I haven’t seen any files or digital storage devices in her possession.”

“Yes, she’s claimed that the files are hidden in order to guarantee her safety from her former employers. But, after a bit of digging, I discovered that she had the information printed on several microdots and fitted inside an old ring. Have you seen such a ring?”

“She claims it was her grandmother’s.”

“Maybe it was. But now it’s mine. Bring me that ring and carry out the rest of your offer, and I will consider your debt paid in full.”

“And no interference while I carry out this mission.”

The blurred figure nodded. “I’ll call off the dogs. But I was only going to kill you and Zarina for your former transgressions. If you cross me again, I will have some unsavory characters commit unspeakable acts against your daughter, Kianga. A beautiful name. It means sunshine, doesn’t it? Did you choose that or did Zarina?”

Kruger gritted his teeth and fought to maintain composure. Idle threats were wasted words, and he knew that Mobius would have his daughter raped, murdered, or skinned alive without giving it a second thought. He had seen the man do much worse.

“The debt will be paid in full,” he said.

“Good. Glad to have you back on the team. Cheers.”

The connection ended, and Kruger sat staring at the screen. In the back of his mind, Idris Madeira cried and screamed that Kruger had just killed his own daughter, his sunshine.

Chapter 89

Carl Verbeek’s home was a sprawling pueblo structure on the far west edge of Las Vegas. Nic knew that Turtlehead Mountain was not far from Verbeek’s backyard, but all he could see in the distance was infinite darkness. As they pulled up, having switched the Firebird for one of the tactical BearCats, Nic could tell that the place was still under construction. Pallets of uncut boards lay in piles along the property’s southern edge and a small cement mixer stood beside the front door where a temporary walkway had been fashioned from two-by-six boards. The home was massive and beautiful and surrounded by an eight-foot pueblo and stone wall, the house only visible through a wrought-iron gate. Apparently, business was good for Carl Verbeek and Black Dog Protective Services.

Nic parked the BearCat across the road from the property and was about to ring the security station sitting beside the gate, but before he could step from the vehicle, Carter grabbed his arm and said, “Something’s wrong. The gate’s open.”