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Manning. Human trafficking has reached an all-time high in our country. You fit the most highly sought-after profile. Watch your back.” She rose with all the grace of a well-trained dancer. “And good luck with your venture.”
    Casey pushed out of her own chair, while not as gracefully as the other woman with every bit as much barefaced confidence. “Thanks.” She didn’t bother mentioning that she never relied on luck to accomplish her mission. Luck was for those incapable of getting the job done on their own.
    When Sanchez had disappeared beyond the arched entry gates, Casey picked up the fashionable bag she’d left behind and headed back to her room. There was no need to check the merchandise for quality; Sanchez was a five-star resource. Not an easy accomplishment. The designation signified that Sanchez not only came through with high quality merchandise every time, she did so even when her personal safety was at risk.
    A woman after Casey’s own heart. Any mission that didn’t include some level of danger would surely be incredibly boring and intensely unproductive.
    The Well, 9:45 p.m.
     
    T HE MUSIC WAS LOUD , the lights low. The blazing logs in the broad stone fireplace kept the evening chill at bay. Every chair and stool in the house was occupied. Bearing in mind that the Well might be the only decent cantina for fifty miles, the crowd was no surprise and actually suited Casey’s objective for the evening. Fernandez was here. She had watched him work the crowd like an oily politician running for office. He’d permitted a brief glance in her direction, making a mental note of her position, as any experienced informant would. She was armed. He would expect as much. The .22 nestled snugly against her right thigh in its leather holster. What he wouldn’t expect was the switchblade strapped to her other thigh with a silk scarf. Eva Sanchez wasn’t the only one who knew how to put silk to good use. The wide-bottomed bohemian skirt covered both well and allowed for quick, easy access.
    Casey ordered another sparkling water and waited for Fernandez to get around to her. He was in no hurry; he knew she would wait. Let him enjoy his moment of power. She needed information. Playing nice was her role tonight. The CIA had taught her well the art of assuming roles and maintaining patience. This was the easy part.
    Eventually Fernandez swaggered up to the bar next to her. “Ah, Miss Manning.” Though he spoke English, the accent was thick with salsa flavor and his emphasis leaned heavily on the miss.
    Casey turned to face the man who claimed to have some knowledge of Slade Keaton. “Mr. Fernandez.” She offered her hand for a nice-to-meet-you shake and he proceeded to cradle it for a mini-eternity before planting a light kiss there. If she hadn’t read his background she would have been surprised by his skill at impersonating a suave gentleman. But she wasn’t. At all.
    A brief visual exchange between Fernandez and the man seated next to Casey had him vacating the bar stool. Fernandez slid into his place. “Shall we get down to business, chiquita, or do you prefer foreplay?”
    A sense of humor, too. How nice. “Is that code for ‘you have additional information for me’?” Perhaps to some Fernandez might be viewed as quite the ladies’ man in his white linen trousers and scarcely buttoned cotton shirt, both emphasizing his dark features, but not to a SoCal girl who’d just dumped her lying, cheating boyfriend.
    Her contact’s laugh harmonized with the frisky Latin music. Then, with a single blink of his eyes, he changed modes and all signs of amusement vanished from his face. He leaned in close to her. “You will be pleased to know that the person you seek is more than a friend to Señor Keaton. She claims to be his hermana. ”
    Sister? That was interesting. If genuine, the familial connection could carry added benefit. “Do you have any verification of what she asserts?” Casey shrugged and stirred