Deliverance, however, would execute.
And no power on earth could talk Dallas out of that. He'd dreamed of the moment. Played it out in his mind over and over.
The fantasy had sustained him during the long nights in the dark. During the endless hours when he'd been alone. When he'd been tormented. Shamed.
When, ultimately, he'd been broken.
Dallas knew damn well that watching the Jailer and the Woman die wouldn't restore what he and Jane had lost, wouldn't heal what was broken. But it would be just. It would be good.
Maybe it would even be enough.
"I'm coming," Dallas said. "If Ortega's still at large, I'm working the hunt with you. And if you manage to grab him, I want to interrogate the son of a bitch myself."
"Dammit, Dallas--"
"And if the government already has Ortega in custody, then we're going to the mat with Mueller. I want to squeeze every bit of information out of him. What he knows about Ortega. What jobs he's pulled, what cigarettes he's smoked. What women he's fucked."
He paced, his mind whirring. "I want to know everything and everyone. There's no way Ortega bragged only once about a Sykes kidnapping. I want to know what else he said, and who he said it to. I want to know what he knows, and I want to follow where it leads."
"So, what? You're saying you need to be onsite? That you don't trust me to lead this team? That you don't think Quince and Noah and Antonio can do the job? That's bullshit, and you know it."
"Dammit, Liam. Deliverance is--"
"Yours," his friend interrupted. "You think I don't know that? That we all don't know that? Deliverance is your baby, your mission. It's your show, Dallas, and we've all been playing by your rules. Playing to the goddamn letter. And it's been working. But there's a reason you're a ghost in this organization, man, you know that. Hell, you laid down the law yourself. And the first rule is that nobody breaks the damn rules."
Dallas's smile was thin. "I'm not breaking anything. It's just that now the rules have changed." He mentally calculated how long it would take for him to get to the airport in his helicopter and then to Argentina in his jet. "I'll be there in thirteen hours. And if Ortega's not in a room when I get there, then Mueller damn well better be."
Liam knew better than to argue. "Twelve hours," he countered. "Twelve, or we start without you."
"You won't," Dallas said, because he knew not only his men but his friends. "And I'll be there."
--
Dallas was pulling on black jeans when the bedroom door opened and Archie entered, holding a leather duffel.
On the bed, the two women--still there, still hopeful--scrambled under the sheet. It wasn't necessary. Archie Shaw had spent forty-five of his almost seventy years serving the Sykes family, and the last ten with Dallas exclusively. He was manservant, valet, confessor, and friend all rolled into one.
Archie's piercing gray eyes had seen it all. But he never shared; he never gossiped. And Dallas trusted him completely.
"I've packed clothes and toiletries for a week," he said, depositing the bag at Dallas's feet. "And another letter arrived this afternoon." He held out the now-familiar pale blue envelope. Even from across the room, Dallas knew that his name and address would be on a white label, the letters printed by an old-fashioned dot-matrix printer. There would be no return address.
"Shall I dispose of it?" Archie asked when Dallas said nothing.
"No." Right now, the letters were an irritation. But he could anticipate the sender becoming dangerous. "Put it in my bag. I'll deal with it later." So far, he'd been unable to glean even the slightest hint of the sender's identity. But one day, the sender would make a mistake. That letter could be the one.
Archie's expression didn't change, though Dallas knew that he, too, was frustrated by these anonymous taunts that had started arriving a little over a year ago. He simply nodded and slipped the envelope into one of the duffel's side pockets. "Anything else?"
"Ms. West called."
Dallas pinched the bridge of his nose. He'd dated Adele West for about six months after her divorce, if dating was what you'd call it. Honestly, Dallas didn't know what to call it other than fucked up.
But that was all over--and he sure as hell didn't want to talk to her now. "Leave the message on my desk. I'll deal with it when I get back."
"Of course, sir." He glanced at his watch. "The helicopter will be here in twenty minutes."
"What would I do without you?"
"Wear the same clothes for days on end, presumably. At least this way I'm providing a service to not only you, but to Mr. Foster and the others as well."