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organization, it’s a drop in a very big bucket. That means the cartel’s message can only be personal. And I’m betting it has something to do with the man you tried to get me to recognize in that one photo.”
    With his eyes hidden, there was no way to gauge his expression, but she saw his lips thin and noticed his hands gripped the steering wheel a little tighter.
    “Information is knowledge, Emelio, and knowledge—”
    “—will often get you killed. You’re too smart for your own good, Stevie.” His tone suggested a reluctant admiration.
    She immediately latched on to his words. “I heard Alex say once that Overtown was the end of your career with Justice. Who got killed?”
    He drew in a deep breath and very slowly exhaled through pursed lips. Then he surprised her by giving a direct answer. “The man in the photo is Rogelio Braga, Frankie Ramos’s replacement.”
    “What happened in Overtown?”
    For a long while he didn’t reply. He gingerly rubbed the bruise on his jaw, concentrating on the road. “An informant I’d used to get evidence against the cartel double-crossed our team during a bogus drug buy. When the bullets started flying, she was killed in the gunfire.”
    Stevie wondered if he realized how much was given away by the undercurrent in his voice. However things had gone wrong, Emelio obviously blamed himself. And her instincts told her he was still holding something back, so she hit him with the question that was uppermost on her mind.
    “Why is Braga threatening me?”
    He was quiet for a few seconds and she could almost feel his withdrawal. Then he shook his head. “I don’t know yet.”
    Her voice hardened as she stared at him. “Take a wild guess.”
    “Like you said, information is knowledge.” Emelio’s eyebrows drew together. “The question is, what does he think you know?”

    R OGELIO B RAGA SLAMMED his fist against the oak surface of his desk. Bloody useless fools!
    Frustration mingled with disgust and had him moving to the wet bar to pour a tumbler of dark rum. One of his first tasks when his takeover was complete would be to reorganize. He would eliminate anyone who dared substandard performance. Incompetence could not, and would not, be tolerated under the new regime.
    The thug he’d hired from outside the cartel to take care of the Madison woman had failed him. He managed to deliver the messages, but had stupidly taken it upon himself to ravage her apartment, thereby alerting her to the extent of her peril before he’d planned. Then, not only had he lost them in traffic, he’d ended up in hospital. Braga would see to it he never left.
    He swallowed a mouthful of the rum, hissing through his teeth as its fire trickled down his throat. He had bigger problems than the messenger.
    His former boss, Frankie Ramos, had been offered the chance to make a deal in exchange for information about the cartel. Ramos was going to spill his guts in the courtroom unless Braga spilled them first. But so far none of his people had been able to find out where Ramos was being held.
    Braga slumped into his wing chair, splashing rum against the side of the tumbler. He refused to settle for less than total control. He would find the woman and he would find Ramos. It was time to call in an old and very valuable debt. There had been small favors over the years—recanting witnesses, “lost” evidence—but now something more was required.

    E MELIO GUIDED the Jeep along the main street through the Old Naples section of the city. The picturesque Fifth Avenue South was crowded with people strolling along the landscaped promenades or lunching in one of the many open-air cafés. He felt the tension ease from his shoulders. Only his family and best friend knew he stayed here, so he and Stevie should be safe from Braga’s spies.
    He loved vacationing here, loved the escape from everyday life the quaint Gulf Coast town offered. Stevie’s head swiveled from side to side, her gaze trying to take in