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begin?”
    “Tomorrow morning.”
    Tallinn leaps up. “Damn, better get you in the boxing groove.”
    I turn away to begin laps.
    Tallinn races along the pool's edge. “Cut this cardio shit short, Paco—it's keeping you too lean. Come to your million-dollar weight room instead. I'll beef ya up. Hell—you have the size. Am I not your personal trainer or what?”
    I push off from the pool's end, turning to backstroke. I count the strokes as I move to the other side of the pool.
    “What do you say?” he bellows from the other end of the pool.
    I heave an internal sigh. “Yes,” I reply.
    The door flaps shut, and I try to concentrate on fluidity, but my mind is on other things.
    Danger.
    The unknown her.
     
    *
     
    I do the sequence of yoga exercises on the floor of my office, as I have for six years.
    My body screams with the soreness caused the day before. Tallinn put me through a weight-lifting regime he promises will have me bulked up quickly.
    I arch, my palms and feet a bridge above the floor, with my chest facing the ceiling.
    The shrill beep of the intercom buzzes and my form wavers.
    “Yes?” I say, and the voice recognition kicks on, turning it to speaker and relaying my response.
    “Mr. Castillo, Mr. Estrada is on line one for you.”
    “Thank you, Esmerelda.”
    I slowly break form, caving and shifting to my knees. I stand, hold my position for a full second, then stride to the phone.
    I hit the button, trying to stifle irritation.
    “ Bueno ?” I bark into the phone.
    “Paco, how are you?” my cousin asks in Spanish.
    “I am well, and you?” I lean back on the desk, crossing my legs at the ankle, wondering if Club Alpha employs relatives for their scheme.
    Perhaps.
    My suspicion knows no limits. My heart rate ticks faster, sending a pleasant flutter of anticipation coursing through me. It is the first day of the three months.
    I expect everything—and nothing.
    We chat about our mothers and the weather. Finally, Ramiro comes to the crux of it.
    “We are having some trouble with the narco , Paco.”
    My stomach tightens. My upbringing is remarkable, in that, I spent only a few years in Mazatlán, Mexico. I’ve been frequently in the states ever since, and I am American educated. Though my accent is flawless, the cadence of my speech sometimes gives me away as foreign born.
    And apparently, so does my less-than-stellar grasp of American idioms and vernaculars; so says Tallinn.
    I spin my pen between the webbing of my fingers absently, contemplating how I can break from work to travel south and smooth the feathers of the local drug cartel so they will not infringe on my family who remains there.
    Dealing with the narcos is a necessary evil.
    I have become distracted while Ramiro speaks.
    “…fly into Rafeal Buelna.”
    I straighten. “Let me address my schedule and plan accordingly, Ramiro.”
    “Nothing is more important than family, Paco.”
    My hand tightens on the receiver. “No one understands that better than I, Ramiro.”
    Silence swells between us.
    “ Adios. ”
    I don't wait for his response. My visit to the plant in Costa Rica will have to wait. I pick up the phone to let my manager know that trip will be delayed.
    A small rough-woven bag, hand-stitched at its top, sits at the corner of my desk. I pluck the strings that keep it tied. They unravel, and I sink my hand into the coffee beans, rolling them through my fingers. They are not unlike a talisman. I have always felt an affinity for the things we put in our bodies. And the coffee I produce is no exception.
    Everything we consume should be of value.
    Even love.

CHAPTER FOUR
    Greta
    October 2
     
    I don't know what I thought would happen.
    Maybe a bomb would go off?
    However, my first day of the Club Alpha run starts out with a whisper. My alarm goes off, Mr. Right doesn't make an appearance, and I'm left with the usual: work.
    I fly through my condo, straightening the pillows on my perfectly made bed and putting my paltry