Dangerous Choice KO PL

by Barbara Freethy

  "I'm sorry," Tara said quietly.

  He shook his head in anger and regret. "If I'd started searching for her earlier, if my father hadn't been such a complete ass, if my grandmother had had the guts to stand up to him…maybe…" He drew in a hard breath, the reality stabbing him again, like a knife to the gut. "I can't believe she's dead." He suddenly noticed the fresh flowers on her grave. Someone had placed those recently, maybe only a few days ago.

  Who?

  Could he dare to hope that he hadn't lost everyone?

  As he got to his feet, he saw a shadowy figure moving through the trees. For a split second, he thought maybe it was Mateo…

  But he didn't recognize the tall, thin man in jeans and a hoodie sweatshirt.

  When the man caught sight of them, he pulled out a gun.

  Diego shoved Tara out of the way as the bullet bounced off the headstone. Then he grabbed her hand once more, and they ran through the cemetery, slipping through a thick crush of trees on the far side that thankfully provided some cover. Several more shots rang out, some coming dangerously close.

  They ran into the wild, unincorporated hills behind the village, trying to lose themselves in the brush. The shots eventually stopped, but Diego kept running for another twenty minutes, not coming to a halt until they were halfway up a hill, a mile or two away from the church. From their vantage point, they could see the village, the cemetery, the police cars lined up in front of the church. But there were enough trees and rocks around to keep them in the shadows.

  "Why was he shooting at us?" Tara asked, her breath coming fast. "I thought the shooter from the church had left."

  She'd done well keeping up with him in her sandals. She'd stumbled a few times, but he'd dragged her back to her feet.

  "So did I," he said grimly, meeting her questioning gaze. "Maybe there was more than one shooter, and the other stayed behind. He might have been surprised to see us in the cemetery. We caught him off guard."

  "And he decided to shoot us? Why? It doesn't make sense."

  It didn't make sense.

  Had someone tracked him to Colombia, to the priest, who'd been his one chance at finding his mother? But why? Who would care about his personal family history?

  As his gaze moved back to Tara, he thought about her intense conversation with the priest and wondered if the shots were about him at all. "Are you in trouble, Tara?"

  A mix of emotions ran through her eyes. "Why would you ask me that? Do you think he was shooting at me?"

  "You tell me."

  "Maybe the shooter was after you," she countered. "Maybe he's tied to your mother." She licked her lips. "The real question is—what are we going to do now?"

  Two

  Tara asked a good question. He looked at their surroundings. If they continued on this path, they'd be entering a wilderness area, and they weren't dressed or prepared for that.

  "We need to get back into town without anyone seeing us," he said, gazing back at her flushed face, her bright, worried eyes. "Once we do that, we should be able to get information on the shooting, the motivation behind Father Manuel's murder, and if there are any known suspects."

  "Are we getting that information from the police? Are we going to tell them what happened to us?"

  He hesitated. "I don't know. We'll have to play it by ear."

  "Maybe Enrique can fill us in. He's the desk clerk at the Palomar Hotel where I stayed last night. He's very friendly. He said he grew up here. I'm sure he'll share what he knows."

  He'd found Enrique to be friendly, too. In fact, Enrique had been quite interested in why he was in town. He hadn't shared his real reason with the clerk. He'd simply said he was on vacation. Now he wondered if Enrique was just a genuinely hospitable, friendly person, or if he was keeping track of the guests for a different reason.

  "Diego?" Tara pressed. "Should we go back now?"

  "Let's wait a few minutes. The sun is going down. I wouldn't mind a few more shadows."

  "In that case..." She sat down on a flat rock and removed one of her sandals, shaking out some small pebbles. "That's better. These aren't exactly running shoes. I have a couple of good blisters going."

  "You did well to keep up."

  "I think you willed me to keep up. You had a vise grip on my hand," she said, as she put her shoe back on.

  "Sorry about that."

  "Don't apologize. You probably saved my life. I don't know if I would have made it out of there if you hadn't moved so quickly."

  "I'm just glad we got away."

  "Me, too. I can't believe I've been in the line of fire twice in one day. I've never even heard a gunshot until today. Now, it's echoing through my head like an unrelenting drumbeat. I can't seem to shut it off. I feel like I've stepped into another dimension—a very unlucky one."

  "You weren't hit, so your luck is actually pretty good. And the drumbeat will lessen. Give it a little time."

  She stared back at him. "Sounds like you're not unfamiliar with that beat?"

  "Today wasn't my first time."

  "Diego…"

  "What?" he asked, seeing the wary suspicion in her gaze.

  "Your mom's grave. What's the story? Why didn't you know she was dead?"

  "Because she disappeared eighteen years ago. I was thirteen at the time. According to the date on the headstone, she died four years after she left me. I would have been seventeen then. I never knew."

  The finality of her death hit him hard, making him struggle to take his next breath. His mother was dead. He was never going to see her again, never talk to her, never hear her laugh. There would be no heartwarming reunion. His gut burned with anger and sadness.

  "I waited too long to look for her," he continued, running a hand through his hair. He wasn't sure why he was telling this complete stranger his personal business. The only excuse he had was that he was rattled.

  But he was an FBI agent; he needed to get his head together, compartmentalize the way he'd always done. He needed to work the problem, and right now the problem was not his mother: it was the shooter in Cascada, who had not only shot his source, but had also come after them in the cemetery.

  "She just disappeared?" Tara pressed. "Why?"

  "It's a long story."

  "We seem to have time. Maybe you could give me the condensed version."

  "It's private. You should understand that, considering you don't want to tell me what your conversation with the priest was about."

  She shrugged. "Have it your way."

  Silence fell between them, then he said, "Look—I really need you to tell me what you and Father Manuel were speaking about."

  "Why?"

  "Because we have to figure out who tried to kill us, and whether it's tied to you or to me. I told you about my mother. Now it's your turn."

  "You told me very little."

  "I gave you something, so talk."

  She gave him a disgruntled look, then she let out a breath and said, "Fine. I went to Father Manuel because I was hoping he might have seen my friend, Bethany. She's missing. The last time she was seen was in Medellin, and she was getting on a bus to Cascada. So, I came to the town to look for her. Enrique suggested I check in at the church. He told me every visitor goes there, and Father Manuel has many friends in town he could contact on my behalf. I went to the church yesterday and I told Father Manuel the story. He asked me to come back today, which I did, but suddenly he wasn't willing to help me. I don't know why. I felt like he was holding back, as if he was scared to tell me the truth."

  He didn't know what he'd been expecting her story to be, but it wasn't anything close to what she'd told him. "I'm sorry about your friend. How long has she been gone?"

  "I haven't heard from her in almost three weeks. I spent the first week calling her every day and begging her to call me back. I checked with her friends. They hadn't heard from her, either. Her employer told me she went on an unexpected trip, but I didn't believe she would go on vacation and ignore all my calls. So, I decide
d to come to Colombia and look for her myself."

  "How did you know to come to Colombia? Does your friend live here?"

  "No, she doesn't. She's a tour guide for Allende Tours. They run one-week and ten-day excursions to Colombia, among other places. And Bethany had just finished a tour in Medellin the last time I spoke to her. She told me then she was coming back to the States in two days. That's why I got worried when I didn't hear from her."

  "And you jumped on a plane and came to Colombia—a place you'd never been?" he asked doubtfully.

  "Actually, I was in Colombia at Christmas. Bethany arranged for me to try out as a potential tour guide at her company. I work as a high school Spanish teacher during the year, but in the summers I'm free to travel. She thought it would be the perfect summer gig for me. And I loved the idea. I'm supposed to start with my first tour in June. Now I don't know. I'm bothered that Allende doesn't take my concern seriously."

  "She hasn't been gone that long. And if she told them she was taking a trip…"

  "I know something is wrong. I know Bethany," Tara said with a stubborn glint in her eyes. "And when I arrived in Colombia and called her again, her phone was dead. It didn't even go to voicemail anymore."

  "How did you find out Bethany was seen at the bus station?"

  "I went to the police in Medellin last Monday. They weren't particularly helpful or interested, but they did do a cursory scan of the local bus stations, and they told me that a security camera had captured an image of Bethany boarding the bus to Cascada the previous Wednesday. I decided to take the same bus. There were two stops along the route. I got off at each station and showed her photo to anyone who would stop and look, but no one recognized her."

  "This was a week ago?"

  "It was three weeks ago that we spoke, but eight days since she got on the bus. I've narrowed the timeline, but that hasn't really helped. Bethany is a social media addict; she posts photos every day, but there hasn't been one single picture in the last eight days. Nor has her phone number ever come back into service." Tara drew in a deep breath. "I'm afraid something terrible has happened to her."

  "I understand why you're concerned. What about her family? Have you checked in with them?"

  "I'm her family. Bethany grew up next door to me. Her dad died when she was born, and her mom passed away when she was sixteen. She moved in then with me and my parents. She's been more than a friend to me; she's been a little sister. There's no one else to look for her besides me. I have to find her."

  The desperation he'd heard earlier was back in her voice, and now he understood why. He also thought there was good reason for her fear. Young women disappearing in this part of the world was always cause for concern. "Maybe I can help."

  "How?" she asked sharply.

  "I'm an FBI agent."

  Her brow shot up in surprise. "Seriously? Then how come you don't have a gun?"

  "Because Colombia doesn't allow foreign agents into their country with weapons, and I wasn't planning on getting into trouble. I'm not here as an agent. This was a personal trip. But I can talk to some people. I have some connections in this part of the world."

  "That would be great." Hope lit up her blue eyes, and his gut clenched for a different reason. Tara really was a beautiful woman. Distracting himself from that thought, he pulled his phone out of his pocket. "I don't have a signal. But when we get one, I'll make a call."

  "I would really appreciate it. I didn't get far with the police in Medellin or here in Cascada."

  "Wait—you went to the police here in Cascada?"

  "Yesterday, when I first arrived, but they were also of no help. They said unless there was actual evidence that Bethany had arrived in Cascada and gotten into trouble, they couldn't do anything. Enrique said she hadn't checked in at the Palomar. I went to other smaller hotels and had no luck."

  "So there is no evidence she was in Cascada?"

  "Father Manuel had seen her. He recognized her picture yesterday. But today he had nothing to say. I think…" Her voice drifted off.

  He knew what she thought. "That someone hurt her and then threatened the priest."

  Agony ran through her eyes. "I don't want to believe that. It's the only conclusion I can come to. If there is anything you can do to help me, I will be forever in your debt."

  He didn’t really want her in his debt, and he still had his brother to find. But it was hard not to want to help Tara. She was fiercely devoted to her friend and willing to fight as hard as she could for her. How could he turn away? "I'll do what I can," he said finally.

  "Thank you, Diego." She swallowed hard. "Do you think Father Manuel is dead because of me? I really don’t want to believe that my questions led to his murder. Enrique told me that the priest had baptized and married almost everyone in town. Who would have wanted to kill him?"

  "I don't know. We need more information."

  "Which is why we need to get back to town." She stood up.

  "We'll get there. Did you ever consider how much danger you were putting yourself in by coming here alone?"

  "I considered it. But I didn't have another option."

  "What do your parents think about this fearless quest?"

  She frowned. "They think I'm vacationing in Mexico, that it's my spring break. But I actually took a leave from my job. I couldn't tell them where I was really going. They'd only worry about me and also about Bethany. My dad has heart problems; I didn't want to add to his stress. Since they live in Santa Barbara now, we don't see each other in person very often."

  "Where do you live?"

  "San Clemente. It's a beach town about an hour south of LA."

  "And Bethany? Where does she call home?"

  "She has an apartment in West Hollywood. She lives about an hour from me. I know you probably think I'm stupid for doing this. I've certainly been told that by a number of people, and I've had the same thought myself. But I didn't know what else to do. I couldn't sit at home and do nothing."

  "I think you're a very brave and loyal friend," he said. "And a little stupid."

  She gave him a small smile. "Well, thanks for giving me some credit. I'm sorry I was being cagey before. I'm really on edge and after what happened at the church and the cemetery, I'm afraid to trust anyone, but now I'm trusting you, and I hope I haven't made a huge mistake."

  "You haven't. I already saved your life twice."

  "You were saving your own, too," she pointed out.

  "True, but I'm not going to hurt you, Tara."

  "I'm counting on that. Shall we go back?" She glanced at her watch. "It's almost six. It's been over an hour and a half since the shooting."

  "Let's do it," he said, watching as she squared her shoulders and lifted her chin. She looked like she was going into battle. She had guts. He had to give her that. But he knew she was also terrified, and not only for herself, but also for her friend. He had a feeling she had good reason to be scared.

  * * *

  It had been a relief to tell Diego her story. She'd been holding in her worry about Bethany, having to pretend to her family and her friends that everything was fine, that Bethany was just living her adventurous life. It was possible that was still true, but her bad feeling was getting worse by the minute.

  The shootings at the church and the cemetery felt surreal, as if they had been a terrible dream. But the sight of Father Manuel's blood-stained robe ran through her head, and she knew it wasn't a dream. The godly old man was dead. And she really hoped it wasn't her fault.

  She cast a glance at Diego, who was striding a few steps in front of her. He was a tall, attractive man with dark hair and compelling brown eyes, tanned skin, a strong jaw, and a powerful, agile body that had allowed him to drag her halfway up a mountain without breaking a sweat. He had a commanding presence, and it was clear he was used to being in charge and calling the shots. She had no problem with that if he could help her find Bethany.

  He seemed willing to try, at least at the moment.

  Would
that change when the finality of his mother's death sank in? He hadn't had a chance to come to terms with that. And clearly there was a lot more to his story than he'd shared with her.

  It occurred to her that Diego's conversation with the priest, and his dead mother, could be tied to the shooting, too. Not to mention the fact that he was an FBI agent. Maybe that had made him a target in this country, where drug cartels ran the villages. She wondered if Father Manuel had known Diego's profession, or if he'd just presented himself as a man looking for his mother.

  How had Diego decided to come to Cascada? What clue had brought him to a remote village in the Colombian hills?

  She had a lot of questions, but the last thing she needed was to get distracted. Bethany was her only concern, not this very attractive and somewhat mysterious FBI agent. She would take whatever help he was offering, but beyond that she really didn't need to get any more involved with him.

  Diego's steps slowed as they neared the village. The hotel was located in the middle of the main plaza, and as they came down from the hills, she could see tiny flickering lights in the square. "What's all that?" she muttered.

  "Looks like a candlelight vigil."

  "There are a lot of people near the hotel. How are we going to get inside without anyone noticing?"

  "At this point, a crowd is a good thing."

  "It doesn't feel that way. We can't identify the shooter, but they might be able to identify us."

  "Hopefully they're not anywhere near our hotel. Here's what we're going to do—we're going to walk quickly, but we won't run. We don't want to look like we're worried about anything."

  "I'll try, but I just want to get there already."

  "Stay close. In fact…" He held out his hand.

  She hesitated for one moment, wondering why she was clinging to a man she'd met a few hours ago. But she needed his calm, confident strength right now, so she put her hand in his.

  They walked briskly toward the front door of the hotel. No one seemed to be paying them much attention. There was a somber mood hovering over the entire area. Earlier in the day, the plaza had felt like a party stage. Now, it felt grim. There were people crying, holding each other, and hundreds of candles burning down to their wicks as a trio of men played a weeping song of sadness on their guitars.