by Jordan Dane
The smell of old death.
"How quaint. Perhaps we should tell housekeeping we prefer a simple mint on our pillows."
Jasmine had an edge to her voice, but her attempt at humor didn't dispel her uneasiness.
"This doesn't look like any goodwill gesture, more like . . . foul play." His chicken pun didn't fare any better. Christian leaned closer, careful not to disturb the scene. "What's this? Do you recognize where this was taken?"
A newspaper clipping of Charboneau had his head cut and pinned to a doll made from straw and burlap. Blood from the chicken covered the likeness. And three small wooden skewers impaled the effigy. Although he wasn't an expert, it didn't take a genius to recognize black magic.
"No. The image is too small." Jasmine crossed her arms as if a chill ran along her skin.
"This makes no sense." Christian straightened up, glaring at the hideous array.
Charboneau had been cursed, but why now? Being hijacked from his hotel room should have been enough of a bad omen. What had his father been into?
If this elaborate atrocity had been intended to ward off their interference into the kidnapping, why use a photo of his father on the voodoo doll? And why risk scaring off their ransom meal ticket? It looked like two factions were involved in Charboneau's abduction—one interested in the money and another setting roadblocks in their path, every step of the way.
More questions roiled in his head like an approaching thunderstorm, but one pushed ahead of the rest. "If the bastards didn't come through the front door, then how'd they set this up?"
Suddenly, Jasmine reached for him. "Did you see that?"
Eyes wide, she tightened her grip on his arm. With her other hand, she went for a knife she had stashed in her bra. One of Victoria's secrets.
"What?" He turned and looked down, following her gaze.
"I think the skull moved."
Christian watched the skull for a moment. Nothing. "You're seeing things."
To prove his point, he kicked the bones with the toe of his boot, only enough to nudge it. The skull rolled to one side, tipping over.
"Holy shit!" He leapt back when he saw it.
An angular head lashed out, barely missing his leg. Fangs bared. Hissing spit. A slithering snake raced across the tile, straight for him.
He backed up and fumbled for his gun, knowing he'd never make it. The damned thing moved too fast. But from nowhere, a flash of silver flew by him.
Whap! Ssssss . . . thump . . . thump . . . ssssssss.
Jasmine's knife sliced through the head of the snake, almost severing it. Blood spilled onto the floor. The slick body coiled, writhing in death, out of control. As it thrust from side to side, the body pulled itself apart from the head . . . and continued its vile dance. Smears of blood trailed under it like a macabre finger painting. Christian and Jasmine backed away, each with a look of disgust.
"Let's tear this place apart, inside and out. I don't want any more surprises." Christian swallowed hard. "And by the way ... thanks."
Thanks didn't cover it. He didn't know much about snakes, poisonous or otherwise. But he had a feeling Jasmine had saved his life a second time. A regular habit for her, one he had no problem encouraging.
"Don't worry. You'll have plenty of opportunity to repay my generosity. I assure you." She stepped closer to the French doors, pushing her back against the door frame, not taking her eyes off the thrashing snake. "Think I'll collect my knife tomorrow. If that thing's still moving in the morning, I'll consider it a lost cause."
"Come on. We'll search the rooms . . . together."
Jasmine nodded, a quick shake of her head. "I don't have a problem with that."
Neither did he. Together worked for him too.
Hours later
Christian left a lamp on. Its pale light washed over his bedroom, casting shadows into the corners. White bed linens spread across his bare chest as he lay on his king-sized bed, several pillows propped against the headboard. Since Jasmine came back into his life, he'd been plagued by thoughts of a father he'd never met and an indefinable influence that kept him on edge. Now he had a new nightmare.
God, I hate snakes!
In this country, where not even a man like Charboneau was safe, something primitive tapped into his senses and lurked in the dark corners of his mind. A threatening malevolence. And tonight a coward almost took him out, using a cheap shot with fangs. The candles were intended to draw them in, and the snake would do its damage. If Jasmine hadn't been on her game, the bastard might have succeeded.
He felt like an interloper into Charboneau's world, an amateur to the danger. For all he knew, his father was already dead. He hated this limbo of not knowing.
And heaped on top, the fight he'd picked with Raven kept replaying in his head. The hurt in her eyes flashed over and over. He had called her, but only left a message about where he was staying with her phone voice mail, though he wanted to say so much more. She should have been home, but Raven hadn't picked up the line. He hoped she'd cooled off enough to recognize the white flag of surrender in his voice, but nothing doing. No amount of good intention would overcome the regret in his heart. He should have trusted her, been willing to share his darkest nightmare. Why hadn't he?
Raven had earned the right to know everything about him, but shame held him back. He'd never be normal. Death defined his past and had a stranglehold on his future. It carried a crippling stigma, one he couldn't shake. He had never felt entitled to happiness. And yet, having Raven in his life was the closest he'd come to touching it. Did he have the right to make his burden hers?
Damn it, forget about sleep. To hell with it.
He'd had enough. Throwing back the covers, he hoisted himself out of bed, unwilling to waste any more time. His mind wouldn't allow it. Dragging fingers through his hair, he wandered out his bedroom door dressed in his pajama bottoms.
In the stillness of the hotel suite, Christian closed his eyes for a few seconds, acquiring his night vision. He listened and quieted his heart to focus on his hearing. He knew he was alone in the room. He felt it.
No lights. Darkness gave him the gift of anonymity. Yet the lights from the city shone through the doors leading to the balcony. A bluish haze cast into the room. On instinct, he stepped toward the French doors, cell phone in hand. He wanted another look at the Macumba housewarming present outside, snake and all. He intended to take digital photos of the setup with his cell phone, then break it apart and stuff the contents into a pillowcase borrowed from the hotel.
But something cautioned him against opening the doors right away. Good thing.
As he stood steeped in shadows, he saw a red ember flare and die away on the rooftop across the street. What the hell? With his eyes locked, he waited. A cigarette. Another faint reflection captured light from the streets below, then melded into the shadows once more. Eyeglasses or binoculars? He couldn't tell from where he stood. He tilted his head and furrowed his brow, watching in the dark.
It happened again. No, it hadn't been his imagination. Someone stood on the roof across the way, an office building or warehouse. An odd place to catch a smoke in the middle of the night. Folding his arms over his bare chest, he watched awhile longer, to make sure.
"Haven't you heard?" he whispered, heading for his bedroom to change. "Smoking is bad for your health."
For only a second, he thought about waking Jasmine to tell her where he was going. But he felt certain she would want to come along . . . and bring her knife as a companion.
No way, José Cuervo! He'd fly solo on this mission.
CHAPTER 8
Day six
Nearly four in the morning and the hotel lobby was quiet as Christian slipped out a side entrance. Very little activity. Outside, muggy air seized his skin like a warm washcloth. And without a breeze, the air felt thick and oppressive. Motionless, it deadened sound, muffling noise in its vacuum.
Given the temperature, he already regretted his choice in clothing, but his gear h
ad been picked more for stealth than comfort. Dressed in dark clothes and boots, he would meld into the night. As he crept along an alley, he stuck close to a brick wall, mingling with its shadows. He felt the Glock pressed against the small of his back, tucked into the waistband of his pants with a black T-shirt worn loose over the weapon.
On cue, the darkness closed in as it usually did. To regain control, he shut his eyes and focused, allowing his senses to take hold. He steadied his breathing and tapped into his abilities. The act had become second nature. In no time the hunter emerged and exhilaration infused his blood. Eyes vigilant, he now searched for the best spot to cross the street—unseen from above.
Already his skin felt damp, a layer of sheen glistened on his forearms. The extreme humidity sucked the moisture from his pores. Christian glanced down the street. Parked cars along the thoroughfare held his attention as he looked for movement.
Nothing. Before he darted across, he glanced to the rooftop. No sign of his prey.
But as he made his move, he heard a sound. In the distance, a high-pitched splinter of broken glass followed by the shriek of a cat. The eerie cry resonated along the buildings of the side street, prickling his skin. Despite his reaction, he smiled. Another creature of the night ... a kindred spirit.
Finding a likely spot to cross the deserted street, he zeroed in on the building. The doors to the street were locked, but he located a fire escape to the roof. With little effort, he leapt to grab the ladder and pulled it to the asphalt. The metal groaned in complaint, rust on its hinges. He winced at the sound.
Why don't you send up a flare? Make a real announcement, Delacorte!
Whoever watched the penthouse surely knew he was coming now. Still, he had to see for himself. He pulled the Glock, pointing it toward the night sky. He climbed step by step, focusing on the parapet wall of the building. His muscles tensed, ready to dive for cover if necessary. He waited for a shadow to peer over the edge. No sign of the man.
As he drew closer, reaching the landing on the final flight of stairs, Christian dropped to a knee. He pressed a shoulder to the wall and listened. Nothing.
He craned his neck and peered over the top of the wall, grip taut on his weapon. On the far side of the roof, a brick structure housed a door, presumably a stairwell shaft into the building. The easiest place for someone to hide.
Relying on gut instincts, he switched his hunting mode into high gear. In one fluid motion he leapt over the edge and crept toward the door, ducking near the mechanical room housing a commercial grade air-conditioning unit. As he did, the equipment kicked on, an abrupt whirring sound. He cursed under his breath until he realized he could use it to his advantage, moving closer without being heard. But the noise would interfere with his hearing too.
Hell! He was going into this blind.
With his element of surprise questionable, he knew he had one other distinct edge. Following a marginal plan, he navigated the exhaust vents to circle the brick structure, keeping to the pockets of murky dark. It put the light from his hotel across the street to his back, keeping his face in shadow. The man would be forced to deal with the glare. Repositioned on the far side, his back pressed against the wall, he hoisted his gun, inching his way to the corner.
As he drew near, the damned AC unit droned on, deadening his senses. He swallowed hard, knowing he'd have to move or risk the tables being turned on him.
Now or never, hot shot!
He sprang from his hiding spot, gun drawn. In that same instant, the AC unit stopped and the stillness of the night closed in. In a voice way too loud, he shouted, "Freeze!" hoping to sound like a cop. Pretty lame since he only spoke English.
No one. Damn it! His eyes searched the shadows. He found nothing out of the ordinary, except—
The lingering stench confirmed his suspicions. A cigarette had been tossed aside, as if the smoker had just lit up. Smoke wafted into the air, lazy swirls made heavy by the humidity. He hadn't imagined it. Someone had been there, but left in a hurry.
After he inspected every dark corner of the rooftop and found no one, Christian slipped his gun into his waistband. He walked back to the discarded cigarette butt and shifted his gaze across the street to the balcony of his suite. From this distance, with the hotel room dark, he couldn't see much. But if someone had the right surveillance gear, the range wouldn't be a factor. Jasmine's precautions to thwart surveillance had been prudent after all.
With the release of tension, Christian raked a hand through his hair and headed for the parapet wall. The Glock pressed against his belly, he climbed back over the building ledge and tromped down the fire escape stairs. Stealth, be damned!
Once on ground level, he meandered down the short alleyway, heading for the street and his hotel. Fatigue eased into the muscles of his shoulders. As he approached the quiet intersection and stepped into the street, a harsh sound pierced the night air.
Tires screeched. He caught motion to his right.
Faint light glinted off a windshield as gloved hands braced the steering wheel. A face veiled in shadow. A dark sedan with no lights barreled down. It crossed the center lane, swerving straight for him.
Shit! Without thinking, he lunged left.
The car fishtailed. Grinding metal, it crashed into another vehicle, forcing the shrill cry of a car alarm. The sedan careened by. Its mirror grazed his hip as he turned. With the impact, he spun out of control, falling against a parked car. The momentum hurled his body to the ground like a rag doll. He slammed to the asphalt—hard.
"Arrghh." He gasped, air rushing from his lungs.
To break his fall, he braced his forearms in front of his face as he skidded to a stop, scraping his hands and elbows. He struggled for air, chest heaving. And the sting of road rash burned his skin. Bits of gravel stuck to raw flesh.
Car alarms blared without compassion, head and taillights flashing in cadence to the siren—two-toned, high-pitched. The noise served as cruel torment for his aching head.
"Ahh . . . hell," he groaned, leveling his eyes to catch a glimpse of the car speeding away. But a flashing headlight blinded him. He squinted in pain, trying to recall the make or model of the getaway car. Other than the description of a dark sedan, nothing registered in his mind. It happened too fast.
He strained to get a look at the license plate, but his vision was blurred. His own hand, held inches from his face, would have been a challenge. Now the vehicle weaved in and out of shadows, racing from his sight with tires squealing as it turned a corner. Gone. Only the smell of its exhaust fumes lingered.
Christian struggled to catch his breath, assessing the damage. Nothing broken, but his chest felt like a mule had kicked it—twice. The Glock wedged in his pants had bruised his ribs. For a long moment he lay on the ground, unable to budge, trying to shake loose the cobwebs. Lights whirled and vanished to an inky black as he faded in and out.
With effort, he braced his hands and rose to his knees, forcing himself to move. Otherwise, it might have been too easy to lose consciousness. Sweat trickled down his forearms ... or maybe it was blood.
Curious onlookers peered from the hotel, their bodies eclipsing the lobby lights. Soon they would come with their questions—questions he'd have no answers for. He had to clear out soon or else attract Captain Duarte's attention. A part of him suspected the man already knew about the incident, or maybe ordered it.
Christian moved to stand, but reconsidered.
"Being vertical is highly overrated," he muttered under his breath.
Too dazed, he decided to stay put, slumped against the nearest car. Leaning his head back, he closed his eyes. He'd wait for the city of Cuiabá to stop spinning. But one thought cut through the fog swirling in his brain. He'd let his guard down—never saw it coming.
He couldn't afford to do that again.
Several hours later, under stark overhead lights, he stared at his reflection in the bathroom mirror, grimacing.
He looked exactly how he felt—like the by-produ
ct of a meat grinder.
He only had a few hours sleep or maybe he'd passed out. The scrapes on his hands and forearms had stiffened and his body looked mottled with bruises. He'd taken a hot shower to loosen up. His muscles felt better, but the hot water only aggravated his wounds, making them red and swollen. Now, with a towel wrapped around his waist, he contemplated a shave, but couldn't muster the energy. Stubble would have to do.
Running a comb through his damp hair, he mentally psyched himself up for the long day ahead until—
"What the hell happened to you?"
Under the heading What Else Could Go Wrong, he heard Jasmine's voice behind him. Barging into his personal bathroom, she hadn't bothered to announce herself.
"Remind me to complain to hotel management. The bed sheets had too much starch." His muscles ached. Answering her questions came dead last on his list of priorities. "Ever heard of knocking?"
"Yes, a boring American ritual."
Dressed in khakis and a crisp white blouse, Jasmine sauntered by him and hopped onto his bathroom counter.
"Feel free to barge into my room any time . . . day or night." She smiled and winked. "I assure you, you'd find a much warmer reception."
"I'll bet. Guess if this assassin gig doesn't work out, Wal-Mart could use a greeter." He finished combing through his damp hair and tossed the comb onto the countertop. The dull ache in his head throbbed, fueling a mega dose of cynicism. "And be sure to include your knife skills on your resume. It'd come in handy when they slash prices. I've seen you in action."
"Action? You haven't seen anything, my sweet."
He ignored her usual brand of sexual innuendo. Something in her tone suggested she persisted simply because it got a rise out of him. After last night, he didn't have the frame of mind to put up with it. And to completely make his day, one of the gashes on his elbow started to drip blood down his forearm. He reached around her to grab a white washcloth.