She’d stabbed a man. Maybe killed him.
Not only that, she’d left Brandon in the lurch. Mexican officials might let him off the hook, but Carranza’s men wouldn’t.
“Oh, God,” she moaned, fisting a hand in her hair. What was she going to do?
As soon as the nausea passed, she rose to her feet and wiped her mouth, grabbing a bottle of water from her pack. After spitting out the first sip, she drank a small amount, afraid the liquid would come back up.
Brandon had saved her life. She’d ditched him at Playa Perdida, and pulled a knife on him in the alley, but he’d stepped in to rescue her anyway. Showing zero consideration for his own well-being, he’d tackled the gunman. And how did she repay him for that gallant act? By running away.
She felt terrible.
The past two years had been harrowing, lonely and intense. She felt like she’d been dodging bullets forever. She didn’t want to be a fugitive from justice anymore. And she couldn’t stand the thought of another man’s blood on her hands.
Head pounding, she swung her leg over the bike, gunning the engine. The problem with being on the run in Mexico was that she didn’t know who to trust. Crooked officers were common because of low government wages. She couldn’t go to the police, and she wasn’t sure the embassies were safe. Carranza had a wide sphere of influence.
As hiding places went, this country wasn’t the best choice. But she hadn’t figured out who she was running from until after she crossed the border. Now she was stuck. She couldn’t stay here, and she was afraid to go home.
The least she could do was try to find out what happened to Brandon. Maybe she could warn him. He might be in danger because of her, and he was obviously an innocent bystander. She felt responsible for his safety.
Decision made, she turned her bike around, driving toward the muted lights of Puerto Escondido. At early evening, the air smelled like hot asphalt and thick vegetation. Crickets chirped in unison, creating a shrill cacophony. Farther out, blue-black waves lapped at the pale shoreline, lulling the city to sleep.
Well, not the whole city. The palapa bars that raged until sunup were several blocks from Brandon’s hotel. Raucous shouts were only murmurs at this distance, the music pulsing like a faint heartbeat.
She slowed her bike to a stop in a quiet area near The Pelican, taking cover behind a block wall. The spot wasn’t comfortable, but it offered a decent vantage point. She could see the courtyard and the carport.
An hour later, two men in a rental car parked on the opposite side of the street. They headed to the carport first, pausing by Brandon’s SUV. It was dark, so Isabel wasn’t sure what they were doing. Searching his vehicle, perhaps. After a few moments, they moved on, settling down in a pair of lawn chairs in the dimly lit courtyard.
Isabel stayed hidden, her pulse racing. These were Carranza’s men, without a doubt. She assumed the Mexican police would deliver Brandon to them. How could she alert him to their presence?
“Damn,” she whispered, crouching lower. The longer she lingered here, the higher her chances of getting caught became. Her mind raced with options, all unpleasant. She could flee the scene or hang back and watch it unfold.
This wasn’t going to be pretty.
Brandon’s handcuffs were removed, along with his personal effects. Sans wallet and cell phone, he was tossed into a holding area.
He couldn’t imagine a more unappealing place. It was constructed of metal and concrete. No lights or windows, no bench to sit on. A drain in the corner was the single amenity. It smelled like puke and urine.
There were two other men with him, one white, one Mexican. Both drunk.
He leaned against the wall, ignoring his cell mates. He’d never been on this side of the bars before. It was distinctly unpleasant.
After what seemed like hours, the two officers who’d collared him came back. Although he wasn’t looking forward to a long interrogation, he was happy to leave the stinking confines of the jail cell.
He was led to a restroom, where he scrubbed his hands, cringing at the blood under his fingernails. They continued on to an interrogation area in the back of the building that consisted of three chairs and a scarred wooden table.
Brandon took a seat, stretching out his long legs. “Am I under arrest?”
The English-speaking cop sat across from him. “Not yet.”
“How’s the guy who got stabbed?”
“I can’t say.”
He shifted in his chair, uneasy. If the man was dead, Brandon could be looking at a murder charge. That would be a major roadblock.
“Why don’t you tell us what happened?” the cop said.
Nodding, Brandon raked a hand through his hair. He didn’t want to say too much, but it was always best to stick close to the truth. Someone might have seen Isabel fleeing the scene. “I was having a beer at Señor Frog’s. On my way back to the hotel, I took a wrong turn and ended up in the alley. I saw a man and a woman, struggling. I thought he was attacking her. When he pulled a gun, I rushed him.”
The cop frowned at the term. “Rushed?”
“I ran at him,” Brandon explained. “I grabbed his arm and the bullet went flying. We fell to the ground. He dropped the gun. The girl ran away.”
“Where did she go?”
“I have no idea.”
“Did you stab him?”
“No,” Brandon said. “I assume she did. She had the knife.”
“Describe her.”
Brandon hesitated, although he remembered every exquisite detail. Honeyed skin, almost-black hair, whiskey-brown eyes. He could have described the dip of her belly button and the shape of her breasts. “Small,” he said, moistening his lips.
“Short?”
“No … slim. Dark hair.”
“Is that it?”
Brandon pretended to think for another minute. “She was wearing a hat.”
To his surprise, the officer didn’t ask him any more questions. “Okay, Mr. North. That’s all we need.”
Relief washed over him. “I can leave?”
“Yes. We’ll take you to your hotel. The Pelican, right?”
“Right.” They’d asked where he was staying earlier. “Thank you.” He couldn’t believe they were letting him go after such a brief interview, but he wasn’t going to ask for a longer visit. After his belongings were returned, the officers dropped him off at his hotel, wishing him a pleasant vacation.
Brandon thanked them again and got out of the squad car. As he approached the courtyard entrance, the hairs on the back of his neck prickled with awareness. Something wasn’t right. They’d wasted his time, and then rushed him along, for a reason. What were the odds that the cops had communicated with Carranza?
He paused, weighing his options. There was no view of the courtyard or his hotel room door from this side of the street. He could circle around, through the carport, or back away and get the hell out of here.
Leaving on foot would look suspicious, and he didn’t want to be without his vehicle—or the gun he’d stashed in it. Instead of playing it safe, he switched directions, heading toward the covered carport. Although it was dark inside, he could tell he was alone. He unlocked the SUV and slid into the driver’s seat, putting the key in the ignition.
The engine wouldn’t turn over.
Brandon tried again, frowning. It was dead.
He caught a flash of motion in the carport and realized he should have taken off running. Before he could reach for his weapon, a dark figure appeared at the driver’s side, tapping on the window with the barrel of a 9mm.
Damn, damn, damn.
He held his hands up where the man could see them, his heart in his throat.
“Get out,” the thug said, gesturing with his gun. He was tall, with rounded shoulders and a thick neck. Brandon recognized him as Gaucho Rodriguez, an enforcer for the La Familia drug cartel.
Brandon exited the vehicle, playing along. “It’s all yours, bro! Take it.”
Gaucho ha
d a partner. A smaller man stood at the rear of the vehicle, studying Brandon with narrowed eyes. This was Ernestino Garcia, more commonly known as Pelón, for his balding head. Both Pelón and Gaucho were top-level members and convicted felons; they weren’t here to mess around.
“We need to speak with you in your hotel room,” Pelón said.
Brandon gaped at him stupidly, buying time. There was no way he’d allow this pair of miscreants to take him to a more private location. So they could tie him up and torture him for information? No, thank you.
Then again, the gun pressed to his ribs was a powerful motivator.
“Okay,” he said, swallowing hard. “Whatever you say. I have the key around here somewhere …”
Pelón gestured to Gaucho, who shoved Brandon against the hood of the SUV and started patting him down. So far, so good. Before Gaucho emptied his pockets, Brandon said, “I think it’s on the passenger seat.”
As Pelón walked around the side of the vehicle to check, Brandon noticed a shadowy form at the edge of the carport.
Isabel.
Her presence complicated matters, but he couldn’t squander this opportunity. The instant Pelón’s attention was diverted, Brandon flew into motion, jamming his elbow into Gaucho’s nose. It connected with a sickening crunch.
Gaucho howled in pain and stumbled back a step. Whirling to face him, Brandon kicked the weapon from his hand. It went clattering across the concrete slab, coming to rest underneath the adjacent car. Before Brandon could follow up with another punch, Gaucho charged, slamming his meaty shoulder into Brandon’s midsection. Brandon landed on his back, the oxygen rushing from his lungs.
Jesus Christ. The guy weighed a ton.
He also had fists like hams. Gripping the front of Brandon’s shirt, Gaucho pummeled his face, splitting his eyebrow, busting his lip. His head rocked back against the concrete with every impact. Stars exploded behind his eyes and pain blossomed in his skull, creating a brutal symphony of sound and light.
Brandon managed to bring his fist up, striking a hard blow to his opponent’s ear. Stunned, and probably a little winded, Gaucho lost focus. Brandon kept swinging, connecting with his target twice more in rapid succession. Realizing he was in trouble, Gaucho slumped to the side, reaching underneath the car for his gun. Before he could close his fingers around it, Brandon scrambled upright, jumping on his back. He wrapped his arm around Gaucho’s thick neck and employed a classic choke hold.
In his peripheral vision, which was growing dark, Brandon could see Pelón coming. Isabel appeared behind him, wielding a brick. She knocked him over the head with it, showing no mercy. He crumpled to the ground, unconscious.
Brandon appreciated her assistance, but he was too busy to acknowledge her. All of his energy was focused on choking the man underneath him into submission. Blood from his brow dripped into his left eye, blinding him. Finally, Gaucho’s body went slack. Brandon released his grip, exhausted.
Isabel wore the same expression he’d seen in the alleyway. Fear, horror, guilt.
Sweating profusely, he wiped his face with the back of his hand and glanced at the man she’d brained. There was no blood, and his chest was moving with shallow breaths.
“Do you think he’ll be okay?” she asked, nibbling a fingertip.
“I don’t know,” he said, rolling away from the man underneath him. “This one will wake up soon, I guarantee it.”
Her eyes darted toward the street. “Let’s get out of here before the police come back.”
Brandon’s brain felt like a scrambled egg. He was dizzy and fatigued, his mouth filled with the metallic taste of his own blood. There was no time to ask questions. Mute, he retrieved his backpack from the vehicle and they left the carport together.
She had a beat-up motorcycle parked nearby. It wasn’t built for two but Brandon figured it would hold their weight. He mounted the bike first, trying to make room for her. She ended up sitting on him.
“Do you know how to drive this thing?”
“Sort of,” she said, starting the engine.
The situation was surreal, like an out-of-body experience. Brandon might be able to process it in a few hours. For now, he was on autopilot, his head spinning. A minute ago, he’d been participating in a violent fistfight. Now he had a deadly female in his lap.
“I owe you one,” he said, putting his arm around her waist.
She glanced around to make sure the road was clear before pressing on the gas. “We’re even.”
Chapter 4
The highway from Puerto Escondido to Oaxaca City wasn’t for the faint of heart.
During the day, the hairpin turns, deep potholes and absent road signs kept even the most experienced drivers on their toes. At night, the journey was extremely dangerous, almost impassable.
The good news was that they were all alone.
Isabel went as fast as she dared, watching out for headlights and herd animals, feeling safer with every mile gained. Brandon voiced no complaints but she sensed his discomfort. Every time they went over a hard bump or around a sharp curve, his arm tightened around her waist and his shoulders tensed, as if he was steeling himself from the pain. He’d taken some hard knocks to the head.
She’d been surprised by the skill and ferocity of his counterattack. He’d shown no hesitation in taking on a much larger man. She still wasn’t sure how he’d managed to break free. One moment he was getting pummeled, the next he was choking his opponent into submission. Isabel had watched the brutish display with a mixture of awe and unease, mesmerized by the corded muscles in his neck.
Although she’d known he was fast, she’d underestimated his strength. His lean elegance was deceptive. He fought like a professional.
She shivered at the thought. Even now, after hours on the road, she was aware of the hard thighs beneath her bottom, the locked forearm around her waist and the solid wall of his chest against her back. Well-built surfers were the rule, rather than the exception, but they didn’t typically excel at ultra violence. Her mind raced with questions, and she had to force herself not to squirm on his lap.
Who the hell was he?
The noise of the engine and the speed of travel inhibited conversation. By the time the city lights of Oaxaca were visible, it was well past midnight, and Isabel was exhausted. “I’m going to find a hotel,” she said as soon as they exited the highway.
Brandon made a sound of agreement. His injuries needed attention, and he had to be as tired as she was. If he wanted to take his chances at the airport, or split up, he was welcome to hail a cab from the hotel.
Finding a place to stay wasn’t easy at this hour. She spotted a run-down three-story building, well off the main drag, with a private parking garage and a back exit. Luckily, there was an employee at the gate.
“Pretend you’re drunk,” she murmured to Brandon.
He slumped against her back, compliant.
After a brief exchange with the guard, who was happy to accept cash in exchange for a room key, she parked her motorcycle and helped Brandon up the stairs. He leaned on her, either playing drunk or because he was really hurting.
The room was cramped but clean. She flipped on the light, relieved when a ceiling fan whirred into motion. It was hot in here. At least there was a private bath, as promised. She urged Brandon toward the bed, sweat trickling between her breasts.
He sat down on the mattress, groaning as he touched his temple. Blood had matted his left eyebrow and dried in dark rivulets along his jaw. His mouth was swollen, his shirt torn. He looked like he’d lost a bar fight.
She wondered if he had a concussion, though he’d never lost consciousness. “Is anything broken?”
He rested his head against the pillows. “Just my skull.”
Going to the hospital wasn’t an option. “I’ll try to get you some ice,” she said, grabbing the bucket from the nightstand. Ice was a luxury amenity in a dive hotel like this, so she was pleased to find a functional ice maker on the bottom floor. There was
also a vending machine. After returning to the room, she emptied a pillowcase and filled it with a few handfuls of ice. “Here,” she said, pressing the makeshift pack to his temple.
“Thanks,” he said, holding it in place.
She rummaged through her messenger bag, which had a first aid kit, complete with bandages and over-the-counter painkillers. Ripping open the square package, she offered him the two pills in her upturned palm. He washed them down with water and leaned back again, closing his eyes. His cuts needed to be cleaned, but that could wait until the pills kicked in. “Are you hungry? The vending machine has snacks.”
He didn’t say no, so she returned to the bottom floor to buy cold sodas, snack cakes and tortilla chips. She carried the items upstairs and set them on the nightstand. “If you want to shower, you should do it now, before I fix you up.”
“You go first,” he said, his lips barely moving.
She took her bag into the bathroom, eager to wash and change. The mirror was small and scratched but it reflected her unsightly appearance all too well. There was an ugly scrape on her cheek and dark circles under her eyes.
“Ugh,” she said, pulling off her soiled clothes. They stank of sweat and blood and vehicle exhaust. She stepped into the shower stall and stood under the weak, lukewarm spray, her heart pounding with anxiety.
She’d stabbed a man. Killed him, maybe. Reliving the sensation of his blood gushing over her hands, she scrubbed them with a little too much vigor. Using the harsh soap, she lathered every inch of her body, trying to remove the taint of death.
Murderer, the hissing showerhead whispered. Murderer, criminal, thief.
She rinsed off and left the stall, drying her tingling skin with a nubby towel. There was a tank top and a pair of drawstring pants in her messenger bag. She dressed quickly, not bothering with a bra, and hung up her wet towel on the way out.
Brandon looked a little more alert. He’d opened his soda and finished a bag of chips. His blue eyes traveled down her body, settling on her bare toes. Her mind flashed back to the days of four-star hotels with spa services and complimentary pedicures.
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