She tore off a piece of pastry. “What is it?”
“Those guys from last night … do you owe them money?”
Chewing the bite she’d just taken, she stalled, not wanting to give away too much. “Yes, but I don’t think that’s what they’re after.”
“What are they after?”
“Blood.”
His jaw tightened at the answer. “There’s one thing I need to make clear before we move forward.” She regarded him warily. “What?” “I don’t like drugs. If you’re on something—” “I’m not,” she said, her cheeks warming. “Since when?”
“I haven’t even had a drink in years. Is that okay with you, Boy Scout?”
“Yes,” he said, curt.
She ate the rest of her pan dulce without really tasting it. “Why are you traveling by yourself?” His brows rose. “Why not?” “Are you a lone wolf?” “This from a woman who surfs solo.” “I have reasons for that.”
He lifted his cup to his lips, making a noncommittal sound.
“You’re not … involved with anyone?”
“No,” he said, glancing at her in surprise. “And I’ve never had a girlfriend who would be interested in this kind of vacation.”
She sipped her coffee, contemplative. He probably dated prissy Miss America types with perfect hair. There had been a lot of those in Hollywood, if she remembered correctly. “What about guy friends?”
He shrugged. “They all have lives, and I made the plans at the last minute. Besides, I don’t mind doing my own thing. Sometimes I prefer it.”
Isabel tried to imagine wanting to be alone, and couldn’t. “Do you have a family?”
“Yes.”
“Are you close?” she asked, embarrassed by the sudden pressure behind her eyes. Her estranged relationship with her mother was one of her greatest regrets. She couldn’t mend it from a distance, though she longed to.
His expression softened. “Yeah, we are. I’m an only child, but my parents are great. I see them almost every weekend.”
Isabel felt a pang of envy. She was also an only child, bewildered by her parents’ divorce, devastated by her father’s death. “Sounds nice.”
He gave her a measured look. “How long have you been in Mexico?”
“Too long,” she said, rising from the bed. With jerky motions, she took her knife holster out of her bag and cinched it around her waist. Reminding him—and herself—that she wasn’t weak or vulnerable. After lacing up her tennis shoes, she ducked into the bathroom. Bending over the sink, she scrubbed the sadness from her face. When her expression was sufficiently flat, she tied back her hair and brushed her teeth.
He rapped on the door, startling her. “They’re outside.”
She came out of the bathroom, her heart in her throat. “Where?”
“One in front, the other circling around back,” he said, brushing by her.
Isabel couldn’t believe Carranza’s men had caught up with them already. She knew they hadn’t followed her motorcycle last night. It was possible that La Familia had connections in this area, but unlikely.
Mind racing, she grabbed her messenger bag, crossing the strap over her chest.
Brandon shoved open the small bathroom window and stuck his head out, evaluating their only escape route. His shoulders would barely fit through. “We can get to the roof from here,” he said, gesturing for her to go first.
She shut the bathroom door and stepped forward, her stomach tight with dread. They were on the third story of the building. Hanging out of this tiny window was madness. When he put his hands on her hips, their eyes locked. He couldn’t promise not to let her fall, so he didn’t. She appreciated his lack of pretense.
She also appreciated his strength. He lifted her like she weighed nothing, boosting her up to the windowsill. She wiggled through the narrow opening, eyes swimming at the view of the cobblestone alleyway below. It was a long way down. Already dizzy, she twisted her body around until she was sitting on the ledge.
“I’ve got you,” he said, his arm locked around her waist.
She looked up, swallowing her fear. There was a terrace on the roof of the building, surrounded by a flimsy-looking metal railing. She had to let go of the windowsill and grab the lower edge of the railing. Hands trembling, she reached up, stretching her arms as far as she could. After a stomach-curling moment, in which she imagined a backward free fall, she grasped the railing and held tight.
“Do you have it?”
“I’ve got it.” Praying that the railing wouldn’t bend, she braced her feet on the ledge and straightened her legs, moving into a standing position on the windowsill. Brandon’s grip shifted to the backs of her knees, keeping her steady. He had to release her while she climbed along the side of the building. Using every ounce of strength she could muster, she pulled herself up and over the terrace railing, which vibrated in protest.
When she was safe, her feet planted on solid ground, she wanted to collapse into a boneless heap. Instead, she peered over the railing, wondering how Brandon would accomplish the feat without help.
He stuck his head out the window, seeming relieved to see her face. His teeth flashed white in a tense-looking grin. Although the narrow opening was a tighter squeeze for his long, rangy body, the climb was easier. He reached the terrace railing and pulled himself over it with effortless grace. They started running as soon as he hit the rooftop, reaching the other side of the terrace in seconds.
The adjacent buildings were lower levels, and smashed together with no spaces between, which was typical of Oaxaca City. They offered a fast getaway.
This time, Brandon went first, climbing over the terrace railing and jumping down to the next rooftop. Isabel followed quickly, falling into his arms. Again, his hands were efficient, rather than polite—and she enjoyed the feel of them.
They took off, traversing a block of rooftops before skidding to a halt at the edge of the last building. There was another two-story within jumping distance, but its perimeter was lined with broken glass. Brown beer bottles stuck up from the black tar, jagged ends sparkling. The low-budget security measure was common throughout Mexico.
And if the glass didn’t deter them, the snarling Doberman would. He bared his teeth, daring them to take the leap. A guard dog this size would deter any rooftop thief.
Brandon pulled her backward, searching for an alternative.
“There,” she said, pointing at a copper pipe.
They raced over to take a better look. The skinny pipe ran along the side of the building, feeding a pair of rusted water tanks on the surface. There was no sign of their friends, who were probably still raiding the hotel room.
Brandon swung down to the next window ledge, gripping the pipe with both hands. He tested its stability by putting most of his weight on it. When it held steady, he reached for her hand. She joined him on the ledge, her head spinning.
He whipped off his belt, tying her right wrist to the metal pipe.
“What will you use?” she asked.
“I don’t need anything,” he said, beginning the descent.
He was taking a shocking risk, but they didn’t have time to argue. While she watched him climb down, unsecured, her stomach was tied in knots. Aware that Carranza’s men could show up at any moment, her eyes darted across the rooftops, down the alley.
Brandon dropped the last six feet, rubbing his palms on his shirt. The coast was still clear, so he gestured for her to hurry.
She didn’t have his upper body strength at her disposal, but she wasn’t burdened by his heavier muscle mass, either. The pipe was smooth, almost slippery in her hands. If his belt didn’t hold, a fall from this height could break a leg, or a skull. She made her way down with painstaking care, her heart thundering in her chest. When she reached the end of the pipe, the muscles in her arms were quivering. Brandon unhitched her wrist and she let go, stumbling against him. He felt rock-solid and poised for action.
She caught a flash of movement at the end of t
he alley as he released her. The bigger man from last night strode toward them, his weapon drawn.
“Run,” Brandon said, pushing her in the opposite direction. As they fled, a round of bullets peppered the brick siding, ricocheting across the alley. Pieces of pulverized brick exploded through the air, whizzing past her ear. Isabel lowered her head, flying around the corner with Brandon right behind her.
They faced another long, narrow street. Too long. A beat-up taxi idled about a hundred feet away, its doors open. They’d be dead before they reached it.
Cursing, Brandon pulled a gun from his waistband and shoved her back against the side of the building, away from the bullets’ trajectory.
While she gaped at him, frozen with terror, he returned fire. The sound of approaching footsteps was lost in the report. Or perhaps Carranza’s man had been forced to stop pursuing them and take cover.
Isabel studied the weapon in Brandon’s hand, wondering where it came from. The acrid smell of gunshot residue stung her eyes and burned her nostrils. “Let’s move,” he said, pulling her toward the idling taxi. The driver dropped the suitcase he’d been about to load in the trunk and backed up slowly, his hands raised. Brandon kept his gaze on the cabby but spoke to Isabel. “Get in the driver’s seat.”
She got behind the wheel, her mind reeling. He climbed into the backseat. “Go!”
With a squeal of tires, they were off. Carranza’s man came tearing down the alley, shooting wild. Luckily, none of his bullets hit their target, and Brandon didn’t fire back. He was too busy holding on for dear life. Isabel took the corner so sharp he was thrown across the cab. As he righted himself, she swerved again, narrowly avoiding a head-on collision.
“Watch out!” he complained.
“Do you want to drive?” she asked, incensed.
“Damn it,” he said under his breath.
“What?”
“They’re following us.”
Isabel glanced in the rearview mirror, noting the shiny black rental car. Within seconds, it was gaining on them. Worse, the gunman stuck his arm out the window on the passenger side, preparing to shoot.
Brandon trained his weapon on the approaching vehicle. “Go faster.”
She was already punching it, testing the cab’s limits. Nevertheless, she picked up speed, weaving through traffic with reckless desperation. It was a miracle she didn’t hit anything. Driving in Mexico was crazy on a good day. Driving in Oaxaca City during morning rush hour with a couple of assassins following …
Well. A high-speed crash was likely. Shots rang out, echoing in her ears. Stifling a scream, she tried to drive and duck at the same time. “He’s going for the tires,” he said. “What should I do?”
“Swerve around! Don’t give him an easy target.”
She did the best she could, zigzagging across lanes of traffic, passing on the wrong side of the road. As she approached a busy intersection, her entire life flashed before her eyes. The green light turned yellow, then red.
“Run it,” he ordered.
She stepped on the gas, bracing herself for disaster. He leaned out the back window and squeezed off several shots. There was a terrific crash behind them as the pursuing car smashed into another vehicle.
Somehow, amidst angry honks and shrieking rubber, Isabel made it through the intersection.
She kept driving for several miles, feeling numb.
“Damn, that was close,” Brandon said in a low voice. He must have decided it was safe to face forward, because he was sitting there with his eyes closed, gun beside him on the backseat, hand on his heart. His face looked pale.
She wanted to ask about his gun, but she had another topic to discuss first. “How do you think they caught up with us?”
“I don’t know.”
“Do you have a cell phone?” His eyes flew open. Straightening, he drew a fancy smart phone from his pocket, checking the screen. “I had to turn it in at the police station.”
Isabel glanced in the rearview mirror. “Maybe they tracked it.”
“Damn it,” he said again. “I should have thought of that.”
She didn’t know why he would have. She was accustomed to danger and intrigue, and she’d overlooked it.
“Pull over right here,” he said, spotting a parked bus. He hopped out of the taxi and tossed his phone onto the roof of the bus. The destination sign read Mexico City. With any luck, Carranza’s men would follow it there.
When Brandon got back in the taxi, Isabel headed the opposite direction, taking a road that went to Tehuantepec. They had many miles to travel before hitting the midway point to Guatemala.
“Should we ditch this cab?” she asked.
He deliberated for a moment. They couldn’t drive a stolen vehicle with distinctive markings for long. “How much gas does it have?”
She checked the gauge. “A full tank.”
“I don’t have enough cash to buy another car. Do you?”
“No,” she said, her mouth twisting.
“If they can track my phone, they can track my credit card.”
“That’s probably true.”
“So let’s just get the hell out of town and go until it runs out of gas.”
She nodded, feeling an equal measure of anxiety and relief. Carranza could influence many of the top officials, but local forces weren’t very organized. They probably wouldn’t launch a state-wide manhunt for a stolen taxi. Even so, Isabel stayed away from the toll roads, choosing the bumpier, less regulated freeway.
Brandon watched the blur of landscape out the side window, saying nothing.
“Where did you get that gun?”
His eyes met hers in the rearview mirror, startled. “I picked it up last night in the parking garage.”
She hadn’t noticed. “Does your company test hunting gear, too? Rifles, handguns …”
“No,” he said, frowning. “But any good self-defense instructor knows how to use a variety of weapons.”
Another reasonable explanation, she thought sourly. “I guess we’re lucky that other guy wasn’t as accurate as you.”
“I wouldn’t be so sure.”
“What do you mean? None of the bullets hit us.” “You’re assuming he was trying to hit us.” She kept her eyes on the road in front of her, mulling his words over. “You think those were warning shots?” He didn’t respond.
“Why would they bother?” she persisted, glancing in the rearview mirror again.
Brandon shrugged, looking straight at her. “Maybe they want more than blood.”
Chapter 6
The drive to Tehuantepec was grueling.
Isabel hated sitting still for prolonged periods, especially if she was feeling stressed. Physical activity was her crutch, her comfort, her preferred method of dealing with tension. When she couldn’t move around, she felt edgy and claustrophobic. Although they’d taken turns behind the wheel, Brandon didn’t understand all of the road signs, so she couldn’t rest. Now he was stretched out in the backseat, asleep.
She knew he had a head injury, and that he’d been up most of the night, but she was still annoyed with him for drifting off. What he’d said about La Familia wanting more than blood haunted her. She’d been sure that the man she’d stabbed in the alley had planned to kill her. Had she made a terrible mistake?
Brandon’s presence bothered her even more than his words. He’d proven himself useful this morning—almost too useful. Any man in his right mind would be running the other direction after what they’d just experienced. Instead, he was sleeping like a baby, unperturbed. She glanced in the rearview mirror once again, contemplating his inelegant sprawl. One arm was bent behind his head, the other draped across his flat stomach. His T-shirt rode up, revealing a sexy whorl of hair around his navel.
She returned her attention to the road, moistening her lips. If this was his idea of fun, he had a few screws loose. Maybe that knock to the head had done some serious damage. When he came to his senses, he would leave her high and dry.
/> Near the outskirts of the city, she reached her breaking point. The afternoon sun shimmered on the horizon, playing tricks with her vision. They were running on fumes anyway. She pulled over next to a thick copse of trees by the side of the road.
Brandon jerked awake. “What is it?”
“We’re out of gas.”
He groaned, straightening his clothing as he sat up. Actually, it was more like he was adjusting his male parts, or making sure they were in the right place. She pulled her gaze away, her cheeks growing hot.
Removing a bottle of water from his pack, he took a long drink, studying their surroundings. “How far to …”
“Tehuantepec,” she supplied. “A few miles.”
“Let’s push the cab a little farther into the trees.”
She nodded, gathering her belongings from the front seat while he got behind the cab. Opening her door, she stood beside it, ready to help.
“Is it in neutral?” he asked.
“Of course.”
He shoved the back end and she cranked the wheel, guiding the cab toward the heavy underbrush. Together, they wedged the small vehicle into the foliage. By the time it was found, they’d be across the border.
Brandon turned around and made good use of the trees while she found a more private spot to relieve herself. They reconvened by the side of the road, preparing to walk the rest of the way. It was blazing hot and muggy outside, typical weather for the area. As they approached the next road sign, Isabel’s tank top was damp with sweat.
Tehuantepec 20 km.
“That’s more than a few miles,” he said in an even tone. “The car was almost out of gas,” she shot back, irritated with him, and herself, and the entire situation. “Almost out, or out?”
She narrowed her eyes, daring him to continue this line of questioning. He wisely refrained. “I was worried about getting stranded on an open stretch of road, with no trees around to hide the cab.”
He examined the highway, which was lined with lush greenery.
Isabel clenched her hand into a fist. “If you wanted to call the shots, maybe you should have stayed awake.”
A muscle in his jaw flexed. “Fair enough.”
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