One Last Breath

by Laura Griffin

  She had to find Marco.

  Maybe he was trapped somewhere, too. Otherwise, he would have come by now. And what about McAllister? Something had happened to them both. Something awful, she just knew it.

  She’d never forgive herself for coming up with this stupid, stupid idea.

  She got on her knees and tried to stand up, which was impossible because of the way her ankles were tied. Maybe if she did a somersault, she’d have enough momentum to—

  Her attention swung to the door as it creaked open. Someone was coming, striding briskly across the concrete. She knew the gait and the silhouette, even though he was backlit and she could hardly see his face until he crouched in front of her.

  “Feenie, Feenie, Feenie. What are you up to now?”

  Josh reached for her cheek. She jerked her head back.

  “You’ve got a nasty cut here, Feen. You should take better care of yourself.”

  He stood up, and she got a nose full of Polo Safari. She wanted to retch. He wore Italian loafers and dress slacks—still playing the dapper attorney, apparently. He stared down at her with those flinty gray eyes.

  “You’re a real pain in the ass, you know that?”

  She mumbled against the cloth.

  He patted the front of his sport coat and retrieved a small Swiss Army knife from the pocket. He cut the bandana tied around her face and threw it aside. Progress. At least she could talk.

  “You say something?”

  “So I’ve been told,” she croaked.

  He looked down at her. “I bet your detective can’t keep up with you, either. What’s his name? Manuel? Miguel? José?”

  She refused to take the bait. Instead, she coughed and tried to expel the dust from her lungs.

  “Not much of a PI, but then, neither are you. Did you really think you’d bring me down with your little investigative-reporter bit?” He knelt in front of her again and stroked a finger over her nipple. She winced, and a smile spread across his face.

  “Maybe he’s good in bed. Is that it? Brings out your wild side? I always knew you had one, but you were too prissy to admit it.” He stood up again, grinning now. “I should thank you, come to think of it. If you’d been any good, I wouldn’t have decided to broaden my sexual horizons. I might still be turning in time sheets at that damn law firm. The import business’s much more lucrative.”

  “You’re going to jail, Josh.” She hoped he didn’t hear the quiver in her voice.

  “Now, where’d you get that idea? Is that what your sources tell you? That I’m being indicted, maybe? Well, I’ve got news for you, Feenie. And feel free to quote me on this: It doesn’t matter. I’m invisible now. No one knows where I am or where I’m going, and I’ve got so much money socked away, I don’t ever have to come back.”

  She balked. “What about your father? Is he going, too? He has a heart condition. I’m sure life on the run will be great for his health.”

  His face hardened. She’d hit a nerve.

  “And what about your mother, Josh? You plan to just leave her behind to explain your crimes? She’s doted on you your entire life, and this is how you treat her?”

  He set his jaw. “Don’t pretend to know my family, Feenie. You were never one of us. My parents always told me I was marrying down, and I should have listened.”

  He spat on the ground in front of her and turned around.

  “Where are you going?” she yelped.

  He whirled back, clearly delighted by her panic. “Oh, I’m sorry. I’ve got a plane to catch. This place is empty now, except for you. But hey, don’t worry. I’ve hired someone to keep you company. I’ve told him to shut you up. Permanently.”

  Her stomach clenched. “You don’t even have the guts to do it yourself? You brought your hit man down here to do it for you? You always were a spineless shit!”

  He smirked. “You mean Brassler? You think I’d call him down from El Paso just for your sorry ass? He charges twenty K a pop, Feenie. I reserve that kind of cash for real obstacles. Like nosy cops, not pissant reporters. You have an inflated ego. Always have.”

  His smile widened. “I’ve got better plans for you.” He took a pack of cigarettes from his breast pocket and tapped one out. Then he struck a match and held it to the end. After taking a drag, he exhaled a long stream of smoke.

  “Still dreaming about fire, Feenie?”

  Juarez was getting desperate. He’d scoured the warehouse without finding a trace. Then he’d run into McAllister, and the reporter had gone pale at the news that Feenie was missing. Juarez had sent him into town to try to get help from the local police. And in case they seemed reluctant to get involved, Juarez had given McAllister Hector’s phone number to use as a last resort.

  Then he’d reentered the compound. After ripping his T-shirt and tucking his gun into his boot, Juarez had posed as one of the workers and checked every truck on the premises. No sign of her. He’d checked the second warehouse, too, and nothing. The only place he hadn’t been was the boat tied up by the dock, but it had just arrived.

  Now oozing with frustration and sweat, Juarez stacked a crate onto the bed of an eighteen-wheeler and scanned the area. The place was emptying, and it wouldn’t be long before someone noticed he didn’t belong. He had to find her soon.

  A gust of wind moved through the compound, kicking up dust and stirring the vegetation around the buildings. Something shiny gleamed through the trees—just for an instant—then it was gone.

  Metal. There was another building.

  Feenie struggled against the bindings, pushing the rope at her wrists with both feet. Blood covered her hands, and the pain was excruciating, but she didn’t care. Josh had locked the door behind him. If she didn’t break through the bindings, she didn’t have a shot in hell of getting out alive.

  She heard footsteps near the entrance and froze. Was he back? Or had Marco finally come? The door remained shut. Gravel crunched along the side of the warehouse. Someone was circling the place. Doing what? God, could they be pouring gasoline? She imagined her skin on fire, smoking and crackling and turning black. She imagined the smell, the sound.

  She had to get out.

  She positioned both feet between her wrists and strained against the rope with all her might. Her skin tore as the rope inched over her hands. A sob burst out of her as she yanked her hands free. Ignoring the blood streaming from her cuts, she stooped over and frantically went to work on her ankles.

  Smoke. She didn’t see it, but she smelled it. The acrid fumes were unmistakable, the stuff of her nightmares.

  Her fingers trembled as she fought with the bindings. Finally, the knot came loose.

  Then a gunshot sounded, and the door burst open.

  Juarez saw blood and ran toward her. “Are you hit?”

  “No! We have to get out!”

  Smoke filled the warehouse as he pulled her, limping, toward the door. He eyed the metal drums. Shit, what was in those? He didn’t want to stick around and find out.

  He stepped over the body near the doorway—the guy who’d started the fire. He looked about sixteen, and for an instant, Juarez regretted shooting him. But the kid had pulled a gun, and he’d forgotten everything except making it to Feenie. After yanking her through the doorway, he knelt down and checked the kid’s pulse. Faint but detectable.

  “Can you walk?” he barked at Feenie.

  She nodded. “Where’s McAllister?”

  “He went for help. Get away from the building!”

  She hobbled toward a clump of trees. Holding his gun with one hand, Juarez grabbed the laces of the kid’s boots with the other. He followed Feenie across a wide swath of grass, dragging the kid behind him. They stopped about fifty yards away from the warehouse.

  Feenie slid to the ground near a tree. Blood streamed down her hands, and her shoeless feet were smeared with red. Ditching his gun, Juarez kneeled in front of her and carefully took her forearms. The blood was trickling from abrasions on her wrists. Messy but not fatal.
r />   “Are you okay?” he asked.

  She stared up at him and nodded numbly. Then her eyes focused on something behind him. Juarez followed her gaze to a black Suburban as it halted by the open warehouse door. Garland jumped out, cursing, and started toward the door. He seemed to notice the trail of blood leading from the building and whirled around. He spotted them and fumbled inside his jacket. Juarez reached for his gun, but it was gone. Fuck!

  Then Feenie was on her feet, the Glock trembling in her hands.

  “Get down!” He lunged for her, and a shot rang out.

  Chapter

  19

  M arco pulled into the parking lot and cut the engine. Feenie stared, dazed, at the blinking neon sign. The parking lot was nearly empty, so they must have a vacancy.

  “Wait here,” he said.

  She nodded. She couldn’t have moved if she’d wanted to. Her muscles were limp, and every joint ached. She examined her bandaged wrists. They were beginning to throb now—the anesthetic was wearing off. The doctor had given her several shots before stitching up her torn skin. Twenty-two stitches in all.

  Josh had been wheeled into the same emergency room, such as it was. Even with shaking hands, Feenie had managed to put a bullet in his thigh. She’d caught a glimpse of him handcuffed to a gurney and accompanied by a fleet of Mexican officials. His entourage also had included a few Americans. McAllister, apparently, had made it into town and contacted the FBI.

  Special Agent Rowe had been the first to arrive at the ER. He’d winked at Feenie across the hospital beds, and she’d burst into tears.

  George Purnell had taken her statement. She’d answered his questions in a dull monotone as she watched the doctor stitch her wounds. In, out, in, out, the needle had traveled through her flesh.

  Then Purnell had disappeared, and Marco had materialized at her side. He’d watched her closely, not saying much, until her discharge papers finally arrived. Some money changed hands. When Marco stuffed the forms into his back pocket, she’d noticed the Glock tucked into his waistband. Security in small-town Mexican hospitals seemed a bit lacking.

  He’d piled her into his truck and driven to the nearest motel. It was a dilapidated row of rooms situated next to a bait camp. A sign nearby—this one in English—advertised deep-sea fishing trips.

  A young American-looking couple exited one of the rooms. Feenie watched, mildly interested, as they held hands and walked to their car. When was the last time she’d held hands with someone like that? The guy opened the woman’s door and kissed her before helping her in. They looked like newlyweds on a budget honeymoon—flushed, happy, probably going out for a late dinner after a couple of hours in the privacy of their cheap motel. Feenie felt a twinge of jealousy as they pulled away.

  Marco’s door squeaked open.

  “Where’s McAllister?” she asked. She suddenly realized she hadn’t seen him since the hospital, where he’d been talking to Purnell and some of the Mexican authorities.

  “On his way back.” He tossed a room key onto the dashboard and drove the truck across the lot. “I told him I’d get you home.” He glanced at her. “He was kind of a dick about it. I think he likes you.”

  Feenie sighed and stared out the window.

  Marco parked at the very end of the lot, in front of room twelve. He got out, came around to her side, and opened the door. Without saying anything, he scooped her into his arms and backed against the door to shut it. When they got inside, he laid her gingerly across the bed.

  “Don’t move,” he said, and disappeared into the bathroom. The pipes hummed and whistled behind the door.

  Feenie eased back against the pillow and surveyed her surroundings. The place was decorated in a beach motif, with light blue paint and a wallpaper border of faded sand dollars. The threadbare bedspread probably had been a matching blue at one time but was bleached white near the window. Dusty miniblinds covered the glass.

  A shaft of light shone from the bathroom as Marco came out.

  “I made you a bath.” He reached down to lift her, but she sat up on her elbows.

  “I can do it,” she said. “I’m not an invalid.”

  She walked to the bathroom, trying not to limp. He followed her into the cramped room and stripped off her T-shirt.

  “I can do it,” she repeated, swatting his hands away. One look at her skin under the fluorescent light had her grimacing. She had bruises scattered across her rib cage and brown bloodstains on her bra. Her hair had become a mass of frizz. Not a very appealing look. She’d just been through hell, but still, she had her vanity. She didn’t want him seeing her like this.

  “I’m fine,” she said, holding the doorknob. She hoped he’d take the hint and leave her alone.

  He clenched his jaw and walked out.

  In the privacy of the tiny bathroom, she ditched the rest of her clothes. She couldn’t stand the sight of herself in the horrible light, so she flipped the switch and surrounded herself with darkness. She felt better immediately. She dipped a toe in the water. He’d made it hot but not scalding, and she felt grateful as she lowered her body into the bath, trying to block out the pain as the water touched her cut ankles. The doctor had instructed her not to get her wrists wet, so she propped them on the side of the tub and let the water envelop her.

  She must have dozed off. She awoke to the sound of running water and the smell of something sweet. Shampoo? Marco knelt beside the tub, silhouetted against the glow of the bedroom. He worked a fra-grant lather into her hair and massaged her scalp.

  “That feels nice,” she murmured, unable to muster the energy to be embarrassed. He’d seen her naked before, and at least it was too dark for him to get a good look at her bruises. The water from the faucet warmed the bath, which had grown cool. She must have dozed longer than she’d thought. Her wrists and ankles were feeling better.

  “Lean back,” he said, and helped her dunk her head under. After rinsing out the foam, he pulled a towel from the bar by the door. It was hardly bigger than a dishcloth, but it was all they had. She got out of the bathtub and he squeezed the water from her hair and patted it with the towel. She combed her hands through it, wondering how bad it was going to look tomorrow without conditioner to tame her curls.

  Marco had turned down the bed, and now he eased her back against the cool white sheets. A halo of light came from the sole lamp on the table by the door, and she noticed a McDonald’s bag sitting next to it.

  “You went out?”

  “We needed some things, and I thought you might be hungry.” He smiled faintly. “I got you a Happy Meal.”

  She closed her eyes and dropped her arm across her face. She wouldn’t cry. It was just a hamburger, for God’s sake. “Thanks,” she muttered.

  The mattress sank as he stretched out next to her. She felt naked. Vulnerable. She was naked. If he touched her, she would definitely cry. He picked up her hand, and a hot tear slid down her cheek.

  She opened her eyes and turned to look at him. He was propped on an elbow, staring down at her. His eyes looked softer than she’d ever seen them.

  “Sorry,” she said, wiping her cheek.

  He kissed her. She tensed at first, but he didn’t seem to care. He kissed her long and thoroughly until her tension slipped away. She draped her bandaged arms around his neck and pulled him closer. He was warm. Strong. Solid. She didn’t want to let go. His mouth trailed down her neck, settled for a moment at her breast, and then moved tenderly over her bruised torso.

  “Why did you come for me?” she asked quietly.

  His hands stilled on her hips, and he glanced up. Would he admit that he cared about her? Would he tell her he loved her? She knew, after today, she’d been wrong about him. His vendetta mattered to him, yes. But she mattered to him, too. He’d been ready to take a bullet for her, and he would have, if she hadn’t shot Josh first.

  She combed her hands through his hair as he looked at her. But he didn’t answer her question. Instead, he turned his head into her hand an
d began kissing her fingers, one by one, careful not to touch her bandages as he sucked the sensitive tips. He watched her as he did it, and she’d never felt anything so erotic in her life.

  She didn’t care about confessions anymore. Whatever he wasn’t saying, he could keep it to himself, at least for now. Now she just wanted to forget about everything that had brought them here and just be.

  She closed her eyes as he moved down her body. The heat of his mouth took over, winning out over all her aches and pains. His complete gentleness brought a different kind of pain—a tight lump that clogged her throat, refusing to go away. But somehow she found a way to ignore that, too. Her mind drifted, shutting out everything but that exact moment, the rasp of his zipper, the sound of his clothes hitting the floor, the warm feel of him next to her. Soon they were skin to skin, her legs twined around him, as her body slid into oblivion.

  Gray bands of light seeped through the blinds and made a pattern of stripes across the bed. She nestled back against him, liking the weight of his arm around her waist.

  “Marco?” she whispered.

  “Hmm?”

  She turned toward him. His eyes were closed, and he was smiling slightly.

  “What?”

  “You called me Marco.” He opened his eyes, and the smile widened.

  “So?”

  “So, you’ve been calling me that since that night on my boat. Before, you always called me Juarez.”

  She frowned. She hadn’t noticed.

  “I like it,” he said, tucking a curl behind her ear. His finger trailed over her side. She knew without looking that he was tracing her scar. It was pink and jagged, shaped sort of like a sickle. Josh had hated it. He’d urged her more than once to have a plastic surgeon remove it, but she never could bring herself to do it. It didn’t seem right to erase something like that.