by Trish Loye
When he joined Quinn with the coffee, she sat behind a fat monitor hooked into a large desktop computer.
“I see they like to keep the dinosaurs around,” he said.
“Probably anything newer gets stolen,” she replied.
“Can you isolate it from the network?”
“On it.” She tapped the keys for a minute and then nodded. “We’re good.”
He placed the pink flash drive on the table. He didn’t want to sneak a copy of the information behind her back. Quinn looked from the flash drive to him, her gaze full of silent questions. Marc just raised his eyebrows. He could do silent answers. She nodded and took the spare flash drive. “Nice color choice,” she muttered.
He ignored that. “Let’s see what all the fuss is about.”
She slid Anna’s USB into the port and clicked on the file when it popped up. “It’s in English,” she said when the files showed up on screen.
Each file had a name. “Isn’t Robert Lowell the guy running for election in the UK?” he asked Quinn. “The man of the people?”
Quinn nodded. “The other names… A few I recognize—Scott Timmerman’s a merc—but most I don’t.” She clicked on Lowell’s file first.
Marc read through Anna Bishop’s notes and then swore in a low voice. “No wonder they want this file back. It implicates Lowell in drug trafficking.”
Quinn started clicking through the files and narrating for him. “These two are FARC leaders who are moving into politics. It’s been suspected that they’re keeping their drug trade alive to fund their political ambitions.” She bit her lip. “So FARC is still pulling Pérez’s strings.”
“What’s Lowell’s connection to all this?”
Quinn tapped her fingers on the desk and stared at the files. Then she sucked in a breath and clicked on another name. “This woman, Susan Nelson, works for SIS. She’s high up… Fuck. She’s Damien’s boss.”
“What are the chances that Damien’s clean then?”
“Not good. Damn.” She shook her head and continued to read. “She and Lowell dated last year. Anna suspected they’re still secretly together. With Nelson’s connections, they’d have an easier time bringing the cocaine into the UK.”
Marc pointed to another file for Quinn to open, and they both read. “Lowell worked as a junior political officer in the Colombian embassy when he was starting out,” Marc stated.
“Bet that’s where he made his FARC connections.”
“Anna worked on this for a long time, and not just here in Colombia,” he said.
“Agreed. I have to get this into Fletcher’s hands,” Quinn said. “The election is coming up. We can’t have a corrupt prime minister with trafficking connections in power.”
“So who do you think is sending the thugs after us?” Marc asked. “Pérez or Lowell?”
“Most likely both.”
“I think we need to ditch all contact with the outside world until we meet up with my team.”
She shook her head and didn’t bother to make a copy on the pink flash drive before she wiped the files from the computer. “Why should I trust your team?”
“Do you trust me?” he asked.
“I trusted Damien and look where that got me.”
He grabbed her hand, holding her when she would have stood. They needed to have each other’s backs if they wanted to survive. “I get it. You feel like you’re on your own. But we need to work together.”
She looked down at their joined hands before she connected their gazes again. “Let’s just say I trust you for now.”
“Fair enough.” He wanted her unconditional trust, but he didn’t have the right to demand it when he couldn’t give her his. “Let’s go grab our stuff and shift hotels. I’m feeling antsy about the one we have now.”
“Too late,” she murmured, pocketing the flash drive and the spare, her gaze on the door.
Four men entered the shop, their eyes adjusting to the dim light. Marc took his coffee and poured it on the main drive of the system. Sparks and a touch of smoke smelling of burnt plastic followed. Quinn nodded her approval. He grabbed her hand and pulled her to the back door of the cafe.
“We can take them,” she whispered, looking back.
“Why risk it?”
She grimaced. “I hate being chased. I’d rather just turn and fight.”
He grinned, a retort on his lips as they slipped out the back door into a small parking lot. His grin disappeared when he saw the two men with shotguns pointed at them. “Looks like you’ve got your chance.”
He brought his hands up, even as Quinn turned in to him as if he could keep her safe somehow. The move brought out his protective instincts, even if it didn’t fit her character. He stepped a bit in front of her, shielding her.
“Easy, gentlemen,” he said in Spanish. “What can we do for you?” Quinn’s hand slid under the back of his shirt, and it took effort to keep a serious look on his face when he just wanted to applaud the woman.
“We want her,” the one said.
Quinn pulled Marc’s Sig Sauer from the holster.
“Please,” she whimpered, leaving her head tucked close to his chest but looking at the men. “Don’t hurt us.”
They laughed.
She shot the first one through the head. The second had only time to blink before the next bullet took him in the eye.
“Should we take their weapons?” she asked.
He tugged her away from the bodies. “Shotguns are hard to hide.”
They ran through the parking lot and to the main street, where they peeked around the corner. “I count four men,” he said. “You?”
“Two men stationed across from the hotel. And one—no, two—near the car.” She swore. “See the guy in the white shirt and khakis who just came out of the hotel? I’ve seen him with Pérez before.”
“So there are probably more inside.”
She pulled back around the corner and took her cell from her pocket. “I need to admit the truth and get rid of this. Ian must have put a tracker on it.”
She went to throw it back down the alley, but Marc gripped her wrist to prevent the throw. He’d stepped in close to do it and held her wrist high above her head for the barest second, holding her gaze at the same time.
Jesus, he wanted to press his body against hers, pushing her into the wall, feeling all of her curves.
He swallowed and stepped back, slipping the phone from her lax fingers at the same time. “I’ve got a better idea.”
Quinn barely heard his words about a better idea. Marc standing so close short-circuited her brain and brought up memories of their searing kiss. He stepped away, taking her phone, and reality washed over her. He took a quick glance up the street before he turned back to her. “Stay here. I’ll be right back.”
Stay here?
He walked to a kiosk and handed over some money, and took a ball cap. She thought he’d come back to her at that point, but instead he walked into the street and hailed a taxi by lifting his arm. At this time of night he didn’t stand out; people in front of the hotel were doing the same thing, while other pedestrians crowded the sidewalks.
Was he hailing a cab for them? One pulled in almost immediately. It was going the wrong way. It would take them directly in front of the hotel. She prepared to sprint to him as he bent down to speak with the driver. A moment later, he straightened and the cab drove off, to stop in front of the hotel to collect passengers.
Quinn smiled. The man had style. Marc walked back to her, not hurrying, and grinned when he’d made it around the corner. He handed her the ball cap. “For you.”
She tucked her hair up under the hat while she watched the street, trying not to be aware of Marc’s body pressed close against hers. Pérez’s man in the white dress shirt held a smartphone up and frowned at it. Two more men walked out of the hotel and flanked Dress Shirt who looked up from his phone and pointed at the cab. Since Marc had stopped it, it had taken on two passengers in the back seat. Perfect.
The men mobilized, running for cars and taking off after the cab.
“Bloody brilliant,” she said. “It’ll give us a few moments to get away clear.”
He glanced up at the top of the building. “I wish we could chance going back for our gear.”
“We might have to buy some supplies to redress your leg, but the ammo…” She hated to leave it behind. She only had one extra magazine for her weapon.
“We’ll just have to avoid contact.” Marc waved a hand toward the street. “Let’s move while we can.”
They found a cab, and Marc looked at her with raised eyebrows after they’d gotten in. He was leaving their destination up to her.
“Let’s go where they won’t expect us,” she said. “I have a sort of a safe house set up.”
“Smart.”
Let’s hope so. “San Casa Augustine, por favor. In the Old Town.”
The cabbie nodded and changed course so he drove to the western part of the city, making for the coast. Minutes later they drew up to a seventeenth-century colonial-style, high-ceilinged, two-story building. The creamy-white stone was offset by balconies, like the kind in New Orleans’ French Quarter. They stopped before the imposing wooden front doors, one of which was left open, inviting passersby to come inside. The hotel was attached to other hotels and restaurants on either side, some painted yellow or blue.
“This doesn’t seem low-key at all,” Marc said. “Tell me your reasoning?”
“Damien and Pérez both know the shit hole side of this city inside and out. Damien’s actually bragged about it.” Her lips twisted at the memory of his betrayal. “I don’t think it would cross either of their minds to look in the touristy, expensive places. Besides, I’ve stayed here before and set up contingency plans.” She pointed to the high walls, the solid wood doors and the small windows that only graced the second floor. “It’s nothing special, but the architecture itself is an extra layer of protection.”
Marc nodded. “Cover?”
“Ms. Amelia Black. A very rich, very private person. I’ve led the staff to believe I’m some sort of celebrity back home.”
He snorted and held out his arm. “Shall we go in, Ms. Black?”
She laid a hand on his arm, trying not to notice the hard muscles beneath his shirt, and spoke in her poshest accent. “Please. I find I’m quite parched from tonight’s events.”
The warm glint in his approving gaze made her insides melt, and she couldn’t seem to remember why that was a bad thing.
They made their way into the cool lobby, where the thick stone of the outer walls protected the interior from the heat. The high ceilings gave the place an airy feel that the exterior belied.
“Seriously, though,” Marc said. “Won’t Damien know of this identity?”
She shook her head. “I’m not SIS. I’ve been trained to have one identity that no one besides ourselves know about. He knows that I’ve gone to Cartagena when I have weekends off, but not where.”
“I think your unit might be even more paranoid than I am,” he whispered.
She strode to the front desk, a smile on her face. “Carmen, it’s so good to see you,” she said in Spanish.
“Amelia,” the woman said. “It’s so wonderful to see you again. But…” She looked at something on her computer monitor. “I don’t see your reservation.”
“I didn’t make one,” she said. “Do you have anything available?”
Carmen tapped on her screen and pondered. “How many nights?”
“Just one.”
“Bueno, we can do that,” she said with a wide smile. “Do you have bags?”
“No.”
The woman gave a quick nod as if this was to be expected and then glanced quickly at Marc, specifically at the heavy stubble lining his jaw. She leaned closer. “Will you require toiletries?”
“Please.” Quinn hid her smile. “That would be lovely.” God, she just wanted to soak in a tub for an hour.
“Of course, Amelia. I’ve put you in your usual room.”
Marc’s eyes glinted with amusement and the little half-smile stayed on his face while Carmen took them past a sweeping staircase, bypassing glass doors that led to a plant-enshrouded pool area in the courtyard and on to a room at the end of the hall.
“Carmen,” Quinn asked, “does your friend still have his plane?”
Carmen hesitated only slightly. “Si, señorita.”
“We would like to fly to Panama City first thing in the morning if possible. We are willing to pay very well for his service.”
“I will contact my friend immediately.” Carmen opened the door and handed her the keycard. “Call if you need anything.”
Quinn took some money from her pocket and handed it to the woman. “And Carmen?” she said. “Would you be so kind to make sure we’re not disturbed. And if anyone comes looking for us, could you let us know?” She leaned close and whispered conspiratorially, “The paparazzi can be such a nuisance.”
Carmen’s eyes widened. “Si, señorita. Of course.”
Quinn walked into the suite and sighed. Tension drained from her shoulders, and she barely resisted the urge to run and flop onto the white duvet of the metal four-poster bed. But she was a professional. Marc had already taken the bathroom to clear.
The room flowed with tranquility and luxury. Creamy stone walls, high ceilings with wooden beams dating back centuries… Everything was white, cream, or warm wood.
Quinn strode to the tall glass-and-wood patio doors. She swung one open after a glance out at the private terrace. Old, high stone walls surrounded them, which might have seemed prison-like, except for the abundance of leafy vines that climbed them. The clear night sky above helped with the feeling of openness. Two heavily cushioned lounge chairs sat next to a small plunge pool.
It called to her. She sighed and then spun around when Marc coughed. He wore the same half-smile as earlier.
“What?” she asked, when he didn’t say anything.
“You’re impressive.”
“Because I like luxury?”
He laughed. “Because you had the foresight to have a safe house in place.”
Her breath caught at the sound. “I just needed a place to get away sometimes. This assignment has been…trying.”
“I’ve been there.” His eyes darkened with memories. “Finding a safe haven can keep you sane.” He understood, and more importantly, he didn’t judge.
“At least you found one with clean sheets.” A quick grin lit his face.
“And room service.”
They were both dirty and tired, but Quinn’s body seemed to hum with energy. Marc’s eyes sparked with admiration. For her. Her heart rate sped up. His smile was entirely too enticing. She gave herself a mental shake. “Carmen’s friend can get us out of the country tomorrow morning. We should be safe enough here tonight,” she said briskly. “Let’s get washed up and then order some food.”
His smile faded, and he nodded. “Why don’t you use the shower first?”
She glanced at the little pool. The water had been pleasantly warm every time she’d visited before.
“Right,” Marc said. “You take the pool, and I’ll go shower.” He glanced around at the fourteen-feet-high walls before nodding. He was making sure she’d be safe. She tilted her head in bemusement.
“Take your time,” he said. “I won’t disturb you.”
But what if I want you to?
He shut the patio door before she had the courage to ask.
18
Marc left the patio door open a crack so he could hear Quinn if she called out. They seemed safe enough for now, but he didn’t like the idea of being separated, even by this little amount.
The hotel room reminded him of a high-end spa. The bathroom, with its marble floors and glass-walled shower, only emphasized that impression. Quinn certainly had luxurious tastes.
How often had she come here? Did she prefer the shower or the deep tub? An image of her lounging in the t
ub came to mind. Her hair would be piled on top of her head and her skin rosy with the water’s heat.
No. She preferred the pool.
Right now, she was out there floating, the water lapping at her. If he went outside, would he be able to catch glimpses of her naked skin beneath the water? He swallowed hard.
He’d better shut those thoughts down right now. He’d finally gotten her trust, mostly, and he didn’t want to blow it.
There was a knock on the door. He checked the peephole and saw Carmen with a basket in her hand.
“Some toiletries,” she said softly, handing it to him before she walked away.
He perused the basket as he locked the door behind her. Shampoos and soaps, also razors and moisturizers and even mascara. Little square packets were hidden behind the scented soaps.
Condoms.
Marc took a quick, cold shower, trying not to imagine Quinn outside, floating in the water, her hair spread out around her, her nipples peaked from the cool night air.
Fuck. This was not working.
He dressed and moved as close to the balcony door as he could without looking out. “Quinn?”
A splash.
“Yes?”
He risked a glance. Only her head showed above the pool edge. Her hair was slicked back by the water while droplets slid down her cheeks, like some kind of fucking water nymph. He quickly looked away. “I’m going to order room service. Preferences?”
“Get anything with seafood. It’s delicious here.”
“Wilco.” He perused the menu by the phone and ordered up some lobster ceviche and steak and seafood dishes.
When he hung up, he tapped his fingers on his leg. Splashing drew his attention outside once again. Shit. He needed to do something to get his mind off that woman. He pulled out his weapon to clean.
But he had nothing to clean it with. He shoved the gun back into the holster and found the remote for the TV. Surely there was some game on. He flicked through the channels filled with soaps, news programs, and little else. He settled for a news program, trying to focus on the business and politics of Colombia. It was always good to learn more about the country he was in.