Killing Time (One-Eyed Jacks) (5 page)

Abruptly, the line went dead.

Thoughtful, she tugged off the earbud and tossed it into her duffel. She stared a little longer at the ceiling, thinking about the two occupants of the room next door. She had already been running kill scenarios through her mind in anticipation of these orders.

The only question was, which option sounded the most enticing? Did she go in fast and hard and take them out before they knew what hit them? Or did she play with them for a while? Even a pro needed a little diversion now and then.

She checked her watch—still early—and glanced toward the terrace doors. And decided she had time to think about it.

Mike pulled himself together, pissed that he’d let this woman get to him.

She knew about Operation Slam Dunk.
He didn’t know how, he didn’t know why; he only knew she wasn’t going to stop badgering him until she got the answers she wanted.

But then, unexpectedly, she did stop. She stopped cold. She got a look on her face that made him think she might be second-guessing herself.

She broke eye contact suddenly and whirled away. Shoulders tense, back rigid, she walked to a pair of multipaned glass doors that he guessed led to a balcony or terrace. The glass was coated with the grime of the city and backlit by a light haze from the cantina and restaurant signs burning up and down the street below.

After a furtive look outside, she undid the latch and shoved both doors open onto the narrow terrace. Car exhaust, overripe fruit, and the tang of unwashed bodies bled into the hotel room, along with traffic sounds from a story below. A distant church bell chimed ten
times. Ten p.m. on one of the longest days of his life. Overlaying it all was the faint scent of
El Río Rimac
. She breathed deep, as if preferring the foul city air to a breath tainted with his presence. Then she stared out into the night . . . like she was searching for something or someone, before quickly closing the doors again.

When she finally turned around, he couldn’t decide if she looked relieved or wary. She moved away from the doors, head down, clearly uncertain, possibly scared.

It was the first chink he’d seen in her armor, and he pounced on the opportunity like a fat man on a pile of French fries.

“What’s your name,
chica
?” He’d grown tired of playing her game. He had to get out of these cuffs, and the best and only option he had now was distraction.

She hesitated, then expelled a deep breath. “Pamela Diaz.”

Another lie. Like a bad poker player, she had a tell that gave away her bluff. He’d noticed it when she’d denied she’d lost anyone. A little lift of her chin. An absent tap of her index finger—which happened to be resting against the barrel of his gun and reminded him to proceed with caution.

But at this point he didn’t care if she told him she was Margarita Thatcher. She’d answered a question. It was a start.

“Okay,
Pamela Diaz
 . . . I’ll consider answering your questions if you answer mine.” He didn’t wait
for her to point out the obvious—that she held the gun and the advantage. “What’s your stake in Operation Slam Dunk?” When she hesitated again, he pressed his slight opening. “You know you’re going to have to tell me sometime.”

A humorless smile tipped up one corner of her mouth. “And why is that?”

“Because you haven’t killed me for a reason. And I think we can rule out sex.” He lifted a brow. “Yes? No?”

She snorted and he saw another sign of hope. She’d wanted to smile.

“So, that’s a yes. Which means you want something else from me . . . and that you need me alive to get it.”

She considered him with a long look, then finally walked back to the chair and sat down.

Tick. Tick. Tick.
He had nowhere to go and no way to get there—yet. He could wait her out.

He knew instinctively that there was nothing he could say that would make her talk.
She
had to decide what happened next.

But he knew he was right. She wanted him for something other than a whipping boy. And to get his help—good luck with that—she was smart enough to know she had to give him something, because they’d reached gridlock. If she wanted information, she needed to lay her cards on the table. Once she did, he’d let her think she’d softened him up enough to get the upper hand. Then she’d find out how tired he was of playing with a stacked deck.

“I’m a journalist,” she said after several long moments.

Tip of the chin. Tap of the finger.

Liar, liar, pants on fire.

“A journalist?” He grunted. “Give me a break.”

“Freelance,” she insisted. “I’m writing a retrospective piece that chronicles Spec Ops military units and their deployments in Afghanistan.”

He actually laughed. “Right. And to accomplish that, you make it a practice to seduce, drug, hold at gunpoint, and”—he lifted his arms as far as the restraints would let him—“cuff your potential sources to a bed. Try again,
Pamela.
”

“You have a reputation as a loose cannon.”

“Ah . . . so this was all for your protection. What a line of bullshit. You could have walked up and asked me.”

“And you would have told me to take a flying leap.”

She had a point. “So, rather than risk that happening, drugging me was the next logical alternative.”

“I’m on a tight schedule. Expediency is what matters here, not your tender sensibilities.”

She was a ball breaker, all right. New tactic. “Do we have a timetable for when these cuffs come off?” he asked point-blank.

No answer.

“Okay, fine. Could I at least have a drink of water while you work it out in your head? I’m bone dry here.”

She thought for a moment, then finally stood and
walked hesitantly across the room toward a door he suspected was the bathroom.

The fact that she was willing to show him a little mercy told him reams about her. No self-respecting tango, street thug, or banger would give two rips about his poor parched throat. While it was clear she could handle herself, this particular skill was not her bailiwick—and knowing that only made him more pissed that he’d let her get the drop on him.

As soon as she turned her back to him, he went to work on the flex cuffs, hoping that all the hours of competitions he and the guys used to stage paid off. There had been a lot of down time between missions, a lot of hurry up and wait. You could only play so many games of cards and basketball, so you got creative. Flex cuffs were plentiful and tying each other up and trying to beat each other’s escape times provided not only a diversion but a skill set that might come in handy one day.

Looked like today was the day his uncontested speed record was going to be put to the real test. And when she closed the bathroom door behind her—a stroke of luck that the lady needed some privacy—he made full use of the window of opportunity.

Pressing the inside of his wrists together, he wedged his right thumbnail under the edge of the first of a line of tiny teeth that locked into the plastic band on the catch on his left hand. Stretching, he tipped his head back so he could see what he was doing, then glanced toward the bathroom door when he heard a flush and then the sound of water running.

He had to move fast. Straining to get the right angle, he repeatedly worked his nail over the first tooth until it finally gave and slipped under the catch. The left cuff loosened a fraction of an inch. He repeated the process. Another tooth gave. Another breath of room.

He had the feel of it now. Like riding a bicycle. He repeatedly wedged his thumbnail under the next tooth, pressed, felt it give and immediately loosened another tooth, then another, and another . . .

The bathroom door swung open. He let his wrists go limp so she wouldn’t suspect what he was up to.

She walked to the bed, a glass of water in one hand, his gun in the other.

Tricky, but doable.

Eyes narrowed and wary, she hesitated.

“Like I can do anything trussed like a chicken on a spit,” he grumbled. “Please. Give me a drink.”

He put plenty of helplessness in his tone. Added a dose of self-pity in his eyes.

Scowling, she finally leaned over him, extending the glass toward his mouth.

He lifted his head and drank deeply. Because he
was
thirsty. And because he wanted to give her a reason to let down her guard.

“Thanks,” he said, appearing to be clearly defenseless and so fucking appreciative he wanted to gag. “More. Please.” Oliver Twist at his humble best.

She didn’t hesitate this time. She leaned a little closer, extended the glass. And he struck.

He jerked his left hand free of the loosened plastic
loop, knocked the gun across the room, grabbed her hair with his other hand, and jerked her down on the mattress.

Water flew everywhere; glass shattered on the tile floor. She scrambled to get away but before she knew she’d been had, he flipped her onto her back, straddled her hips, and pinned her wrists above her head.

She put up a good fight, and she didn’t fight like a girl. She had some serious moves but he had size, physical strength, and a big dose of pissed-off on his side.

She bucked, jabbed with her elbows and attacked with her knees, giving him all he could handle until he finally managed to secure the cuffs around her wrists, loop them over the head rail, and jerk them tight.

Breathing hard, he pushed himself off her and off the bed. Not fast enough to avoid her flying feet, though. She clipped his cheek good with a boot heel and damn near knocked him on his ass.

Swearing, staggering, and gingerly touching his fingers to his cheekbone, he grabbed his gun from the floor, found his one-eyed jack, and tucked it in his pocket.

“So . . .” Sucking wind and grinning in the face of her anger and his pain, he dropped into the chair at the foot of the bed. “Welcome to my world.”

Of all the stupid moves, Eva couldn’t believe she’d let Brown get the drop on her. She knew what kind of an operative he’d been, knew not to let down her guard around him. But because she had, now
her
head was on the chopping block instead of his.

The sense of dread that had dogged her all the way to Peru went off the charts. Anger quickly outdistanced it. The bastard was enjoying this. She felt only a small measure of satisfaction as she watched his cheekbone redden and swell where she’d nailed him with her boot.

A good five minutes had passed since he’d cuffed her to the bed. Once he’d caught his breath, he hadn’t wasted time searching the room.

He didn’t find much. She’d been careful. If she was right and she’d been followed to Lima, she didn’t intend to make it easy for her shadow to find her—which wouldn’t make it easy for Brown to find out anything about her, either, and that, too, was by design. She didn’t want him knowing her real identity. Not yet. Maybe not ever.

To make certain, she’d rented the room by the hour. Paid cash and used one of her fake IDs. Multiple passports and extra cash were stashed in a locker at the airport, the combination committed to memory. So he wasn’t going to find anything to identify her here. But he did find the extra doses of Ketamine she’d brought along for insurance. And he’d found her Glock 19 in her purse, which meant he now had all the firepower.

Both handguns lay on a squat table he’d shoved against the wall near the foot of the bed, where he stood now—out of reach of her feet. He held a full syringe in his hand, playing with it, playing with her head.

“Ve have vays of making you talk,” he said with an arched brow and the worst German accent she’d ever heard.

The hard look in his eyes overrode his sick sense of humor. She had to stay strong. “Ooo. That was original.”

“I don’t have to be original.” He considered the needle. Considered her.

Now he was making her nervous. “You’re not going to use that on me.” She hoped to God she was right.

“Give me one good reason not to.”

She tried to get comfortable and felt a brief moment of guilt over how long she’d kept him bound in this very same position. It hurt her shoulders—and she didn’t have the added discomfort of once having
had hers dislocated. “You won’t get any answers if you knock me out.”