Tempted by His Target (6 page)

Everything after that was a blackout.

Fingers trembling, she reached out to touch his limp wrist. She couldn’t feel a pulse, but she wasn’t a nurse. When she released his hand, it stayed there, his arm sticking upright rather than falling back down by his side. Rigor mortis.

“Oh, my God,” she whispered, clapping a hand over her mouth. On the nightstand above him, there was a prescription pill bottle. She snatched it up, reading her own name on the label. These were her “knockout drops,” not for casual partying.

And they were gone.

Panicking, she swept her purse off the ground and stashed the empty pill bottle inside. She had to get out of here. This was too much. Her sling-backed stilettos were lying on the shag carpet. She shoved her bare feet into them and stumbled across the bedroom, disoriented. What else should she take with her? Car keys. A light shawl. Her cell phone rested on the nightstand, message notification blinking. She couldn’t think of a single person she wanted to talk to. Everyone in her current circle was a flake.

Maybe she should call a lawyer.

Her gaze skittered past the phone, settling on a brown leather bag that she knew belonged to Jaime. Although it looked like a casual briefcase for school assignments or textbooks, it housed a hefty cache of pot and cocaine.

She stared at the bag, her heart thumping in her chest, aware that it held the evidence of last night’s debauchery. If she left it here, would she be charged with drug possession? Reckless endangerment? Manslaughter?

Leaving her cell phone untouched, she crouched down beside the bed to pick up Jaime’s leather bag. The instant her fingers closed around the strap, a cold hand shot out, trapping her wrist in a death grip.

“Puta,”
the man she’d stabbed said, blood dripping from his lips.

Isabel awoke with a jolt.

She stretched her left hand across the mattress, searching for a friend or foe. Her right hand went to the knife at her waist. Both came up empty. The room’s only other occupant was standing by the window, and her weapon holster had been put away last night.

The disturbing dreamscape receded as she stared into Brandon’s calm blue eyes. His expression told her he hadn’t missed a thing.

Self-conscious, she brought her flailing arms closer to her body. Although the temperature had cooled, her skin was dotted with perspiration, her tank top clinging to her chest. She wondered how long he’d been watching her sleep. Sitting up, she pushed her hair off her forehead.

“I wasn’t sure how you’d take it,” he said.

Her eyes met his, startled.

“Your coffee,” he clarified, lifting his own cup.

There was another cup on the nightstand, steam rising from the top. Beside it, a mildly sweet pastry known as
pan dulce
. She took an experimental sip. He hadn’t added enough sugar to suit her. “It’s fine.”

Satisfied, he glanced out the window, drinking his own coffee. He looked better this morning. The bruises on his face had darkened but the swelling was down. If he put on a pair of sunglasses, the flesh-colored bandage on his brow would be hard to notice. He also needed a hat to cover his ash-brown hair.

She realized that she’d made her decision. Any man who could stand watch, grab breakfast and keep his hands to himself was worth his weight in gold. She also had to admit that waking up with him was better than waking up alone, after a nightmare like that. “I’ll go with you,” she blurted.

The corner of his mouth lifted. “Good.”

“You haven’t changed your mind?”

“No.” He took another drink from his cup, mulling something over.

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 the 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…