by Elle Kennedy
“Well, I didn’t, and now I’m a target,” she said matter-of-factly. “So let’s move past it and come up with a plan.”
Shaking his head, he let out an amazed laugh. “Nothing fazes you, does it, Rebecca?”
“Not usually.”
She swallowed hard as Jesse’s agonizing screams rang inside her head. She swiftly banished the memories, forcing herself to focus. Grief would come later. Right now, her priority was staying alive.
A thought suddenly occurred to her. “You still haven’t told me why you’re in Cortega,” she accused.
“Remember how I mentioned someone in the DoD tried to kill Sebastian? It was an aide named Paul Waverly, and he fled D.C. right after the attempt on Sebastian’s life. We tracked him to Cortega,” Nick explained. “Apparently he paid a visit to a man who rules the criminal underworld here, El—”
“Nuevo Diablo,” she finished. “Yeah, I’ve heard of him. Mr. New Devil reportedly runs guns and drugs, dabbles in prostitution and deals with fake IDs. Is that what Waverly was doing? Getting papers?”
“I think so. But I can’t be sure until I meet with Mr. New Devil for confirmation, and I haven’t been able to arrange a meeting yet. My source has been distracted with the riot.”
Rebecca pursed her lips. “All right. So we sit tight until your source is ready to meet us, then—”
“There is no us,” Nick interrupted. “You’re not a part of this.”
Her jaw fell open. “Excuse me?”
“You heard me. You’re not getting involved,” he said in a tone that invited no argument. “I can handle this on my own.”
“Oh, yeah? And pray tell, what am I supposed to do while you ‘handle’ this all by your lonesome?”
“I’ll stash you somewhere safe and—”
“Stash me somewhere safe?” Disbelief hung from each word, and her pulse sped up in anger. “Are you effing kidding me?”
“Two men dragged you out of the hospital at gunpoint,” he snapped. “Your cameraman and driver just burned to death!”
She flinched at the reminder.
“You’re in danger, Rebecca. Whoever is after me probably thinks that I confided in you about this whole mess. You’re a threat to him now.”
“We don’t even know who Mr. X is,” she protested.
“But Mr. X doesn’t know that. For all he knows, my men and I are fully aware of his true identity, and I came to Cortega to tell my story to world-renowned correspondent Rebecca Parker.”
Nick flicked the turn signal and changed lanes, quickly speeding past a slow-moving truck that was chugging clouds of exhaust into the morning air.
Morning. Jeez, how was it only morning? Rebecca felt like collapsing and she’d only been up for four hours. God, so much had happened in those four hours—she’d lost two of her closest friends, she’d nearly been kidnapped and killed by a pair of mercenaries, and now she was fleeing the city with a gorgeous soldier who seemed intent on relegating her to the sidelines.
Well, too bad for him, because Rebecca had never spent a single second on the sidelines her entire life.
From this point on, she and Nick were in this together.
Whether he liked it or not.
Chapter 7
Rebecca Parker was the most aggravating female Nick had ever encountered. The woman had deemed it necessary to argue about every single sentence that came out of his mouth, and it was beginning to drive him crazy.
“We’re here,” he said curtly.
He came to a stop in front of the rambling old farmhouse that Rebecca had been eyeing with disdain ever since they’d turned onto the overgrown driveway half a mile back.
“This is your safe house? It doesn’t look very safe.” She paused. “Is this where I’m supposed to be stashed?”
Nick briefly closed his eyes and counted to three.
You cannot murder this woman, he told himself.
He shut off the engine and yanked the keys out of the ignition. “It’s safe enough,” he said, then reached for the door handle.
Rebecca stuck close to his side as they approached the paint-chipped front door of the single-story farmhouse. The house had seen better days—its thatched roof looked ready to collapse, all the windows were boarded up, and the surrounding lawn was overrun with yellowing grass and tall weeds.
“Who owns this place?” Rebecca asked curiously.
“As of five days ago, I do. We bought the property online the day before I came to Mala. We’ve learned to take precautions over the past year. Now we always make sure to arrange for a safe house before we venture out into the world.”
He reached into his pocket for the key he’d picked up from the Realtor’s office the morning he’d arrived in Cortega.
“You really bought this farm?” Rebecca sounded amazed. “On the off chance that you might need a safe house?”
“Trust me, it didn’t cost much,” he said wryly.
As if to punctuate that, the front door creaked like a haunted house prop and released a cloud of dust when Nick pushed it open.
They walked in to find the house’s interior as desolate and run-down as the exterior. The main room offered a wooden couch with ratty plaid cushions, a dining area with a broken table and appliances that were covered in a thick layer of dust. The entire place smelled like mildew, urine and sour milk.
Rebecca made a gagging noise as she breathed in the not-so-appetizing scent. “Okay, first thing on our to-do list? Open the gee-dee windows.”
Nick didn’t want to smile, but her backdoor expletives never failed to bring a grin to his lips. “Don’t worry, we won’t be here long,” he assured her, but he did stalk across the room to crank open the kitchen window.
A warm breeze wafted into the room, making dust motes dance in the air. Nick dropped his go bag on the uneven wood floor and pulled his cell phone from his pocket. As he keyed in a quick text, he felt Rebecca’s gaze on him.
“Who are you texting?” she demanded.
“Enrique Salazar. Telling him I need to meet him ASAP. I can’t afford any more delays.”
Rebecca offered a sweet smile. “You mean, we can’t afford any more delays.”
A frustrated groan lodged in his chest. Christ, this woman was tenacious. She refused to accept reality—he was not involving her in this quest for Waverly. In fact, the second he could make it happen, he was sending her to their base camp in Ecuador where Tate and the others could keep an eye on her. He’d already broached the idea in the car, but she’d shot it down so fast and so firmly that he hadn’t mentioned it again.
Still, he had no intention of teaming up with this pigheaded redhead. For some inexplicable reason, he’d felt protective of Rebecca since the moment he’d seen her get swallowed up by that mob. He wasn’t willing to put her neck on the line, especially because this entire mess had nothing to do with her.
He reiterated that now with a scowl. “This isn’t your fight, and no disrespect, but if you tag along you’ll only get in my way. I work better alone.”
That stubborn chin of hers jutted out and he resisted the urge to march over and plant a kiss on her rosy-red lips. Even with her T-shirt streaked with soot and blood and her red hair a tangled mess, the woman was a damn knockout. His body reacted to the mere sight of her, prompting him to break the gaze and focus on the text he was in the process of composing.
After pressing Send, he held out the phone to Rebecca. “Call your producer,” he told her. “Tell him to get out of town.”
Anxiety filled her expression. “You really think Harry is in danger?”
Nick nodded gravely.
Her worry intensified, burning in her bright green eyes. With a shaky exhale, she accepted the cell phone, then hesitated. “What if Mr. X tapped your phone or something?”
“Don’t worry, it’s secure. Untraceable.”
Rebecca dialed a number and brought the phone to her ear.
And then she waited. And waited.
The longer her call w
ent unanswered, the uneasier Nick got.
“His cell went to voice mail.”
Her tone was flat, her fingers shaky as she quickly punched in another number. She waited again, those pretty features straining with concern.
“Office line is going to voice mail, too.” Her straight white teeth worried her bottom lip. “Harry’s at his desk at 5:00 a.m., seven days a week. He should be at the studio. Why isn’t he at the studio, Nick?”
He met her eyes. “You know why, darling.”
“Bullcrap!” Her voice cracked. “He’s probably at home. Let me call his house.”
She called her producer’s house.
No answer.
Her breathing grew shallow.
When she dialed another number, Nick swallowed a sigh and said, “Who are you calling now?”
“ABN’s main switchboard,” she said tightly.
He noticed that her fingers were trembling wildly as she gripped the phone. “Marlene,” she said a few seconds later, “it’s Rebecca Parker. I’m trying to get in touch with Harry, but he’s not answering his phone. Do you know where he is?”
There was a long pause, and when Rebecca gasped in horror, Nick’s heart dropped to the pit of his stomach like a sinking rock.
“When did this happen?” she whispered.
She looked so pale and stricken that Nick couldn’t help but move closer. He rested his hand on her arm in a protective gesture, and when she leaned into him, he couldn’t resist wrapping one arm around her shoulders.
He heard a tinny female voice emerging from the speaker, but he couldn’t make out the words. Whatever was being said, it was bad. Very, very bad.
“I’m fine,” Rebecca murmured into the phone. “Yes...I know...Jesse...” Her voice wavered. “I don’t know yet. When is the memorial service?”
Nick gently steadied her when a shudder rolled through her body.
“I don’t know...I’ll be back in D.C. soon...Can you tell Stan and Bernie that I’m all right and that I’m taking some time to process everything?...Thanks, Marlene.” Rebecca hung up without another word.
As another shudder racked her petite body, she shoved the phone into Nick’s hand and for the first time since he’d met her, she looked truly affected by the tragic events of the past couple of days.
“Heart attack. Harry had a heart attack late last night.” She spoke through ragged breaths. “His cleaning lady found him this morning.”
“I’m sorry—”
“Harry was healthy as a horse! His heart was strong,” she insisted. “He didn’t die of a heart attack! He couldn’t have.”
“Rebecca—”
“He couldn’t have,” she repeated.
Tears brimmed in those big green eyes and she started shaking so hard that Nick knew it would be cruel not to offer comfort. So he yanked her into his arms and held her tight, stroking her tangled hair as she pressed her face against his chest and cried her heart out.
“It’s okay, darling. It’ll be okay.”
His murmured words didn’t seem to help, so he held her even tighter and offered every ounce of strength he possessed. The scent of smoke and death drifted up from her hair, bringing a deep ache to his chest. This woman had watched two of her friends get blown up this morning, and now another person she’d been close to had died.
“He was such a good man.” Her agonized whisper heated the air, and then she was tilting her head to look up at him, her cheeks stained with tears. “This is my fault, Nick.”
“It’s not your fault.” He cupped her chin and fixed her with a stern look. “You didn’t cause this. If anyone’s to blame, it’s me. I shouldn’t have gone for drinks with you. I shouldn’t have put you in the position to snoop around.”
Misery hung from her tone. “I asked Harry to look into it.”
Nick swept his thumbs over her cheeks to wipe away the moisture sparkling there. Lord, even with her red-rimmed eyes and splotchy cheeks, Rebecca Parker was absolutely stunning.
“Mr. X did this, didn’t he?”
The sharp bite that entered her tone, mingled with a note of rage, startled him. He wasn’t sure he liked the glint of resolve that lit up her green eyes. Or the way her delicate hands curled into fists as she stepped out of his embrace.
“Whoever killed the other men in your unit is responsible for this,” she said angrily. “He killed my crew, and now he sent someone to kill Harry.”
“I told you—”
“Don’t you dare say I told you so,” she burst out. “I get it, all right? I shouldn’t have gotten involved. But there’s nothing I can do to change that. I can’t rewrite the past. All I can do is deal with the present. And presently?” Fortitude blazed in her eyes. “We’ve got a corrupt DoD aide to track down.”
As if on cue, Nick’s phone buzzed. Satisfaction and relief rippled through him as he read Salazar’s message.
“It’s done,” he told Rebecca. “Salazar arranged the meeting.”
“With El Nuevo Diablo? When?”
“Tonight. Salazar will be there, too.”
She responded with a dubious look. “How is it exactly that a member of the presidential guard is buddy-buddy with Mala’s number-one criminal?”
“Do you really need me to explain the nature of corruption to you?”
When she rolled her eyes, she looked like her old self again.
The change of demeanor floored him, as did the determination lining her expression. This woman was no shrinking violet. She was tough as nails, and for a moment he was reminded of Eva and Julia, Tate and Sebastian’s respective women. Those two possessed awe-inspiring strength that continued to take Nick’s breath away, and now here he was, standing in front of another gutsy woman who seemed impervious to the danger around her.
“You know I’m coming with you to that meeting, right?”
Her no-nonsense tone brought a sigh to his lips. “No, you’re not.” He held up his hand before she could object. “And not just because it’s too dangerous. Do you honestly think Salazar will be eager to talk to me if I show up with a journalist? He’s a crooked government guard. You’re a hard-hitting, very recognizable reporter. There’s no way he’ll risk his position by talking to you. So I don’t care if I have to tie you up to that pipe over there—you’re not going with me.”
“Tie me up?” She smirked. “Let’s save the kinky stuff for the bedroom, darling. And why don’t you just relax? I see your point, and I concede to it.”
He blinked in surprise. “Seriously?”
“I didn’t get to where I am today by being a moron, Nick. You’re right. Salazar will be less likely to talk if I’m there. We need to tread carefully here.”
Again with the we, but Nick decided not to argue. Might as well pick his battles. Maybe if he humored Rebecca about their “partnership” for a bit, she’d be more agreeable later when he informed her she was heading to the Ecuador safe house.
Agreeable?
He nearly snorted as the thought entered his head. Yeah, he doubted that was a word that could ever be used to describe Rebecca Parker.
* * *
Salazar had arranged to meet at a bar situated halfway between Mala and the small village near the farmhouse. Nick had appreciated that Salazar had chosen a location outside the capital city, but now, as he arrived at the run-down rural cantina, he wondered if he ought to have insisted on meeting somewhere more...public.
Set away from the road, the bar was a one-story wooden structure with no discernible signs labeling it as a commercial venue. Moonlight reflected off a sloped tin roof, and although the place had no windows, the glow of lights spilled out from the front doors. Salazar said that Nick would know he was in the right place by the pack of dogs out front, and sure enough, nearly a dozen canines were lying on the reddish-brown dirt beyond the bar’s entrance.
Nick parked the SUV next to a beat-up pickup truck that had seen better days. The dirt lot contained only a handful of vehicles, all in the same sorry state as th
e pickup.
As he hopped out of the car, several of the dogs lifted their heads and eyed him with mistrust. He eyed them right back, noting their scrawny bodies, visible rib cages and matted fur. Crap. Hopefully he wouldn’t need to get a rabies shot today.
Luckily, not a single dog changed positions at Nick’s approach. The canines just lounged there on the dirt, their eyes glowing in the darkness.
He headed for the entrance—a pair of waist-high swinging doors, Wild West–style—wishing he was carrying more than his SIG. He supposed he could’ve grabbed a few more choice weapons from the duffel in the trunk, but he hadn’t wanted to scare Salazar away by showing up armed to the teeth.
There were a dozen men in the bar when Nick walked inside. A few single patrons sitting at the splintered, beer-stained counter, a small group playing dominoes at a corner table and another playing cards near the back. Every pair of eyes narrowed at Nick’s entrance.
Ignoring the suspicious looks, he went over to the counter and met the bartender’s cloudy gaze head-on. “I’m looking for Jose,” he said in Spanish.
Almost instantly, the bartender’s demeanor changed. Those dark eyes widened slightly, flickered with unmistakable fear, and his tall, lanky frame shifted uneasily.
Without a word, the man hooked a finger at the corridor across the room.
“Back there?” Nick prompted.
He received a quick nod in return.
Nodding back, he headed for the hallway, feeling every patron’s cagey gaze glued to his back. He would’ve liked to say these men were being paranoid, but he got the feeling that the characters who frequented this cantina weren’t exactly upstanding citizens. They probably treated every stranger who walked in here with extreme caution.
There were four doors in the hall—two were open, revealing a bathroom that stank to high heaven and a room full of metal cabinets. The third was marked Storage. Nick paused in front of the fourth and rapped his knuckles on the closed door.
A moment later, it swung open and he found himself looking into the dark brown eyes of Enrique Salazar.
“Prescott?” the man said sharply.
Nick nodded. He didn’t need to ask if he had the right man—he recognized Salazar from the photos Eva had managed to compile. And just like the first time he’d seen Salazar’s picture, he was surprised by how handsome the man was. Rugged features, tall, muscular body clad in jeans and a black leather jacket, a head of wavy black hair; the man seemed better suited for a career in Hollywood than the presidential secret service.
