Trouble.
The man vanished into the crowd, and his path was blocked by a man pulling his cart across the street. He bit back frustration and veered right.
A woman screamed ahead of him. Tara or someone else, it didn’t matter. What mattered was getting there and stopping the gunman before it was too late, before someone was hurt. If they weren’t already.
“Damn it, where are you, Tara?” he muttered. Adrenaline raced through him. She had been so close and now she had slipped through his hands—again.
Then he saw her. Tara. A glimpse and then she was gone. But it was enough to know she was directly in a potential killer’s path.
* * *
TARA HAD HOPED to have purchased her coffee and be well on her way home before the crowds hit the street. She hadn’t factored in the approaching weekend nor those who’d begun arriving yesterday for next week’s arts festival. Locals mixed with tourists, foreign transplants and the arts crowd.
The arts folk often came for long stays to study their art, whether it was painting or novel writing. San Miguel had it all. The market was a colorful mesh of people and things. Crafts and art combined with the tantalizing smells of the food trucks. She could visit this street every day and never get bored. That was a good thing, as she suspected she’d be here, or at least in Mexico, until it was safe back in Pueblo. Whether that was weeks, a month or two...
She thought of Trent. He didn’t agree with any of that. In fact, he’d made it quite clear that that wasn’t his agenda. He wanted her back in the States as soon as possible. That was something she refused to do until it was safe—on her terms, not his. For now, she was comfortable in the fact that she had convinced Trent to let her stay at least for the next few days. But he’d made it clear that his presence was nonnegotiable. He was here to the end.
She took a deep breath and focused on what had brought her here. The street sloped down a small hill, which would make it more of a challenge returning home. For now, it was a pleasant walk.
The breeze carried the scent of roasted coffee mixed with the smell of pastry and spices. Her stomach rumbled, reminding her that she hadn’t had breakfast either.
Hopefully, she’d be back with the coffee before Trent woke up. It would be a peace offering or, more aptly, a tool to make sure he wasn’t a hindrance in her life. Except he was already parked on her couch. She grimaced. He was a too-large presence in a too-small space. She wasn’t sure how long she could act nonchalant about him being there, a few days even seemed forever. Her feelings for him were troubling and difficult to ignore. He’d always done that to her.
“Senorita!” a vendor called.
At another time she would have gone over to his stand, checked out the colorful blankets he was selling. But something told her to keep moving, so instead she simply nodded. She started to turn away when she was jostled and almost lost her balance. She swung around, backing away almost in the same move from the man who’d bumped her. She was sure that her face showed fear, unease, a myriad of emotions for the man she’d just bumped shoulders with looked at her oddly as he moved away.
She stepped backward, closer to the vendors. She was farther from the open area in the street and closer to the fringes, where anything could happen and no one would see.
Trent.
Her unease was his fault with his talk of imminent danger and the need to protect her with a gun in hand. Now she was seeing trouble brewing everywhere.
He hadn’t changed. He’d seen danger where there was none even in high school. He was forever drumming up the possibility of trouble. She would laugh and consider it a result of his love of spy and espionage movies. But even then, he’d had a sense when there was a problem, when things were about to implode. She imagined now, as a marshal, that instinct was much more honed. She didn’t doubt what he told her yesterday, convinced by the sense of urgency with which he’d spoken. There was danger but she’d fled that danger. And no one could find her here.
Except, he’d found her.
Others could—just as he had said.
But she couldn’t live in fear. She’d been proactive and that had brought her here. The fact that Trent was here, too, was something they’d deal with. They’d talk it out. He’d realize that she was thousands of miles from home, safe. He’d realize that she’d done the right thing.
Everything was the same as it had been before he arrived. The only thing that had changed was that she had a US marshal on her couch. And if she didn’t hurry up and buy the coffee and get back, he would be on her tail.
But despite her best intentions, goose bumps prickled her skin and a chill ran through her. The feeling of unease stuck with her. She looked over her shoulder. And that was when her worst nightmare came true.
A gleam of black metal glinting in the sun. The stare of a man who stood above the others. Even from this distance, she knew that once again she was looking at the wrong end of a gun. She did the only thing she could.
She ran.
Chapter Seven
Trent swore and broke into a run.
Tara.
She was his only thought, his only motivation. He was here to protect her. He’d give his life for her. The thoughts blazed through his mind without a filter, without will. They were just there, the motivation for everything he did now.
His right hand went to his side. Of course, the gun wasn’t there. He felt its absence more than at any other time, for now he needed it. He was a no-carry here in Mexico. Here, he was armed only with his skill at hand-to-hand combat. He was an expert at it, having perfected the art over the years.
But hand-to-hand combat did not bridge the space between him and the potential threat, and it didn’t fire warning shots. Still, he knew that his expertise was another reason that Jackson hadn’t turned him down for this assignment. As long as he had his wits and his hands—he was never unarmed.
He dodged a couple and pushed a cart aside. A motor scooter was being walked through the congested street. The owner was one step from getting in his way. Trent pushed past him. Someone cursed him out in Spanish.
He didn’t care. Nothing mattered but keeping Tara safe. Nothing mattered except stopping the potential for carnage ahead, to protect Tara.
A gunshot cracked through the crowd, spinning it into chaos. Someone screamed. Another scream joined the first, and then the crowd broke into a churn of panicked people moving in every direction.
A man with a gun in this crowd—the reality had Trent’s insides turning to ice. He couldn’t think of the possibilities of that reality, of the fact that Tara might be hurt along with so many others.
Tara.
He was moving as fast as he could, looking in every direction for a glimpse of her blond hair. Finally, he broke through into a less crowded area with a better view down the street. A quarter of a block ahead, he caught a glimpse of the gunman but not Tara. He pushed forward but was blocked by a woman with two small children. They were moving toward the gunman.
“Go back,” he said in Spanish, schooling his voice to reflect nothing but calm and control. “There’s a man with a gun ahead.”
More chaos erupted as others nearby heard his words. But there was no avoiding that—the mention of a gun was inflammatory but necessary.
Trent moved away from it all, breaking into a jog, slowing to dodge another person. He found himself blocked by a vendor and a slim young man who was moving in the same direction but not fast enough.
He grabbed the man’s arm and pulled him back and out of his way.
The young man turned on him, his fists clenched, his dark eyes flashing.
“Let go, you—”
The expletive was lost on Trent. Instead, Trent had him on the ground in one twist. He stepped around him, the expletives only meaningless echoes.
“Go back,” he repeated his warning. “There’s a man firing a gun ahead
.”
He needed to lay eyes on Tara. He needed to know she was all right. Only one night and a day into his assignment, and he was already coming up with dismal odds.
He couldn’t and wouldn’t allow this to continue. She would live because anything else would mean failure—he wouldn’t have it.
And then he saw her and for a moment everything stopped. She was right in the path of the gunman.
* * *
TARA’S HEART POUNDED. She wanted to believe that it was her imagination, that the glint of dark metal meant nothing. But she knew what it was. She’d seen guns before, many times. She was familiar with makes and models, which ones were good for skeet, which for hunting ducks, which for defense. She’d heard her grandfather talk of them and seen them often at his house. He’d been a gun enthusiast. As a kid, she’d been enthralled by his vast collection.
But it was guns that had taken her grandfather from her, and after that, her father. Her grandfather had died in a senseless accident at the hands of his neighbor. They’d been hunting and the neighbor claimed to have mistaken a movement in the woods for game. Instead, he’d shot her grandfather. The neighbor had been charged and despite his intentions, he had spent some time in jail. None of that brought her grandfather back. As an adult, she was no fan of firearms. She’d learned the hard way that a weapon used to defend could also be used to kill. And then there was the recent bank robbery. Now Tara felt even more that guns were merely instruments of death.
“Get ahold of yourself,” she muttered. She had to focus on what was going on now. She knew she needed to lead the gunman away, keep others safe. Hopefully she could do it without getting shot herself.
Her heart beat wildly. How had he found her? And who was he?
What was certain was that he was following her. She knew that others might not have noticed him—despite his height, the number of other shoppers made it easy for him to blend in. But she’d been trained long ago, as a child, to keep an eye open for anything unusual. It was a skill she’d always be grateful to her grandfather for.
She feared that he would break out of the crowd and they’d be face-to-face. If that happened, she would have nowhere to go, nowhere to hide.
“Breathe,” she muttered to herself. She had to clear her mind of the muck of panicked thoughts. She needed to get out of here, make herself safe and do it without endangering anyone else. As she took a breath and tried to make sense of it all, she saw him again. The gun was aimed straight at her. There was no doubting his intent now.
“Run!” she screamed at the crowd. She would save every one of them if she could.
People pushed around her. A bag of groceries dropped. Vegetables lay strewed around them. The crowd was too tight and her voice was not enough. The gunman was again swallowed up in the swirl of people. Her life was in danger, but her presence was threatening the lives of so many others. She had to get out of here, for herself, for them. Her heart pounded as she thought of the dangers of a panicked crowd, the deadly intent of a handgun...
A shot came so close that she could almost feel the heat. A woman screamed but the sound was swallowed in the chaos.
This was no coincidence. Trent’s warning ran through her mind. He’d been right. It was clear that she hadn’t run far enough.
There wasn’t time to think of what she should have done. She had to deal with now. Lead the danger away from a place where too many people could get hurt. She thought that she might faint. Her heart was like a drum that had gone mad in her chest. She wasn’t sure if she wasn’t having a heart attack. She veered right and away from the crowd.
And then she was tackled from behind and slammed to the ground—and she knew that it was over.
Chapter Eight
Trent cursed the Fates. The shooter should never have gotten as close to Tara as he had. Trent might have gravely injured her tackling her like that. He hadn’t been able to control much of the fall. He’d taken her down with his whole weight. But it had been his only option to save her life.
Now Tara lay still, her face to the ground. Was she dead? Injured?
His heart pounded so hard he could feel it. A bitter taste ran through his mouth. He couldn’t even think of what he wanted to do to the piece of slime who was hunting her down. He raised up on an elbow, lifting some of his weight from her. This was completely on him. Regret and frustration raced through him. His hand again reached for his absent weapon. He should have somehow intervened sooner. That had been impossible, he knew that.
“Tara, are you all right?” He couldn’t keep the desperate edge from his voice. She needed to be okay. He couldn’t consider the other option.
He’d managed to miss having her head crack on the cobbles, but she hadn’t moved in the few seconds since. It had been a tricky maneuver. He’d flipped his own body and taken the brunt of the fall, spinning twice. He’d done his best to use his body to shield hers.
“Trent? I can’t breathe.”
“Are you hurt, sweetheart?” he asked as he rolled off her.
He sat up, looking for danger, for the shooter. There was no sign of him. He turned to Tara. “Are you hurt?” he repeated.
“No, I—” Her voice broke off as tears welled and slipped down her cheek. She wiped them with the back of her hand. “I’m fine. Overwhelmed—relieved,” she added.
“Hang on,” he said. He stood and scanned the street looking for any sign of danger, searching for the shooter. But he was gone, vanished into the crowd. He’d disappeared as quickly as he’d appeared. Around them, people milled, looking confused, almost unsure of what had happened.
Trent reached for her hand and pulled her to her feet. “I want you to stay here,” he said.
She didn’t say anything. The silence wasn’t like her. But nothing now was as it should be, nothing was the norm. It was clear she was in shock. He led her over to an abandoned vendor’s cart that held a collection of sports and sun hats. “Sit there and wait for me, please.”
She nodded, as if words were more than she could bear.
“Don’t move and stay behind the cart where you can’t be seen.”
Their eyes met. Hers were dark and glazed with fear. He’d do anything to take that fear away.
“I’ll be right back,” he said to her.
“It’s too dangerous, Trent. Wait for the authorities to come to us.”
He wasn’t sure if she realized what she’d said or what his role was here. It was as if she’d excluded him from the circle he belonged to. Even here in Mexico, he was still part of that general term, the authorities. Visiting, but nonetheless an authority.
“Stay down,” he said.
“Trent—”
“Trust me,” he interrupted. “You’ll be safe. I won’t be gone long.”
Before she could argue the point further, he moved into the street. He kept to the outside, where he could find cover by vendors’ carts. But there was nothing to take cover from.
Sirens sounded in the distance. The gunman had disappeared. A cluster of a mix of local shoppers and tourists huddled in an alcove. Another group gathered around a vendor’s cart. A few carts stood abandoned. Ahead, the street was more crowded—the panic seemed to have kept to the immediate area.
Trent was back in the middle of the road, trying to get a handle on the situation. There were a number of vendors up ahead who were gathering up goods that had fallen to the ground. An elderly couple lurked on the edge of the sidewalk, taking shelter behind an umbrella. He could feel their eyes on him as if he were the threat. Many others had headed uphill away from the chaos, where he and Tara had come from. Two hundred feet in the opposite direction, the street ran downhill toward an intersection. He knew that was where the emergency workers and police would enter the area. It was the easiest and quickest approach and from the sounds of the sirens, their arrival was imminent.
He caught sight of a dar
k head, taller than average. It was him, the man with the gun, and he was half a block ahead. But even that seemed more distant than it was with the amount of people still on the street. The man was moving fast as if attempting to escape.
“Crap,” Trent muttered. He broke into a jog. He dodged clusters of confused and frightened shoppers, moving as fast as he could downhill.
Then he saw the sleek nut-brown SUV at the next intersection. He broke into a run. Tension made his jaw ache, and his fists clenched. The slime had a way out. He shoved a man aside and pulled a woman out of his way. But he was too late. He saw the back end of the vehicle as it turned a corner and made its escape.
There were no words to describe his frustration. He used a few foul options, but they didn’t do anything to make the situation any better. The distance between them was troubling. He couldn’t run that fast. And more than likely, even if he could—the occupants of that vehicle were all armed and they’d fire back. It wasn’t just his life to be concerned about. There were shoppers still lingering in clusters, vendors trying to protect their wares. People without the sense to take cover.
He blew out a frustrated breath. If he could, he’d give it his all to end this piece of crap’s career. But he had neither the tools nor the opportunity. The man was going to get away.
He’d been unable to get a visual on the driver or any of the other occupants. What he knew was that there were three people in that vehicle. And that told him nothing.
He swore again. The sirens were no longer wailing in the distance but sounded as if they were seconds away. Things were heating up, and US marshal or not, he was a foreigner. There’d be questions, and he couldn’t afford to be detained by the local authorities. He needed to get a plan in action and make sure Tara was safe. She needed to be in the States, where he had the resources to protect her. There could be no further delays.
Marshal on a Mission Page 6
