Reborn

by Meredith Wild

  “Is that why I feel… My head. It’s like everything is cloudy.”

  Jay offers a tight smile. I can’t tell if it’s sympathetic or something else. “You will have a difficult time accessing your memory. Don’t try to fight it, Tristan.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “The trauma from the mission combined with the induced coma you were in for several weeks resulted in what we call dissociative fugue. Your memory is…” She drums her fingers on her knee, averting her gaze for only a moment. “Think of it as a fresh start. For the sake of your safety and everyone involved, it’s probably for the best that things turned out this way.”

  I wince. “Everyone involved?”

  “If it weren’t for the valuable skills you demonstrated over the past few years, I’m not sure you’d be given this opportunity. Several people lost their lives. There’s a lot of blood on your hands, Tristan.” She’s quiet for a moment. “Take this for what it is. A second chance.”

  I press the heels of my hands to my eyes and rub vigorously. Maybe this is a dream. Everything is so confusing. The things she’s saying don’t match the synapses firing in my brain. Something’s off. Something’s wrong. Really wrong.

  “What do I do now?”

  “You won’t be safe in the US for a while. We’ve set you up with a place just outside of Rio de Janeiro. You can heal and rest there. Then I’ll be in touch when we have a job for you.”

  “A job?”

  She’s silent a moment. “The second chance doesn’t come without cost.”

  Jay’s laser focus from across the table makes me uncomfortable, like she can see all the things that won’t come into view for me right now.

  “What do you need me to do?”

  “You’ll take assignments that only someone entirely off the grid can take. You’ll need to take every precaution to keep yourself safe after a hit. We won’t be there to support you unless we absolutely need another agent involved. You’ll receive all the pertinent information, and then you’ll be compensated when the work is done. No paperwork. No red tape.”

  My mouth is dry. I think it’s the pain medication that’s making all this feel so surreal and out of reach. I take a drink from the water glass in front of me.

  “Listen, I just want to go home.”

  Jay leans in. Her eyes are cold, like deep ocean water.

  “Where’s home, Tristan?”

  I jerk awake. Isabel is asleep beside me. Peaceful. Damn near angelic in the wake of the nightmare. A mix of relief and gut-wrenching fear washes over me. Fear that I’ll fail her—both of us—if I can’t keep her safe. I rise gingerly from the bed so as not to rouse her and go to my bag. I pull out my laptop, sit at the desk, and open the protected chat. Jay’s unanswered messages stare back at me.

  I’m a grown man. I’ve killed more men than I can count, but somehow I can hardly bring myself to acknowledge or challenge her. We both know what’s gone down. Soon enough she’ll know even more, once someone discovers Crow and gets him out of the impossible bind I left him in.

  The cursor blinks, taunting me. With no one to report back, she could believe I’m dead, but she’s too smart for that.

  I begin typing.

  RED: You’ll have to do better than that.

  A few minutes pass with no reply. I look out the window. Early dawn is approaching. We’ll have to leave soon, before the streets come back to life. The sound of a return message draws my attention back to the screen.

  JAY: You’re making a mistake.

  I grimace, as pissed off as ever. Three years of clean, quiet, anonymous hits, and now I’m her mark.

  RED: So are you.

  JAY: Bring her in and we can talk.

  She knows as well as I do that will never happen. Either some part of her wants to salvage the relationship, or Isabel’s death is more of a priority than I realized. My money is on the latter.

  I hear a rustle outside the window. I grab my gun and steal a glance at Isabel, oblivious in her slumber.

  There’s a soft rap at the door. “Isabel.”

  I rise at the muffled sound of the priest’s voice. I open the door a crack to find him standing there with a cloth-covered basket. He lifts it. “Breakfast for you.”

  I reach out and take it, noting the unease and exhaustion on the old man’s features.

  I’m ready to close the door, when he lifts his hand, stopping me. “I was awake all night watching the street. The same black truck passes back and forth every hour or so.” His lips press together in a worried line. “It doesn’t feel right to me.”

  I poke my head around the door. The street is quiet. “When’s the last time you saw the car?”

  “Twenty minutes.”

  “Did they see you?”

  He shrugs. “Not many people notice an old man like me.”

  “We’ll leave soon. Thanks for this.”

  He nods and waves a silent farewell. After ensuring Isabel is still sleeping, I slip outside.

  I take my phone out and hesitate over Mateus’s number before dialing. It rings only once.

  “Tristan. Is she okay?”

  “We’re fine. For now.”

  “What’s happened?”

  I hesitate over my next words. “Do you remember what you said about letting things go…to get what you really want?”

  He’s quiet for a moment. “You’re sending her home.”

  “I’ll get her out of Petrópolis, but I’m running out of time. They’re closing in.” I hesitate. “Can you help me get her out of Brazil?”

  “I’ll do anything you ask of me, Tristan. That’s not the question.”

  “What’s the damn question, Mateus? Help me or don’t.”

  “The question is whether you trust me to.”

  ISABEL

  Tristan’s memory might be lost, but I swear I can still see vengeance haunting his eyes where I used to see his joy. He woke me this morning quickly and quietly. Danger wasn’t on our heels, but we’re on the move. To where, he won’t say. I pick at the moist bread Antonio brought to us as we drive from one town to the next.

  “Are you upset with me?”

  His brows knit firmly together. “Why would I be upset with you?”

  “I don’t know. Last night happened. Guys can be weird after that.”

  “Guys?” He shoots me a narrow look.

  I huff out a sigh. “Never mind.”

  Silence stretches between us for a long time before he finally speaks again.

  “I enjoyed last night. Doesn’t change the fact that today is a new day, we’re in danger, and I needed to get you out of there. Your friendly neighborhood priest was on the lookout all night. Jay’s people weren’t far.”

  “Who’s Jay?”

  “Former employer,” he says flatly.

  I lean forward, my jaw slack. “Are you kidding me? You work for the monsters who are trying to kill us?”

  The muscle in his jaw ticks. “I’m a contractor. We’re having a disagreement about the terms of our arrangement.”

  I stare in stunned disbelief. Then…suddenly…it all makes sense. The blocks of cash. The guns and willingness to use them to any end. Tristan’s near-complete disregard for human life. I push his tender moments out of the picture because they cloud the view. And it’s all coming into focus.

  Your comrades.

  Someone wants you dead.

  I know the price on her head. What’s mine?

  A rush of enlightenment crashes over me as we make a turn down a narrow, paved road. It’s leading us toward an open field and tarmac. There are a few small planes and a helicopter parked around an old hangar. A larger, sleeker jet sits at the center of the tarmac, its boarding door open with stairs leading up to it. A young man is pacing beside it, stopping as Tristan parks.

  “Come on,” he says.

  I get out of the car as he pops the trunk. “Where are we going?”

  “Not we. You.”

  The man comes our way, exten
ding his hand to Tristan. “You must be Mateus’s friend. I’m Leo, your pilot.” He nods to me. “Senhorita.”

  Tristan shakes his hand before grabbing my backpack and slamming the trunk shut.

  “Leo’s going to fly you to Panama.”

  “Panama?” My eyes widen.

  “They’ll be expecting you to try to get a flight out of Rio or São Paulo. They’ll pluck you from security or God knows what else. It’s too risky.”

  “Okay.” I try to will my voice not to shake.

  “You’ll be able to get to Panama City in the jet without refueling. Leo will take care of customs. But this is important. As soon as you get there, you’re going to buy a ticket to DC. No stops. And use cash in case they’re tracking your cards. I can’t risk you getting on their radar before you’re in the air. Understand?”

  My breathing ticks up rapidly. This is too much too fast. I can’t think anything through. All I can do is trust Tristan, and he’s scaring the hell out of me with this plan. I don’t even like flying.

  “What about you? I can’t just leave you here.”

  “I can’t protect you here. It’ll be easier for you to get back home without me. They’re going to be expecting both of us.”

  “I’m not leaving without you. I don’t care what you say.” I cross my arms and prepare to hold my ground. I can’t leave him… I can’t let him go again.

  Leo’s eyes widen a fraction. “Let me know when you’re ready. I’ll wait for you.”

  “She’s ready,” Tristan answers for me. He hands the man my backpack.

  I try to grab it back, but Leo is already moving toward the plane and out of earshot. My nostrils flare. “Enough of this shit, Tristan. You need to give me answers. I’ve waited long enough.”

  “I told you. The less you know, the better.”

  “You mean I shouldn’t know what kind of man you are?”

  Tristan’s jaw is tight. “What kind of man am I, Isabel?”

  I hold his steady stare, uncertain if I’m actually ready for the truth. “Tell me why you came for me that day.”

  He steps closer, dominating my personal space. That quickly, I’m caught in a tornado of our intense sexual attraction and the inherent fear Tristan inspires at moments like these.

  “You want to know the truth?” His voice is dangerously low.

  Lust pulses through me at the most inopportune time. Maybe if I kiss him, he won’t have to tell me what I fear to be true. I fist my hand in his shirt. It steadies me on shaky legs and binds him to me in some small way, regardless of what he’s about to say.

  He touches my chin, guiding all my attention to the silvery sky reflecting in his eyes.

  “Three years ago, the Tristan you knew died. Now I take jobs that only a dead man can take. Back in Rio, I was sent to kill you. I would have been paid handsomely for it. I was ready to pull the trigger, until you said my name.”

  “On the street?”

  He shakes his head. “I was in your apartment after you turned away Kolt. You were in bed taking care of things he badly wanted to. I was so close to going through with it, but something held me back. Then you said my name, and… I just couldn’t do it.” He brings his hand to my face, drawing his thumb across my cheek tenderly. “Because I didn’t, there’s a bounty on both our heads. And if you don’t get on that plane right now, they’re going to finish the job I wouldn’t.”

  The tears I’ve been holding back spill over. Hot, thick tears that threaten a torrent of sobs to follow. This can’t be real. This can’t be happening.

  “You need to go now.” He pulls away, steps away, looks away.

  I tighten my fist in his shirt, but he’s unclenching my grip. Putting distance between us. I fight him, but I know it’s useless.

  He tried to kill me.

  He kept me alive.

  He tied me to the goddamn bed.

  He killed a man who would have killed me first if given the chance.

  He’s not my Tristan anymore.

  He’s a shadow.

  He’s indelibly imprinted on me.

  In my blurred periphery, I see Leo coming closer. Time is running out. I need more time with Tristan to figure all this out.

  “When will I see you again?”

  He glances to Leo and back to me. “There will be someone to meet you at Dulles. An old acquaintance.”

  “How will I know him?”

  “Trust me, you’ll be able to spot him in a crowd. He’ll take you to your father as soon as it’s safe.”

  “No.” I can’t hide the agony wrapped around that one word.

  His hardened expression softens.

  “Go… Please, Isabel. Just go.”

  CHAPTER ONE

  Isabel

  Washington, DC

  There’s a saying in Brazil. A esperança é a última que morre.

  Hope is the last one to die.

  The sentiment resonates with me now more than ever as I lurch forward and clutch the armrest. The Boeing 737 touches down and brakes gradually toward the end of the runway. The flight attendant’s voice crackles through the speaker system as she welcomes us in heavily accented English to Dulles International Airport.

  I’m back in the United States. I’m home. This should give me solace, but the unexpected homecoming is shadowed by the fact that I’m running for my life, and once more, I’m without Tristan.

  Less than twenty-four hours ago, he ordered me onto a private jet with no reassurances that we’d reunite. His only instructions were to get back to DC while raising as little suspicion as possible.

  Now I’m exhausted and alone. It all feels so hopeless.

  Yet hope is what I cling to as I file off the plane with the other passengers and head toward customs. I have no luggage. Only the contents of my backpack. Soiled clothes, some cash, and two passports. One gained me safe passage into Rio de Janeiro a year and a half ago. The other was pressed into my palm by Leo, the pilot who flew me from Brazil to Panama, insisting it would get me into the States undetected.

  On any given day, I’m Isabel Foster. But today, as I walk toward US customs, I’m Isa Santos. An American woman returning from a girls’ trip to Panama. I clutch the customs declaration form and pray I don’t end up in prison as I approach the window separating me and the customs officer. He slides my fake passport through the scanner without making eye contact.

  “How long were you in Panama?”

  “Two weeks,” I say.

  “Business or pleasure?”

  “Pleasure.” I smile and invoke a mental image of me on the beach with a tropical drink in my hand to help sell the lie.

  “Where did you stay?”

  “San Blas.”

  He glances between my passport, his computer screen, and me. My palms are slick with nervous sweat. I may heave and confess everything if he takes much longer.

  I distract myself by studying his badge and wondering what kind of man Officer LeBaron is. He looks to be in his forties. Kind eyes. Crew cut. I wonder if he used to be a cop. Or maybe he wanted to be, and this is where he ended up instead. Does he enjoy the power trip of deciding the fate of people seeking entry into the country? Is he having a bad day? What’s he going to do when he finds out I’m a fraud?

  I jolt at the abrupt sound of him stamping my forms and filing them away. Only then does he offer a smile, as if he’s been purposefully holding it back all this time.

  “Welcome home, Ms. Santos.”

  I try not to appear as enormously relieved as I am. “Thanks.”

  I collect my passport and head toward the airport exit, filled with new apprehension as the security doors open automatically to a large crowd waiting to greet other travelers.

  Tristan told me someone would meet me here and somehow I’d know who it would be. I hesitate past the doors and search the crowd for anyone notable or familiar. My attention snags on a tall man standing on his own near the exit. He’s wearing jeans and a black suit jacket over a tuxedo T-shirt. His short
dreads stick straight up, making him appear even taller. He’s holding a sign in front of him that reads Santos.

  I walk up to him slowly.

  “Hi… I’m not sure, but I think you might be my ride.”

  “Nice. You must be Saint.”

  I blink up at him. He must be the wrong guy.

  Then he points to the sign. “Santos… Saint. Get it? That’s what he calls you anyway. Wouldn’t tell me your name.”

  “Oh, you can call me Isabel.”

  He lifts an eyebrow. “All right, then.” He hesitates a moment before extending his hand. “I’m Makanga. Everyone calls me the Postman.”

  “Why?”

  He smiles broadly, his teeth beaming white. “I deliver things.”

  “What kinds of things?”

  He looks toward the ceiling. “Ah, let’s see. Expensive things. Dangerous things. Really important things.” He looks down again. “Like you.”

  He winks and nods toward the conveyer that is depositing bags onto the belt. “You got luggage?”

  “No. Just this.” I shrug my shoulder, and my backpack swings forward.

  Intrigue glints in his amber eyes. “Let’s go, then.”

  I follow him into the parking garage until we reach a two-door sedan. Its black paint is faded in several spots, and large Chinese characters line the top half of the windshield. He reaches for the missing passenger handle and yanks on a bent wire that unlatches the door.

  He sweeps his hand toward the open door, gesturing for me to get in.

  I hesitate. “I can just take a cab. Really.”

  He laughs. “Betsy’s not in the best shape, but she’s a safe ride. Promise.”

  My life’s been turned upside down over the past five days. I wouldn’t have ever gotten into a strange car with a strange man in Rio or anywhere else before. Somehow I’m chucking all the normal rules out and operating on instincts now. Tristan is distant and nothing like the man I remember him being, but despite the chaos we’ve been through, I trust him. I trust him to keep me alive. And I don’t get the feeling that Makanga poses a threat to my existence.