The Doctor's Guardian & Tempted By His Target

by Marie Ferrarella

  “No,” Carranza interrupted. “You’re mistaken.”

  “You wouldn’t listen,” she repeated, more firmly this time. “But I did. I hugged him when he told me and I said it was okay. He didn’t show much emotion and we were both so high … I thought he was fine.”

  His expression was guarded, his eyes full of pain. “Did you give him the pills?”

  “I don’t know,” she said. She couldn’t recall anything beyond the heartfelt conversation. “I think he found them after I feel asleep. I’m sure he was familiar with the drug and understood the dosage. He wouldn’t have taken so many on accident.”

  “You’re lying,” Carranza roared.

  “I’m sorry,” she said, tears spilling down her cheeks. “I wish I could have helped him.”

  He looked away, cursing under his breath. He knew she was telling the truth. She saw it in his face. But he couldn’t accept Jaime for who he was. He refused to acknowledge that his son had killed himself because he was gay.

  “What do you want us to do?” the smaller man asked Carranza.

  “Get rid of her,” he said, and hung up.

  Isabel stared at her captors, horrified. She had known it would end this way but couldn’t hold back a sob of dismay. Dying here was her worst nightmare. She’d be trapped, alone in this dark tomb, for eternity.

  Both of Carranza’s men were aware of her innocence. They understood that the drug lord considered her a thorn in his side, not a threat to his organization. “Please,” she said, reduced to begging. “You know this is wrong.”

  The big man appeared unenthusiastic about the task he was about to perform, but resigned to it. His comrade had a more sadistic bent. He studied her with cold anticipation, enamored with the idea of breaking her.

  “He’ll kill you, too,” she said, panicking. “Now that you’ve heard Jaime’s secret, he’ll kill you, too!”

  The smaller man took Isabel’s dagger from his belt, testing its sharpness with his fingertip. “Stand guard outside.”

  His partner hesitated, glancing at her prone form. “Do you want to watch me do it?” “A bullet would be cleaner.” “And easier to trace.”

  The big man shifted, uncomfortable with the situation. Even cold-blooded murderers were reluctant to kill defenseless young women. He didn’t like this job, and he didn’t appear to like his partner.

  “You’re next,” Isabel promised. “He’ll lay you out beside me.”

  “Go on,” the smaller man said, dismissing him. “I’ll make it quick.”

  After a brief pause, her last hope turned his back on her. He ascended the stone steps, disappearing into the night.

  Chapter 13

  Brandon was too late.

  It took him several seconds to recover after Isabel socked him in the gut. He hadn’t expected the move and she’d executed it perfectly. As soon as he caught his breath, he took off running, scanning the crowded cemetery for her. It was almost as if she’d vanished into thin air. He cut through the procession, searching for her fleeing form. Although he stood taller than most of the men and all of the women, he couldn’t see her.

  She’d given him the slip.

  When it dawned on him that she was hiding amidst the townspeople, he started looking for a woman of her size and stature, with no luck. Half of the girls in the town had dark, braided hair and slender figures. He would have had to study hundreds of faces to find her, and many of the young ladies kept their eyes downcast. Giving every female a close examination would attract too much attention from protective husbands and fathers.

  Growing frantic, and increasingly disturbed by the cheery images of death, he moved to the side of the street. Some of the men were watching the festivities, drinking cold cerveza. Gaucho Rodriguez was standing with them, ill-concealed in a tall cowboy hat. Brandon walked past him and ducked behind a building, his heart racing. When Gaucho didn’t take the bait, Brandon doubled back, curious. He’d gone the opposite direction.

  Damn it.

  Brandon sprinted hard but didn’t catch anything but a black cowboy hat, still warm, discarded in haste. As he rounded the corner, he saw the SUV weaving through side streets, brake lights flashing. Isabel was in the backseat. He picked up the pace, trying to close the distance, but he couldn’t run as fast as a moving vehicle.

  It turned onto a lonely road, leaving him in the dust.

  He threw down the cowboy hat and sank to his knees, howling with frustration. In the blink of an eye, he’d lost her. He’d let the target fall into enemy hands. And like a damned fool, he’d fallen in love with her.

  He’d fallen in love with her.

  Cursing violently, he scrambled to his feet. He couldn’t let a couple of ruthless criminals steal his woman. But he didn’t have many options. Calling the local police would be suicidal and no other assistance was available.

  He glanced around for a car to steal, raking a hand through his hair. A man on a bicycle pedaled down a deserted cross street, oblivious to his plight. “Hey,” Brandon shouted, waving the hat in the air. “Help!”

  The man slowed, but didn’t stop.

  “I have money,” Brandon said, jogging toward him. “Mucho dinero!” Proving it, he took a wad of bills out of his pocket.

  The man on the bike pedaled forward, curious. He had a metal basket filled with pink candy skulls. Brandon couldn’t imagine a less appetizing treat. He pictured children munching on blood-colored icing and jelly-filled brains.

  “Give me your bike,” he said, thrusting the cash at him. “You can have the hat, the money, the shirt off my back.”

  The man accepted the deal, nodding his agreement. The bike wasn’t new but the hat was. Along with the dollar bills, it was a fair trade. Brandon waited, his heart leaping with hope, while the man climbed off the bike and removed his belongings from the basket. His weathered hands were clumsy, and he smelled like tequila.

  Brandon’s patience broke. He wrenched the wire basket off the bike and set it aside. Several sugar skulls tumbled out, rolling down the street. “Sorry, I’m in a hurry,” he said, pointing after the SUV. “Where does that road go?”

  The man blinked at it, bleary. “Izapa.”

  “Izapa?”

  He formed a triangle with his hands, making the shape of a pyramid. “Las ruínas.” The ruins.

  “Thank you,” Brandon said, and took off, pedaling hard. The bike was old but sturdy, and it had good tires. It was faster than his legs, and there was no other transportation around. He could only hope for steep downhill grades.

  They didn’t come easy. For what seemed like an hour, he toiled uphill, sweating like crazy and cursing the entire country of Mexico. The humidity was killing him. What kind of godforsaken place celebrated death? Every man, woman and child in Tapachula must have been walking in the parade, because the outskirts of town were eerily quiet. There wasn’t a car on the road, not a single wandering soul.

  At long last, the most evil hill in the universe descended into a cool, dark valley. Without the glimmer of moonlight, he’d never have been able to pick up speed. The danger of hitting a rock and flying over the cliff was still considerable, but he accepted the risk with relish, baring his teeth to the night.

  Finally, he was making good time.

  Carranza’s men wanted to question Isabel. He knew that, and prayed she would drag the process out by failing to cooperate. She was good at staying mum, even better at kicking ass. God, he loved her. And, if they lived through this, he was going to paddle her lovely backside for punching him.

  Looking forward to it, he approached the ruins of Izapa. Blunt-topped pyramids rose up from a dark carpet of vegetation, gleaming like old bones in the moonlight. The ancient stone buildings loomed before him, stoic and impenetrable. A patina of moss specked the surfaces of the boulders, giving them a mottled appearance.

  Brandon left his bike by the broken front gate and proceeded on foot, his weapon ready, heart thundering in his chest.

  He passed a dozen structures b
efore spotting the SUV. It was parked next to an underground dwelling or bunker of some sort. Ducking behind a mossy block wall, he studied the scene from a distance, deliberating the best method of attack. Gaucho was standing guard at the entrance of the bunker. Brandon could pick him off from here.

  Sharpshooting wasn’t part of his typical repertoire, but he wouldn’t hesitate to take this scumbag out. His new mission was to save Isabel and nothing else mattered. He’d reassigned himself. The only problem was that a gunshot would alert the man inside the bunker and put Isabel at risk.

  Deciding to employ stealth instead of shock, he dropped to his belly and army-crawled toward the SUV at an angle. Gaucho didn’t see him. When he arrived at the vehicle, he stopped to listen. He couldn’t hear anything but the buzz of insects and the faint ticking of the cooling system.

  Rising carefully to a crouching position, he peered through the SUV’s tinted side windows, which were still intact. Gaucho hadn’t moved an inch.

  Taking a small penknife out of his pocket, he stabbed it into the front tire, letting the air out with an audible hiss.

  Gaucho turned his head toward the sound.

  Brandon jerked the knife out of the tire and put it away quickly, holding his gun at the ready. When his opponent came around the front of the vehicle to check out the noise, Brandon advanced, cracking him across the temple with the butt of his weapon. Gaucho stumbled sideways but didn’t go down.

  Brandon gulped, retreating a step.

  He’d delivered a solid, skull-rattling hit and the behemoth hadn’t even fallen. But perhaps he was dazed, because he didn’t call out or retaliate, just blinked at Brandon in befuddled fury.

  Brandon hit him again, harder. Blood spurted from a tear in his scalp, streaking his stunned face. Making a gurgling sound, he sank to his knees in the grass and then careened forward, unconscious.

  From somewhere underground, Isabel let out an earsplitting shriek. Brandon switched off the safety and leaped into action.

  Isabel rotated her wrists behind her back, exploring the rope’s resistance as her captor came forward.

  The coarse fibers bit into her skin and there was no room to maneuver. She couldn’t feel the tips of her fingers. Her feet weren’t bound as tightly. She flexed her ankles, praying for the knot to slip.

  He gave her a slow perusal, proving he wasn’t going to kill her quickly. “I’ve seen your picture in a magazine. Very nice.”

  She tried to work up enough saliva to spit in his eye, but her mouth was too dry. Watching him approach, she continued to saw her wrists and ankles, searching for a weak spot in the binding.

  He shoved her down in the dirt, pressing his forearm to her throat. Her wrists were pinned underneath her body, crushed by their combined weight. Tears sprang into her eyes but she refused to give him the satisfaction of crying out.

  Flashing a dark smile, he trailed the tip of her knife down the center of her chest, slicing the beautiful tunic in half. While he stared at her exposed breasts, she gritted her teeth and scissored her ankles. The rope loosened, little by little.

  He lifted the blade to her cheek, tracing her trembling lips. “Shh,” he said, as if this would calm her. “It will all be over soon.”

  She turned her head to the side, shuddering with revulsion. In her direct line of sight there was a stone engraving of an eagle, its talons clutching a bloody heart. She concentrated on the unsettling image, trying to draw strength from it.

  Taking her silence as a sign of defeat, the man moved the knife to her drawstring waistband, cutting it away. Channeling her fear and fury, she focused on the eagle’s sharp talons and visualized the rope unraveling. Her attacker set aside the knife, fumbling with his trousers. The rope slipped down, freeing one foot.

  Yes!

  She brought her knee up, slamming it into his groin with all her might. He made a strangled sound and rolled off her, holding his injured parts. She kicked out wildly, bucking her body as the rope unraveled. Knowing she only had seconds to escape, she scooted away from him and struggled to her feet.

  He grabbed her ankle, sending her sprawling.

  This time she couldn’t hold back her scream. She tried to tuck into the fall and was only partly successful. Her hip and shoulder bounced off the hard-packed earth, jarring her bones. The impact stunned her.

  He leaped on her back and grabbed her by the hair, wrenching her head up and holding his gun to her temple. “I was going to leave your face intact, puta. Now even your mother won’t recognize you.”

  Brandon appeared in the entranceway, his gun aimed at the man on top of her. Isabel’s heart seized. “Drop it or die.”

  Instead of dropping it, her captor took the barrel away from Isabel’s head and pointed it at Brandon. Shots discharged from both weapons and the tomb exploded in chaos. Ancient stone fragments flew in every direction, filling the space with dust. Her attacker loosened his grip on her hair and collapsed, trapping her beneath him. Warm wetness trickled down her neck. Brandon rushed forward, pushing the limp body off her.

  Everything went silent. She felt like she was sobbing, but she couldn’t hear a sound. The smell of gunshot residue filled her nostrils. Horrified, she turned to look at the carnage. Her captor was stretched out on his side, mouth open. The back of his head was missing. Gore splattered the stone walls.

  Oh, my God.

  Sickened by the sight, she hunched over and retched, her empty stomach revolting. Nothing came up but saliva. Her ears were ringing, her head spinning.

  Brandon knelt beside her, cutting her wrists free. Her hands tingled with a bright, dizzying pain. His mouth moved but she couldn’t make out the words. He urged her to her feet, yanking her pants up her hips. They left the tomb together.

  She didn’t want to get inside the SUV, but he insisted. While he drove away from the ruins, going as fast as he could with a flat tire, she started trembling uncontrollably. Tears rolled down her swollen cheek and the ache in her right ear reached a piercing crescendo.

  Closing her eyes, she wished for drugs, for death, for oblivion.

  Chapter 14

  Brandon knew Isabel was in shock.

  She hadn’t said a word since they left the ruins, and she wasn’t responding to his voice. He’d asked several times if she was hurt, to no avail. Her eyes were squeezed shut, her shoulders trembling, clothes in tatters.

  Taking the quilt out of his backpack, he covered her half-exposed upper body.

  Pelón Garcia had hit her. The angry red mark stood out on her cheek, plain as day. He’d also raped her, or attempted to rape her. Either way, Brandon was furious, his chest heaving with pent-up rage. If he could go back and kill the man again, he would. If he could make him suffer, draw it out and watch him bleed, he would.

  Some of his anger was directed toward himself. He’d let her come to harm. She’d been hurt on his watch. That was unacceptable.

  His mood black, he drove as close to the border as possible and pulled over, parking the vehicle near a tree-lined ravine. The front windshield was gone, safety glass scattered all over the interior. They couldn’t slip into Guatemala unnoticed in a bullet-riddled SUV, and he wanted to distance himself from Carranza as much as possible. The vehicle probably had a GPS system. Brandon doubted that the man he’d knocked out would come after them tonight, but reinforcements might.

  He took a bottle of water out of his backpack and offered it to Isabel. She didn’t take it. When he touched her arm, she moaned, turning her head away.

  Brandon wondered if she’d broken something. Her shirt was stained with the dead man’s blood, her face pale from nausea. He got out of the driver’s seat and walked around to the passenger side, opening the door. “Can you stand?”

  She stared at his lips, miserable.

  Frowning, he checked her upper body for injuries, starting at her fingertips. Her wrists were red from rope burns but he didn’t find any obvious breaks. She slapped his hands aside and touched her right ear.

  Understand
ing dawned. “Can you hear me?”

  She shook her head.

  Relief and sympathy washed over him. One of his buddies had ruptured an eardrum during a training exercise. The pain was debilitating, but temporary. He rummaged through his backpack, which held her first aid kit. There were some ibuprofen tablets inside. She took two with water, wincing as she swallowed.

  “We have to go,” he said, pointing at the road. She needed to see a doctor, but getting across the border was his top priority.

  She nodded, sliding out of the passenger seat with his help. On her first step forward, she let out a little cry and swayed toward him, her knees buckling. He caught her as she fell, remembering that ear injuries caused dizziness. Securing the quilt around her body, he solved the problem by lifting her into his arms.

  When she didn’t argue, merely closed her eyes and put her head on his shoulder, he knew she was suffering.

  He took off toward the border crossing, guided by moonlight. This late in the evening, there wasn’t a single car on the road. He walked for about mile without slowing, and it was hard going, the most difficult trek of his life. She was slim but sleek with muscle, not delicate. His biceps burned from bearing her weight.

  Finally a car happened by, its driver slowing to offer them a ride. Brandon pretended not to understand any Spanish and the man stopped asking questions. They crossed the bridge into Guatemala without incident.

  Isabel curled up against him and slept.

  “Hay hospital en San Marcos,” the driver said, glancing in his rearview mirror.

  Brandon made a vague noise of agreement, brushing a lock of hair from Isabel’s brow. His heart swelled with a mixture of emotions. He was so grateful she was alive, but deeply disturbed by the trauma she’d endured. By the skin of his teeth, he’d gotten them out of Mexico. Now that the mission was almost complete, he felt sick about the final step. He couldn’t bear to betray her while she was vulnerable.