When she fled Salt Lake City nine months ago, she’d hidden her hair under a dark wig. But she’d had to abandon it in El Paso, along with most of her other possessions, when she’d escaped Nick’s men by the skin of her teeth.
That time, one of the rare few, she’d managed to interpret one of her dreams in time to save her ass, though it had been damn close. And there hadn’t been time to pack. Or plan. She’d barely made it out the back door before they’d broken in the front one. Thank God, she’d been able to grab her backpack containing what little money she had at the time. It had been just enough to buy a few clothes, the duffle bag, and a ticket to Cancun, where Karl had sent her some more.
She sighed and shook off the memories of her near capture. She was more careful now and the assassins hadn’t gotten that close again.
Making a final sweep of the cottage, she wiped all her fingerprints off the counters and doorknobs. As long as Nick’s men didn’t know she’d lived here, they couldn’t know for certain that she’d fled. So they might go on looking and give her more time to escape. Levi had once told her it was attention to detail that often made the difference between success and failure. She only wished she’d listened to him about Nick.
She missed Levi. And Jonas. She wanted her costume shop back. And her few close friends. Somehow, joking with them about her weird, clairvoyant dreams always made her seem less of a freak. At least in her own mind. She sighed. God knew, she could use a little humor now.
Tears welled up in her eyes and threatened to spill onto her cheeks. But she choked them back and went on with the business of staying alive.
As she worked, she debated where she’d sleep. There was only the one bed, but the couch was too short and lumpy. She could just imagine how she’d feel in the morning if she slept on it. The hell with it. It’s my bed, and Max is only using half of it. By the time she was ready to retire for the night, she’d convinced herself she should sleep next to Max anyway—in case he stopped breathing again.
She slipped the revolver under her pillow and lay, fully dressed, on top of the covers. Unable to resist, she scooted over beside Max—just for an instant, she told herself—and filled her nostrils with his scent. It reminded her of sun-drenched sand, balmy ocean breezes, reckless adventures, and danger. Fear fought with desire, chilling her blood while making it boil. She’d just started to move back to her half of the bed when Max rolled over on his side, wrapped an arm around her waist, and spooned her against him.
***
Thursday, February 14th, 7:03 a.m., the cottage in Baja California Sur:
Danger!
He jolted awake to the screaming of an inner voice. Braced to fight or flee, he held his breath and listened to...was that a lock being forced? Yes. A click and the creak of a door, then men’s voices, low and menacing, came from the other room.
Dread crept over him, prickling the hairs on the back of his neck. Were they searching for him? Most likely. And he didn’t think he’d care for the consequences if they found him.
You’ve got to get out of here. Now.
He eased off the bed and onto the floor, cursing the waves of pain that ravaged his body. Cold with sweat, he took slow, deep breaths to settle his queasy stomach. His bare skin scraped against the rough concrete floor. Realizing he was naked except for his briefs, he glanced around. A jumbled pile of men’s clothing and a pair of shoes lay on the end of the bed. Biting his lower lip to keep from moaning, he crawled over and retrieved them. With the bundle under his arm, he unlocked the window, opened it, and climbed out.
Instinct urged him to cover his tracks. Though it required an almost superhuman effort, he reached up and closed the window. Exhausted, he collapsed on the ground, thankful the agonized screams of his abused muscles weren’t audible outside his own head.
He heard the bedroom door open and the men creep inside. They were stealthy and careful, but he recognized the sounds of drawers opening and a room being thoroughly searched.
What the hell were they looking for? Whatever it is, I have to move before the bastards come back outside. He gritted his teeth, forced himself to his knees, and crawled around the corner of the house. Struggling to his feet, he lurched to the shelter of some shrubbery a few feet beyond the saltbush hedge surrounding the cottage. Once out of sight behind the bushes, he crumpled to his knees and waited for his heartbeat to return to normal.
As much as he wanted just to sit there forever, the rough sand grinding into his bare legs convinced him to move. Hot, sticky, and miserable, he brushed himself off and donned the clothes and shoes. They didn’t look familiar, but they fit. So they had to be his.
He checked the pockets. Empty. His wallet was probably still in the cottage, and he couldn’t risk going back there. Christ, what was he going to do? How would he survive? He had no identification, no money—no memory.
He couldn’t recall a single thing about himself, not even his name. Except for the dream about the redhead and some brief flashes of images he didn’t recognize, his mind was a blank page. He didn’t know if he was a good man or an evil one. Or if he had any friends here he could go to for help.
You don’t even know where “here” is, chided the annoying voice in his head. As if he needed to be reminded.
Knowing he’d better figure it out, and fast, he studied his surroundings. White sand and cacti. Palm and Joshua trees. The dilapidated little cottage he’d just left sat under an intense blue sky on the shores of a turquoise sea. Someplace sub-tropical. Obviously. However, voices he’d heard were speaking English, so perhaps the tiny cove was in one of the Florida Keys.
But if so, what was he doing here? What had happened to make him so weak? And who were those men his gut told him were dangerous? Was someone really after him, or was that just paranoia caused by the amnesia?
He would’ve gone with paranoia—if not for the men searching his cottage. Still, whatever his name was, it wasn’t Jason Bourne, so they were probably just thugs rather than professional assassins. Loan sharks? Had he run up thousands of dollars in gambling debts he wasn’t able to pay? Or maybe done something else equally stupid? Good God, what kind of man was he?
Fear flared up again at his total inability to remember.
No. He refused to panic. That gained him nothing. And he sensed he’d been trained to control his fear. His eyes widened at the thought. Why would he have been trained not to panic? And by whom? Christ, this was getting more surreal by the moment. Still the notion that he’d had some special training—and therefore some special skills—calmed him and made him think he could probably handle this situation. Besides, it’s not as if I have any choice if I want to survive.
He noticed a battered life vest on the ground and picked it up. It must’ve been in the pile of clothes. Had he been on a boat? He looked out at the tiny harbor. Nothing. Damn. He had the strong impression he’d arrived here on a boat.
He could also sense a harsh, raw grief waiting just under the surface of his consciousness. It explained a lot. When his memories returned that heartache would come back, too. So whatever had caused the amnesia was most likely not something he wanted to remember. Probably why I have the memory loss in the first place. He sighed. Apparently, he’d have a lot to deal with when he recovered—if he recovered. In the meantime—
A door slammed. The men were coming back outside. Instinct urged him to run, but his body begged him to rest. Probably should listen to his body, he decided, risking a cautious glance over the top of the shrubbery.
Uh-oh. One of the men was headed his way. Christ, the guy looked like a gangster—muscular, armed, and surly. On second thought, running seems like a damn smart idea.
Hiding the life vest in the foliage, he scrambled down the beach to the shelter of a large bougainvillea embracing the trunk of a giant palm tree. Surrounded by several smaller trees and some scrubby bushes that looked like dwarf palmetto and ocotillo, the enormous tree offered excellent cover.
Peeking through the bougainvillea, he
watched the armed man stop at the other patch of shrubbery and relieve himself then trudge back to the cottage.
Safe. For the moment. Exhausted and unable to go farther, he sank down behind one of the smaller palm trees. He rested his head against the tree trunk and closed his eyes. Hopefully the world would make more sense when he opened them again.
He didn’t know how long he’d stayed like that before he heard the unmistakable click of a gun being cocked behind him.
***
The fear that Nick’s thugs would arrive at any moment nipped at Tess’s heels as she hurried back to the cottage from Pablo’s farm. But even the nibbling panic couldn’t erase the smile that tugged at the corners of her mouth.
When Max had pulled her against him last night, she’d assumed he’d awakened. As she started to push away from him and protest his advances, his soft snore ruffled her hair. Realizing he was holding her in his sleep, she’d decided just to accept and enjoy it.
He’d held her all night. She even woke a few times to find him nuzzling her hair. She hadn’t cared who he was holding in his dreams as long as she got the substitute affection. When she crawled out of bed just before dawn, he moaned and reached for her. Thinking he probably had a hard-on, she scurried out of the bedroom before her embarrassed laughter could wake him up.
She knew she should be ashamed of herself, but she didn’t care. Max hadn’t known about the comfort he’d given her. And it hadn’t cost him anything.
She’d left him sleeping and slipped out of the cottage at first light to take Pablo his costume. With a grin splitting his face, the boy put on the cape and strutted around the tiny farmhouse, transformed into a miniature Montezuma. He was sure to be the star attraction in the parade, and she longed to see it.
As she jogged through a thick grove of palm trees, her shoes hanging from her fingertips, her backpack and duffel bag from her shoulders, she calculated how great the risk would be if she stayed around long enough to watch.
No, she decided. She’d already pushed her luck too far. She needed to get out of the area while she still could. Before Nick’s men discovered who lived at the cottage.
Well, they’d find no trace of her there. She’d taken everything with her when she left for Pablo’s. Except for Griffin and Max.
Griffin could fend for himself. When she left, he’d just go back to hunting—and mooching from the neighbors again—until someone else moved into the cottage. But Max...What to do about him weighed on her mind. Deserting him felt wrong, but what else could she do? When she got home, she’d wake him, give him some money for food, and tell him where Pablo’s family lived. They’d agreed to look out for him.
Deep in thought, she trotted out of the grove—and froze in an instant of pure panic. The blue Jeep and a black sedan were parked in her driveway. Five men milled around outside, going through her trash: the four she’d seen yesterday, and Tony, Nick’s personal Pit Bull. Which meant—another man walked around the corner of the house.
Oh my God, no!
CHAPTER 5
Oh, shit, oh shit! Nick! Just the sight of him made Tess’s throat slam shut. Gasping for air, she edged backward into the cover of the trees.
Had they seen her? No. There’d been no shouts of victory. They must’ve been too focused on her trash. Thank God.
Run, you fool, screamed the little voice in her mind. Yeah, good idea. She’d go back to Pablo’s and use the trail north of his house to get to the village. Max would just have to take care of himself.
“Oh, Jesus,” she muttered, the realization hitting her like a slap in the face and stopping her in midstride. Max had seen her—and spoken to her—when she found him on the beach. He’d remember. When Nick started asking questions, Max wouldn’t know not to answer. And once he told what he knew, Nick would kill him then hunt her down with the tenacity of a pack of wolves closing in on wounded prey.
She sagged against a tree, boneless with fear, as the full impact registered.
Nick could hire the locals to search for her. Money was no problem for him, and the people here needed it too much to refuse him, even if they wanted to. If she didn’t go back and warn Max, she’d have no chance to escape. And it’s my own damn fault for not talking to him before I left. But she’d wanted to give him just a little more sleep before he had to wake up and face a cold harsh reality. As cold sweat oozed down her back, she wrapped her arms around herself, held tight. Christ, what a mess. This is what I get for trying to do someone a favor.
The men going through her trash were most likely looking for evidence of who lived there. And since the cottage doors and windows were locked, they probably hadn’t been inside yet. Otherwise, they’d have already talked to Max and would be spreading out to search for her. But they weren’t.
So if she hurried, she could get to Max before they did. Maybe. Or she could get caught and the last nine months of running would be for nothing.
Icy terror clutched at her heart, stole her courage. She swallowed hard. Don’t think about it. Just do what has to be done. Come on now, damn it. You’ve got no choice, so deal with it.
The pep talk did little to calm the shudders racking her body. Refusing to submit to defeat, she lifted her chin and took slow, deep breaths to steady herself. When the trembling stopped, she removed the satchel of sketches from her duffel bag and hid the duffel behind a Joshua tree. She’d come back for it. If she could.
She stuffed her shoes and the sketches in her backpack and slipped the pack on her shoulder. If she couldn’t make it back for the duffel, at least she’d have everything essential with her.
Dropping to a crouch, she crept out of the trees. The ground between the grove and the cottage boasted enough cacti and desert shrubbery to conceal her approach, but she still felt much too vulnerable and exposed. Running in a low squat, she darted from cover to cover as skittish as a desert mouse.
When she reached the saltbush hedge that separated her yard from the beach, she peeked through the leaves to make sure the men were still distracted by her trash. They were, so she low-crawled around to the back door.
Now all she had to do was sneak in and warn Max before anyone found out she was there. Jesus, could I have come up with a dumber or more desperate plan? Doubtful, but since nothing else came to mind, she had no choice but to go with it. Holding her breath, she pulled out her keys and darted to the door.
She found Griffin in the bedroom, but not Max.
A frantic search of the rest of the house revealed no sign of him. With a sinking heart, she discovered the front door was open a crack. Which meant that Nick had forced the lock and been inside.
Oh, God, he’s already disposed of Max. With a whimper of dismay, she buried her face in her hands. This is all my fault. I should never have brought him here. If she’d taken him to the village instead, he’d still be alive.
“Check inside once more.” Joe’s rough voice outside the living room window startled her, and she shrank back against the wall. “Make double sure there isn’t some information somewhere.”
“Already did,” grumbled a voice she recognized as Bruce’s. “There ain’t nothin’.”
“I said, check.”
“Oh, all right. Keep your pants on.”
Shit. The bedroom was closest. As she raced in, Griffin jumped off the bed and headed for the door. Afraid Bruce might take his aggravation out on her cat, she scooped him up. The front door squeaked. Tess muffled her gasp of desperation in Griffin’s soft fur. I’ve got to get out of here. But how?
The window? She crept to it and peeked out. No one there. Still holding Griffin, she reached up to unlock it. Already unlocked? She didn’t stop to question why, just opened it and climbed through. Closing it behind her, she sprinted past a small clump of shrubbery to the protection of a large palm tree swaddled in bougainvillea.
Safe behind the bright red flowers, she put Griffin down and planned her next move.
She had to assume Nick had questioned Max and knew she’d been li
ving here. So his men were probably going through her trash in hopes they’d find a clue to where she’d gone.
Damn it, you knew they’d go through the trash, so why didn’t you put something in it to make them think you’d gone back north, away from La Paz? She sighed. Why, indeed? But it was too late now.
If she could get back to her duffel bag and put on her costume, she might gain enough of an edge to make it to the chicken farm. After all, Nick would expect her to run, not blend in with the locals.
Satisfied with the plan, she shifted her backpack to her other shoulder and stole another quick peek over the bougainvillea. Joe and another man were arguing beside the cottage—something about the cat, but she tuned out what they said. Griffin was safe outside now, and that’s all that mattered.
Over in the driveway, Nick leaned against the hood of the Jeep, smoking a cigarette and staring off into space. The sight of him looking like a Greek god in a thousand-dollar suit filled Tess with rage.
What right did he have to hunt her down like an animal? He was the criminal. All she’d been guilty of was being stupid enough to think she loved him. But Nick didn’t care if she was innocent. As long as he was alive, she’d have to keep running.
As long as Nick is alive. That phrase tumbled around in her mind, hypnotizing her.
Surrendering to the anger and despair, she pulled the gun from her backpack and stared at it. She should kill Nick. End it here and now. He was evil. He’d killed a man and his entire family, including two small children, right in front of her.
Black Ops Chronicles: Dead Run Page 7
