by Trish Loye
“It’s getting dark out. We’re partners,” he said with an edge in his voice. “You don’t leave your partner.”
She sighed. “But you also trust them to be able to do the job on their own when needed.” His jaw jutted out so she drove her point home. “I’m going out to get takeaway, not take on any bad guys. I’ll be fine. Trust that I know what I’m doing.”
“But how do I know that?” Again, there was a deeper question to his words. He just couldn’t stop digging.
“Ex-army and thriller reader, remember?” she said, sticking with her cover. “I’ll be careful, but I’m just getting some dinner. Besides, Pérez’s men don’t know where we are. I’ll be safe.”
He sat on the bed. “Thirty minutes, then I come looking.”
“Fine. But try calling me first?” She rattled off her phone number to him, put on her baseball cap and sunglasses, and left.
After a chat at the front desk for takeaway suggestions, she strode down the block. It was only five minutes later when her phone buzzed with a text.
Make sure you look behind you every now and then. You know…like a spy from one of your books.
She snorted and tapped back a reply.
Marc stood by the window, watching Quinn on the street below. His phone dinged, and he checked the text she’d sent.
I would never be so obvious as to look behind me. I’m watching reflections in windows. Saw that one in a James Bond movie.
She looked up at the window and shook her head as if chastising him. He grinned. She couldn’t see him or his smile from here, but he couldn’t help it. The woman made him laugh. She turned and moved quickly up the street, weaving between people on the sidewalks. The light was failing, but he watched her for as long as he could.
The farther she got from him, the more he tensed. He shouldn’t have let her go alone.
His phone buzzed.
I know you’re watching. Relax. I can handle takeaway.
His lips twisted. She was right. It was just take-out, or “takeaway” as she called it, but he didn’t like the fact that she was alone. It wasn’t the fact that she was a woman, or not just that fact anyway. He more than trusted Cat or Sarah or any of the other women at EDGE to look after themselves, but they’d had intensive training. And although Quinn was obviously more than a medic, he didn’t know exactly what type of training she’d had.
She’d handled herself well so far and hadn’t freaked out yet. He blew out a long breath. She could handle take-out.
He finally tapped a message back.
I know. I trust you. FYI I like spicy.
The crowd below teemed with life. It seemed to get busier as it got darker. Lights from the businesses and restaurants below sent warm glows onto the people milling below.
His phone buzzed.
I figured you’d like spice.
He tilted his head as he mulled over her response.
Meaning?
You seem like the type of guy who likes things hot. Hot weather, hot food, hot situations.
Was she flirting with him? Another text came in.
BTW not flirting. I meant hot as in contact with the enemy. Not sexy.
He laughed and couldn’t help replying.
I hadn’t thought of sex until you mentioned it.
The response only took seconds to come in.
Why do I not believe you?
You might not believe this, but not all guys think with their dicks.
Just most?
Haha. Concentrate on the food, Red.
She didn’t text back, and he couldn’t see her below.
He tapped out a message, unable to help himself.
Watch your six.
Yes, sir.
He scanned the crowd below, looking for anyone suspicious, itching to pace though his leg protested. He didn’t push it, either. It needed to be on the mend so he could get through the next few days with Quinn.
Why were they really heading to Cartagena? He didn’t believe the story of the farmer’s family. Or did she really think they were out of danger now that they’d left Pérez’s main territory?
No. She had to know what they were dealing with.
It all came back to one question: just who the fuck was Quinn McKenzie?
Minutes later, he spotted her in the crowd below, his eye naturally going to her. She was like a shark among schools of fish, swimming with purpose through the crowd, them parting before her. Her cap was still on, though she’d taken off the sunglasses in the darkening evening.
He watched even after she’d entered the hotel, scanning the street for any other set of eyes that might have followed her movements. Then he moved to the door.
A knock and, after a cursory glance out the peephole, he opened it.
The smell of cooked meat and spices had his stomach growling. He glanced up and down the hall after she’d stepped in, just to make sure no one had followed her.
She was laying out food on the desk when he turned around.
“What’d you do? Order everything on the menu?”
“Bandeja paisa for you.” She opened a foam container. “It’s got a bit of everything. Beans, rice, chicharrón, carne en polvo, chorizo, fried egg, ripe plantain, avocado and arepa.” She smiled and took the other container. “I got myself an order of arroz con pollo.”
“Chicharrón?” he asked, a term he hadn’t heard before.
“Fried pork belly. Better than bacon.”
“Then it’s already one of my favorite foods.”
She pulled out two beers. “The food goes best with a cold beer. I figured one would be fine.”
He popped the top off the beers and handed her one, clinking his to hers. “Thanks for getting the food.”
He sat at the desk with the large container while she plopped on the end of the bed, her smaller container fitting easily into one hand. Her rice and chicken smelled divine, but then so did his mound of food. “I’m going to go into a food coma after this.”
“You need it,” she said simply, focusing on her dinner.
“I’m already better,” he said.
She paused with her fork halfway to her mouth. “You were shot yesterday. You’re not already better.”
“I won’t be left behind tomorrow.”
“You’re lucky I’m bringing you at all.”
He didn’t want to fight, so he let it drop. They ate the rest of their food in silence, and then watched the local news in Spanish.
“We should sleep,” she finally said. “You take the bed. I’ll take the floor.”
His eyebrows rose. “You’re kidding, right?”
She grabbed a pillow from the bed. “You’re injured.”
“I have a small wound on my leg. I did not have open-heart surgery. Stop treating me like an invalid.”
“You were shot. I’m treating you like anyone else.”
He stood. There was no way she was going to win this fight. “I’m not like anyone else. Take the bed. I’ll take the floor.”
“Is this because I’m a woman?”
Holy hell. Seriously? He gritted his teeth. “This is because you’re not a soldier. You’re a civilian.”
“I’m not…”
“Yes?” He watched her intently. Would he finally hear what her secret was? “You’re not what?”
She lifted her chin. “I’m not soft. I can handle the floor.”
He shook his head. Stubborn women drove him insane. “For fuck’s sake. Take the bed.”
She huffed out an exasperated breath. “Only if you’ll sleep with me.”
He didn’t smile, or he really tried not to. From the way her eyes narrowed, he wasn’t successful. “I’m not sure I’m ready for such a big step.”
She threw her hands up. “You know what I mean. We’re adults. We can share the damn bed.”
Now he was outright grinning. “Anything you—”
“If you make any more cracks, I will shoot you.”
“Contrary and testy.” He hid hi
s grin. “And of course, I wasn’t going to make any jokes. This is a serious situation, and I’m a very serious man.”
“Just stop.”
He relented. “I’ll sleep on top of the covers. I want to stay dressed anyway and keep my boots on.”
She grasped his words like a lifeline, and he had to smother another laugh. “I’ll do the same.”
They settled on the bed in an awkward silence, lying side by side. It wasn’t a large bed, and he had to hug one side in order to not touch her. Humor fled as he felt the warmth emanating from her. It made him want to roll over and snuggle into it, to press his face into the soft skin of her neck and breathe in her scent, to—
He rolled away from her to face the door. This was going to be a long night.
12
Quinn woke feeling warm and safe. She didn’t want to open her eyes and dispel the illusion. She hadn’t woken up with this feeling in months.
She snuggled deeper into the warmth, and something tightened slightly around her waist, drawing her closer to that warmth. Her gaze snapped open, and she saw a male arm, heavy with muscle and dusted with dark hair, flung over her.
Memories of yesterday cleared any remaining fog. She paused for a moment, letting herself savor the feeling of waking up in someone’s arms, even if she didn’t fully trust that someone. Her body seemed to. In fact, she ached to turn in his arms and shift closer to him. To lift her face to his.
Bad body.
She couldn’t afford to be distracted by a pretty face and hard muscles.
With a soft sigh, she slid quietly from the bed and padded to the window. Marc shifted behind her, also awake. Had he been awake long enough to know that they’d ended up entwined like lovers?
She ran a hand through her hair, which had come loose from the braid, and pushed aside the curtain to peek outside.
Morning sunshine gave everything a golden glow as it crept over the eastern mountains. People stirred on the street below, but it definitely wasn’t as busy as last night. She spotted a Pan Pa Yá—a quick serve restaurant where she could get some takeaway breakfast. Her stomach grumbled.
She quickly re-braided her hair, before she buckled on her waist holster and flipped her shirt over it to hide her gun. She plopped on her ball cap and stuck her braid up under it, then snagged her wallet and headed for the door.
Marc yawned as he sat on the side of the bed and scrubbed his face with a hand. Stubble darkened his jaw, giving him a dangerous look even as the sleep left his face. “Where’re you going?”
“Coffee and food.” The hotel room didn’t have a coffee machine, and even if it had, hotel room coffee was always horrendous.
He shot to his feet. Only a slight wince betrayed him.
“Sit,” she said. “I’ll be back in five. You can watch me from the window.”
He sighed. “Be quick. I need caffeine.”
She jogged down the two flights of stairs to the street and out onto the block. At the restaurant deli counter, she ordered two buñuelos and tintos. Large donut-like balls of fried doughy yumminess and coffees. Breakfast of champions. She added two chicharrón con arepitas as well. Bacon in cornbread should fill them both. The coffee was strong, but not bitter. She’d miss it when she went back to the UK. She took a moment back on the sidewalk to enjoy a few sips while she stood in the sunshine.
And noticed the man across the street. He, too, was stopped, and his dark gaze crossed hers for the barest moment. Five eleven, dark hair under a battered baseball cap, olive skin weathered by the sun, dirty jeans, and muddy boots.
Muddy boots. Like hers after tromping through the jungle.
He looked down and then back up at her hotel, watching it a moment before he pulled out his phone.
He didn’t move from his spot, his gaze fixated on the hotel. The hairs on the back of her neck rose. She plastered a contented look on her face and took another sip of coffee, scanning the street casually.
A second man stood down the block by a kiosk, a phone in his hand and a hard look in his eye. He, too, watched the hotel with an unblinking gaze.
Fuck.
She didn’t know whether they were Pérez’s men or not, but she wasn’t going to take any chances. If she’d been on her own, she’d have taken off and not chanced going back. But she couldn’t leave an injured man to face these men alone.
She strolled along the street, just a tourist out for an early coffee. Thank goodness she’d hidden her red hair, a telltale flag of who she was. But she’d had a lot of experience in hiding it or dying it if she needed to.
She entered the hotel lobby. A man with the same rough attitude as the two watchers spoke to a frazzled clerk.
“I’m not supposed to give out room numbers,” the clerk said quietly.
She ducked her head and took the stairs. The clerk wouldn’t last long before he buckled to pressure. Plans came and went in her head. They had to make a run for it. The men below would have reinforcements only a phone call away.
She pounded only once on the door before Marc swung it open, waiting for her.
“Who’s out there?” he asked.
She didn’t know how he knew—from watching or just guessing by her face—and there wasn’t time to ask.
“Not sure, but it could be Pérez’s men.” She moved into the room, thankful they’d packed up the night before. She slung her pack on and held onto the coffee and food, not wanting to leave it behind as any kind of clue for the men below. She’d chuck it when they got outside. They’d need their hands free if they ended up in a fight. Marc already had his pack. He’d almost definitely armed himself already. “They’re not well trained. I spotted two on the street. One in the lobby. They didn’t tag me. Don’t shoot if you don’t have to. The police respond quickly, and Pérez can easily find us in jail.”
“Got it.” He led the way into the hall and toward the set of stairs at the back of the building. “Did you scope the back?”
“No. We’ll have to chance it.”
Voices echoed up from the stairs that she’d just come up. She started to jog and then cursed, remembering Marc’s leg.
He was right behind her. “I’m fine. I won’t slow you down.”
She took him at his word. They made it to the stairs before anyone entered their hallway. She breathed a small sigh.
At the back entrance, she wrinkled her nose at the smell of rotting garbage and piss in the alley. She chucked the food into an open dumpster. They walked away from the street and through back alleys for about ten minutes in silence.
“I just stepped in something that squished,” she said.
Marc chuckled softly. “Let’s head for the main road. We should be safe enough.”
“We don’t even know if those guys were there for us.”
He gave her a skeptical look. “I didn’t take you for a believer in coincidences.”
“Gah. You’re right.” She shook her head as she moved past an overflowing garbage can and toward the noise of the main street. “But how the hell did Pérez find us?”
“I was wondering the same thing.”
Something in the evenness of his voice made her glance sharply at him. His face was as bland as his voice. Did he think she had something to do with this? She blinked. Why would he suspect her? If anything, she should be suspecting him. But why would he help her escape if he wanted Pérez’s men to catch them? It made no sense.
Unless those weren’t Pérez’s men back there.
Her mind whirled with possibilities as she stepped into the flow of the early morning pedestrian traffic in the Candelaria District. Should she confront him, or just leave him?
Her phone rang. She snatched it up. “Hello?”
“Quinn, it’s me,” Ian said. “Can we meet?”
“Where and when?”
“Plaza de Bolívar at ten thirty.”
She frowned. That was a wide open square that reminded her of Trafalgar Square, right down to the pigeons, and bordered on each side by historical
buildings, including the Palace of Justice and the National Capital. “Why there?”
“It’s just what I ended up near last night.”
“Why don’t I come to you right now?”
“I slept in and want to shower,” he said. “You know I’m not a morning person.”
True. Ian hated mornings. Besides, she felt sorry for him. He’d come to this country to help people, and now he was on the run because of something she’d done. So she could give him a bit of leeway.
“No worries,” she said. “Call me if you run into problems. I’m not too far.”
“Where are you?” he asked.
She named a district near the business sector far from where she and Marc were. “But I can get to you in minutes,” she reassured him.
“Thanks, Quinn.”
After she’d hung up, Marc nodded at the phone. “Why’d you lie to him?”
She’d lied because she’d been trained to never tell her location over an unsecure line. “Instinct, I think?”
He quirked an eyebrow but didn’t reply.
He didn’t believe her, but she didn’t care. Her cover was a mess, but just because he suspected something didn’t mean she was going to tell him anything. “There’s a breakfast shop across the street. Let’s get some food before we head to the Plaza.”
The restaurant was busy, but they found a table near the wall where they could see both the front door and have access to the rear exit. They sat and ordered a decent breakfast of arepas stuffed with eggs, cheese, and chorizo.
“How do you think they found us?” Marc’s voice was casual, his face bland and his gaze steady on her.
Her instincts went on high alert. Marc wasn’t her enemy, but neither was he her friend. She had to remember that.
She shook her head and tapped her fingers on the table. “I don’t know. It doesn’t make sense,” she said. “Unless someone alerted him that we were there.”
“It wasn’t me or my team.”
Again with that even voice. It made her want to snarl.
“It wasn’t me,” she said.
“I know,” he said simply.
Her anger deflated like a popped balloon. “What do you mean, you know?”
