Crazy Sweet

by Tara Janzen

Smith swore softly under his breath. She was going to get herself royally harassed at the least, or royally manhandled, or even worse, all for a bundle of junk and a wooden crucifix.

  Out of the corner of his eye, he caught sight of a third man coming out of the villa’s gate with a subgun slung over his shoulder—and wasn’t that just perfect?

  “Arturo!” one of the first men called out.

  Smith gave the guy a quick glance, saw him gesture down the street; when Smith looked, there was guy number four, carrying an AR15 carbine, crossing over in front of a battered old Ford pickup and heading for the woman and the Palacio.

  If the situation had been perfect before, now it was absolutely perfect—him, the cupcake, and four of Tony Royce’s handpicked, well-armed assholes.

  He looked back to the cart—and she was gone. The cupcake in polka dots. Completely disappeared.

  How in the hell, he wondered, had she moved so fast in platform heels, and where in the hell had she gone?

  There was only one answer to the second question. She’d been standing in front of the Hotel Palacio’s oversized wooden doors, and the only place she could have disappeared that quickly was through them.

  Well, that had to be a bit of a shock to her. The Palacio was a fortress, with solid masonry walls and thick hardwood floors and doors, but the hotel was also as flea-bitten as they came, with fading paint and chipping plaster, a nicked and scarred reception counter, and a pair of bullet craters in the wall at the bottom of the staircase. There was no elevator in the Palacio. The place was eighty years old if it was a day, a three-story hollow rectangle with interior verandas running around each of the floors, overlooking a lush, overgrown courtyard. Smith had taken the third-floor suite on the southeast corner of the building and had spent most of the day shrouded in the dim light behind his balcony window, looking through a compact 20-power spotting scope pointed at Royce’s villa.

  He’d seen plenty, especially the hit-ups Red Dog had spray-painted on Royce’s stucco walls and the fallout of her handiwork. There were four tags visible from the courtyard, and two guys doing their best to wash them off or paint over them, neither of which was working. Red Dog 303 in big red letters and numbers had been bleeding through every coat of paint the men had put on today. She’d made Royce’s villa look like a crack house in East L.A.

  She had to have loved that, tagging the bastard without getting caught by his security system or his guards, but Smith knew Gillian, and he knew the coup de grâce had been the half-million-dollar cocaine deal she’d screwed up between Royce and Mara Plata, a Central American gang whose business specialties included extortion and drug-trafficking. He’d gotten the news about the pooched deal from his old friends at the DEA Country Office in Panama City two days ago. They hadn’t been any too happy to have the case they were trying to build against Royce blown for them, and they were going to be even unhappier when he told them who had been involved. La cazadora espectral, the ghostly hunter, she was called in Central America, her reputation made with a hit a year ago on a Guatemalan crime boss who’d been exporting his assassination services to the United States. When Christian Hawkins had called Smith yesterday and asked him to follow up on Red Dog’s unauthorized side trip to El Salvador, way too many pieces had fallen into place. Seeing her tag splashed all over Royce’s walls had confirmed it all, Superman’s worst suspicions and Travis James’s biggest fear.

  The Mara Plata deal wasn’t the only one the other two SDF operators thought Red Dog might have mangled for Royce over the last two years, but Smith could guarantee, no matter what she’d done before, this was the first time she’d actually signed her name and address to the deed. He needed to call Hawkins and tell him to batten down the hatches. It didn’t take a decoder ring to figure out what Red Dog 303 meant, and wherever Royce was, Smith didn’t think it would take the bastard too damn long to sic somebody on her tail—somebody mean and out for blood.

  The girl loved trouble, beyond a doubt, the kind of trouble she could dish out, which Smith had a tremendous amount of respect and appreciation for. But this kind of trouble made him wish Hawkins or Travis would lock her up until Tony Royce was either dropped into a bottomless pit in Leavenworth, or dead.

  Preferably dead.

  The guy was sick in a bad way, especially when it came to women, which made Smith walk a little faster. The cupcake wouldn’t last five minutes in Royce’s company. Not that Smith had seen Royce around, and given the lax attitude of the guards, leaving the grounds to harass a woman, he doubted if Royce was in residence. The ex-CIA agent had a reputation for brutality that extended beyond his twisted inclinations toward the fairer sex.

  Arturo and his gang were mid-street when Smith pushed through the doors of the Palacio—just in time to see a flash of white with red polka dots disappear beyond the first landing of the staircase.

  Geezus. She couldn’t possibly be staying at the Palacio. The place was a dump, even by his standards, which he could guarantee were lower than hers.

  He cruised by the hotel clerk with a short wave and started up the stairs. Casual, that was him, genetically disinclined to panic under any and all circumstances. Still, he was taking the stairs two at a time.

  Behind him, he heard Royce’s men entering the lobby, which despite everything, surprised him. Harassing a woman on the street was one thing. Following her into a hotel, even one as run-down as the Palacio, was another.

  He cleared the first landing and looked down the length of the second-floor veranda. Palm trees from the overgrown courtyard shielded part of the walkway from view, but he still saw her elegantly mussed French twist, the curve of her hip, and one of her platform heels disappear around the corner of the outside staircase, heading toward the top floor.

  What in the hell was she up to, he wondered, and where in the hell was she going? There were only two suites on the southern, top-floor wing of the Palacio, his and the Salvadoran honeymooners’ next door to him.

  Below him, he heard Royce’s men entering the courtyard, and behind him, he heard someone coming up the stairs, fast, which for some damn reason, some damn reason in the Heroism for Dummies handbook, meant he had to really put his ass on the line here.

  Christ. Climbing onto the rail of the veranda, he grabbed the top-floor railing and swung himself up—and landed smack-dab at her white-platformed, spike-heeled, bow-tied feet.

  She gasped and froze like a bunny in the headlights, all five feet and practically nothing of tanned legs, tight dress, dangerous curves, and blond hair.

  He decided on the spot that unbeknownst to him all these years, candy-apple-red toenail polish was his favorite—something he might have been inclined to contemplate a little more deeply, except for the shouting coming from the courtyard and the sound of feet pounding up the outside stairs.

  “Come on,” he said, wrapping one arm around her waist and his other hand around her upper arm, which left her with very little weight on her feet, which he most definitely used to his advantage, hustling her toward the door to his room. He had her inside before she could even begin to protest, let alone struggle. He quickly closed the heavy door, shot the top and bottom dead bolts home as quietly as possible, and pressed his ear to the wood, listening.

  And that’s when he heard the unmistakable sound of somebody racking a round into the chamber of a semiautomatic pistol—except the sound was coming from behind him, not from out on the veranda.

  Fuck.

  He didn’t move for a couple of seconds, just rested his head against the door and silently swore at himself.

  “T-turn around,” she said, and he figured that was probably not such a bad idea.

  Pushing himself off the door panel, he slowly turned to face her and raised his hands to either side of his body. He had a Sig Sauer .45 in a holster jammed in his pants, riding in the small of his back, under his shirt, and he knew that even with her getting the drop on him, he could take her—but he wasn’t going to shoot her, or put her to the floor. Not yet. Not
when she still looked like a bunny in the headlights. Not when she was still standing exactly where he had first put her, one step away, instead of gaining some distance before drawing her weapon. Not when her hands were shaking so badly he doubted if she could hit the broad side of a barn even at that distance. And not when she didn’t have her finger on the trigger.

  Nope, both the girl’s hands and all her digits were wrapped around the pistol’s grip like duct tape. He wondered if she even knew there was a trigger, and he wondered how anyone who knew so little about how to hold a gun had known how to load one.

  “My name is John Roland, and I work for the U.S. State Department.” That always sounded good to Americans in a foreign country. It shouldn’t, not necessarily, but it did—and her voice had definitely tagged her as an American. “Please lower your gun.”

  “The—the State Department?” she repeated.

  But she didn’t lower the gun. Not an inch.

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “You don’t look like you’re from the State Department.”

  She had a point, a damn good one. He looked like a merchant marine on a three-day bender, but he was sticking with his story.

  “My office, the embassy where I work, is actually in Panama. I’m here in San Luis on vacation.”

  “I saw you sitting out in front of the bar across the street.”

  Good girl. She’d been paying attention to her surroundings from behind those big sunglasses. He was surprised.

  “Did you see the men come out of the villa’s gate?”

  She nodded, and a blond tendril of hair slipped free from one of her bows and slid down the side of her neck to curl in the concave curve above her collarbone, which was where the plunging V of her halter top began, which for all the fascination it held wasn’t nearly as riveting as where the V of the halter top ended.

  He took a breath.

  “And the fourth guy coming up the street?” he asked. “Did you see him?” The one with the fucking AR15?

  She nodded again, and another honey gold strand slipped free to slide across her shoulder. “Th-that’s why I came inside the hotel.”

  He was more than surprised that she’d seen the fourth guy. He was impressed. She’d been standing at the cart, buying junk, and watching the street like a hawk, which really didn’t have a damn thing to do with how her skin looked up close, like satin—smooth, soft, and with a subtle sheen that was just a little mind-boggling.

  The gun, Smith, he reminded himself. Keep your eye on the gun.

  “Are you staying here?” He was going to have to take her down and take that damn gun, but he’d really like to do it without breaking her, a consideration that wasn’t usually within a hundred miles of his “Things to Do Today” list, not on any day of the week. Up until one minute ago, one hundred percent of the people who had ever pointed a gun at him had been on his “Take Them the Fuck Out” list, Monday through Sunday.

  “D-do you have some identification? From the State Department?”

  A good question, and no, he didn’t, but he went ahead and carefully lowered his right hand and turned slightly to his left, subtly shifting his weight and giving a damn good impression of someone going for his wallet—and in less than two seconds had her off balance, spun around, and planted solidly against the wall next to the door. Her hands were still gripping the pistol, but he had both of them pinned flat against the plaster above her head, his hip dug into her abdomen, and the V of his right thumb and forefinger around her throat.

  Her face had gone instantly pale.

  “Let go of the gun,” he growled. “Or I’ll snap your neck.” And that put her way beyond pale into “deathly pale” territory.

  He felt her fingers relax, and he pried the weapon free. Then he released his grip on her and stepped away.

  Yeah, he thought. It had been a good question, but it had also been one more mistake in a day full of mistakes, starting with her leaving whatever hotel she was staying at, which no way in hell could be the Palacio.

  “Where are you staying in San Luis?” he asked, releasing the magazine out of her pistol. Next, he ejected the round she’d loaded into the chamber and let it fall into his hand—a .45, full metal jacket.

  When she didn’t answer, he glanced up.

  Perfect. She was trembling, all over, from the top of her French twist down to her toes, every inch of her—trembling. And suddenly he hoped very much that nothing fell out of her dress.

  “What hotel are you at?” he asked again, trying to take a little of the growl out of his voice.

  “Th-that’s none of your business.” She sounded about ready to faint, which was one of the last things he needed.

  “It is if you want to get back there in one piece,” he said, then checked the magazine. It felt empty, because it was empty.

  Sonuvabitch.

  “You only had one cartridge?” That didn’t make sense. Nobody carried around a semiautomatic pistol with just one cartridge.

  “C-cartridge?”

  “Bullet,” he elaborated. And anyone who didn’t know the difference between a bullet and a cartridge shouldn’t be carrying anything around.

  “There’s only one?”

  “Uno.” He held up the round, and watched her beautiful, lush, candy-apple-red, trembling lips tighten just a bit, in the middle, but he couldn’t tell if it was because she was going to cry—Please, God, anything but that—or if she was angry.

  “I—I paid for three.”

  Three?

  Well, that was just about the stupidest damn thing he’d ever heard.

  “Who did you pay?” For three freaking cartridges to put in a seven-round magazine for a semiauto pistol that didn’t look like it had been cleaned since World War II.

  “The man on the street, the one with the cart.”

  Oh, geezus.

  Suddenly he knew what had been in the bundle, and he knew why Royce’s men had come out of the gate, and it wasn’t because of a tight white halter dress and honey blond hair.

  “Get in the corner, and don’t move. Not a muscle, and I mean it,” he said, drawing his Sig and gesturing toward the forward corner of the room, where he could keep her in sight, but where she’d be hidden behind the door if it was opened, something he wasn’t planning on allowing, but there were four guys out there who might be thinking differently.

  Christ. She’d bought a gun off the street, with one friggin’ cartridge, which was probably just enough to get her killed, and she’d done it in front of Royce’s guards, who would damn well know what kind of business Vendor Man conducted out of his friggin’ cart.

  He stepped back over to the door to listen.

  “I—I don’t think you’re with the State Department.”

  “I am,” he lied without a second thought. He didn’t tell people his business—ever.

  “You don’t look like anyone I’ve ever met from the State Department.”

  That got her a look. “Which State Department, exactly, are we talking about?”

  “The one in Washington, D.C.”

  Geezus.

  “I have friends there.”

  Good. Great.

  “Lots of them.”

  Okay, he wasn’t going to run with that, even if she did look like a girl who might have a lot of “friends” anywhere she went.

  “And none of them carry a gun.”

  He wasn’t surprised. The job description for State Department pencil pushers didn’t usually include disarming beautiful blondes in ratty hotel rooms. No, that thrill-a-minute task was left to guys like him, guys who looked like the kind she’d probably spent her whole life avoiding.

  “Y-you do,” she added.

  Yes, he did, one with plenty of ammo, enough to get him out of the Palacio, if it came to that.

  Him and her, too, dammit, if it came to that.

  The woman really did need a keeper. It wasn’t going to be him, oh, hell no, but he could at least get her off Tony Royce’s street and back over
to where the turistas played.

  “Y-you look like you know what you’re doing. With the gun, I mean.”

  He did, but he sure as hell didn’t like this particular turn of the conversation, no more than he liked what he was hearing through the door: the sound of men coming down the veranda.

  “You scared me.”

  He’d meant to scare her.

  “And I don’t trust you,” she said.

  Smart girl, he thought, giving her a quick glance where she’d pressed herself into the corner. She was all white swoops and polka-dot curves against the ancient, dull gold paint covering the walls.

  “B-but I trust those men out there even less.”

  A very smart girl, he decided, a very smart and shaking-like-a-leaf-in-a-class-five-hurricane girl who sounded like she was starting to hyperventilate a little.

  “I’ll p-pay you five hundred d-dollars to be my bodyguard for the next five minutes.”

  Smith lifted one eyebrow in her direction, then gave her a quick nod and shifted his attention back to the door—and he grinned. He couldn’t help himself. Five hundred dollars, and to think he’d been going to save her for free.

  CHAPTER

  4

  WHAT THE FUCK is this?” Tony Royce asked, looking at the photograph Zane Lowe, his top lieutenant, handed him.

  “San Luis.” At six feet four and hitting the scales at two-fifty, Zane was a beast—a red-haired beast with a brain.

  Royce looked at the picture again, more closely, and felt his jaw lock.

  “This is my fucking house?” The windows of his suite at the MGM Grand in Las Vegas overlooked the whole glitzy, overlit, goddamn city—but his gaze was glued to the photograph that Zane had just printed off the computer, a close-up shot of a stucco wall with the number three written on it in red paint.

  He’d seen that color of red paint before, four separate times, and every time he’d seen it, bad fucking news had followed. This time, the bad news had arrived first. The goddamn Mara Plata deal he’d been working had been one big goddamn waste of time. The piss ants had leaked the deal.

  Now he knew why.