WHERE TIGERS PROWL

by Karin Story

  A few minutes later, she began a methodical search of all the larger vehicles in the lot, looking for one with unlocked doors. She didn't have any idea if there were hidden security cameras in the structure, but she figured she had to take that chance. Finally, she discovered a blue minivan that had the front passenger window down a few inches. With a bit of a struggle, she managed to get her hand and arm down inside the window and pull the lock up.

  With a silent sigh of thanks, she climbed in, and shut and relocked the door behind her. Then she clambered over the back seat and settled herself into the cargo space in the very back. She crossed her fingers and prayed with all her might that whoever was driving the van tonight didn't have any cargo. This lot was near several office buildings and she was banking on this vehicle belonging to someone who'd soon be heading home for the day.

  Thirty minutes later, she heard a click of automatic door locks snapping up. A door opened and shut, the van started, and slowly began to move. The darkness of the parking structure gave way to the fading twilight of evening, and Maris rode into the unknown listening to sounds of Phil Collins singing Against All Odds.

  * * *

  Well, well. She was going to be more difficult than he'd originally thought. He'd meant to talk to her, gain her trust, get the information he needed, then do away with her as quickly as possible.

  But the damn woman kept charging around everywhere, jumping in and out of cars, taking off into the middle of heavy traffic. Did she have a death wish?

  Even when he'd shot at her, he hadn't wanted to kill her right away. First he wanted to have a nice cozy chat with her. Someplace where the two of them could be alone together. Ah yes, then he would have gotten her to talk to him. Women always did. He smiled.

  But she was a quick thing, dodging in and out of cars. He hadn't been able to get good aim. One thing was for sure, though; she wasn't with his boy, and it didn't appear she'd been with him earlier. Quite possibly, his boy had skipped out on her and gone off on his own How like him to do something like that. And if he wasn't with her, then chances were, he wasn't here in Denver at all.

  A hearty chuckle escaped him. But of course! Plant the woman here as a diversion. It's something he, himself, would have done.

  Coming to a decision, he lit a cigarette in honor of his new direction, savoring the taste and the smell of the tobacco. Maris Rhodes could still pose some problems. He couldn't write her off just yet. There was something indomitable about her, like a bulldog who wouldn't let go of a bone. She'd have to be taken care of eventually…oh yes.

  But right now, he'd bet his fortune he knew exactly where his boy was going: straight to the horse's mouth.

  He tossed his cigarette butt into the busy street and climbed back in the car.

  It was high time to head south.

  Chapter 18

  * * *

  Maris stepped off the tour bus and stifled a groan. It had been a hellish four days, but finally, at long last, she was here. Now she just had to stay low-key while she looked for clues, or waited, or whatever it was she was supposed to be doing here.

  For God's sake, she didn't even know what she was supposed to be doing here.

  Genny's words had been cryptic as usual, but she'd tried to follow the older woman's advice as best she could. Not that it had been easy.

  For a U.S. citizen, getting into Mexico under normal circumstances was a rather simple, everyday happening. But for a person who wanted to avoid the notice of federal officials, it was a little tougher. She'd run several possibilities through her head, from trying to sneak across the border—which no one in their right mind would do with all the armed customs agents around—to bribing a carload of Mestizos to let her ride along with them. She figured she could probably pass for one of them if she hid her hair. She spoke Spanish fluently. Still, that was too risky.

  She'd finally opted for walking across like a normal person with all the proper ID. It just didn't happen to be her usual Maris Rhodes identification. It had been simpler than she thought to roam the seedy alleys of a border town and buy an identity.

  She'd wadded her hair up into a bandanna, donned her shades, bought herself the gaudiest string of beads and matching earrings she could find, and moseyed on across with her new California drivers license that proclaimed her to be Windy Stormier. What a sense of humor that girl's parents had.

  No one had questioned her, however, and she'd passed uneventfully.

  The larger chore had been getting from Ciudad Juárez to Mexico City. She'd been forced to hitchhike most of the way, and in Mexico, for a woman alone, that wasn't necessarily a nice thing. She'd been pawed by a drunk farmer, called a loose woman and a string of other foul Spanish words by an annoyed wife whose husband had stopped to give her a ride, and nearly mugged twice.

  The first time, she was already in the car with the teenage boy. She'd been wary of him from the start, so he'd gotten a face full of pepper spray and a lecture before she sent him packing.

  The second time, the middle-aged man had grabbed her before she ever got in the car, and attempted to kiss her and yank her backpack off her arm at the same time. She rearranged one of his knee caps and gave him a nosebleed before she sprinted off down a side street. Lucky for her they were in a small town when it happened. She'd run to the other side of town and picked up another ride before the big brute could spread the story that there was a maniac woman on the loose.

  Finally, she'd made it to Mexico City and had cashed in the last pittance of her American money for nuevo pesos. She'd spent last night in a fairly clean park, where she'd managed to doze on and off until sunrise. Then she'd hoofed it over to catch one of the tour buses out to the pyramids.

  And there they were. The Teotihuacan pyramids, just as she remembered them.

  She'd been here once with her father when she was a little girl. Then, a few years ago, Dad had done some consulting work in Mexico City, and he and Genny had spent a month down here. This is where the picture was made that Genny had told her about, the framed photo that sat on her bookshelf at home showing Genny and Dad in front of the Pyramid of the Sun.

  Why would Genny have sent her here?

  Even if Tom was in Mexico, what business he'd have here at the ancient city was beyond her. But, Genny's visions had been right before, and since Maris didn't have a better plan, she figured she didn't have anything to lose.

  Yeah. Except her money, her time, her sanity, maybe even her life. Great.

  Grumbling to herself, she did her best to blend in with the gang of tourists.

  The actual area of ancient Teotihuacan was enormous. She stood in the middle of the Street of the Dead, looking up at the Pyramid of the Moon, which dominated one end of the ancient thoroughfare. The powerful presence of the Pyramid of the Sun was behind her and to the right. She could almost feel the pulse and clatter of the city as it had been in its heyday fifteen hundred years ago, when the buildings had been painted bright colors and the inhabitants had mingled in the marketplaces trading their wares.

  She'd always loved going to archaeological sites with her father. Loved the mystery of it all, been humbled by the cultures that were truly spectacular and ancient, loved the tedium of scraping and brushing at small patches of earth in the hope of finding some small shard of pottery. Loved the sun beating down on her back, and getting her hands dirty, and letting her mind wander as she worked.

  It had been the same, in a sense, when she'd worked in the mountains in Colorado. She'd loved being part of nature.

  God she was tired of trying to force herself into the mold her grandmother had wanted. People didn't have to have Ph.D.s, or fancy titles, or climb the corporate ladder to be happy. Life was too short for that crap. As well she knew.

  Her leg really didn't hurt much most of the time, but it was still crystal clear in her mind that she'd been shot at. The things that had happened to her over the past week were evidence of just how short life truly was.

  There had to be an end to all th
is. But where? How?

  Tom, where are you?

  Her stomach clenched. She missed him so much, damn him, that it made her physically sick to think about it.

  No. She didn't need this. Didn't need him!

  She let her anger at him run rampant as she had been doing all these days since he'd left her. It felt good, and it was the only way she could fight off the pain of his betrayal.

  Back in control, she continued to blend in with the crowds all day, until the people dwindled.

  Finally, the last tour bus left, and the sky grew dark except for reddish tints in the western sky. All day long she'd kept her eyes open for something…anything that might give her a hint about Tom. She'd watched people, eavesdropped on conversations, and looked for physical clues, although she had no idea what those might be.

  And now, it was dark, and here she still stood, all alone, like some gullible fool. As she stared out across the shadowed ruins, the storm inside her built once more. Tom had deserted her, that damned Bob Hope had tried to kill her, and Genny had sent her off on some crazy, wild goose chase without any hints whatsoever. Damn them all! Just what exactly was she supposed to do now?

  The darkness closed in around her, pressing against her, forcing the air from her lungs.

  This was ridiculous. She could keep wandering around here all night looking for who knows what and make an even bigger fool of herself. Or, she could find shelter and get some sleep, then take the first bus out of here in the morning.

  With resolve, she moved toward the outer edges of the ancient city to find herself a good, hidden spot for the night. What she wouldn't give for a nice soft bed about now.

  Grinning at herself, she decided she must be getting soft in her old age. Sleeping on the ground never used to bother her. In fact, when she was growing up, she'd always loved snuggling in her sleeping bag under the stars. She and Dad had battled since she was eight or nine years old about her sleeping outside instead of in the protection of the tent when they were on a dig. She'd hated being confined by the nylon or canvas shelters. The moon, the stars, the night sounds and breezes had always called to her.

  She stopped and stared up at the vastness of the sky. Taking a deep breath and forcing herself to relax, she realized they still called to her. Something akin to exhilaration flooded through her.

  Until she heard a motorcycle.

  Crouching behind one of the ancient talud-tablero structures, she watched the bike approach. It moved right up the Street of the Dead.

  All the years of being drilled about having the proper respect for ancient places came rushing back to her. This was an archaeological site. You didn't drive a motorcycle on sacred ground like this!

  Her already frayed nerves on edge, she watched the bike slide to a stop about fifty yards from her hiding place.

  The rider got off, then whistled softly.

  From her left, another figure stepped from behind a crumbled ruin and walked over to meet the rider. The moon was out tonight, although it was waning so it didn't give off much light. Maris couldn't see what the two people looked like, but to be meeting in the middle of Teotihuacan in the dark of night didn't say much for what they were up to. She wasn't close enough to hear what they were saying to one another, but she could tell they spoke Spanish.

  The conversation grew heated, and the voices raised in tone so she could catch an occasional word or two. Something about a shipment, but she couldn't tell of what. She didn't know who was saying what, but they were both men and one of them was clearly blaming the other for something that had gone wrong.

  Another minute of angry verbal exchange, then the man who'd been waiting handed something to the motorcycle rider. The two shook hands. Obviously they'd cleared up their disagreement. The rider got back on the motorcycle, the other man turned to walk off.

  In one smooth motion—and Maris saw it all, as if she were watching a movie at the theater—the motorcycle man pulled a dark object out of his jacket and an explosion cracked through the night air, followed by another. The man walking away dropped to his knees, then collapsed forward.

  The one on the motorcycle tucked the gun back into the depths of his clothes. Then, as if nothing had happened, he kicked the bike to life and roared off down the dark and deserted Street of the Dead.

  Sitting back on her heels and gasping for breath, Maris jerked her gun out of her backpack, not caring if she made noise or not. She wrapped her hand firmly around the grip, taking comfort in the solid feel of it.

  She could hear the grind of the motorcycle's engine out on the street, could see its bobbing light. Her heart raced inside her chest, and she found herself counting the beats of her pulse. She reached one hundred in about thirty seconds.

  The body out on the street moved slightly and she heard a groan.

  The man was still alive!

  But after taking two shots at close range he couldn't be in good shape. Did she dare go out there to check on him? She could still hear the motorcycle, although it was getting farther away. But what if that monster on the bike circled around and came back to make sure he'd completed the job?

  A new wave of panic flooded her, but she beat it down fiercely.

  This is no time to get hysterical, Rhodes. Get a grip.

  Thoughts and fears crowded into her head, tormenting her. The fear in her told her to turn tail and run as fast as possible. The tender-hearted side of her argued that the man needed help, no matter who he was. The fury in her ordered her to get up and quit groveling like a baby and do something. Anything.

  Fury won. She wasn't in Mexico to cower behind a crumbling pile of rock. She hated herself for doing just that.

  Mounting her pack on her back, she stood and glanced around. All was silent.

  She sucked in a deep breath and focused. This was a situation she could deal with. She handled emergencies competently. That's why she'd been awarded on more than one occasion for her search and rescue work. Her brain functioned well in a crisis.

  Now, function, she told herself sternly.

  Taking another deep breath, she took reassurance in the comfortable feel of her gun in her hand, gained strength from the knowledge that a chambered round waited if she needed to call it into action. Resolutely, she strode across the distance between her hiding spot and the downed man as if she had every reason to be out here in the middle of the night.

  She stopped about three feet from him, assessing the danger to her person if he had a gun or other weapon.

  He was lying face down. A large dark pool slowly spread around him. His arms were spread eagle and she didn't see any kind of a weapon, so she stepped closer and knelt next to him. His ragged breathing assured her he was still alive, but when she pressed her fingers against his carotid artery, his pulse was so weak she barely felt it.

  He groaned again, and his eyelids flickered. She probed against his jean jacket and discovered the two entry wounds where the bullets had gone in. They were only a couple of inches apart, halfway down his back and off to one side. She knew she had to roll him over, because if one of the bullets had gone through, the larger exit wound would be the location of the real damage. And judging by the size of the puddle under him, something had gone through.

  Whispering an apology to him in Spanish, she rolled him over. At first glance he didn't look to be in too bad of shape. But when she pulled away his jacket, the reason for the blood became abundantly clear.

  Swallowing back bitter bile, she yanked off her pack, dug in it, and pulled out her extra T-shirt. Then, wadding it into a ball, she gently but firmly pressed it against the man's abdomen where a ragged hole oozed internal organs.

  Damn. This was bad.

  There was no way to go for help, but unless he got to a hospital, this man wasn't going to live through the night.

  She murmured words of encouragement to him—a youngish, too-thin Mestizo who was half-in, half-out of consciousness.

  What was she going to do? Could anything else possibly go wrong?


  Her heart faltered. Yeah, something else could go wrong.

  She heard the soft whisper of footsteps behind her. Close behind her.

  It was too late to run for it or she'd be shot for sure, just like this man had been. Then there would be two of them left out here to die.

  She hadn't heard the motorcycle approach again, but she'd been so focused on keeping herself calm and taking care of the young man that she'd let down her guard.

  Without warning, the rage and hostility that had been building inside her all week reached the critical point. Her blood pounded in her veins, giving her an inner strength she didn't know existed.

  She'd never put down her gun the whole time she'd been leaning over the wounded man, so now she gripped it firmly, with purpose. Whoever was coming up behind her couldn't possibly know she had a gun, and he couldn't see it from where he was.

  With a calm smile of sheer malignancy, she waited. Whoever it was, was trying to be quiet, she could tell from the gentle up and down motions of his feet that were barely discernible over the evening breeze.

  Well, wouldn't he be in for a surprise?

  When the person was almost upon her, she rose to her feet and turned swiftly, her gun pointed directly at the chest of a tall man.

  The man froze in mid-stride. He was only five feet away. The moon had gone behind a cloud, so she couldn't see his face clearly.

  And she wanted to. She wanted to be able to look him in the eye and show him that just because he'd shot one person in the back, he'd damn well better know that he wasn't going to do the same to her.

  She wanted to see the look on his face when he realized she wasn't afraid.

  Hatred spouted from every pore of her body, and she was in no mood to be mauled, pawed, grabbed, or shot at ever again.

  "Stop right there," she said in a voice of pure ice. "I'm fucking sick and tired of this. If you move, I'll shoot you."

  The man slowly put his arms out to the side and she could see that his hands were empty. But she didn't give a damn. She was sick of all this. It took every ounce of self control she possessed to keep from pulling the trigger and shooting the bastard right there on the spot.