Читать книгу Tempted by His Target - Jill Sorenson - Страница 9

Brandon knew Isabel had been following him. He’d caught a glimpse of her at the café, and another after he left the bar.

As soon as they parted ways, he doubled back, returning the favor.

He doubted she really wanted to be his surf guide, although that was the outcome he’d been fishing for. His mission was to get her out of the country without using brute force. Tomorrow he planned to drop a few hints about continuing the tour in Guatemala and hope she took the bait. Very few surfers visited that section of the Pacific Coast. It was a tempting location for a fugitive, and a freelance sports writer.

If she’d meant to rob him, she was even crazier than he’d figured. It was more likely that she found him suspicious and decided to do some recon. Either way, he’d have to be careful. She was prickly and distrustful and quick to draw her dagger.

He paused at the corner, listening for her footsteps. His eyes widened as he heard the sounds of another scuffle. Damn! Did she accost every man in her path? A sharp slap, followed by a muted female cry, spurred him into action. He sprinted down the alley, adrenaline rushing through his veins.

Isabel was standing across from a stocky man, squared up like an afternoon showdown. Her face was marred by a handprint. His side was red with blood. When the man pulled a. 38 from his waistband, Brandon’s world came to a grinding halt.

He didn’t have time to think, or shout a warning, or second-guess his actions. He just reacted, launching himself at the guy full force and tackling him to the ground. The man’s gun discharged in an earsplitting blast, and the bullet ricocheted through the alleyway, sending shards of brick flying in the air.

Weakened by the stab wound, the man beneath him didn’t put up much of a fight. Brandon gripped his opponent’s wrist and applied a crushing pressure, bashing his knuckles against the cobblestones. Grimacing in pain, the man released the weapon. Blood spread from his side, soaking his white shirt.

Panting from exertion, Brandon looked up at Isabel. She held her trusty dagger at an angle, letting the blade drip dry. Her eyes were dark with horror, her cheek ruddy from the blow. “Get help,” he ordered.

She touched the mark on her face, glancing around warily. The police would arrive at any second, drawn by the sound of gunshot.

“Get help, now!”

She sheathed her knife, backing away.

Goddamn it. Brandon assumed that the injured man was a cartel member, and a cold-blooded killer, but he couldn’t let a stranger bleed out. “Ayudame!” he shouted down the alley. “Policia!”

She took off at a dead run.

The man underneath him lost consciousness, his head listing to the side. Brandon did his best to staunch the blood flow, cursing fluently as he put pressure on the wound. What he really wanted to do was follow Isabel.

A small crowd gathered at the end of the alleyway, and a police car arrived a few moments later, siren wailing. Two uniformed officers jumped out, shouting orders in Spanish. They crouched behind the open doors of the squad car, guns drawn.

“Manos arriba! Manos arriba!” Brandon took his red-stained hands away from the wound and held them up high, his stomach churning with dread. One of the officers rushed forward, grabbing him by the collar and shoving him facedown on the cobblestones. He winced, trying to stay still as his arms were wrenched behind his back and his wrists cuffed.

There were no Miranda rights given, no questions asked. The injured man lay motionless in a pool of blood. The officers yanked him to his feet, talking to each other in rapid-fire Spanish.

“Estaba ayudando,” Brandon said. I was helping him.

They led him to the patrol car, ignoring his protests. “Watch your head,” one of the officers said, pushing him inside.

Brandon had no choice but to cooperate. He couldn’t reveal his identity without putting himself in danger. Mexican officials were often friendly, and quick to accept a bribe, but they wouldn’t be so amenable if they learned his real purpose here. At this point, it was better to pretend to be a hapless surfer.

“I didn’t do anything—” he said, just before the door slammed in his face.

Isabel was afraid to go back to her apartment.

She didn’t know how long Carranza’s man had been watching her. He might be working with a partner. Even if he’d come to Puerto Escondido solo, reinforcements could arrive anytime. Carranza would be furious to hear that she’d escaped.

She had to assume they knew everything. Where she lived, what she drove. Her only recourse was to leave town, change her name and start over.

Again.

Although she wanted to sprint, she forced herself to walk at a brisk pace, sticking to the backstreets. There was blood on her shirt, her face. Anyone who looked close would see a wild-eyed murderer.

Choking down a sob, she paused to rinse her hands in a fountain. The water ran pink, like blush champagne. Feeling queasy, she hurried on, passing through her neighborhood with her eyes averted and head down. She stopped at a locked garage several blocks from her apartment, using her key to open the door.

Months ago, when she’d decided to settle down in Puerto Escondido, she’d bought an old motorcycle from the garage owner and paid him a pittance to park it here. She’d also stashed an overnight bag in a metal drawer.

Standing on tiptoes, she reached into the drawer, locating the messenger bag. Slinging it over her shoulder, she hopped on the bike.

To her intense relief, the engine turned over.

Within minutes, she was speeding down the highway, putting distance between her and Puerto Escondido. It was almost full dark now, and a little cooler. The wind rippled through her hair and clothes, drying her sweaty nape.

She was going to make it.

On the heels of that thought, her stomach rebelled, protesting the stress of the past hours. She pulled to the side of the road and fell to her knees, vomiting in the gravel. When her belly was empty, she dry-heaved weakly, tears seeping from her eyes.

She’d stabbed a man. Maybe killed him.

Not only that, she’d left Brandon in the lurch. Mexican officials might let him off the hook, but Carranza’s men wouldn’t.

“Oh, God,” she moaned, fisting a hand in her hair. What was she going to do?

As soon as the nausea passed, she rose to her feet and wiped her mouth, grabbing a bottle of water from her pack. After spitting out the first sip, she drank a small amount, afraid the liquid would come back up.

Brandon had saved her life. She’d ditched him at Playa Perdida, and pulled a knife on him in the alley, but he’d stepped in to rescue her anyway. Showing zero consideration for his own well-being, he’d tackled the gunman. And how did she repay him for that gallant act? By running away.

She felt terrible.

The past two years had been harrowing, lonely and intense. She felt like she’d been dodging bullets forever. She didn’t want to be a fugitive from justice anymore. And she couldn’t stand the thought of another man’s blood on her hands.

Head pounding, she swung her leg over the bike, gunning the engine. The problem with being on the run in Mexico was that she didn’t know who to trust. Crooked officers were common because of low government wages. She couldn’t go to the police, and she wasn’t sure the embassies were safe. Carranza had a wide sphere of influence.

As hiding places went, this country wasn’t the best choice. But she hadn’t figured out who she was running from until after she crossed the border. Now she was stuck. She couldn’t stay here, and she was afraid to go home.

The least she could do was try to find out what happened to Brandon. Maybe she could warn him. He might be in danger because of her, and he was obviously an innocent bystander. She felt responsible for his safety.

Decision made, she turned her bike around, driving toward the muted lights of Puerto Escondido. At early evening, the air smelled like hot asphalt and thick vegetation. Crickets chirped in unison, creating a shrill cacophony. Farther out, blue-black waves lapped at the pale shoreline, lulling the city to sleep.

Well, not the whole city. The palapa bars that raged until sunup were several blocks from Brandon’s hotel. Raucous shouts were only murmurs at this distance, the music pulsing like a faint heartbeat.

She slowed her bike to a stop in a quiet area near The Pelican, taking cover behind a block wall. The spot wasn’t comfortable, but it offered a decent vantage point. She could see the courtyard and the carport.

An hour later, two men in a rental car parked on the opposite side of the street. They headed to the carport first, pausing by Brandon’s SUV. It was dark, so Isabel wasn’t sure what they were doing. Searching his vehicle, perhaps. After a few moments, they moved on, settling down in a pair of lawn chairs in the dimly lit courtyard.

Isabel stayed hidden, her pulse racing. These were Carranza’s men, without a doubt. She assumed the Mexican police would deliver Brandon to them. How could she alert him to their presence?

“Damn,” she whispered, crouching lower. The longer she lingered here, the higher her chances of getting caught became. Her mind raced with options, all unpleasant. She could flee the scene or hang back and watch it unfold.

This wasn’t going to be pretty.

Brandon’s handcuffs were removed, along with his personal effects. Sans wallet and cell phone, he was tossed into a holding area.

He couldn’t imagine a more unappealing place. It was constructed of metal and concrete. No lights or windows, no bench to sit on. A drain in the corner was the single amenity. It smelled like puke and urine.

There were two other men with him, one white, one Mexican. Both drunk.

He leaned against the wall, ignoring his cell mates. He’d never been on this side of the bars before. It was distinctly unpleasant.

After what seemed like hours, the two officers who’d collared him came back. Although he wasn’t looking forward to a long interrogation, he was happy to leave the stinking confines of the jail cell.

He was led to a restroom, where he scrubbed his hands, cringing at the blood under his fingernails. They continued on to an interrogation area in the back of the building that consisted of three chairs and a scarred wooden table.

Brandon took a seat, stretching out his long legs. “Am I under arrest?”

The English-speaking cop sat across from him. “Not yet.”

“How’s the guy who got stabbed?”

“I can’t say.”

He shifted in his chair, uneasy. If the man was dead, Brandon could be looking at a murder charge. That would be a major roadblock.

“Why don’t you tell us what happened?” the cop said.

Nodding, Brandon raked a hand through his hair. He didn’t want to say too much, but it was always best to stick close to the truth. Someone might have seen Isabel fleeing the scene. “I was having a beer at Señor Frog’s. On my way back to the hotel, I took a wrong turn and ended up in the alley. I saw a man and a woman, struggling. I thought he was attacking her. When he pulled a gun, I rushed him.”

The cop frowned at the term. “Rushed?”

“I ran at him,” Brandon explained. “I grabbed his arm and the bullet went flying. We fell to the ground. He dropped the gun. The girl ran away.”

“Where did she go?”

“I have no idea.”

“Did you stab him?”

“No,” Brandon said. “I assume she did. She had the knife.”

“Describe her.”

Brandon hesitated, although he remembered every exquisite detail. Honeyed skin, almost-black hair, whiskey-brown eyes. He could have described the dip of her belly button and the shape of her breasts. “Small,” he said, moistening his lips.

“Short?”

“No … slim. Dark hair.”

“Is that it?”

Brandon pretended to think for another minute. “She was wearing a hat.”

To his surprise, the officer didn’t ask him any more questions. “Okay, Mr. North. That’s all we need.”

Relief washed over him. “I can leave?”

“Yes. We’ll take you to your hotel. The Pelican, right?”

“Right.” They’d asked where he was staying earlier. “Thank you.” He couldn’t believe they were letting him go after such a brief interview, but he wasn’t going to ask for a longer visit. After his belongings were returned, the officers dropped him off at his hotel, wishing him a pleasant vacation.

Brandon thanked them again and got out of the squad car. As he approached the courtyard entrance, the hairs on the back of his neck prickled with awareness. Something wasn’t right. They’d wasted his time, and then rushed him along, for a reason. What were the odds that the cops had communicated with Carranza?

He paused, weighing his options. There was no view of the courtyard or his hotel room door from this side of the street. He could circle around, through the carport, or back away and get the hell out of here.

Leaving on foot would look suspicious, and he didn’t want to be without his vehicle—or the gun he’d stashed in it. Instead of playing it safe, he switched directions, heading toward the covered carport. Although it was dark inside, he could tell he was alone. He unlocked the SUV and slid into the driver’s seat, putting the key in the ignition.

The engine wouldn’t turn over.

Brandon tried again, frowning. It was dead.

He caught a flash of motion in the carport and realized he should have taken off running. Before he could reach for his weapon, a dark figure appeared at the driver’s side, tapping on the window with the barrel of a 9mm.

Damn, damn, damn.

He held his hands up where the man could see them, his heart in his throat.

“Get out,” the thug said, gesturing with his gun. He was tall, with rounded shoulders and a thick neck. Brandon recognized him as Gaucho Rodriguez, an enforcer for the La Familia drug cartel.

Brandon exited the vehicle, playing along. “It’s all yours, bro! Take it.”

Gaucho had a partner. A smaller man stood at the rear of the vehicle, studying Brandon with narrowed eyes. This was Ernestino Garcia, more commonly known as Pelón, for his balding head. Both Pelón and Gaucho were top-level members and convicted felons; they weren’t here to mess around.

“We need to speak with you in your hotel room,” Pelón said.

Brandon gaped at him stupidly, buying time. There was no way he’d allow this pair of miscreants to take him to a more private location. So they could tie him up and torture him for information? No, thank you.

Then again, the gun pressed to his ribs was a powerful motivator.

“Okay,” he said, swallowing hard. “Whatever you say. I have the key around here somewhere …”

Pelón gestured to Gaucho, who shoved Brandon against the hood of the SUV and started patting him down. So far, so good. Before Gaucho emptied his pockets, Brandon said, “I think it’s on the passenger seat.”

As Pelón walked around the side of the vehicle to check, Brandon noticed a shadowy form at the edge of the carport.

Isabel.

Her presence complicated matters, but he couldn’t squander this opportunity. The instant Pelón’s attention was diverted, Brandon flew into motion, jamming his elbow into Gaucho’s nose. It connected with a sickening crunch.

Gaucho howled in pain and stumbled back a step. Whirling to face him, Brandon kicked the weapon from his hand. It went clattering across the concrete slab, coming to rest underneath the adjacent car. Before Brandon could follow up with another punch, Gaucho charged, slamming his meaty shoulder into Brandon’s midsection. Brandon landed on his back, the oxygen rushing from his lungs.

Jesus Christ. The guy weighed a ton.

He also had fists like hams. Gripping the front of Brandon’s shirt, Gaucho pummeled his face, splitting his eyebrow, busting his lip. His head rocked back against the concrete with every impact. Stars exploded behind his eyes and pain blossomed in his skull, creating a brutal symphony of sound and light.

Brandon managed to bring his fist up, striking a hard blow to his opponent’s ear. Stunned, and probably a little winded, Gaucho lost focus. Brandon kept swinging, connecting with his target twice more in rapid succession. Realizing he was in trouble, Gaucho slumped to the side, reaching underneath the car for his gun. Before he could close his fingers around it, Brandon scrambled upright, jumping on his back. He wrapped his arm around Gaucho’s thick neck and employed a classic choke hold.

In his peripheral vision, which was growing dark, Brandon could see Pelón coming. Isabel appeared behind him, wielding a brick. She knocked him over the head with it, showing no mercy. He crumpled to the ground, unconscious.

Brandon appreciated her assistance, but he was too busy to acknowledge her. All of his energy was focused on choking the man underneath him into submission. Blood from his brow dripped into his left eye, blinding him. Finally, Gaucho’s body went slack. Brandon released his grip, exhausted.

Isabel wore the same expression he’d seen in the alleyway. Fear, horror, guilt.

Sweating profusely, he wiped his face with the back of his hand and glanced at the man she’d brained. There was no blood, and his chest was moving with shallow breaths.

“Do you think he’ll be okay?” she asked, nibbling a fingertip.

“I don’t know,” he said, rolling away from the man underneath him. “This one will wake up soon, I guarantee it.”

Her eyes darted toward the street. “Let’s get out of here before the police come back.”

Brandon’s brain felt like a scrambled egg. He was dizzy and fatigued, his mouth filled with the metallic taste of his own blood. There was no time to ask questions. Mute, he retrieved his backpack from the vehicle and they left the carport together.

She had a beat-up motorcycle parked nearby. It wasn’t built for two but Brandon figured it would hold their weight. He mounted the bike first, trying to make room for her. She ended up sitting on him.

“Do you know how to drive this thing?”

“Sort of,” she said, starting the engine.

The situation was surreal, like an out-of-body experience. Brandon might be able to process it in a few hours. For now, he was on autopilot, his head spinning. A minute ago, he’d been participating in a violent fistfight. Now he had a deadly female in his lap.

“I owe you one,” he said, putting his arm around her waist.

She glanced around to make sure the road was clear before pressing on the gas. “We’re even.”