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That she was on her own.
Okay. What do you do? she asked herself.
First, a disguise, she decided. She needed to hide herself. She touched the scarf that covered her head and realized it had slipped. She tried to fix it, but her shaking hands refused to cooperate. Frustrated, she yanked it off, wishing her hair was anything but blond. Dye would help, but there was no way she could conceal her fair skin and blue eyes. Hell, her height alone, just shy of six feet, made her an object of curiosity amongst the people in South America.
“Why do you want Angel?” the dark man asked, interrupting her thoughts.
Startled, Fiona spilled her coffee. The hot liquid spread across the bar and dripped onto her lap, making her hiss in pain. Great. “I was told he could help me,” she said as she grabbed a handful of cocktail napkins to clean the mess.
“Help with what?” He turned to face her.
The dark circles beneath his eyes drew her initial attention, and she wondered if he ever slept. Her eyes slipped upward, past the smudges to his clear hazel eyes. He held her gaze, then his attention slid down her body, taking in everything from her head to her feet, including her bloody jeans. She let the wad of napkins drop to her lap, but no amount of coverage could hide the dark stains that soaked her from thigh to knee. Touching her hair, she brought his attention back to her face and away from her clothes. “I’ll only talk to him,” she replied, her tone aloof. “So unless you can tell me where he is, I can’t say a word.”
The man shrugged. “I might know. He doesn’t like to be bothered. What happened? Domestic problem?” His eyes went to her jeans again.
Domestic problem? Fiona swallowed back a hysterical giggle. “An accident.”
“That’s a lot of blood for an accident,” he said. Rising from the barstool, he walked toward her.
He was tall, just over six feet three inches, and broad. Like a linebacker.
And as intimidating as one of Montoya’s enforcers.
“Are you okay?” he asked.
She nodded. “It’s not mine.”
“Don’t cry,” he said.
“I’m not,” she said, then realized she was doing exactly that. Tears slid down her cheeks, dripping onto the napkins covering her lap. She wiped her face with the back of her hand. “I’m sorry, it’s just—” She stopped herself. What was she going to say?
That she’d watched a man, a friend, die?
Her eyes felt hot. Itchy. She willed the dark man to stop staring at her.
But he refused to turn away. “Tell me why you want Angel, and I’ll see if I can find him.”
She pressed her hand against the dark man’s chest to steady herself. His heart beat strong against her palm. Warm. Alive.
The burden, the pain, was too great to bear any longer. She had to trust someone. Just a little. “I can’t tell you, but if you find Angel, tell him that Anthony Torres sent me.”
“Tony?” Recognition flashed across his eyes.
“You know him?”
The man nodded. For the third time, his eyes slid to her clothes. “Is Tony okay?”
Fiona tried to answer, but all that came out was a stuttered gasp as she tried to breathe.
It seemed to be enough of an explanation for the stranger. His eyes darkened, and she prayed he didn’t direct his anger in her direction. Because if he did, she was dead. “Juan,” he barked, “bring me another shot.”
“No,” came the muffled answer from behind the door.
The dark man leaned over the bar and grabbed the bottle of mescal.
Fiona shook her head. “I have to stay sober. They’re after me.” She clamped her hand over her mouth at the slip.
“Who? The men who killed Tony?”
Her head jerked up, and fear roared through her. He knew. Had she misjudged the man? Was he one of them? One of Montoya’s men? She pushed away from him and stumbled from the chair, backing up toward the front door. “What do you mean? Who are you?” Her back met the painted cinderblock wall.
The man came toward her. Dark. Menacing. She couldn’t move, no matter how much adrenaline pulsed through her blood. He reached for her, and she shut her eyes.
He pressed something into her hand.
She opened her eyes. Another shot. It was half full this time.
“Drink it,” he insisted, taking her elbow and leading her back to the bar. “Then tell me what happened.”
She’d said too much already. Given away too much. “I can’t. I have to talk to Angel.”
“You are.”
Her breath caught in her throat. This was Angel? “Why didn’t you say something?”
He didn’t shrug. Nod. Or offer an explanation. But his expression softened. Angel leaned closer, and she saw a glimmer of something in his eyes.
Compassion. And it made her want to cry all over again.
“Tell me who killed Tony,” he said.
Fiona rolled the shot between her palms. “Who killed him?” Montoya had pulled the trigger. Fired the bullet.
But she’d put Tony in danger. Pushed him. Talked him into doing something stupid. She straightened her shoulders. “For all practical purposes, it might as well have been me.”
Chapter 2
He didn’t believe her dramatic claim for a moment but Angel recognized the emotion behind it—guilt.
“It wasn’t you,” he said, taking the shot from her hand. “I know what killers look like.” She didn’t have it in her. Not even an iota. “And you’re not it.”
“It might as well have been,” she whispered, but even as she argued, fatigue replaced the panic in her blue eyes as the adrenaline wore off. She wavered on her feet. Angel dropped the half shot, not caring that mescal sprayed across his boots.
Her eyes rolled backward, and he caught her in his arms before she hit the ground, one arm under her knees and the other across her back. While she was Amazon tall, she was lighter than she appeared, and carrying her across the room and laying her on one of the long tables was akin to zero exertion.
Leaning over her, he wondered what had happened. Gently, his fingertips skimmed her forehead as he pushed her hair away from her face. She was beautiful, with that perfect skin usually reserved for china dolls and airbrushed cover models.
She also knew Tony, which made her important. What was she to him? Friend? Revolutionary? Killer? Co-worker? Lover?
The last thought made him frown.
“Is she okay?” Juan asked, coming out from the back room.
“She’s fine,” Angel said. But what about Tony? He touched her bloodstained jeans. Her panic and fright told him that she wasn’t a professional soldier, so if it was Tony’s blood on her clothes, she might be wrong in her assessment of the situation. Tony might be hurt and nothing more.
Still, it was a helluva lot of blood.
Her eyelids fluttered.
“Give her this.” Juan pressed a cup into his hand.
“What’s in it?”
“More coffee. Black.”
“Thanks.”
“There’s breakfast on the bar.” He gave the woman a deliberate once-over. “A little food would do her good.”
Angel wasn’t so sure. She was thin, but in an athletic way. Not an underfed, someone-please-give-her-a-sandwich kind of way.
Before he could respond, the woman’s eyes opened, and she pushed her elbows under her, sitting up halfway. “What happened?”
“You fainted.”
“I fainted?” Her brows pressed toward each other, creating a furrow between them. “I’ve never fainted in my life.”
“Tough morning,” Angel said.
She squeezed her eyes shut, and for a moment, he thought she might cry. Again. “You have no idea,” she said, her voice tight.
“But I’d like to,” he replied.
She opened her eyes. With careful deliberation, as if fearing she might faint again, she sat up. Hesitating, she slid off the table and took a seat on one of the rickety wooden chairs. Angel handed her the coffee. Her hands shook, and the hot liquid sloshed over the edges and onto her skin. She grimaced. “Hell, I keep doing that.”
“Give it here—” Angel unwrapped her fingers from around the mug and took the ceramic container, handing it to Juan “—before you do some serious damage.”
“I am not a child.”
Angel nodded in acquiescence. “I don’t think you are, but you’ve been through something traumatic.” He pulled a chair closer and sat across from her, leaning with his elbows on his knees. “First, who are you?”
Her blue eyes widened. “Fiona. Fiona Macmillan.”
“Tell me what happened, Fiona,” Angel said.
“Tony and—” Her voice caught in her throat, and for a moment he thought she might break down. Instead, she continued, “Tony and I were at a hotel, the Luz del Bogotá.”
Angel gave a short, curt nod. He knew the place. It had been a four-star hotel until a few years ago. Now, the stucco walls were pitted with bullet holes, and the only people who stayed there were lovers who couldn’t afford better or the occasional turistas who were unfortunate enough to get a crappy travel agent.
She continued, “We were on the fourth floor, watching Montoya—”
“Ramon Montoya?” He tensed at the name. Montoya was not a man to cross, and as far as being a public servant…public enemy was closer to the truth.
She nodded. “Montoya was interrogating a woman, Maria Salvador. Do you know her?”
“Yes,” Angel said. His gut tightened, not liking where this was going.
“What did he want?” Juan interrupted. Angel turned to see the bartender watching them, his hands twisted in a bar towel.
“He wanted names. People in the resistance. In RADEC,” Fiona said. Her hands shook harder now. “He beat her.”
“Is she—”
Fiona held up her hand, signaling silence. “Please let me finish,” she said. Her eyes squeezed shut again, reminding Angel of a frightened child in a dark room, believing that if she opened her eyes, it would make the monsters real.
“We were watching Montoya and his men interrogate Maria. She refused to give up the names. To give that bastard anything. We thought he was letting her go. He told her to leave. Maria walked away.
“They shot her. Right there. Right in the courtyard. They shot her in the back.” Fiona’s voice broke, and for a heartbeat, the only sounds in the room were her sobs.
He wished there was something he could do to assuage her pain, but there was no fixing the situation. No bringing back the dead and reversing time. They had to move forward and act on the problems at hand.
“Maria’s dead?” Juan whispered.
Fiona continued as if she hadn’t heard him, her eyes still closed tight. “Tony jumped up and shouted. Montoya shot him, too. He died on the balcony in a pool of blood.”
She opened her eyes. Liquid blue, they zeroed in on Angel. “The last thing he said was to find you.”
Angel turned away from her stare, his fists tight. Tony was a good man, and he was dead by Montoya’s hand. Both him and Maria.
Behind him, Juan broke into violent sobs.
A grip on Angel’s arm caught his attention. Fiona’s fingers squeezed, digging into the muscle. “So, here I am,” she said, her calm, contained voice a sharp contrast to the tears of just seconds ago. “Can you help me?”
First things first, Angel reminded himself. Grief could wait. So could anger. “Did Montoya see you?”
She hesitated then shook her head. “I don’t think so, but he knows someone was there. I heard his men talking. I won’t have long until they put it all together.”
Damn it.
“Juan.” He grasped the sobbing man’s shoulder. “I need you to check the perimeter. We need to know if she was followed. Can you do that?”
Juan nodded, wiped his eyes and left through the front door, shutting it firmly behind him.
Fiona watched Juan leave. “He loved her, didn’t he?”
“He did.”
“I’m so sorry,” Fiona whispered.
