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“Why not?” A shiver of goose bumps ran up Fiona’s spine. “Were we followed?”
“No, but this is Bogotá. We’re staying in another room. One that backs up to a fire escape.”
“Won’t the occupant notice?”
“No. It’s mine. I rent it under another name.”
He kept an extra room for escape? And she thought she was paranoid. “Why stay at all?” she asked. “If it’s that dangerous, shouldn’t we keep moving?”
“We will when it’s dark,” he explained. “Even with the hat, you stick out. So for now, we minimize risk, get rest, and hope we get lucky.”
He went to the dresser, pulled out military-perfect, folded navy-blue T-shirts and black cargo pants. “Wearing those jeans is like wearing a bull’s-eye,” he said, handing her the clothes.
She held them up. The shirt reached midthigh, and the pants were a joke. “You don’t think this will set me apart?”
“It’ll do until we can get better,” Angel said, pulling a gun from the dresser. Flat black in color, it looked lethal as hell.
Perfect.
“Change,” he said, pulling another gun out. “I want to be out of here in sixty seconds.”
He was serious. Dead serious. She ran into the small, dingy bathroom. The oversize shirt was manageable, but the pants were wide in the waist and pulled across her hips.
At least they’d stay on, she mused. After transferring the tape of Maria’s death to one of the zippered cargo pockets, she pushed open the door as she tried to adjust the fit. “Got a—”
Fiona stopped midstep.
Angel stood with his back to her. With the exception of a pair of black boxers, he was naked. The muscles on his back flexed and moved. Every shadow perfect. Every line tight. But what caught her attention were the scars. A few were thin and white, as if made from a knife or a whip. Others were larger. Ugly.
He really was a mercenary, she realized. She’d known it before, but that was in her head. Now she knew—deep down knew—this man killed for a living. Or had.
Despite that, she longed to run her fingers over his battle scars. Test the texture of his skin and make the wicked lines disappear. To offer him the solace she craved.
Mesmerized, she stepped closer. A board squeaked beneath her feet. He glanced over his shoulder. “Do I have a what?” he asked without a hint of body consciousness as he slid a black T-shirt over his head.
“Belt?” she asked, tugging at the pants and staring at her feet. “Got a belt?”
“In the drawer.” He grabbed a second set of black cargo pants and put them on, removing a few items from the pants on the floor and placing them in the various pockets. “Stuff your jeans and the other clothes under the covers.”
She did as she instructed, making two long lumps side by side as she realized what he was trying to do. “That’s not going to fool anyone,” she said, shaking her head at the obvious decoy.
“It’s not supposed to,” Angel said. “If someone followed you, or if someone sells the info, Montoya will come in and shoot ‘us’ up.” He sat on the bed and put on his boots. “Consider it an early warning system.”
The goose bumps returned, and Fiona found herself speechless. A part of her mind wondered what she’d gotten herself into, but she knew the answer.
She’d crossed Ramon Montoya, and until she got the footage of Maria’s death out of Colombia, her life was in danger.
Hers, and anyone she spoke to.
Juan.
“Will they come after Juan?” she asked, panicked at the thought. “If someone saw me go into the bar, they might.”
Angel’s hands stilled, and there was something new in his hazel eyes. Something she hadn’t seen before and wasn’t sure how to interpret.
Angel went back to lacing his boots. “He’s already gone. He’ll be fine.” He finished and picked up his guns. “Take this,” he said, holding one out.
It was for her? She eyed it. She’d shot a rifle before but only a few times. She took the gun. It was lighter than she expected.
“Can you shoot it if you have to?” he asked.
“Yes,” she replied, hoping she sounded more confident than she felt. She put the weapon in a pocket then grabbed the small bag of food, the jacket and her hat.
Angel pressed a key into her hand. “End of the hallway. Last door on the left.”
Slowly, he opened the door and edged into the hallway. “All clear. Go!”
The sun sank below the horizon, casting shadows and gold light over Fiona’s sleeping body. She seemed much too innocent to be a reporter, Angel decided as he watched her sleep. She frowned, and her eyelids flickered, betraying the fact that she dreamed.
Bad dreams, he was sure.
He knew what those were like.
“Anthony,” she mumbled, the dead man’s name almost incoherent.
Yep, bad dreams. His back against the wall, a Glock on his lap and another tucked at the back of his waist, he touched a long, pale blond curl that had turned the color of honey in the setting sun.
Isabel’s opposite, he mused. Isabel with her black hair, chocolate eyes and olive skin. He shut his eyes. Though it was over two years since her death, she still haunted him.
Fiona mumbled again. Whimpered. Kicked. Angel opened his eyes and stroked her hair, careful not to wake her. “Shhh,” he whispered. “It’s all right.”
Her whimper turned into a sigh, and she turned over, sticking a leg out from the unzipped side of the sleeping bag.
She slept in her clothes in case they had to bug out, but even seeing her in boots and pants, he didn’t miss the perfect curve of her thigh.
Looking at her, with her pale hair and a body that would make a monk question his vows, he knew he had nothing but trouble on his hands. Angel let his head fall back against the wall with a dull thud. When she’d asked for help, he should have told her to move on. To find someone else. But no, instead he had to play the hero.
Play being the operative word. He was a mercenary, dammit. Not a knight. And he would do well to remember that. He had a head full of memories to keep him in line. And if that wasn’t enough, there was always Isabel’s engagement ring to remind him about what happened to people who put themselves in situations better left alone. He touched the zippered pants pocket where he’d transferred it earlier.
“Crap, what a mistake,” he muttered.
“What is?” Fiona turned over, blinking at him and yawning.
He stared at her, irked that she’d overheard his comment but more irked at himself for not keeping his mouth shut.
“Well?” she asked.
He ran a hand through his hair, not sure what to say other than the truth. “You. Me. Running from the law.”
“I know, and I’m sorry.”
She looked sorry. And helpless.
She sat up, crossing her legs beneath her. “If it makes a difference, I’ve thought about what you said earlier. About me putting people in danger for a story.”
“And?” he asked, curious.
“I like to think that when it comes to humanity versus the story, I’d choose humanity. I’d save a life over getting a good story.” Her voice trembled with uncertainty.
“You’re not sure though, are you?” he asked, knowing that Isabel would have gone for the story every time. She couldn’t help herself, even when it meant putting herself in danger.
Fiona shook her head. “In this case? No. Montoya needs to be stopped. That’s not in question. Maria’s death gave me the means to do just that. It isn’t fair, but I’m glad I was there to capture it. And as for Tony…” Fiona ran her fingers through her hair. “I’ll regret that for the rest of my life.”
“Me, too,” Angel said.
“But you need to know that despite what happened, I can’t start questioning the morality of my job. What I can do is make sure that Montoya pays for his actions. That he goes to jail.”
“I understand,” he replied.
She managed a weak smile then stood, letting the sleeping bag drop to her feet, and went to the bathroom.
Angel watched her walk away from him, and his mouth went dry. He’d thought her legs were good. Her ass was better.
“I’ll just be a minute,” she said, closing the door.
Angel rose, asking himself again what he was doing. Then muffled sobs caught his ear. Fiona. She was sobbing in the bathroom, and not the fake crying that most women did. The kind that meant they wanted someone to comfort them but wanted the man to initiate the effort so they gave a half-hearted attempt to be quiet.
No. Her cries were almost silent. If the room hadn’t been so quiet, he wouldn’t have noticed.
It seemed she wasn’t as emotionally distant from the day’s events as either of them liked to pretend.
On the other side of the door, Fiona turned on the water, the splashing water covering the sound of her sobs.
Angel let his head fall back again. He should go in there. Comfort her. But what could he say? Tony and Maria were dead, and nothing he said or did would change the past.
“This is what I meant by mistake,” he said to no one. Everything she did, everything she was, made her a distraction. The water stopped, and silence reigned again.
Angel rose, stretching, and peeked out the front window. People going to and from the market filled the streets along with cars that were comprised more of rust than metal. Children played. Men stood in groups, smoking cheap cigarettes and talking to each other.
No one glanced his way or did anything that appeared the least suspicious, but that meant nothing. Any one of them would sell Fiona out. They were poor and putting food on the table took precedence over a gringa with a supposed tape of Montoya killing a rebel leader.
The sound of gunshots reverberated in the room.
Montoya. They’d found the dummies. Damn, he’d hoped they’d have more time. It was at least thirty minutes until dark.
“It’s him!” Fiona barreled out of the bathroom, running into Angel.
“I know,” he said, taking a deep breath and controlling the sudden rush of adrenaline that surged through his blood. They had thirty seconds. Maybe.
There were shouts, and then the sound of doors splintering as Montoya’s men made their way down the hallway, checking the rooms.
Angel ran to the window that faced the alley and the fire escape. The window slid up on well-oiled tracks. He might not live in the room but he made sure he maintained it since there was no point in having an escape route that was ineffective.
“Climb up.” He stood aside, his weapon trained on the door.
To her credit, Fiona didn’t argue but clambered out onto the rickety metal steps and headed toward the roof.
Angel followed, sliding the window shut. Not that their escape would fool the thugs for long, but if he and Fiona made the roof before they arrived, the men might assume they’d gone down.
It was what most people would do.
Above him, Fiona climbed onto the roof, her booted feet disappearing over the edge. In the room below, he heard the door splinter. He pushed himself and in seconds joined Fiona on the roof.
The sound of breaking glass followed. In the dimming light, Fiona’s eyes widened. “What do we do?” she asked, her voice low and shaky.
“We jump.”
“Excuse me?”
There was no time to explain. Grabbing her arm, he hurried her to the far side of the building. The next building was five feet away. “Jump to the next roof.”
She leaned over the edge. “That’s a helluva drop.”
“Would you prefer a bullet?”
She paled but shook her head, walked back a few feet and barreled toward the edge. It’s just five feet, he told himself as she launched herself into the air and over the alley. She landed on the other side, feet solid on the flat, tarred surface. Facing him, she motioned for him to hurry.
Good girl.
He leapt and landed next to her. “Again,” he said, gesturing toward the next building.
“If they come up here, we’ll be sitting ducks on these flat roofs,” Fiona said.
“I know. So quit talking and get moving. Get to the next building, then we go down on the far side.”
She frowned but ran, clearing the five-foot span with ease, and headed across the roof without a glance back.
He hurried, not breaking stride and staying on her heels. They reached the ladder as a gunshot rent the air, ripping into the graveled tar paper a few inches from Angel’s feet. Fiona froze.
The goons were smarter than he thought, and he had the suspicion that in better light, they’d have hit him. “Hurry!” he shouted.
Fiona slid down the ladder, using her feet and hands on the outside edges to push inward on the rails and create a controlled fall.
Gravel peppered his legs, and Angel turned, firing back. There was a cry, and in the growing shadows, one of the men fell to the ground.
He hoped it hurt. A lot. Sticking his gun into the back of his pants, he slid down the ladder, as well, dropping the last few feet.
“What do we do?” Fiona asked, already edging toward the entrance to the alley and the crowds that offered some protective anonymity.
