CHAPTER 1<\/p>\n
Tuesday, February 12th, 5:53 p.m., Mexico\u2019s Sea of Cortez<\/em>:<\/p>\n They were sooo screwed<\/em>. Max didn\u2019t need the roar of the automatic-weapons fire chasing the boat through the storm to tell him that. The howling wind and bellowing sea had already clued him in. Alone at the helm of the CIA\u2019s forty-foot Bayliner, Bold Venture, he tightened his grip on the wheel, cursed, and braced himself.<\/p>\n Venture slammed into a wall of steel-gray water. She shuddered, the force of the impact echoing through her hull and rattling the deck. FUBAR<\/em>. The word reverberated in Max\u2019s head as the vessel trembled beneath his feet. This whole mission has been nothing but a five-alarm FUBAR.<\/p>\n Creaking like a rusty hinge, the cruiser lumbered up the crest of the swell, plunged down the backside, and plowed into another wave. Max cursed again as the portside running lights were ripped off their stanchions and hurled into the sea. Come on, baby, don\u2019t fall apart on me now.<\/p>\n A sick shade of pale green, David staggered topside and sank onto a bench facing the captain\u2019s chair. He started to say something then suddenly grabbed hold of the rail, his eyes widening, his breath hissing out between his teeth. \u201cBogies closing on our six!\u201d<\/p>\n Max shot a glance behind him. Shit!<\/em> No matter what he did, the damn terrorists kept gaining. Now their bullets nearly encroached on Venture\u2019s wake. Stifling a wince, he hollered over the screams of the storm, \u201cDon\u2019t panic, kid. All they\u2019re doing\u2019s wasting ammo.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cMaybe so,\u201d David yelled back. \u201cBut knowing them, they\u2019ve got plenty to spare.\u201d He drummed his feet on the deck while repeatedly clenching and releasing his hands. \u201cWe\u2019re not gonna make it out of this, are we?\u201d<\/p>\n Max hesitated. Mission SOPs demanded complete honesty between partners, and he believed in playing by the rules. But the terror etched on David\u2019s young face made him reconsider. If an innocent white lie or two eased the kid\u2019s mind, what the hell could it hurt? \u201cSure, we will. We just have to stay ahead of their bullets.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cWe can\u2019t. Not at the rate they\u2019re gaining.\u201d His eyes bleak, David stopped clenching his hands long enough to adjust a strap on his life vest. \u201cCan\u2019t you make this frigging tub go any faster?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cBad idea. Engines are redlined. Running hot.\u201d Max checked his gauges then his six again. Shit, the kid was right. Their lead just kept shrinking. On second thought\u2026<\/p>\n Shoving both throttles to the stops, he coaxed another half-knot from the boat\u2019s tired diesels. Venture protested with each new wave.<\/p>\n A spear of lightning illuminated the sea, making him curse again. Why now, for Pete\u2019s sake?<\/em> It wasn\u2019t light he needed at the moment, but more of the red-rimmed, black clouds currently spewing out across the storm-bruised sky. Resembling a blood-soaked blanket, they smothered the glow of the dying sunset and cut visibility to less than a quarter-mile. He rolled his eyes heavenward. Look, I don\u2019t expect you to bail us out of this frigging mess, but can\u2019t you at least hold off the damn lightning for another fifteen minutes?<\/em><\/p>\n Venture shuddered. David trembled.<\/p>\n \u201cWe\u2019ve only got to outrun them a little longer,\u201d Max yelled\u2014unsure which one he was trying to console\u2014and jerked his chin toward a slight break in the shoreline. \u201cAs soon as it\u2019s dark enough, we\u2019ll jump in the dinghy and haul ass for that cove.\u201d<\/p>\n David shot a glance at the coastline, looked back at the terrorists, and shook his head. \u201cThey\u2019re too damn close. Without a diversion, they\u2019re bound to see the dinghy.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cWe\u2019ll have to scuttle Venture.\u201d Sorry, baby, no choice.<\/em> Max\u2019s fingers ached from their death grip on the wheel, but he didn\u2019t dare relax them\u2014not with Venture fighting the helm so hard. \u201cWe can fire the fuel tanks. Blow her up. With any luck they\u2019ll think we went down with her.\u201d<\/p>\n David blanched. \u201cYou\u2019re serious?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cYeah. Since I don\u2019t feel much like dying today.\u201d<\/p>\n Swallowing hard, the kid shifted on his bench. \u201cAlmasi knew we were coming, didn\u2019t he? Those bastards were waiting for us. Had their ambush all set up.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cSure looks that way.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cMurphy\u2019s Law? Or a mole?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cFeels like a mole. Mission was blown before we ever got to Baja.\u201d<\/p>\n The terrorist leader had known way too much for it to be a coincidence. A dark, feral rage seared Max\u2019s gut, the bile bubbling up to scorch his throat. Gritting his teeth, he swallowed, forcing down both the vomit and the anger. Deal with one FUBAR at a time, he reminded himself as they climbed another swell. Retribution would keep until he found out who the traitor was. The wind died down a little and Venture began to make some headway. He sighed in relief. Maybe, they\u2019d get out of this yet.<\/p>\n \u201cAt least now we know for sure the woman\u2019s a part of it,\u201d David mused. \u201cShe\u2019s got to be. Otherwise, we wouldn\u2019t have run into an ambush the minute we got close to where she\u2019s supposed to be hiding.\u201d<\/p>\n Though it was the only logical conclusion, Max shook his head. \u201cMaybe. Maybe not. She could be just an innocent bystander with shit for luck.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cOh, come on, Max. No one\u2019s luck is that bad. If the bitch really is a psychic like her file says, she knows we\u2019re after her. I\u2019d lay odds she\u2019s on a yacht in the Persian Gulf right now, sipping margaritas and laughing her ass off.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cHell, kid, you don\u2019t really believe all that psychic crap, do you?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cThen how do you explain the note in her file?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cShe probably made a lucky guess on something or other, so somebody started spreading nonsense.\u201d Max shrugged. \u201cI imagine the Company investigator included it just to cover his ass. But I didn\u2019t see anywhere in the file that she claims to be a psychic. Trust me, kid, she\u2019s just what she seems\u2014a small-time costume designer.\u201d<\/p>\n Max didn\u2019t know why the hell he was defending the woman. Other than a grainy black-and-white photo in her dossier, he\u2019d never set eyes on Tess Horton and didn\u2019t know her from Adam. But her file didn\u2019t read like that of someone involved with terrorists. She had no religious affiliation or criminal record, not even an overdue library book. What possible reason could she have for throwing in with a bunch of Middle Eastern radicals? Still, she had run from FBI custody\u2014to the very area where Almasi and his goons were reported to be hiding out, planning an attack on the US. And, as David had pointed out, the timing of the ambush was highly suspicious, coming just as Venture neared the stretch of the coastline where Horton\u2019s cottage was said to be hidden.<\/p>\n So why did his instincts insist things weren\u2019t as they appeared? Frustrated and annoyed by the conflict between what the evidence suggested and what his gut told him, he shoved the problem aside and forced himself to focus on their current disaster.<\/p>\n Muscling the wheel back to port, he struggled to keep the boat upright while maintaining the highest possible speed. The whole scenario sucked, he decided as the wind picked up again and Venture lost ground. Not only was he numb with fatigue, his life vest, clothes, and hair\u2014soaked with saltwater\u2014felt thick and gummy. His skin, gritty. Chilled to the marrow, he could only cringe as another wave crashed over the gunwale and exploded in his face.<\/p>\n For crying out loud, enough already! \u201cDamn, that\u2019s foul shit,\u201d he growled. The water tasted like diesel-flavored salt. It stung his eyes, blurred his vision. Blinking his sight clear, he spit out what he could then rubbed his mouth on his shoulder to wipe the brine off his lips\u2014and caught a quick glimpse behind him. \u201cSon of a bitch!\u201d<\/p>\n With their larger, faster Gulf Craft, the terrorists had gained another twenty feet.<\/p>\n \u201cFeel sick.\u201d Clutching the guardrail, David retched over the side.<\/p>\n Max winced in sympathy, knowing the kid\u2019s stomach rebelled as much from the danger as it did from the heaving sea.<\/p>\n David collapsed back onto his bench and wiped his mouth on his sleeve. \u201cNot much good to you, am I?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cDon\u2019t sweat it, kid. Been there, done that, and got the T-shirt myself.\u201d But his fourteen years as a CIA field officer had hardened both Max\u2019s stomach and his nerves. He had no doubt David, too, would toughen with time. If I can just keep him alive<\/em>.<\/p>\n Gunfire barked over the wail of the storm. A hail of lead slammed into the waves off the port side, amidships. Too close. Way too close.<\/em><\/p>\n \u201cReturn fire,\u201d Max ordered, jerking the wheel as far to starboard as he dared while measuring the deepening dusk. Almost there. \u201cKeep them busy. Buy us some time.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cI\u2019m on it. Just get us the hell out of here.\u201d David wrenched an AK-47 assault rifle from its cradle under the bench. He flipped the selector switch to auto and jammed the gun against his shoulder. Taking barely a second to aim, the kid squeezed the trigger and discharged a full clip, adding the burnt-sulfur smell of gunpowder to the scent of diesel and saltwater. He yanked out the empty magazine, spun it around, and rammed in the full one duct-taped beside it. \u201cThis wind\u2019s a bitch. I can\u2019t hit a frigging thing.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cAdjust your aim to compensate, dammit.\u201d Max torqued the wheel again as enemy bullets tore through the transom. \u201cCome on, kid, focus for Pete\u2019s sake. Remember your training.\u201d<\/p>\n David aimed, fired. \u201cI\u2019m trying, dammit. But just in case, tell my folks\u2014\u201d<\/p>\n The side of David\u2019s head exploded. His body crumpled to the deck in a heap.<\/p>\n \u201cNo!\u201d His mind hazed with grief and guilt, Max abandoned the wheel, rushed to David\u2019s side, and checked his pulse. Nothing. \u201cDammit, no!\u201d The boy was only twenty-three\u2014too damn young to die. \u201cOh, kid, I\u2019m so sorry.\u201d<\/p>\n Left to herself, Venture started to founder.<\/p>\n Max lunged for the wheel again. He lost his footing on the flooded deck, landed on his ass, and bit his tongue. Spitting out the blood, he glared at the Gulf Craft bearing down on him. \u201cI am not dying like this. The frigging mission\u2019s not over.\u201d He struggled to his feet. This time, he managed to grab hold of the wheel. Another round of slugs shredded the stern. Impotent\u2014for the moment\u2014he could only shake his fist. \u201cYou bastards won\u2019t get away with this. I swear I\u2019ll see you in hell first.\u201d Bracing himself against the captain\u2019s chair, he yanked the wheel around as far as it would go. \u201cCome on, baby, back to port now. Stay afloat just a little longer.\u201d<\/p>\n Venture shuddered and listed to starboard, resisting the helm.<\/p>\n \u201cDammit, I said, \u2018back to port,\u2019 you worthless piece of shit!\u201d<\/p>\n She bucked, pitching David\u2019s body into the sea.<\/p>\n \u201cDamn, kid, I\u2019m so sorry,\u201d Max whispered.<\/p>\n Someday, somehow, he vowed, he\u2019d avenge the boy.<\/p>\n Before he could steady her, Venture yawed broadside on the crest of a violent wave, heeled hard to starboard, and capsized. Catapulting across the deck, Max remembered his parents had wanted him to be a doctor. Maybe he should\u2019ve listened.<\/p>\n As he plummeted toward the sea, his forehead struck the gunwale with the force of a pile driver. Intense pain ripped through his skull and bright lights exploded behind his eyes. Then the world dimmed to black.<\/p>\n Switched off.<\/p>\n ***<\/p>\n Wednesday, February 13th, 7:41 a.m., two miles outside the village of El Nopal, just north of La Paz, on the coast of the Sea of Cortez, Baja California Sur:<\/em><\/p>\n Ka-thump. Ka-thump.<\/p>\n With a blast of alarm, Tess jolted out of the dream and snatched the snub nose .38 revolver from under her pillow. Eyes closed, ears straining, she held her breath and listened but heard only the surf kissing the shores of the cove. Must\u2019ve dreamed the noises<\/em>. As the terror faded, she exhaled and waited for her heart to stop slamming against her ribcage.<\/p>\n Sunlight filtered through the tattered curtains. Looks like the storm\u2019s over. Thank goodness. Off in the distance, a rooster crowed. She glanced at the clock on her nightstand. Shit! She\u2019d overslept again. Tossing aside the covers, she sat up on the edge of the rickety bed, reached over to put the gun back under her pillow, and\u2014froze.<\/p>\n Muffled thumps came from somewhere in the cottage. She hadn\u2019t dreamed them after all, she realized, as icy fingers of dread skittered down her spine. It was too late to run. If Nick\u2019s men had gotten this close, she\u2019d have to fight. Struggling not to panic, she cocked the gun, eased off the bed, and crept from the room.<\/p>\n Cold sweat crawled over her skin and she shivered, imagining the pain of a bullet smashing into her body. Did shock and adrenaline really keep it from hurting too much? Damn, she really hoped so.<\/p>\n Stop it. Don\u2019t think about that now<\/em>.<\/p>\n Her throat bone dry, she swallowed before easing into the shadows of the bathroom\u2014shadows that could hide assassins. Her stomach churned at the thought. Pulse racing, her breath coming in soft gasps, she checked out the room but found nothing. No one. She took one deep, steadying inhalation and moved on.<\/p>\n Her footsteps made no sound. Nine months of living a nightmare had honed her survival skills, and she slipped through the cottage like a ghost.<\/p>\n Another soft thud. There! They must be searching the kitchen<\/em>. The door between it and the living room stood ajar. Terrified, but determined not to go down without a fight, she straightened her shoulders, lifted her chin, and gripped the revolver with both hands. She might not be able to stop Nick\u2019s thugs from killing her, but she could damn sure send a few of them to hell before she died.<\/p>\n Balancing on one foot, she used her other one to send the door crashing inward, hoping to catch the intruders by surprise.<\/p>\n \u201cMeoowww!\u201d<\/p>\n A startled orange cat launched himself off the counter where he\u2019d been feasting on an open jar of peanut butter. The jar went flying. So did a half-full bottle of Pepsi. And the dirty dishes from last night\u2019s supper. The tabby crash-landed on the wobbly kitchen table. It toppled on impact, sending Tess\u2019s notes and sketches\u2014along with the cat\u2014skittering across the floor.<\/p>\n \u201cDammit, Griffin.\u201d Weak with relief, she slumped against the doorjamb.<\/p>\n Griffin picked himself up, sauntered with indignant grace to his bed in the corner, and began licking peanut butter off his fur.<\/p>\n She glared at him. \u201cWhen are you going to learn to stay off the counter<\/em>?\u201d<\/p>\n He ignored her outburst. Like always. She surveyed the mess and swore\u2014more pissed at herself than at Griffin. If she\u2019d cleaned the kitchen before she went to bed\u2014or at the very least put the lid back on the peanut butter\u2014this wouldn\u2019t have happened. She closed her eyes briefly and sighed. If. \u201cYeah, and if wishes were horses, we\u2019d all be up to our ears in horseshit.\u201d But she\u2019d been more depressed than usual last night. Perhaps it was the storm.<\/p>\n Returning to the bedroom, she restored the gun to its hiding place then pulled off the boxer shorts and tank top she used as pajamas. She dressed in jeans and a T-shirt, ignoring the sneakers that stuck out from under the bed. If God had meant for her to wear shoes, he shouldn\u2019t have made going barefoot so much more comfortable.<\/p>\n Back in the kitchen, she made coffee before tackling Griffin\u2019s fiasco. No, scratch that. It was hardly fair to blame it on him when it was her own damn fault. If she hadn\u2019t been so freaked out by the dream and gone all Rambo\u2014if she\u2019d just taken a moment to think\u2014she\u2019d have realized it was probably Griffin making the noises, and she wouldn\u2019t have come barging into the kitchen and scared the shit out of him.<\/p>\n Besides, she was only kidding herself if she thought she could stay pissed at him. In the weeks since she\u2019d found him on her doorstep, he\u2019d been such an unexpected comfort in her terrible loneliness that, despite his frequent messes, he\u2019d wrapped her firmly around his paw.<\/p>\n Her breath suddenly hitched, and she crouched down to nuzzle him. Damn, she was tired of running. If only she could stay here in this cove with Griffin, she\u2019d never ask God for anything again. Not that He ever heard her prayers anyway.<\/p>\n Tears threatened but she shook her head, forcing them back. Crying did nothing to solve her problems.<\/p>\n Crossing to the window, she stared out at the little bay, where turquoise waves caressed a long, unbroken stretch of white sand. This isolated cove was her sanctuary. Separated from the desert by a fringe of pale green palm trees and dappled with vibrant splashes of pink, yellow, and red bougainvillea, it was the most picturesque and tranquil place she\u2019d ever been. The first hideaway, in all the long months of running, where she\u2019d found some peace of mind.<\/p>\n The palm trees, cacti, dwarf palmetto, and Joshua trees that speckled the landscape would provide excellent cover if\u2014when\u2014she needed it. Plus, they hid her cottage from the road, making her feel safe.<\/p>\n Almost.<\/p>\n But it couldn\u2019t last. Nick would find her. He always did. Which was why she seldom stayed anywhere longer than a month. Yet, here she was, almost two months in the same location. She sighed and shook her head. It was just so damn hard to move on this time.<\/p>\n She\u2019d had very little peace since she fled Boston, and she feared when she left the cove, she\u2019d never find sanctuary again. And now that the dreams had started once more\u2014<\/p>\n \u201cSenorita. Senorita<\/em>,\u201d called an eager young voice.<\/p>\n Tess peeked through the curtains on the back door and saw Pablo, a nine-year-old boy from a neighboring farm, running across the sand. She glanced at the clock. He was later than usual this morning.<\/p>\n Pablo and his family had befriended her during her first week in the cottage. When he found out she designed costumes, he\u2019d confessed how much he wanted one to wear in the village parades for Carnival week. Realizing that his parents could never afford something so frivolous, Tess had decided to help him make one. It cost her little more than time and eased some of her gut-wrenching homesickness.<\/p>\n Her mind flashed back to the tiny costume shop she\u2019d owned in Boston. She missed it. Missed her old life. But she\u2019d get it all back someday, she promised herself, as her chin shot up. She refused to let Nick destroy her.<\/p>\n Heading for the door, she tossed Griffin a smile. \u201cYou missed a spot of peanut butter on the top of your head, brat.\u201d<\/p>\n He looked up, blinked, yawned, and went back to his bath.<\/p>\n Pablo banged on the door. \u201cSenorita<\/em>!\u201d<\/p>\n Such a waste, she mused. Bright and eager to learn, the boy should be in school. But his parents had no money for shoes or books. Besides, they needed him at home to help with the endless chores on their meager farm. His costume lay draped over the back of a chair. They\u2019d finish it this morning and his daily visits would end. With a resigned sigh, she opened the door.<\/p>\n Already hot, and ripe with the smell of the ocean, the early morning air assaulted her skin. Sweat dampened her neck as she stepped back to let Pablo in. \u201cNo need to rush. Carnival doesn\u2019t start until tomorrow, ah, that\u2019s\u2026er\u2026manana<\/em>. Yeah, manana.\u201d<\/p>\n Although his English was poor and her Spanish worse, between them they spoke enough of each other\u2019s language to communicate. After a fashion.<\/p>\n \u201cMen!\u201d Eyes wide, the boy bounced up and down on her doorstep. \u201cCome rapido<\/em>.\u201d<\/p>\n She tensed. \u201cMen? Where? How many? Do they have guns?\u201d<\/p>\n He shook his head and pointed back toward the beach, his small brown body quivering with his need to make her understand. \u201cDead, me thinks. Come rapido<\/em>, senorita<\/em>.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cDead? How? No, Pablo, wait.\u201d<\/p>\n But he was already scurrying away, beckoning for her to follow. Dammit! She couldn\u2019t let him fall into a trap meant for her. Dashing into the bedroom, she retrieved her gun, shoved it into the waistband of her jeans, and rushed out after him.<\/p>\n \u201cWait for me,\u201d she shouted as she raced barefoot across the sand, cursing the soft, warm granules that oozed between her toes and slowed her down. \u201cPablo!\u201d<\/p>\n He slowed to a stop at last. When she came up beside him, he pointed at a man sprawled on his side at the edge of the surf. \u201cMen, si<\/em>?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cI see.\u201d<\/p>\n The tattered life vest on the body indicated he\u2019d come from a yacht. Either he\u2019d fallen overboard, or his boat had gone down in yesterday\u2019s storm.<\/p>\n Pulling out the revolver, she scanned the beach for any hint of trouble but saw nothing.<\/p>\n \u201cNo need shoot,\u201d Pablo said. \u201cHim dead mucho<\/em>.\u201d<\/p>\n The matter-of-fact tone of his voice tore at her heart. Death was just a fact of life for most of Mexico\u2019s poor from the moment they were born. Tess had recently learned that three of Pablo\u2019s twelve brothers and sisters had died from malnutrition and disease before the age of two. A fierce protectiveness seized her, and she wrapped him in a hug. He squirmed. She released him but couldn\u2019t resist ruffling his hair.<\/p>\n \u201cRun home and get the burro. We\u2019ll need him to carry the body.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cS<\/em>i.\u201d<\/p>\n As he dashed off, she again checked the beach for signs of an ambush. Still nothing. Holding the gun at her side, she walked toward the man. She\u2019d almost reached him when he raised his head and moaned. With a small gasp of dismay, she shoved the pistol back in her waistband and rolled him over on his back. \u201cIt\u2019s okay. Just take it easy.\u201d<\/p>\n He looked American, mid-thirties, with a couple of days\u2019 worth of stubble on his face and a nasty gash on his forehead. Squinting in the brutal Mexican sun, he tried to cover his eyes. When she leaned over him to block the light, he lowered his hands and gazed up at her with hazel eyes that would\u2019ve been striking\u2014if they hadn\u2019t been so bloodshot.<\/p>\n \u201cWho? Where?\u201d His words crackled with urgency and pain.<\/p>\n \u201cShush. Don\u2019t try to talk. I\u2019ll get help.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cNo. Don\u2019t.\u201d<\/p>\n She patted his arm, trying to reassure him. \u201cIt\u2019s okay. You\u2019re safe now. I\u2019ll get you to a doctor.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cDon\u2019t,\u201d he repeated. \u201cPlease.\u201d His hand closed on her wrist. Though obviously weak and injured, he had an impressive grip\u2014strong enough to hurt. She couldn\u2019t break free. \u201cNot safe,\u201d he said, his eyes locking on hers.<\/p>\n Even if she hadn\u2019t understood his words, she would\u2019ve recognized the fear in his voice. Alarm bells rang in her head. This man was running from someone. Now what? He needed medical attention, but if she took him to the village, his enemies might find him.<\/p>\n You\u2019ve got your own problems, said a small, frightened voice in the back of her mind. You can\u2019t afford to get tangled up in his.<\/p>\n But his eyes burned with anger and confusion. And wariness. It was like seeing her own reflection in a mirror. He\u2019s in trouble. Just like me<\/em>. Against her better judgment, she nodded. \u201cIt\u2019ll be all right. I promise.\u201d<\/p>\n Much to her relief, he let go of her wrist. As she rubbed her arm and flexed her fingers, he moaned again. Then his eyes rolled back in his head. She gave him a small nudge, but he didn\u2019t stir.<\/p>\n \u201cOut cold. Terrific.\u201d<\/p>\n Irritated that he couldn\u2019t stay conscious at least long enough to tell her who he was and what kind of trouble he was in, she searched him. Nothing but empty pockets. Her only clue to his identity came from a tattoo on his forearm: a snake coiled around a knife with the word \u201cMAX\u201d beneath it.<\/p>\n \u201cMax, huh? Well, Max, I guess I\u2019m stuck with you.\u201d<\/p>\n She heard a shout and whipped around. Pablo and his thirteen-year-old brother Juan ran toward her, dragging Taco, their family\u2019s scrawny, uncooperative burro.<\/p>\n \u201cHe\u2019s still alive,\u201d she yelled. \u201cHelp me take him to my cottage.\u201d<\/p>\n They struggled under Max\u2019s unconscious weight, but finally managed to drape him over Taco. Then she pulled the balking animal up the beach while Juan and Pablo pushed from behind. When they finally reached the cottage, she and Juan carried Max to the bedroom and laid him on her bed. Pablo fetched bottled water from the kitchen and the first aid kit from the bathroom.<\/p>\n Tess brushed Max\u2019s sun-streaked, light-brown hair back from his forehead, cleaned and bandaged his wound, then dribbled water between his chapped lips. Okay, now what? How the hell was she supposed to take care of him? She wasn\u2019t a nurse. His clothes reeked of diesel and salt water. As good a place as any to start, she supposed. \u201cHelp me get him undressed.\u201d<\/p>\n The boys attacked his pants and tennis shoes while she tackled his torn shirt and life vest. In a couple of minutes they had stripped him down to his Jockeys. The guy was certainly a hunk. Tess bit back a whimper when Juan grabbed hold of the waistband of Max\u2019s briefs. \u201cNo, don\u2019t,\u201d she gasped. \u201cI think we\u2019d better leave those on him.\u201d<\/p>\n She stared at Max. She knew it was rude but, dammit, she was only human. And with six feet of tanned, hard male stretched out on her bed, resisting a good, long look required will power she just didn\u2019t have. Besides, there was something familiar about him, and she wondered if he could be the man her dreams had foretold\u2014the one who invoked both a sense of trust and betrayal. But she had no way of knowing as she always woke up before she saw his face\u2014just as she was fleeing down a hallway filled with locked doors while cartoonish numbers chased her with knives. She hated the damn dreams and had all her life. Yes, they seemed to foretell the future, but she never understood them until what they predicted had already happened. And what the hell good was that? They hadn\u2019t saved her from becoming involved with Nick or helped her prevent the murders\u2014<\/p>\n The stranger groaned, dragging her thoughts back to him. She studied him. His rangy body would fit the man in her dreams. Close enough, anyway. He had the same well-defined muscles, broad shoulders, and trim waist. And although she\u2019d never seen the dream guy\u2019s face, this man had a good one\u2014chiseled and strong, with knife-edged cheekbones and full, sculpted lips. Still, she didn\u2019t remember any scars on the dream guy, and this man had several. One ran up his jaw and bisected his chin. Two more that looked like they came from gunshot wounds decorated his torso. They kept him from being \u201cdrop-dead\u201d gorgeous and made him appear reckless. And dangerous. Like a warrior. Just the kind of man a woman had trouble resisting.<\/p>\n Desires she\u2019d thought long buried sprang to the surface with surprising speed. She hadn\u2019t been this close to a man in months and had to clench her hands at her sides to keep her fingers from stroking his chest. Shit, what the hell have I gotten myself into<\/em>? Whether he was in trouble or not, she should take him straight to the village and be done with him.<\/p>\n \u201cSenorita?\u201d Juan whispered.<\/p>\n Tess jumped, looked around to find the boys watching her, and blushed.<\/p>\n \u201cHim live?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cYes.\u201d Ashamed of herself, she pulled the sheet over Max, gathered up his shirt and pants, and herded the two boys into the kitchen. \u201cBut you can\u2019t tell anyone he\u2019s here.\u201d From the disappointment on their faces, she had no problem imagining the stories they\u2019d planned to tell their friends. \u201cI think he\u2019s in trouble,\u201d she continued. \u201cBad people are looking for him, so no one can know where he is.\u201d She looked each boy in the eye. \u201cPromise?\u201d<\/p>\n Juan and Pablo exchanged glances then nodded. In spite of her anxiety, Tess had to swallow a laugh at the lost glory reflected in their solemn expressions. They\u2019d tell. No question. But she hoped their promise would make it later rather than sooner, giving Max a couple of days to recover before word got out. Struck with an idea, she dumped his clothes on the counter and reached for her backpack.<\/p>\n \u201cGive your friends ice cream instead of stories,\u201d she said in compromise, handing them the last of the money in her wallet.<\/p>\n The boys grabbed the cash with whoops of delight and raced out the door.<\/p>\n After stuffing her gun in the backpack, Tess washed Max\u2019s pants and shirt in the sink, hung them outside to dry, then went back to the bedroom to check on him. Still out cold. As far as she could tell, he was okay, though his breathing sounded a bit labored.<\/p>\n Remembering the arousal he\u2019d stirred up, she grimaced. I\u2019m pathetic if an unconscious stranger makes me horny.<\/em> A small sigh escaped as she shoved a hand through her hair. I need therapy<\/em>.<\/p>\n She decided she\u2019d better refill her wallet before she forgot, so she headed back to the kitchen and dug her envelope of money out of the cupboard. She counted the cash and groaned, appalled at how little remained. Must\u2019ve gone through it faster than I thought.<\/em> What was left wouldn\u2019t last more than two or three weeks.<\/p>\n Only one thing to do\u2014call Karl Parks, her attorney friend in Boston. He\u2019d handled the sale of her costume shop while she was on the run. She\u2019d called him for money before and gotten away with it, though the danger became greater every time. The smallest clue could lead Nick right to her, but what choice did she have?<\/p>\n She shuddered, overwhelmed by an onslaught of panic and despair. Chills rippled down her spine, sprouting goosebumps on her skin. Leaning against the kitchen counter, she fought to control the surge of ice-cold terror in her gut by taking slow, deep breaths and forcing herself to consider her situation logically.<\/p>\n Obviously, she\u2019d been here too long. No matter how precious the cove, it had been foolish to stay. Once she made the call to Karl, she\u2019d have to get out of here. Fast.<\/p>\n So she needed a plan.<\/p>\n Okay, she decided, with another deep breath. She\u2019d tell Karl to send the money to the marina. If she hid out in La Paz until it came, she could take the ferry back to the Mexican mainland. Yeah, that should work. Reassured and comforted, she pushed away from the counter\u2014then choked back a scream as someone banged on her front door.<\/p>\n \u00a9 2020 by Pepper O\u2019Neal<\/p>\n BACK TO BLURB<\/a>\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 READ REVIEWS<\/a>\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 MEET THE BLACK OPS CHARACTERS<\/a><\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":" CHAPTER 1 Tuesday, February 12th, 5:53 p.m., Mexico\u2019s Sea of Cortez: They were sooo screwed. Max didn\u2019t need the roar of the automatic-weapons fire chasing the boat through the storm to tell him that. The howling wind and bellowing sea …<\/span> Continue reading →<\/span><\/a><\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":27,"parent":0,"menu_order":0,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","template":"","meta":{"footnotes":""},"class_list":["post-81","page","type-page","status-publish","has-post-thumbnail","hentry"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.pepperoneal.com\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/pages\/81","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.pepperoneal.com\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/pages"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.pepperoneal.com\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/page"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.pepperoneal.com\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.pepperoneal.com\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=81"}],"version-history":[{"count":4,"href":"https:\/\/www.pepperoneal.com\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/pages\/81\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":223,"href":"https:\/\/www.pepperoneal.com\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/pages\/81\/revisions\/223"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.pepperoneal.com\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media\/27"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.pepperoneal.com\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=81"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}