Black Ops Chronicles: Dead Run (7 page)

Heat hung heavy in the air. Without the breeze coming in through the windows, the temperature in the cottage bordered on unbearable. Sweat dampened her skin and permeated her clothes as she went through the house, piling her meager possessions into a small duffel bag. Her precious notes and sketches she packed in a little canvas satchel before stuffing them in her duffel. Someday she’d rebuild her life, and when she did, the information she’d collected could be the key to her future.

While in Mexico, she’d become fascinated by the huge murals that graced the walls of nearly every public building. These paintings, depicting important events in Mexican history, played an essential role in educating the citizens of a country plagued by illiteracy. They also provided Tess with abundant examples of clothing worn over the past three hundred years. If she ever got out of this mess, she’d design a line of authentic Mexican costumes to add to the Medieval and early American costumes for which she’d gained quite a reputation in Salt Lake City.

When she finished packing, she cleaned the cottage, removing any trace of her short stay. Every scrap of paper was collected, torn into tiny fragments, and flushed down the toilet. She never threw anything personal in the trash. It was the first place Nick’s men would look.

She paid special attention to the bathroom, especially any stray hairs, which joined the bits of paper in the toilet. Long red hairs, in a country where the women’s hair was predominantly black, would be a sure giveaway. She knew she should’ve cut and dyed it months ago, but she had so few elements of her identity left, she couldn’t bear to lose one more. Besides, it was damn hard to find dark hair dye in Mexico. The natives had no use for it. If she’d wanted to go blonde, or a different shade of red, it would’ve been no problem. But somehow, she didn’t think that would help her much.

When she fled Salt Lake City nine months ago, she’d hidden her hair under a dark wig. But she’d had to abandon it in El Paso, along with most of her other possessions, when she’d escaped Nick’s men by the skin of her teeth.

That time, one of the rare few, she’d managed to interpret one of her dreams in time to save her ass, though it had been damn close. And there hadn’t been time to pack. Or plan. She’d barely made it out the back door before they’d broken in the front one. Thank God, she’d been able to grab her backpack containing what little money she had at the time. It had been just enough to buy a few clothes, the duffle bag, and a ticket to Cancun, where Karl had sent her some more.

She sighed and shook off the memories of her near capture. She was more careful now and the assassins hadn’t gotten that close again.

Making a final sweep of the cottage, she wiped all her fingerprints off the counters and doorknobs. As long as Nick’s men didn’t know she’d lived here, they couldn’t know for certain that she’d fled. So they might go on looking and give her more time to escape. Levi had once told her it was attention to detail that often made the difference between success and failure. She only wished she’d listened to him about Nick.

She missed Levi. And Jonas. She wanted her costume shop back. And her few close friends. Somehow, joking with them about her weird, clairvoyant dreams always made her seem less of a freak. At least in her own mind. She sighed. God knew, she could use a little humor now.

Tears welled up in her eyes and threatened to spill onto her cheeks. But she choked them back and went on with the business of staying alive.

As she worked, she debated where she’d sleep. There was only the one bed, but the couch was too short and lumpy. She could just imagine how she’d feel in the morning if she slept on it.
The hell with it
.
It’s my bed, and Max is only using half of it
. By the time she was ready to retire for the night, she’d convinced herself she should sleep next to Max anyway—in case he stopped breathing again.

She slipped the revolver under her pillow and lay, fully dressed, on top of the covers. Unable to resist, she scooted over beside Max—just for an instant, she told herself—and filled her nostrils with his scent. It reminded her of sun-drenched sand, balmy ocean breezes, reckless adventures, and danger. Fear fought with desire, chilling her blood while making it boil. She’d just started to move back to her half of the bed when Max rolled over on his side, wrapped an arm around her waist, and spooned her against him.

***

Thursday, February 14
^th
, 7:03 a.m., the cottage in Baja California Sur
:

Danger
!

He jolted awake to the screaming of an inner voice. Braced to fight or flee, he held his breath and listened to...was that a lock being forced? Yes. A click and the creak of a door, then men’s voices, low and menacing, came from the other room.

Dread crept over him, prickling the hairs on the back of his neck. Were they searching for him? Most likely. And he didn’t think he’d care for the consequences if they found him.

You’ve got to get out of here
.
Now
.

He eased off the bed and onto the floor, cursing the waves of pain that ravaged his body. Cold with sweat, he took slow, deep breaths to settle his queasy stomach. His bare skin scraped against the rough concrete floor. Realizing he was naked except for his briefs, he glanced around. A jumbled pile of men’s clothing and a pair of shoes lay on the end of the bed. Biting his lower lip to keep from moaning, he crawled over and retrieved them. With the bundle under his arm, he unlocked the window, opened it, and climbed out.

Instinct urged him to cover his tracks. Though it required an almost superhuman effort, he reached up and closed the window. Exhausted, he collapsed on the ground, thankful the agonized screams of his abused muscles weren’t audible outside his own head.

He heard the bedroom door open and the men creep inside. They were stealthy and careful, but he recognized the sounds of drawers opening and a room being thoroughly searched.

What the hell were they looking for?
Whatever it is, I have to move before the bastards come back outside
. He gritted his teeth, forced himself to his knees, and crawled around the corner of the house. Struggling to his feet, he lurched to the shelter of some shrubbery a few feet beyond the saltbush hedge surrounding the cottage. Once out of sight behind the bushes, he crumpled to his knees and waited for his heartbeat to return to normal.

As much as he wanted just to sit there forever, the rough sand grinding into his bare legs convinced him to move. Hot, sticky, and miserable, he brushed himself off and donned the clothes and shoes. They didn’t look familiar, but they fit. So they had to be his.

He checked the pockets. Empty. His wallet was probably still in the cottage, and he couldn’t risk going back there. Christ, what was he going to do? How would he survive? He had no identification, no money—no memory.

He couldn’t recall a single thing about himself, not even his name. Except for the dream about the redhead and some brief flashes of images he didn’t recognize, his mind was a blank page. He didn’t know if he was a good man or an evil one. Or if he had any friends here he could go to for help.

You don’t even know where “here” is
, chided the annoying voice in his head. As if he needed to be reminded.

Knowing he’d better figure it out, and fast, he studied his surroundings. White sand and cacti. Palm and Joshua trees. The dilapidated little cottage he’d just left sat under an intense blue sky on the shores of a turquoise sea. Someplace sub-tropical. Obviously. However, voices he’d heard were speaking English, so perhaps the tiny cove was in one of the Florida Keys.

But if so, what was he doing here? What had happened to make him so weak? And who were those men his gut told him were dangerous? Was someone really after him, or was that just paranoia caused by the amnesia?

He would’ve gone with paranoia—if not for the men searching his cottage. Still, whatever his name was, it wasn’t Jason Bourne, so they were probably just thugs rather than professional assassins. Loan sharks? Had he run up thousands of dollars in gambling debts he wasn’t able to pay? Or maybe done something else equally stupid? Good God, what kind of man was he?

Fear flared up again at his total inability to remember.

No. He refused to panic. That gained him nothing. And he sensed he’d been trained to control his fear. His eyes widened at the thought. Why would he have been trained not to panic? And by whom? Christ, this was getting more surreal by the moment. Still the
notion that he’d had some special training—and therefore some special skills—calmed him and made him think
he could probably handle this situation.
Besides, it’s not as if I have any choice if I want to survive
.

He noticed a battered life vest on the ground and picked it up.
It must’ve been in the pile of clothes
. Had he been on a boat? He looked out at the tiny harbor. Nothing. Damn. He had the strong impression he’d arrived here on a boat.

He could also sense a harsh, raw grief waiting just under the surface of his consciousness. It explained a lot. When his memories returned that heartache would come back, too. So whatever had caused the amnesia was most likely not something he
wanted
to remember.
Probably why I have the memory loss in the first place
. He sighed. Apparently, he’d have a lot to deal with when he recovered—
if
he recovered. In the meantime—

A door slammed. The men were coming back outside. Instinct urged him to run, but his body begged him to rest. Probably should listen to his body, he decided, risking a cautious glance over the top of the shrubbery.

Uh-oh. One of the men was headed his way. Christ, the guy looked like a gangster—muscular, armed, and surly.
On second thought, running seems like a damn smart idea.

Hiding the life vest in the foliage, he scrambled down the beach to the shelter of a large bougainvillea embracing the trunk of a giant palm tree. Surrounded by several smaller trees and some scrubby bushes that looked like dwarf palmetto and ocotillo, the enormous tree offered excellent cover.

Peeking through the bougainvillea, he watched the armed man stop at the other patch of shrubbery and relieve himself then trudge back to the cottage.

Safe. For the moment. Exhausted and unable to go farther, he sank down behind one of the smaller palm trees. He rested his head against the tree trunk and closed his eyes. Hopefully the world would make more sense when he opened them again.

He didn’t know how long he’d stayed like that before he heard the unmistakable click of a gun being cocked behind him.

***

The fear that Nick’s thugs would arrive at any moment nipped at Tess’s heels as she hurried back to the cottage from Pablo’s farm. But even the nibbling panic couldn’t erase the smile that tugged at the corners of her mouth.

When Max had pulled her against him last night, she’d assumed he’d awakened. As she started to push away from him and protest his advances, his soft snore ruffled her hair. Realizing he was holding her in his sleep, she’d decided just to accept and enjoy it.

He’d held her all night. She even woke a few times to find him nuzzling her hair. She hadn’t cared who he was holding in his dreams as long as she got the substitute affection. When she crawled out of bed just before dawn, he moaned and reached for her. Thinking he probably had a hard-on, she scurried out of the bedroom before her
embarrassed
laughter could wake him up.

She knew she should be ashamed of herself, but she didn’t care. Max hadn’t known about the comfort he’d given her. And it hadn’t cost him anything.

She’d left him sleeping and slipped out of the cottage at first light to take Pablo his costume. With a grin splitting his face, the boy put on the cape and strutted around the tiny farmhouse, transformed into a miniature Montezuma. He was sure to be the star attraction in the parade, and she longed to see it.

As she jogged through a thick grove of palm trees, her shoes hanging from her fingertips, her backpack and duffel bag from her shoulders, she calculated how great the risk would be if she stayed around long enough to watch.

No, she decided. She’d already pushed her luck too far. She needed to get out of the area while she still could.
Before
Nick’s men discovered who lived at the cottage.

Well, they’d find no trace of her there. She’d taken everything with her when she left for Pablo’s. Except for Griffin and Max.

Griffin could fend for himself. When she left, he’d just go back to hunting—and mooching from the neighbors again—until someone else moved into the cottage. But Max...What to do about him weighed on her mind. Deserting him felt wrong, but what else could she do? When she got home, she’d wake him, give him some money for food, and tell him where Pablo’s family lived. They’d agreed to look out for him.

Deep in thought, she trotted out of the grove—and froze in an instant of pure panic. The blue Jeep and a black sedan were parked in her driveway. Five men milled around outside, going through her trash: the four she’d seen yesterday, and Tony, Nick’s personal Pit Bull.
Which meant—another man walked around the corner of the house.

Oh my God, no
!