violence. He never had been.
But he could be, under the right circumstances. He’d learned that much about himself in Sanselmo.
Pulling the pistol from the hidden holster inside his jacket, he wished he had a rifle instead. Better accuracy from a distance. But the Taurus 1911 would do.
Across the woods, the man holding the pistol to Ava’s chin drew his hand back, bringing the pistol muzzle away from her face. But as he did so, the second man grabbed her from behind in a bear hug, eliciting a grunt of surprise from her as she started to struggle against his hold.
The man with the gun pressed it to her forehead, and Sin aimed the Taurus in his direction, his finger sliding onto the trigger.
Ava slumped suddenly, her arms sliding up and her body dropping, catching the man holding her by surprise. She slipped from his grasp, down to the forest floor.
Sinclair would never get a better chance.
Aiming down the barrel of the Taurus, he fired. Simultaneously, another shot rang out, the crack echoing in the trees, almost drowning out the report of his own weapon. The man reaching for Ava fell backward into the underbrush. The man in front of her pitched forward, firing off a shot of his own as he fell.
Ava’s body jerked, even as she rolled away from the falling man, scrambled to her feet and started running. She made it about ten yards before she started to stagger, her legs wobbling beneath her as if they’d gone boneless. She fell forward into the thickening underbrush, disappearing from his view.
Keeping an eye on the two fallen men, Sinclair dashed after her, his heart racing faster than his churning legs. She lay crumpled, facedown, but he could see by the rise and fall of her body that she was still breathing. He stopped next to the two fallen men. The one who’d grabbed Ava first lay facedown, unmoving. The back of his camouflage jacket had a bloody hole in it, somewhere in the vicinity of his left shoulder blade. He didn’t appear to be breathing. Nudging with his foot, Sin rolled the man over and took a long look at his face.
Emilio Fuentes, he thought, staring into the glassy brown eyes of a man he’d once called friend. His heart contracted.
He picked up the pistol Fuentes had dropped and shoved it into his pocket. He checked the second man, the one at whom he’d aimed his own pistol. Carlito Escalante. A bloody hole in the side of the man’s neck was the only obvious injury. Sin checked for a pulse and found none.
A queasy sensation filled his gut, and he swallowed the urge to be sick.
He searched Carlito’s body, found a hunting knife besides the pistol the man had dropped, and added both to his pocket, trying not to let his rapid respirations escalate to hyperventilation. He needed his wits about him. His life had just gotten a thousand times more dangerous.
By the time he found the pistol Ava had dropped when she was attacked and turned back to her, she was on her hands and knees, trying to crawl away. He hurried to her side, crouching beside her.
She whirled at his touch, swinging her arm up in a shaky arc before he could react. Suddenly, he was staring down the muzzle of a Glock aimed right between his eyes. Now he knew where the second shot had come from.
She’d had another weapon.
“Ava,” he said.
“You’re supposed to be dead.” Her voice had a raw, uneven tone, the shaking in her hand growing to an alarming wobble.
He reached out and moved her hand away from his face. She struggled but didn’t pull the trigger before he took the gun away and wrapped his arm around her as she started to fall backward. “Whoa, there.” Dropping the Glock to one side, he gave her a quick appraisal, looking for her injury.
There. Under the hem of her jacket. Blood spread across the right side of her charcoal trousers and seeped upward onto her olive-green blouse. As she tried to slap his hands away, he tugged the blouse up and away, revealing a ripped furrow in the waistband of her pants. Beneath it, the bullet’s path had carved a bloody gouge in the soft flesh just above her hip bone.
“Ow,” she groaned as he plucked a piece of scorched fabric from the wound.
He needed to get her back to the motel. And he needed not to get caught. Irreconcilable goals.
“You didn’t blow yourself up,” she muttered. He looked up from the bullet wound to find her hazel eyes focused on his face.
“Says who?” he asked, reaching in his back pocket for his multibladed knife. There was a set of tweezers tucked into the handle, if he wasn’t mistaken. Given the messy condition of her wound, he was probably going to need them.
“You’re wanted by the FBI.”
“I’m not on the list anymore,” he disagreed, sliding the tweezers out. “Dead, you see.”
Her mouth twisted with frustration. “You’re not dead. And you’re under arrest.”
He couldn’t hold back a grin at her serious expression. “Can I finish cleaning this wound before you take me in?”
“This isn’t funny.” Moving more quickly than he thought she could, she grabbed the Glock he’d taken from her and swung it back in front of her. This time, her hands didn’t shake nearly as hard.
Fear battled with grudging admiration. She was tougher than she looked. “What are you going to do, shoot me?”
“If I have to.”
“Getting back to the motel on your own isn’t going to be pleasant,” he warned, sitting back on his heels.
“I’ll deal.” Keeping her pistol aimed at his chest, she pushed to her feet, struggling not to sway. “Sinclair Solano, you’re under arrest for the murder of three American oil company employees. For starters.”
“I didn’t kill those men.”
“We’ll let the courts sort that out.” She twitched the Glock’s muzzle at him. “Move.”
He wasn’t going to let her take him in. He’d had his chance to face justice years ago and had traded it for a chance to make things right. But Alexander Quinn had warned him there were no easy outs. Once he went back to El Cambio and pretended nothing had changed, he might never be able to clear his name.
He’d taken the chance. Now, it seemed he might have to pay.
“Do you know who those men were?” He nodded toward the two bodies lying several yards away.
Her gaze slanted toward them briefly before locking with Sin’s again. “No. Do you?”
“The one who grabbed you was Emilio Fuentes. Major player in El Cambio’s military wing. He was Alberto Cabrera’s top commander.” He watched her expression for any signs of recognition. Her eyes narrowed; she knew something about El Cambio, he thought. “The other was Carlito Escalante.”
“The Spider,” she murmured, recognition dawning.
She wasn’t just playing at whatever job she was working, clearly, if she knew Escalante’s nom de guerre. He tried not to stare into the muzzle of her Glock. “Why
