grabbed her wrist. “Get to Angel. Mercenary. Friend.” He strained to talk, his words clipped and tight. “He can protect you. The film.”
Film? Who cared? “Screw the film.” Fiona shook her head. “What the hell were you thinking? I have to get you to a doctor.” Remaining low and out of sight, she pressed one hand to his chest and another against his back. The feel of his blood, warm and sticky on her palms, made her nauseous.
Tony’s eyelids fluttered and a whimper escaped his lips. “Stop,” he whispered through clenched teeth. “Please. Stop.”
“Oh, God. Oh, God. Oh, God,” Fiona muttered. They’d hopped across rooftops to get to the building. How was she going to get him out if he couldn’t walk?
“Angel. Get to Angel,” Tony insisted.
“No.” She pressed harder, but the blood refused to stop.
“Leave me or die.”
“Fine. I’ll go,” she agreed, even though she did not intend to leave him alone. “Stubborn, butt-headed drama queen.”
Though he labored to breathe, Tony managed a weak smile. “Not me. You,” he said, his voice faint.
With the back of her hand, Fiona wiped away tears she’d been unaware of until they’d blurred her vision. Maybe if she found this Angel person, she could convince him to help her with Tony. “Where do I find him?”
“Tierra Roja.”
The bar on the zocalo? It wasn’t a surprise. What better place to find a mercenary? “I’ll hurry,” she said.
“Good.” Tony touched her hand, his grip weak. “This makes me miss dog shows.”
She twined her fingers through his. When she’d met Tony a few months ago, she was covering a dog show in Los Angeles, and he was her new cameraman. They’d bonded over the fact that they both thought their talents were wasted. Then he’d suggested they come to Colombia, his country, and find a story, make things happen instead of playing the game.
Some story.
“Me, too,” she replied. “Though I could live without the constant leg-humping.”
Tony gave a feeble chuckle. “That was my favorite part.”
Shouting in the courtyard caught her attention. “Be right back,” Fiona said. Letting go of his hand, she crawled back to the edge of the balcony and peered over. Montoya was yelling. Pointing.
Seconds later, the sound of a door splintering made her tremble. Montoya’s men were in the building. They’d be on her in a few minutes. She’d have to hide Tony until she could come back with help. She crawled back to him. “I’ll be back soon,” she promised. “With Angel. I’m going to get you out of here.”
She froze.
Tony stared at the sky. His chest no longer rose and fell. She swallowed back a cry of despair. “Tony?”
Nothing. She touched him. “Anthony?” He was dead. For a moment, she stared at the corpse, oblivious to anything but his sightless eyes. Then shouts reached her ears.
Montoya’s men.
Panic roared through her body. She clenched her hands into tight fists. Focus, she told herself. Focus, Fiona. Focus or die.
Taking a deep, controlled breath, she forced the rising panic to the back of her mind then exhaled. Her pulse slowed. She unclenched her fists.
Time to run.
Wiping the blood off her palms and onto her denim-covered thighs, she closed Tony’s eyes with a shaky hand, popped the microtape out of the camera and stuck it in the front pocket of her jeans.
Retracing the route she and Tony had taken to break in to the ancient apartment complex, she hunched over to keep her profile low and hurried through the French doors and into the empty hotel room. The sound of feet echoed in the stairwell. The men were almost at her floor.
Although it was risky to enter the open hallway, Fiona hurried across the few feet of the narrow passage and into the opposite room, easing the door shut behind her.
Out in the hallway, the men reached the fourth-floor landing.
Fiona ran for the window and swung both feet over the ledge. Dropping to the roof a few feet below her, she landed on her toes for silence. Even though she stood outside and with the door closed, the soldier’s speech carried through the thin walls. She froze, listening.
“Esta vacío,” someone shouted.
It’s empty. They’d found the camera and checked.
“Encuentre a su socio.”
Find his partner. They knew about her. They knew. She put her hand over her mouth to keep from throwing up.
Angel Castillo stared at the shot of mescal in front of him, debating if it was too soon in the day to have a drink. Wasn’t it Alan Jackson who sang that it was “five o’clock somewhere”?
He picked up the shot glass and turned it around, letting the sunlight filter through the pale yellow liquid.
“Isn’t it a little early for that?” Juan asked as he wiped down the top of the bar.
“Then why did you serve me?”
“Because you tip well.”
Angel shrugged. His mother had been a waitress, working at a diner, and the nights she came home with little more than a few crumpled bills outnumbered the nights she came home with bulging pockets.
He knew the food business was difficult. Even more so when it was in a crap-hole like Bogotá, Colombia.
He set the glass down, and Juan slid a cup of coffee in front of him. “Try this.”
“I’ve tasted your coffee. It’s more lethal than any bullet.”
“Yeah?” Juan laughed. “At least you’ll be awake to hear the shot.”
Angel shrugged and took a sip. The brew was thick. Black. And possibly illegal in some countries. If not, it should be.
“Bad night?” Juan asked as he put away glasses from last night’s patrons, a combination of locals and tourists that never failed to amuse.
Angel glanced at Juan over the rim of the mug. A few weeks ago, when he’d come in at two in the morning, bleary-eyed and almost incoherent from lack of sleep, he’d told the bartender about the nightmares.
Mostly, Angel didn’t remember them. He wasn’t sure if that made them better or worse. What he did remember were the emotions they heaped on him. Anger. Remorse. The sense of helplessness.
“The dreams?” Juan pressed.
Angel raised a brow. This was the last time he confided in a bartender.
Juan shrugged. “Hey,
