notch to show there was jest beneath the words. “Should we bond? Perhaps do each other’s makeup, eat ice cream, and watch a Hugh Grant movie?”
Juan chuckled. “Kind of girlie to ask you if you want to talk, huh?”
Angel held his index and thumb an inch apart. “A notch.”
“Blame it on Maria,” Juan said. “She says we all should be more attuned to those around us.”
Angel chuckled and sipped the coffee. Juan was smitten with the freedom fighter. Hell, everyone was smitten with her, and it wasn’t just her beauty. It was true that her long wavy hair, dusky skin, and green eyes captured the attention of men, but her passion held it. Passion for her people. For her country. For the truth.
Maria was a force of nature, and while her enthusiasm for the RADEC cause wasn’t something he shared, he admired her for it. She inspired not just him but thousands of people.
He pushed the shot of mescal away. “I don’t think I’ll need this today.”
Fiona crouched in an alley, watching the doorway of Tierra Roja and surprised to see movement inside before noon. It was hard to believe anyone would drink at ten in the morning, but this was Colombia. Sometimes, the only way to get through the day was with the edges of life a little blurred.
She looked up and down the street. Cars. People. Men with large guns. It was a day like any other in Bogotá.
Running her hands over her bloodstained jeans, she wished she could change clothes, but she didn’t dare go back to her hotel. Montoya might not know who Anthony was—or his partner—but he’d figure it out. With her luck, sooner rather than later.
She stood, knees shaking. “Come on, Fiona,” she whispered to herself. “Just get across the street, and you’ll be safe.”
Trying to appear nonchalant, she waited until the road was clear of traffic and hurried across. Without breaking pace, she pushed her way into the bar then slammed the door behind her. Taking a deep breath, she leaned against the scarred wooden slab.
“Are you well, señorita?” the bartender asked.
She glanced around the room. Other than the bartender, there was one other patron. Dressed in jeans, a black T-shirt and black boots, he had a cup of coffee and a shot of something in front of him.
He sipped the coffee, not showing any awareness she’d entered.
Great, a drunk, she thought, heading toward the far end of the bar. However, as she drew closer, she scrutinized him with a reporter’s observational skills and had to admit he looked good for a drunk. Big. Muscled and in shape. Black hair clipped neat and short, but not military tight. A professional of some sort.
Angel perhaps? But he could just as easily be one of Montoya’s men. She stopped short, then realized she’d have to take a chance either way. She continued across the floor and leaned against the bar a few feet away. Closer still, she noticed there were circles beneath the man’s eyes, and he drank the coffee as if it were the one thing keeping him alive.
He had to be Angel. He looked like the kind of man who might kill—or protect—for cash.
She shifted toward him. “Excuse me?”
He didn’t acknowledge her. “Excuse me?” she said again, raising her voice and taking another step in his direction. “Angel?” she whispered, taking the chance he was the mercenary.
He sipped his coffee, showing no sign of recognition of the name. The pit in her stomach deepened.
“We are not open yet, señorita,” the bartender said as he continued to hand-wash the bar glasses.
“Oh.” She turned away from the dark man. “I don’t want a drink.” She went to the bartender. They were supposed to know everything. “I need a man,” she whispered
He grinned. “Who do you want?”
Judging by the goofy expression on his tanned face, he thought she meant sex. Now was not the time for jokes. A vision of Anthony flashed across her eyes.
For what seemed like the millionth time since she ran away, she pushed the bloody image out of her mind and blinked back tears. Later, when the film was safe, she’d mourn. “Not like that. I need a specific man. He’s called Angel. I was told he came here. A lot.”
“Angel? I don’t know him.” The bartender shook his head, and his eyes remained on her, not sliding toward the dark man. Not even for a second.
Fiona’s heart dropped. “I was told he came here,” she insisted. Almost as if she floated outside her body, she heard her voice grow higher, more frightened and shaky. She didn’t care. “I was told.”
“You were told wrong,” the bartender said, disentangling her hands from his shirt. “Let me get you a cup of coffee.”
She hadn’t realized she’d grabbed him. Fiona stuffed her hands into her pockets. Her fingertips touched Tony’s footage, and she yanked that hand back out.
Taking a deep breath, she sat on a barstool and let her head drop to the wooden bar. This was not going well. Not at all.
“Here, you need this more than me,” a deep voice said.
She raised her head in time to see the dark man slide his shot glass toward her. She stopped it before it sailed over the end of the bar. “It’s not even noon.”
“Suit yourself.” He went back to his coffee.
She eyed the liquid. Though it was pale yellow in color, it still looked like something someone had made in their bathtub. And she was not much of a drinker, in any case. Still, she picked it up.
Tony flashed through her thoughts. His quick wit. His laugh. His bloody death. “Screw it,” she whispered. Tipping her head back, she downed the shot.
Mescal, she realized as it burned a path down her throat. She put her hand over her mouth, a coughing fit doubling her over.
“Drink this.” The bartender’s voice cut through the hacking sound of her cough. After she caught her breath, she noticed the cup of coffee, with milk and sugar on the side, on the bar in front of her.
“Thanks,” she said, adding the milk.
He patted her hands. “I’ll get you something to eat.”
“I’m not hungry,” she said, her voice strangled as she fought back tears.
His eyes widened. “I insist,” he said, disappearing into a back room.
It was the tears, Fiona thought as the door swung shut. It didn’t matter the nationality, men freaked when a woman cried.
Fiona took a deep breath, shut her eyes, and assessed the situation. She was on the run. It was a matter of hours, at best, before Montoya figured out who she was. She needed Angel. If she couldn’t find him, she’d have to make her own way out of the country. For now, she’d assume the worst.
That she was on her own.
Okay.
