arriba! Manos arriba!” Brandon took his red-stained hands away from the wound and held them up high, his stomach churning with dread. One of the officers rushed forward, grabbing him by the collar and shoving him facedown on the cobblestones. He winced, trying to stay still as his arms were wrenched behind his back and his wrists cuffed.
There were no Miranda rights given, no questions asked. The injured man lay motionless in a pool of blood. The officers yanked him to his feet, talking to each other in rapid-fire Spanish.
“Estaba ayudando,” Brandon said. I was helping him.
They led him to the patrol car, ignoring his protests. “Watch your head,” one of the officers said, pushing him inside.
Brandon had no choice but to cooperate. He couldn’t reveal his identity without putting himself in danger. Mexican officials were often friendly, and quick to accept a bribe, but they wouldn’t be so amenable if they learned his real purpose here. At this point, it was better to pretend to be a hapless surfer.
“I didn’t do anything—” he said, just before the door slammed in his face.
Isabel was afraid to go back to her apartment.
She didn’t know how long Carranza’s man had been watching her. He might be working with a partner. Even if he’d come to Puerto Escondido solo, reinforcements could arrive anytime. Carranza would be furious to hear that she’d escaped.
She had to assume they knew everything. Where she lived, what she drove. Her only recourse was to leave town, change her name and start over.
Again.
Although she wanted to sprint, she forced herself to walk at a brisk pace, sticking to the backstreets. There was blood on her shirt, her face. Anyone who looked close would see a wild-eyed murderer.
Choking down a sob, she paused to rinse her hands in a fountain. The water ran pink, like blush champagne. Feeling queasy, she hurried on, passing through her neighborhood with her eyes averted and head down. She stopped at a locked garage several blocks from her apartment, using her key to open the door.
Months ago, when she’d decided to settle down in Puerto Escondido, she’d bought an old motorcycle from the garage owner and paid him a pittance to park it here. She’d also stashed an overnight bag in a metal drawer.
Standing on tiptoes, she reached into the drawer, locating the messenger bag. Slinging it over her shoulder, she hopped on the bike.
To her intense relief, the engine turned over.
Within minutes, she was speeding down the highway, putting distance between her and Puerto Escondido. It was almost full dark now, and a little cooler. The wind rippled through her hair and clothes, drying her sweaty nape.
She was going to make it.
On the heels of that thought, her stomach rebelled, protesting the stress of the past hours. She pulled to the side of the road and fell to her knees, vomiting in the gravel. When her belly was empty, she dry-heaved weakly, tears seeping from her eyes.
She’d stabbed a man. Maybe killed him.
Not only that, she’d left Brandon in the lurch. Mexican officials might let him off the hook, but Carranza’s men wouldn’t.
“Oh, God,” she moaned, fisting a hand in her hair. What was she going to do?
As soon as the nausea passed, she rose to her feet and wiped her mouth, grabbing a bottle of water from her pack. After spitting out the first sip, she drank a small amount, afraid the liquid would come back up.
Brandon had saved her life. She’d ditched him at Playa Perdida, and pulled a knife on him in the alley, but he’d stepped in to rescue her anyway. Showing zero consideration for his own well-being, he’d tackled the gunman. And how did she repay him for that gallant act? By running away.
She felt terrible.
The past two years had been harrowing, lonely and intense. She felt like she’d been dodging bullets forever. She didn’t want to be a fugitive from justice anymore. And she couldn’t stand the thought of another man’s blood on her hands.
Head pounding, she swung her leg over the bike, gunning the engine. The problem with being on the run in Mexico was that she didn’t know who to trust. Crooked officers were common because of low government wages. She couldn’t go to the police, and she wasn’t sure the embassies were safe. Carranza had a wide sphere of influence.
As hiding places went, this country wasn’t the best choice. But she hadn’t figured out who she was running from until after she crossed the border. Now she was stuck. She couldn’t stay here, and she was afraid to go home.
The least she could do was try to find out what happened to Brandon. Maybe she could warn him. He might be in danger because of her, and he was obviously an innocent bystander. She felt responsible for his safety.
Decision made, she turned her bike around, driving toward the muted lights of Puerto Escondido. At early evening, the air smelled like hot asphalt and thick vegetation. Crickets chirped in unison, creating a shrill cacophony. Farther out, blue-black waves lapped at the pale shoreline, lulling the city to sleep.
Well, not the whole city. The palapa bars that raged until sunup were several blocks from Brandon’s hotel. Raucous shouts were only murmurs at this distance, the music pulsing like a faint heartbeat.
She slowed her bike to a stop in a quiet area near The Pelican, taking cover behind a block wall. The spot wasn’t comfortable, but it offered a decent vantage point. She could see the courtyard and the carport.
An hour later, two men in a rental car parked on the opposite side of the street. They headed to the carport first, pausing by Brandon’s SUV. It was dark, so Isabel wasn’t sure what they were doing. Searching his vehicle, perhaps. After a few moments, they moved on, settling down in a pair of lawn chairs in the dimly lit courtyard.
Isabel stayed hidden, her pulse racing. These were Carranza’s men, without a doubt. She assumed the Mexican police would deliver Brandon to them. How could she alert him to their presence?
“Damn,” she whispered, crouching lower. The longer she lingered here, the higher her chances of getting caught became. Her mind raced with options, all unpleasant. She could flee the scene or hang back and watch it unfold.
This wasn’t going to be pretty.
Brandon’s handcuffs were removed, along with his personal effects. Sans wallet and cell phone, he was tossed into a holding area.
He couldn’t imagine a more unappealing place. It was constructed of metal and concrete. No lights or windows, no bench to sit on. A drain in the corner was the single amenity. It smelled like puke and urine.
There were two other men with him, one white, one Mexican. Both drunk.
He leaned against the wall, ignoring his cell mates. He’d never been on this side of the bars before. It was distinctly unpleasant.
After what seemed like hours, the two officers who’d collared him came back. Although he wasn’t looking forward to a long interrogation, he was happy to leave the stinking confines of the jail cell.
He
