woman was beneath her cold exterior. He studied her, mesmerized by her complexity, as she stood with a rope in hand, ready to spring at her enemy.
They had plenty of warning when it was showtime. Boots in the hallway, a lock rattling. With the click of the second lock, Aaron’s muscles tensed. Camille crouched, leaning toward the door, the rope tight in her hands.
This was going to be fast.
The whole choreographed sequence would take less than a minute. The placement of their footfalls and the timing of their moves had to be exact. He and Camille would have to work as though they were breathing in unison.
The door swung wide, hiding Aaron behind it. Holding his position, he gripped the bludgeon and prayed.
Camille let the man get both feet in the room and register that the chairs were empty. She dropped the rope over his head and pulled him against her, strangling him as she moved backward three steps.
The guard played his part perfectly. He ran into the room and faced Camille and her hostage, his finger on the trigger of his rifle, shouting at her in Spanish.
“In,” Camille said.
At her cue, Aaron kicked the door closed. With unflinching purpose, he brought the bludgeon down on the guard’s head, felling him instantly. Then, working in perfect synchronization, Aaron straddled the guard and swung the bludgeon as Camille pushed her captive toward him. It took two thumps with the doorknob before he crumpled atop the unconscious guard.
Aaron stood over the two fallen bodies looking the part of a victorious warrior, surveying his conquered foes. Camille tried to be subtle about it, but she couldn’t take her eyes off him. He gripped the bludgeon in his hand, and her gaze followed the sinews of his arm to his massive biceps and broad shoulder—muscles that no longer seemed like a sign of his vanity, but weapons in his arsenal. Despite all they’d been through, the shadows of his dimples remained and his wavy blond hair still looked boyishly carefree, but the planes of his jaw were rigidly set and the expression on his face was one she’d never seen on him before—hard and dangerous.
He raised his eyes and caught Camille staring. She wrenched her gaze to the window, her whole upper body flushing hot.
The guard moaned, snapping Camille back to the moment. She lunged for his gun at the same time Aaron did, but he reached it first. The guard moaned again before Aaron knocked his head with the butt of the rifle, sending him out cold once more.
Camille searched the men for weapons and discovered a short-barreled .38 Special. She spun the cylinder to check for bullets, which was no easy task given the way her hand shook. Here we go, she thought, snapping the fully loaded cylinder in place. The last thing she wanted to do was reveal this weakness to Aaron.
You see, I have this condition called post-traumatic stress disorder …
She cringed. Then she had an idea. “Aaron, you mind trading guns?”
He tsked in protest, but held the rifle out. “I guess size really does matter to a lady.”
With the rifle, Camille felt better. She could hold it with both hands instead of one and steady it against her shoulder when she fired. Besides, one didn’t need to strive for accuracy with an M16. She slung the gun’s strap over her head and pushed the rifle around to her back. Squatting, she removed the guard’s shoes and black jeans.
“What are you doing?” Aaron asked.
“I hate wearing skirts.” She unzipped the offensive garment and pushed it down an inch before remembering her audience. Aaron’s face was frozen in a grimace. So she disgusted him, what else was new? She couldn’t escape shoeless, wearing a skirt. “Do you mind?”
“Do I mind that you’re about to put on those nasty pants? Hell, yeah. They look like a biological superweapon.”
“No, wise guy. Do you mind giving me some privacy?”
He faced the wall. Ignoring the foul odor wafting from the pants, Camille donned them and folded the waist to help with the fit.
“You can turn around now.”
She tried on the other man’s sneakers and was grateful they were a near fit.
“That’s quite a look you’ve created.”
She brought the rifle forward, gripping it tightly with both hands to keep the shaking to a minimum. “Yeah, I’m a real fashion maven. I’m calling this look Cartel Chic.”
Aaron chuckled and Camille surprised herself by joining in. She did look pretty awful.
Too soon, the moment passed as they remembered where they were and what they’d done. Both sets of eyes returned to the unconscious figures on the ground.
“That was almost too easy,” Camille said.
“We’re not done yet, Blondie. We still have to escape from the compound.”
Chapter 4
Camille was ready. She rolled her shoulders and felt the slide of her muscles against her camisole. Maybe it was only the effect of the adrenaline surging through her system, but she felt her position of power all the way to her toes. This random fate that had befallen her, to die at the hands of a bunch of criminals for a cause that wasn’t her own, was about to get the shaft.
She walked to the door. “Ready?”
Aaron stood behind her, the .38 Special brushing her shoulder. “Let’s do it.”
She opened the door a crack, listening. A television set blared from the direction she and Aaron had been brought into the building, with a woman shouting in Spanish like a game show announcer might, against a background of hooting and cheers from an audience. Unable to hear anything above the din, she nosed her head through the doorway.
Somewhere nearby, a door banged closed. Camille flinched and pulled back, listening until she picked up the barely audible sound of a man’s voice amid the television’s noise. Then a second person spoke. A child. At the sound of Rosalia’s pixie voice, Camille ached. She wanted to scoop the little girl up and run with her back to California, straight to the loving arms of her mother. But instead of acting impetuously and getting them all killed in a firefight, the best she could do for Rosalia was escape and tell U.S. authorities where to find her. Still, it was heart wrenching to leave her behind.
They crept into the hallway and turned right, toward three closed doors. It felt like Russian roulette, picking a door to open not knowing who or what was on the other side, but they had no other options.
Camille turned the knob of the first door. Aaron placed a hand on the small of her back and the barrel of his gun on her shoulder, angling it through the opening. She scanned the darkness. Someone slept on a cot along the wall. He stirred and rolled on his side. Holding her breath, she closed the door.
They tiptoed to the next room, though the blaring television program masked the sound of their movement. Aaron placed his hand on the doorknob. Camille wasn’t tall enough to aim her weapon over his shoulder, so she slid it along his side, under his arm. The knob turned; the seconds ticked by. Aaron stuck his face through the crack. He smiled at Camille and stepped inside. Camille followed, closing the
