No One Lives Forever (11 page)

"Nothing wrong with a low-tech advance warning to give us an edge. After all, if it's good enough for MacGyver, it's good enough for me. What I could've done if I had a gum wrapper and a toothpick."

"Really?" She raised an eyebrow.

"No." Christian headed down the corridor.

The woman had no sense of humor.

As they left the main lobby, heading for the street, Christian made a point to catch the eye of the clerk who'd checked them into the hotel earlier. A seed had definitely been planted with the man whose eyes burned Christian's back as he left the hotel.

They grabbed a quick bite at a local street cafe, then killed an hour walking the dark streets of Cuiabá, getting familiar with the city.

At first Christian chose well-lit avenues and crowded thoroughfares. Not hard to find. Even with the late hour, many of the downtown boulevards thrived with action. Along streets lined with palm trees, scooters dodged small sedans and engines revved to a high whine as they blew exhaust into the muggy air. High heels clacked fast on cement sidewalks, accompanied by the low steady rhythm of their male companions, lounge lizards making the rounds bar to bar. Jazz music wafted sultry in the night air, competing with the seductive beat of the samba.

The city had its own tempo. And although traffic fumes and smells hung heavy, an underlying primitive scent refused to be denied. On the edge of civilization, the great rain forest endured, a piece of its heart carved out by man. Christian sensed the wilderness on the outskirts of Cuiabá, and the restless sensation he wanted to forget returned.

"You've grown quiet." Jasmine broke the silence. "I understand the demons that haunt you. In that way, we have much in common. More than you know."

Death was nothing to have in common. Not with her. He had no need to make a connection with Jasmine. He didn't want to like her ... or need to. And he had no faith in the glimpse of humanity she shared with him now, even if there was more to her story.

"There's only one thing we have in common. Let's stay focused on that, shall we?"

If she'd been hurt by his remark, she never let it show. Her face remained a blank slate as she said, "Yes, for Nicky."

The damned heat had finally gotten to him, and his manners were the first to go. At least, that's what he told himself, but he didn't feel the need to apologize.

Instead, with great deliberation, he strolled through landscaped parks and stuck to the shadows. Not a wise move for the average tourist, but if anyone followed them, he wanted to draw them out. They walked for another thirty minutes. Still nothing.

Strike one.
Self-doubt flashed through his brain as slick as a fastball over home plate.

After stopping to admire far too many monuments and statues, he finally broke the silence. "Damn it. Thought the reward would pay off, get us a lead, but no one's tailing us."

"Or perhaps you and I have met our match. Skilled pursuers could still be out there, besting us." She narrowed her eyes.

"There you go, looking on the bright side again." He kept his eyes vigilant. "Quit tryin' to cheer me up."

"Ah, I forget. The male ego is easily bruised. Forgive my rudeness." With his glare, she winked without humor. "Don't worry. Your plan still might work, and your instincts were solid."

"You're just pissed 'cause the reward wasn't your idea." He smirked as she slipped her arm in his.

"You might have a point," Jasmine conceded without a fight. "Let's head back to the hotel. Something might turn up there. Besides, is it not wise for the fisherman to remain patient?"

"I thought you didn't know much about the sport?"

"Yes, but when luring men, I am an expert."

He arched an eyebrow at his companion. "Good point."

Jasmine's single strand of hair still dangled from the suite door undisturbed. A good news, bad news scenario. Good news, his low-tech advance warning system worked. But when it came to bad news, his heart sank. No one had broken into their hotel suite using the front door.

A strange thing to wish for.
Strike two. Damn it.

Christian pulled the Glock 19 from the waistband of his jeans, hiding it from the hotel security cameras in the hallway as he entered the suite, Jasmine at his back. In silence, they split up and searched the rooms, weapons in hand. His heart pumped with adrenaline, the muscles in his arms tense. When they found nothing out of place, Jasmine checked her surveillance equipment. The only motion recorded had been them.

Strike three.

But as he exchanged a look of disappointment with his companion, something caught his eye. Over her shoulder, a light flickered behind drawn sheers.

"What the hell?"

He recognized the danger. It hit the pit of his stomach in a rush, forced him to move.

"Fire ... on the balcony." He jerked his head, calling to Jasmine as he rushed by her.

Christian ran to the French doors and threw them open, but stopped dead when his eyes found the source of the flame. Even in the stifling heat, a chill raced across his skin. The hair on his neck stood on end.
What the hell had his father been into?

For the first time since Christian met her, Jasmine looked baffled, but she covered it up with a heaping dose of sarcasm.

"I never knew the devil made house calls."

"Apparently so." Christian glared down at the unsettling sight. He'd never been confronted by something like this.

The entire balcony had been converted into a bizarre religious rite. Flickering black candles melted into broken liquor bottles circling an altar made of old bones, sticks, and frayed hemp. A dead chicken, throat slit, bled into a sticky pool that seeped through the crevices of the tile. Blood spatter marred the pristine white balustrade, but most of it had been doused onto what looked like a human skull. Its jawbone gaped open and black eye sockets stared in accusation.

The smell of old death.

"How quaint. Perhaps we should tell housekeeping we prefer a simple mint on our pillows."

Jasmine had an edge to her voice, but her attempt at humor didn't dispel her uneasiness.

"This doesn't look like any goodwill gesture, more like . . . foul play." His chicken pun didn't fare any better. Christian leaned closer, careful not to disturb the scene. "What's this? Do you recognize where this was taken?"

A newspaper clipping of Charboneau had his head cut and pinned to a doll made from straw and burlap. Blood from the chicken covered the likeness. And three small wooden skewers impaled the effigy. Although he wasn't an expert, it didn't take a genius to recognize black magic.

"No. The image is too small." Jasmine crossed her arms as if a chill ran along her skin.

"This makes no sense." Christian straightened up, glaring at the hideous array.

Charboneau had been cursed, but why now? Being hijacked from his hotel room should have been enough of a bad omen. What had his father been into?

If this elaborate atrocity had been intended to ward off their interference into the kidnapping, why use a photo of his father on the voodoo doll? And why risk scaring off their ransom meal ticket? It looked like two factions were involved in Charboneau's abduction—one interested in the money and another setting roadblocks in their path, every step of the way.

More questions roiled in his head like an approaching thunderstorm, but one pushed ahead of the rest. "If the bastards didn't come through the front door, then how'd they set this up?"

Suddenly, Jasmine reached for him. "Did you see that?"

Eyes wide, she tightened her grip on his arm. With her other hand, she went for a knife she had stashed in her bra.
One of Victoria's secrets.

"What?" He turned and looked down, following her gaze.

"I think the skull moved."

Christian watched the skull for a moment. Nothing. "You're seeing things."

To prove his point, he kicked the bones with the toe of his boot, only enough to nudge it. The skull rolled to one side, tipping over.

"Holy shit!" He leapt back when he saw it.

An angular head lashed out, barely missing his leg. Fangs bared. Hissing spit. A slithering snake raced across the tile, straight for him.

He backed up and fumbled for his gun, knowing he'd never make it. The damned thing moved too fast. But from nowhere, a flash of silver flew by him.

Whap! Ssssss . . . thump . . . thump . . . ssssssss.

Jasmine's knife sliced through the head of the snake, almost severing it. Blood spilled onto the floor. The slick body coiled, writhing in death, out of control. As it thrust from side to side, the body pulled itself apart from the head . . . and continued its vile dance. Smears of blood trailed under it like a macabre finger painting. Christian and Jasmine backed away, each with a look of disgust.

"Let's tear this place apart, inside and out. I don't want any more surprises." Christian swallowed hard. "And by the way ... thanks."

Thanks didn't cover it. He didn't know much about snakes, poisonous or otherwise. But he had a feeling Jasmine had saved his life a second time. A regular habit for her, one he had no problem encouraging.

"Don't worry. You'll have plenty of opportunity to repay my generosity. I assure you." She stepped closer to the French doors, pushing her back against the door frame, not taking her eyes off the thrashing snake. "Think I'll collect my knife tomorrow. If that thing's still moving in the morning, I'll consider it a lost cause."

"Come on. We'll search the rooms . . . together."

Jasmine nodded, a quick shake of her head. "I don't have a problem with that."

Neither did he. Together worked for him too.

Hours later

Christian left a lamp on. Its pale light washed over his bedroom, casting shadows into the corners. White bed linens spread across his bare chest as he lay on his king-sized bed, several pillows propped against the headboard. Since Jasmine came back into his life, he'd been plagued by thoughts of a father he'd never met and an indefinable influence that kept him on edge. Now he had a new nightmare.

God, I hate snakes!

In this country, where not even a man like Charboneau was safe, something primitive tapped into his senses and lurked in the dark corners of his mind. A threatening malevolence. And tonight a coward almost took him out, using a cheap shot with fangs. The candles were intended to draw them in, and the snake would do its damage. If Jasmine hadn't been on her game, the bastard might have succeeded.

He felt like an interloper into Charboneau's world, an amateur to the danger. For all he knew, his father was already dead. He hated this limbo of not knowing.

And heaped on top, the fight he'd picked with Raven kept replaying in his head. The hurt in her eyes flashed over and over. He had called her, but only left a message about where he was staying with her phone voice mail, though he wanted to say so much more. She should have been home, but Raven hadn't picked up the line. He hoped she'd cooled off enough to recognize the white flag of surrender in his voice, but nothing doing. No amount of good intention would overcome the regret in his heart. He should have trusted her, been willing to share his darkest nightmare. Why hadn't he?

Raven had earned the right to know everything about him, but shame held him back. He'd never be
normal.
Death defined his past and had a stranglehold on his future. It carried a crippling stigma, one he couldn't shake. He had never felt entitled to happiness. And yet, having Raven in his life was the closest he'd come to touching it. Did he have the right to make his burden hers?

Damn it, forget about sleep. To hell with it.

He'd had enough. Throwing back the covers, he hoisted himself out of bed, unwilling to waste any more time. His mind wouldn't allow it. Dragging fingers through his hair, he wandered out his bedroom door dressed in his pajama bottoms.

In the stillness of the hotel suite, Christian closed his eyes for a few seconds, acquiring his night vision. He listened and quieted his heart to focus on his hearing. He knew he was alone in the room. He felt it.

No lights. Darkness gave him the gift of anonymity. Yet the lights from the city shone through the doors leading to the balcony. A bluish haze cast into the room. On instinct, he stepped toward the French doors, cell phone in hand. He wanted another look at the Macumba housewarming present outside, snake and all. He intended to take digital photos of the setup with his cell phone, then break it apart and stuff the contents into a pillowcase borrowed from the hotel.

But something cautioned him against opening the doors right away.
Good thing.

As he stood steeped in shadows, he saw a red ember flare and die away on the rooftop across the street.
What the hell?
With his eyes locked, he waited.
A cigarette.
Another faint reflection captured light from the streets below, then melded into the shadows once more.
Eyeglasses or binoculars?
He couldn't tell from where he stood. He tilted his head and furrowed his brow, watching in the dark.

It happened again. No, it hadn't been his imagination. Someone stood on the roof across the way, an office building or warehouse. An odd place to catch a smoke in the middle of the night. Folding his arms over his bare chest, he watched awhile longer, to make sure.

"Haven't you heard?" he whispered, heading for his bedroom to change. "Smoking is bad for your health."

For only a second, he thought about waking Jasmine to tell her where he was going. But he felt certain she would want to come along . . . and bring her knife as a companion.

No way, José Cuervo!
He'd fly solo on this mission.

Day six

Nearly four in the morning and the hotel lobby was quiet as Christian slipped out a side entrance. Very little activity. Outside, muggy air seized his skin like a warm washcloth. And without a breeze, the air felt thick and oppressive. Motionless, it deadened sound, muffling noise in its vacuum.

Given the temperature, he already regretted his choice in clothing, but his gear had been picked more for stealth than comfort. Dressed in dark clothes and boots, he would meld into the night. As he crept along an alley, he stuck close to a brick wall, mingling with its shadows. He felt the Glock pressed against the small of his back, tucked into the waistband of his pants with a black T-shirt worn loose over the weapon.