No One Lives Forever (12 page)

On cue, the darkness closed in as it usually did. To regain control, he shut his eyes and focused, allowing his senses to take hold. He steadied his breathing and tapped into his abilities. The act had become second nature. In no time the hunter emerged and exhilaration infused his blood. Eyes vigilant, he now searched for the best spot to cross the street—unseen from above.

Already his skin felt damp, a layer of sheen glistened on his forearms. The extreme humidity sucked the moisture from his pores. Christian glanced down the street. Parked cars along the thoroughfare held his attention as he looked for movement.

Nothing. Before he darted across, he glanced to the rooftop. No sign of his prey.

But as he made his move, he heard a sound. In the distance, a high-pitched splinter of broken glass followed by the shriek of a cat. The eerie cry resonated along the buildings of the side street, prickling his skin. Despite his reaction, he smiled. Another creature of the night ... a kindred spirit.

Finding a likely spot to cross the deserted street, he zeroed in on the building. The doors to the street were locked, but he located a fire escape to the roof. With little effort, he leapt to grab the ladder and pulled it to the asphalt. The metal groaned in complaint, rust on its hinges. He winced at the sound.

Why don't you send up a flare? Make a real announcement, Delacorte!

Whoever watched the penthouse surely knew he was coming now. Still, he had to see for himself. He pulled the Glock, pointing it toward the night sky. He climbed step by step, focusing on the parapet wall of the building. His muscles tensed, ready to dive for cover if necessary. He waited for a shadow to peer over the edge. No sign of the man.

As he drew closer, reaching the landing on the final flight of stairs, Christian dropped to a knee. He pressed a shoulder to the wall and listened. Nothing.

He craned his neck and peered over the top of the wall, grip taut on his weapon. On the far side of the roof, a brick structure housed a door, presumably a stairwell shaft into the building. The easiest place for someone to hide.

Relying on gut instincts, he switched his hunting mode into high gear. In one fluid motion he leapt over the edge and crept toward the door, ducking near the mechanical room housing a commercial grade air-conditioning unit. As he did, the equipment kicked on, an abrupt whirring sound. He cursed under his breath until he realized he could use it to his advantage, moving closer without being heard. But the noise would interfere with his hearing too.

Hell!
He was going into this blind.

With his element of surprise questionable, he knew he had one other distinct edge. Following a marginal plan, he navigated the exhaust vents to circle the brick structure, keeping to the pockets of murky dark. It put the light from his hotel across the street to his back, keeping his face in shadow. The man would be forced to deal with the glare. Repositioned on the far side, his back pressed against the wall, he hoisted his gun, inching his way to the corner.

As he drew near, the damned AC unit droned on, deadening his senses. He swallowed hard, knowing he'd have to move or risk the tables being turned on him.

Now or never, hot shot!

He sprang from his hiding spot, gun drawn. In that same instant, the AC unit stopped and the stillness of the night closed in. In a voice way too loud, he shouted,
"Freeze!"
hoping to sound like a cop. Pretty lame since he only spoke English.

No one.
Damn it!
His eyes searched the shadows. He found nothing out of the ordinary, except—

The lingering stench confirmed his suspicions. A cigarette had been tossed aside, as if the smoker had just lit up. Smoke wafted into the air, lazy swirls made heavy by the humidity. He hadn't imagined it. Someone had been there, but left in a hurry.

After he inspected every dark corner of the rooftop and found no one, Christian slipped his gun into his waistband. He walked back to the discarded cigarette butt and shifted his gaze across the street to the balcony of his suite. From this distance, with the hotel room dark, he couldn't see much. But if someone had the right surveillance gear, the range wouldn't be a factor. Jasmine's precautions to thwart surveillance had been prudent after all.

With the release of tension, Christian raked a hand through his hair and headed for the parapet wall. The Glock pressed against his belly, he climbed back over the building ledge and tromped down the fire escape stairs.
Stealth, be damned!

Once on ground level, he meandered down the short alleyway, heading for the street and his hotel. Fatigue eased into the muscles of his shoulders. As he approached the quiet intersection and stepped into the street, a harsh sound pierced the night air.

Tires screeched. He caught motion to his right.

Faint light glinted off a windshield as gloved hands braced the steering wheel. A face veiled in shadow. A dark sedan with no lights barreled down. It crossed the center lane, swerving straight for him.

Shit!
Without thinking, he lunged left.

The car fishtailed. Grinding metal, it crashed into another vehicle, forcing the shrill cry of a car alarm. The sedan careened by. Its mirror grazed his hip as he turned. With the impact, he spun out of control, falling against a parked car. The momentum hurled his body to the ground like a rag doll. He slammed to the asphalt—hard.

"Arrghh."
He gasped, air rushing from his lungs.

To break his fall, he braced his forearms in front of his face as he skidded to a stop, scraping his hands and elbows. He struggled for air, chest heaving. And the sting of road rash burned his skin. Bits of gravel stuck to raw flesh.

Car alarms blared without compassion, head and taillights flashing in cadence to the siren—two-toned, high-pitched. The noise served as cruel torment for his aching head.

"Ahh . . . hell," he groaned, leveling his eyes to catch a glimpse of the car speeding away. But a flashing headlight blinded him. He squinted in pain, trying to recall the make or model of the getaway car. Other than the description of a dark sedan, nothing registered in his mind. It happened too fast.

He strained to get a look at the license plate, but his vision was blurred. His own hand, held inches from his face, would have been a challenge. Now the vehicle weaved in and out of shadows, racing from his sight with tires squealing as it turned a corner.
Gone.
Only the smell of its exhaust fumes lingered.

Christian struggled to catch his breath, assessing the damage. Nothing broken, but his chest felt like a mule had kicked it—twice. The Glock wedged in his pants had bruised his ribs. For a long moment he lay on the ground, unable to budge, trying to shake loose the cobwebs. Lights whirled and vanished to an inky black as he faded in and out.

With effort, he braced his hands and rose to his knees, forcing himself to move. Otherwise, it might have been too easy to lose consciousness. Sweat trickled down his forearms ... or maybe it was blood.

Curious onlookers peered from the hotel, their bodies eclipsing the lobby lights. Soon they would come with their questions—questions he'd have no answers for. He had to clear out soon or else attract Captain Duarte's attention. A part of him suspected the man already knew about the incident, or maybe ordered it.

Christian moved to stand, but reconsidered.

"Being vertical is highly overrated," he muttered under his breath.

Too dazed, he decided to stay put, slumped against the nearest car. Leaning his head back, he closed his eyes. He'd wait for the city of Cuiabá to stop spinning. But one thought cut through the fog swirling in his brain. He'd let his guard down—never saw it coming.

He couldn't afford to do that again.

Several hours later, under stark overhead lights, he stared at his reflection in the bathroom mirror, grimacing.

He looked exactly how he felt—
like the by-product of a meat grinder.

He only had a few hours sleep or maybe he'd passed out. The scrapes on his hands and forearms had stiffened and his body looked mottled with bruises. He'd taken a hot shower to loosen up. His muscles felt better, but the hot water only aggravated his wounds, making them red and swollen. Now, with a towel wrapped around his waist, he contemplated a shave, but couldn't muster the energy. Stubble would have to do.

Running a comb through his damp hair, he mentally psyched himself up for the long day ahead until—

"What the hell happened to you?"

Under the heading
What Else Could Go Wrong,
he heard Jasmine's voice behind him. Barging into his personal bathroom, she hadn't bothered to announce herself.

"Remind me to complain to hotel management. The bed sheets had too much starch." His muscles ached. Answering her questions came dead last on his list of priorities. "Ever heard of knocking?"

"Yes, a boring American ritual."

Dressed in khakis and a crisp white blouse, Jasmine sauntered by him and hopped onto his bathroom counter.

"Feel free to barge into my room any time . . . day or night." She smiled and winked. "I assure you, you'd find a much warmer reception."

"I'll bet. Guess if this assassin gig doesn't work out, Wal-Mart could use a greeter." He finished combing through his damp hair and tossed the comb onto the countertop. The dull ache in his head throbbed, fueling a mega dose of cynicism. "And be sure to include your knife skills on your resume. It'd come in handy when they slash prices. I've seen you in action."

"Action? You haven't seen anything, my sweet."

He ignored her usual brand of sexual innuendo. Something in her tone suggested she persisted simply because it got a rise out of him. After last night, he didn't have the frame of mind to put up with it. And to completely make his day, one of the gashes on his elbow started to drip blood down his forearm. He reached around her to grab a white washcloth.

Jasmine only shook her head. "Next time you feel the urge for a little one on one, try me. You might still be black and blue in the morning, but at least you'll have a smile on your face."

With her back propped against the mirror, she scowled as she touched a bruise on his ribs, pretending to care. He hadn't expected it. The cold touch of her fingers on his sore spot made the muscles of his belly flinch.

"Hey, Florence Nightingale. Back off."

But even his foul mood didn't dissuade her.

"So, what's with all the cuts and bruises, tough guy?" She crossed her arms over her chest. "I'd really like to know."

"And I'd really like to be left alone. What are the odds of you disappearing?" He soaked the washcloth in cold water and dabbed at his left elbow, getting a bead on the cut from the reflection in the bathroom mirror.

"Not good odds, I'm afraid. Only because I know my presence truly annoys you." She raised her chin and grinned. "But I've got something you need."

"Can't wait," he muttered as Jasmine slid off the counter and left the room.

She returned a minute later with a white zippered bag.

"You always travel with a first aid kit?" he asked.

"I've been in a few scrapes before, when going to a hospital was out of the question. Now hold still."

Without a smart remark, she swabbed down his wounds with an antiseptic and applied antibiotic ointment with a cotton ball. Covering the worst abrasions with bandages, she worked with enviable efficiency. And to her credit, she avoided making her usual sexual inferences, even when her hands took liberties with his body out of necessity. Like a comrade in arms, she patched him up with the competence of a medical doctor.

"Now, I want the real truth about last night. I overheard a couple of tourists talking about it this morning. Rumor has it that a close-mouthed American almost got himself killed in the street out front . . . before dawn. Do you know anything about that?"

"Unfortunately, yes. Firsthand knowledge." He filled her in on the details, which got sketchier when he explained what drew him to the roof and what he'd found once he got there.

She nodded when he was through. "So it would appear the vultures are circling. That didn't take long."

"I don't appreciate the analogy. Call me sensitive on the subject of becoming pavement paste before my time. That attempted hit and run was no accident." He grimaced. "Whatever happened, it doesn't make sense the kidnappers would kill the ransom wrangler. You and I are in charge of the payoff. Why would someone want to take me out
before
the money had been wired?"

"Unless your original theory applies. Perhaps Nicky's abduction is a cover-up for something more. Maybe he's not supposed to make it out alive." Concern edged her voice.

"He could already be dead, for all we know."

"No. I would feel it, I think. I have to believe he's alive. You and I must believe." Desperate hope filtered through her expression.

She let a strained moment pass between them. Uncharacteristic emotion etched her face. Christian witnessed the woman shoving aside her worst fears, closing her eyes. But soon the old Jasmine reemerged, brimming with her usual cynicism.

"While you were sleeping in like a self-indulgent prima donna, I've been busy. It seems Captain Duarte
did
confiscate the hotel security recordings. A pity." She pouted, then grinned. "But I managed to make a digital copy of something very interesting from the garage surveillance system. I've got a disk downloaded to my laptop. You were right—the hotel staff is very cooperative with the right motivation in American dollars."

"Capitalism at its best. Good job." He nodded. "If we find enough on the garage camera, we won't need the hotel surveillance. Testing Duarte's spirit of cooperation would've been interesting, though."

"Optimist." Jasmine hopped off the counter and smacked him on the butt with the back of her hand as she strolled to turn off the shower. "Come on. Get dressed. We haven't got all day."

Christian shot an irritated glance in the mirror. With another long day ahead, he wasn't in the mood for
Moo Goo Gal Pal.

Dressed in lightweight Moschino beige jeans, boots, and a short-sleeve khaki shirt worn loose over a white polo, Christian walked out of his bedroom and found Jasmine preoccupied with her laptop. The glow of the monitor cast shadows on her face as images flashed across it. As intrigued as he was to see the digital surveillance, the smell of fresh brewed coffee captured his interest in a hurry. The caffeine would jolt his brain into first gear.