No One Lives Forever

line of sight, and an arm was flung in retaliation. He sensed Jasmine's loss. It spurred him to stay conscious. His concern for her overwhelmed his body's surrender to the drugs injected into his system—drugs flooding him with an unmerciful indifference.

Falling face first to the carpet, he held one eye open, searching for her. The muffled sound of his breaths came in shallow pants, slowing with each passing second. With his eyesight failing, he sensed Jasmine's dark hair near his face. Her familiar scent penetrated the veil of his stupor. The coppery smell of blood tainted the memory.

Was she...?

The possibility of her lying dead by his side made his heart ache. Dulled outrage compounded his torment. If anything happened to his beloved and loyal bodyguard, the eternal damnation of hell would appear like a day at the spa for the bastard committing the deed.

He vowed this with his last moment of consciousness, before he drifted through a threshold to his own brand of hell.

The foreign woman lay at the feet of Mario Araujo. Blood trailed from her mouth. Drops of deep red marred the luxurious white robe. It had not been necessary.

But time was of the essence if his plan were to work at all. With a quick gesture, he ordered his men to move into action.

'Esta na bora de sair da cidade com a nosso premio, camaradas. Vamos sequir conforme a piano. Rapido.'

They hoisted the American's body, jamming him into the hidden compartment of the room service cart. Tomorrow he'd feel the pain of his unceremonious departure from the city. For now, the drugs in his body made him a compliant guest.

As leader of his people, Mario had taken the job of scout. He would not order his men to undertake such a risky job if he wouldn't make the same sacrifice. After all, the idea of kidnapping for profit had been his from the start. So for two years he worked at the menial job of bellhop under the name of Rodrigo Santo. He'd taken the name and identification of a young boy who had died years ago in his village.

The dead rarely took offense to fraud and were good at keeping secrets.

Mario studied his usual prey at the deluxe hotel and suffered the indignities of the civilized world. Normally, he resorted to luring his targets from the hotel by way of an official-looking document from the Interior Ministry of Brazil or a memo from the Prosecutor General's Office. And business had been fruitful.

Then, nearly a year ago, a man made contact with him over the phone.

He remembered the conversation as if it were yesterday. Mario had gotten the call at the hotel, during work hours. The voice on the phone specifically asked for him and threatened to expose his little enterprise. The man claimed to have proof of his involvement, even had times and dates and known accomplices. Mario had listened, sure the police would bust in and make an arrest that instant, hauling him from the hotel in handcuffs. But when that didn't happen, he regained his composure and assessed his situation in a different light.

'What do you want in return?' he had asked.

'In return?'

'Yes. You'd have me arrested if that were your purpose,' Mario persisted, hoping he'd guessed right. 'What do you want?'

After a long silence the man began to laugh, an abrasive sound.

'You see? I knew I picked the right man. You and I are going to get along.'

To this day, Mario hadn't told anyone of the secret alliance he had made, not wanting to put any of his people at risk. And with his new partner, he had no complaints. His enterprise thrived more than before.

So when the man had called about a rich American, he listened again. The kidnapping had been ordered and planned in haste, without Mario's usual care. His 'associate' had told him the foreigner wouldn't stay long and would be far too cagey to be lured from the hotel, as the others had been.

Normally, Mario's instincts would have cautioned him against moving forward with the plan, but two things swayed him.

First, everything had fallen into place without effort, making it too good to pass up. The rich foreigner was delivered into his hands, yet another generous gift from his anonymous benefactor. Second, and more important, his associate had shared vital information on the American and his purpose in this country. For Mario, this carried far more weight than any ransom.

Whether he trusted the man or not, he couldn't ignore the compelling intel. Although it would take time, he'd verify what he could, but shortly it wouldn't matter.

His mysterious comrade made a big show of this being their last venture together, even giving him a special encrypted phone to take with him, for emergency contact only. The phone would work where they were going. And the man had made it worth his while with the American too. Mario would soon return a hero to his beloved home and provide well for his people. Nothing would make him more proud.

Far enough away from the lowland heat, his childhood village had been located at the base of the rocky outcrop known as the Chapada dos Guimaraes. Now a distant memory, it had overlooked the flat plain of the Paraguay River and the marshlands of the Pantanal. Still vivid in his dreams, Mario longed for the misty cool of those folding hills. Its pillared rock formations were dotted with the ancient caves of his ancestors. And only the hand of God could have graced such stunning waterfalls.

But too many tourists and the far reach of his own government left him torn apart from his memories. Years ago he relocated his tribe to a spot deeper into the jungle, far from civilization and its corrupt influence. Yet there were days when resentment swelled in his belly like a virulent cancer. He would compromise no more. After today, maybe he wouldn't have to.

'Ate o nosso proximo encontro' he said in a hushed tone, then watched three of his men escape from the balcony, leaving as they came.

He'd depart with his accomplice, similarly dressed in a hotel uniform. They'd brazenly haul the American to a service elevator. Once in the parking garage, an inconspicuous van awaited for the rendezvous with his men. Soon he would be on his turf, among his own people.

But before Mario left the extravagant hotel suite, he knelt by the side of the Asian-looking woman who had fought so bravely.

'Para o bem do seu amigo, voce tern que obedecer as nossas ordens.'

He tossed an envelope of hotel stationery on her chest and lightly tapped the side of her cheek. By the time the beautiful woman warrior awoke, they'd be long gone. And she would know what to do.

He only hoped she also knew how to follow orders.

Searing light blinded her. Jasmine squinted and the effort sent electrified shards of glass into her brain. She felt the left side of her face throb, swollen and hot. Yet the night air in the room prickled her skin. The sensation made her aware of a metallic tang in her mouth. With a brush of her tongue, she found the source of the blood.

Unwilling to move, she lay perfectly still, waiting for the pain to subside. It only dulled and spread through her body like venom. Soon her eyes concentrated on the elaborate chandelier overhead. Its iridescent prisms swirled rainbow luster . . . until the shimmer stopped dead center, coming into focus.

Oh, God . . . she had been so careless.

'Nicky? What—'

As she rose up from the carpet, her head nearly exploded. She planted an elbow beneath her weight to keep from collapsing. Nausea churned her stomach. She held back a strand of dark hair and heaved, spitting up pale yellow foam. Her vision dotted with pinpoints of light from the exertion. Signs of a concussion.

Yet Jasmine knew she deserved far worse for her failure.

A dismal ache centered deep within her chest, spreading its heat to her face. She had failed Nicky, allowed him to be taken. For all she knew, he was already dead. She envisioned his handsome face, strangely passive in