Killing Time

“Like I can do anything trussed like a chicken on a spit,” he grumbled. “Please. Give me a drink.”

He put plenty of helplessness in his tone. Added a dose of self-pity in his eyes.

Scowling, she finally leaned over him, extending the glass toward his mouth.

He lifted his head and drank deeply. Because he was thirsty. And because he wanted to give her a reason to let down her guard.

“Thanks,” he said, appearing to be clearly defenseless and so fucking appreciative he wanted to gag. “More. Please.” Oliver Twist at his humble best.

She didn’t hesitate this time. She leaned a little closer, extended the glass. And he struck.

He jerked his left hand free of the loosened plastic loop, knocked the gun across the room, grabbed her hair with his other hand, and jerked her down on the mattress.

Water flew everywhere; glass shattered on the tile floor. She scrambled to get away but before she knew she’d been had, he flipped her onto her back, straddled her hips, and pinned her wrists above her head.

She put up a good fight, and she didn’t fight like a girl. She had some serious moves but he had size, physical strength, and a big dose of pissed-off on his side.

She bucked, jabbed with her elbows and attacked with her knees, giving him all he could handle until he finally managed to secure the cuffs around her wrists, loop them over the head rail, and jerk them tight.

Breathing hard, he pushed himself off her and off the bed. Not fast enough to avoid her flying feet, though. She clipped his cheek good with a boot heel and damn near knocked him on his ass.

Swearing, staggering, and gingerly touching his fingers to his cheekbone, he grabbed his gun from the floor, found his one-eyed jack, and tucked it in his pocket.

“So…” Sucking wind and grinning in the face of her anger and his pain, he dropped into the chair at the foot of the bed. “Welcome to my world.”

6

Of all the stupid moves, Eva couldn’t believe she’d let Brown get the drop on her. She knew what kind of an operative he’d been, knew not to let down her guard around him. But because she had, now her head was on the chopping block instead of his.

The sense of dread that had dogged her all the way to Peru went off the charts. Anger quickly outdistanced it. The bastard was enjoying this. She felt only a small measure of satisfaction as she watched his cheekbone redden and swell where she’d nailed him with her boot.

A good five minutes had passed since he’d cuffed her to the bed. Once he’d caught his breath, he hadn’t wasted time searching the room.

He didn’t find much. She’d been careful. If she was right and she’d been followed to Lima, she didn’t intend to make it easy for her shadow to find her—which wouldn’t make it easy for Brown to find out anything about her, either, and that, too, was by design. She didn’t want him knowing her real identity. Not yet. Maybe not ever.

To make certain, she’d rented the room by the hour. Paid cash and used one of her fake IDs. Multiple passports and extra cash were stashed in a locker at the airport, the combination committed to memory. So he wasn’t going to find anything to identify her here. But he did find the extra doses of Ketamine she’d brought along for insurance. And he’d found her Glock 19 in her purse, which meant he now had all the firepower.

Both handguns lay on a squat table he’d shoved against the wall near the foot of the bed, where he stood now—out of reach of her feet. He held a full syringe in his hand, playing with it, playing with her head.

“Ve have vays of making you talk,” he said with an arched brow and the worst German accent she’d ever heard.

The hard look in his eyes overrode his sick sense of humor. She had to stay strong. “Ooo. That was original.”

“I don’t have to be original.” He considered the needle. Considered her.

Now he was making her nervous. “You’re not going to use that on me.” She hoped to God she was right.

“Give me one good reason not to.”

She tried to get comfortable and felt a brief moment of guilt over how long she’d kept him bound in this very same position. It hurt her shoulders—and she didn’t have the added discomfort of once having had hers dislocated. “You won’t get any answers if you knock me out.”

“Maybe I don’t want answers.” The German accent and the joking were long gone as he slowly raked his gaze over her body. “Maybe, after all the shit you put me through, I want what you promised to deliver back at the cantina.”

A sick feeling slid through her stomach. “You need to drug and rape your bed partners to get a little action these days, do you?”

“Listen to all that judgmental scorn from the woman who didn’t hesitate to use a needle on me.” His smile was ugly. His voice was so soft and chilling it made her shiver—especially when he moved closer… a prowling, pissed-off lion. “Enough playing around. Talk to me, chica. I’ve reached the end of my patience. Who are you, how did you get your hands on that file, and what do you really want from me?”

He looked dangerous now. Unreasonably gorgeous and mean, suddenly, as the anger that flashed in his eyes turned to an arctic cold rage. “Talk or I walk. Right after I tape your mouth shut and give this wad of cash to the desk clerk of this fine establishment and tell him not to disturb you until the money runs out.”

He held up the bills he’d dug out of the front pocket of her jeans—another experience that hadn’t lacked in humiliation. “This ought to buy a good ten days of uninterrupted solitude, don’t ya think?”

She made herself hold his gaze. “You wouldn’t do that. You wouldn’t leave me here to die.” Or for whoever wanted her silenced to find her defenseless.

He shoved the cash into his hip pocket. “I’m a cold-blooded murderer, remember? Wasn’t that the gist of the charges you leveled against me?”

When she didn’t say anything, he walked to the door. “Suit yourself.”

“All right.” She was suddenly afraid he would leave her. After what she’d done to him, could she really blame him? “All right,” she repeated when he hesitated with his hand on the door knob and waited.

She swallowed. He didn’t need to know the whole truth. Not until she knew if there was even a prayer of trusting him. “You were right. I did lose someone that day. A friend.”

He got very quiet. Then he leaned heavily against the door and waited for her to tell him.

“Ramon Salinas,” she finally confessed, unable to control the tremor in her voice. She hadn’t spoken Ramon’s name aloud for a very long time, and it hurt every bit as much as she’d thought it would.

For a long moment they were both quiet—both of them assaulted by their own thoughts about Ramon. When she’d recovered enough to look at him, she realized that he hadn’t recovered at all. His somber gaze searched her face.

“How did you know Salinas?”

There had been bad blood between the two men. A part of the reason she so despised Brown was because of the stories Ramon had told her about him. Ramon had told her that Brown had always done everything he could to undermine him—whether it was throwing wrenches in his bids for promotion, questioning his authority, or cutting into his action with women—before Ramon had met her, of course.

She’d had no reason to doubt Ramon. He’d told her that Brown was a hot dog and an egomaniac who took unnecessary risks with other people’s lives—risks that, according to the file that had shown up so mysteriously a month ago, had gotten Ramon and all those others killed.

She had to focus. “He didn’t like you much.”

He grunted. “You’re pulling punches now? The man hated my guts.”

“He told me you were a hotshot and a wild card. He even told me that you were probably going to get him killed one day.”

That had been right before he’d returned to Afghanistan for a second deployment and hooked up with the