LITMIR.BIZ

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her hair. She lunged forward, taking the knife with her, and turned to evaluate the damage.

      “Puta,” he spat, holding his side. As blood seeped between his fingers, shock blanched his weathered countenance.

      Isabel’s heart dropped. The wound appeared life-threatening.

      Using his other hand, the man reached for his gun. She could only stare, her mind blank with terror as he leveled the barrel at her.

       Chapter 3

      Brandon knew Isabel had been following him. He’d caught a glimpse of her at the café, and another after he left the bar.

      As soon as they parted ways, he doubled back, returning the favor.

      He doubted she really wanted to be his surf guide, although that was the outcome he’d been fishing for. His mission was to get her out of the country without using brute force. Tomorrow he planned to drop a few hints about continuing the tour in Guatemala and hope she took the bait. Very few surfers visited that section of the Pacific Coast. It was a tempting location for a fugitive, and a freelance sports writer.

      If she’d meant to rob him, she was even crazier than he’d figured. It was more likely that she found him suspicious and decided to do some recon. Either way, he’d have to be careful. She was prickly and distrustful and quick to draw her dagger.

      He paused at the corner, listening for her footsteps. His eyes widened as he heard the sounds of another scuffle. Damn! Did she accost every man in her path? A sharp slap, followed by a muted female cry, spurred him into action. He sprinted down the alley, adrenaline rushing through his veins.

      Isabel was standing across from a stocky man, squared up like an afternoon showdown. Her face was marred by a handprint. His side was red with blood. When the man pulled a. 38 from his waistband, Brandon’s world came to a grinding halt.

      He didn’t have time to think, or shout a warning, or second-guess his actions. He just reacted, launching himself at the guy full force and tackling him to the ground. The man’s gun discharged in an earsplitting blast, and the bullet ricocheted through the alleyway, sending shards of brick flying in the air.

      Weakened by the stab wound, the man beneath him didn’t put up much of a fight. Brandon gripped his opponent’s wrist and applied a crushing pressure, bashing his knuckles against the cobblestones. Grimacing in pain, the man released the weapon. Blood spread from his side, soaking his white shirt.

      Panting from exertion, Brandon looked up at Isabel. She held her trusty dagger at an angle, letting the blade drip dry. Her eyes were dark with horror, her cheek ruddy from the blow. “Get help,” he ordered.

      She touched the mark on her face, glancing around warily. The police would arrive at any second, drawn by the sound of gunshot.

      “Get help, now!”

      She sheathed her knife, backing away.

      Goddamn it. Brandon assumed that the injured man was a cartel member, and a cold-blooded killer, but he couldn’t let a stranger bleed out. “Ayudame!” he shouted down the alley. “Policia!”

      She took off at a dead run.

      The man underneath him lost consciousness, his head listing to the side. Brandon did his best to staunch the blood flow, cursing fluently as he put pressure on the wound. What he really wanted to do was follow Isabel.

      A small crowd gathered at the end of the alleyway, and a police car arrived a few moments later, siren wailing. Two uniformed officers jumped out, shouting orders in Spanish. They crouched behind the open doors of the squad car, guns drawn.

      “Manos arriba! Manos arriba!” Brandon took his red-stained hands away from the wound and held them up high, his stomach churning with dread. One of the officers rushed forward, grabbing him by the collar and shoving him facedown on the cobblestones. He winced, trying to stay still as his arms were wrenched behind his back and his wrists cuffed.

      There were no Miranda rights given, no questions asked. The injured man lay motionless in a pool of blood. The officers yanked him to his feet, talking to each other in rapid-fire Spanish.

      “Estaba ayudando,” Brandon said. I was helping him.

      They led him to the patrol car, ignoring his protests. “Watch your head,” one of the officers said, pushing him inside.

      Brandon had no choice but to cooperate. He couldn’t reveal his identity without putting himself in danger. Mexican officials were often friendly, and quick to accept a bribe, but they wouldn’t be so amenable if they learned his real purpose here. At this point, it was better to pretend to be a hapless surfer.

      “I didn’t do anything—” he said, just before the door slammed in his face.

      Isabel was afraid to go back to her apartment.

      She didn’t know how long Carranza’s man had been watching her. He might be working with a partner. Even if he’d come to Puerto Escondido solo, reinforcements could arrive anytime. Carranza would be furious to hear that she’d escaped.

      She had to assume they knew everything. Where she lived, what she drove. Her only recourse was to leave town, change her name and start over.

      Again.

      Although she wanted to sprint, she forced herself to walk at a brisk pace, sticking to the backstreets. There was blood on her shirt, her face. Anyone who looked close would see a wild-eyed murderer.

      Choking down a sob, she paused to rinse her hands in a fountain. The water ran pink, like blush champagne. Feeling queasy, she hurried on, passing through her neighborhood with her eyes averted and head down. She stopped at a locked garage several blocks from her apartment, using her key to open the door.

      Months ago, when she’d decided to settle down in Puerto Escondido, she’d bought an old motorcycle from the garage owner and paid him a pittance to park it here. She’d also stashed an overnight bag in a metal drawer.

      Standing on tiptoes, she reached into the drawer, locating the messenger bag. Slinging it over her shoulder, she hopped on the bike.

      To her intense relief, the engine turned over.

      Within minutes, she was speeding down the highway, putting distance between her and Puerto Escondido. It was almost full dark now, and a little cooler. The wind rippled through her hair and clothes, drying her sweaty nape.

      She was going to make it.

      On the heels of that thought, her stomach rebelled, protesting the stress of the past hours. She pulled to the side of the road and fell to her knees, vomiting in the gravel. When her belly was empty, she dry-heaved weakly, tears seeping from her eyes.

      She’d stabbed a man. Maybe killed him.

      Not only that, she’d left Brandon in the lurch. Mexican officials might let him off the hook, but Carranza’s men wouldn’t.

      “Oh, God,” she moaned, fisting a hand in her hair. What was she going to do?

      As soon as the nausea passed, she rose to her feet and wiped her mouth, grabbing a bottle of water from her pack. After spitting out the first sip, she drank a small amount, afraid the liquid would come back up.

      Brandon had saved her life. She’d ditched him at Playa Perdida, and pulled a knife on him in the alley, but he’d stepped in to rescue her anyway. Showing zero consideration for his own well-being, he’d tackled the gunman. And how did she repay him for that gallant act? By running away.

      She felt terrible.

      The past two years had been harrowing, lonely and intense. She felt like she’d been dodging bullets forever. She didn’t want to be a fugitive from justice anymore. And she couldn’t stand the thought of another man’s blood on her hands.

      Head pounding, she swung her leg over the bike, gunning the engine. The problem with being on the run in Mexico

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