I turn slowly. “Of course not. Because anyone capable of tracking me to Back Bay isn’t a complete idiot. But most—if not all—of what you think you know about me is a lie.”
His light blue eyes hold mine, and I can tell exactly what he’s thinking.
She’s full of shit.
“Let me guess? Your job is to bring me in for the murder of Jasper Yoden in São Paulo four years ago.” My voice doesn’t tremble, but damn, it comes close.
“Congratulations. You’re not that daft either.” He snorts, the gun never wavering.
I should be searching for a way out. Trying to charm him or surprise him or doanythingto distract him. But he’s not with the cartel. Anyone François sent would shoot me in the kneecaps without a word, then bring me straight back to be tortured for my betrayal.
This man is law enforcement. Or military. His stance, his confidence, his mannerisms all give him away. So I take a risk and try something new. The truth.
“The day Yoden was murdered, I was in Stockholm. Didn’t set foot in São Paulo until three days later. January 2nd. It was a Sunday. Ungodly humid, temps in the high 70s. I flew under the name Zara Gomes. Brazilian passport.”
“Are those details supposed to mean somethin’ to me?” His brows furrow slightly, though he still hasn’t moved any other muscle in his obviously toned body.
Dammit, Zephyr. This isnotthe time to be noticing your would-be killer’s physique.
With a shake of my head, I force myself to focus on the gun. One twitch of his finger, and it’s over. “If you were set up to take the fall for a murder you didn’t commit, you’d remember those details too.”
He presses his lips together, his stare turning darker—harder even. “Back to me. Down on your knees, hands behind your head. Cross your ankles and interlace your fingers.”
Shit.
This isn’t a man to take pity on a terrified woman, and I’ve never been very good at playing the damsel. I don’t let my voice break, don’t look away, don’t project anything but absolute certainty. “If you bring me in—anywhere—I’m dead. The moment I’m processed, the Strauss Cartel will know. They’ll find me in hours, and it won’t be a single bullet to the back of the head that does me in. It’ll be weeks of torture for betraying them, for trying to dismantle their organization. For stealing proof of all their crimes. My death won’t be quick or easy, and I’ll beg them to end me long before they do.”
A single eyebrow twitch is all my impassioned plea garners, and though I won’t let him see me break, inside, I’m falling apart.
François told me more than once what he planned to do to me. The three days I spent locked in a basement the first—and only—time he caught me left me with scars that will never heal and memories I’ll never outrun.
“Please…”
The man with the gun takes a single step forward, and I know determination when I see it. So I do what he asks. I don’t have a choice. Footsteps approach, and his breath warms the back of my neck. Hard plastic bites into my wrists, then he’s kneeling to bind my ankles. Panic sends my heart slamming against my ribs. I can’t run. Can’t even stand up.
Trapped. I’m trapped.
My breath saws in and out of my chest until I bite the inside of my cheek, hard. The pain helps me focus. His warmth recedes, and the absurdity of my current position leaves me confused. What’s he going to do? Throw me over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes?
“They’re not too tight, are they?”
His question—in that deep voice—shocks me enough I teeter and start to fall, but he catches my arm and helps ease me down onto my ass. Our gazes collide, and is that legitimateconcernin his eyes? “They’re tight, but I’m not in danger of losing any fingers or toes.”
Backing away a dozen steps, he leans against the stack of pallets I was hiding behind only minutes ago. Tapping his ear, he says, “Tank? Can you patch me through to the Seattle base? I need them to verify somethin’ for me.” A few seconds later, he continues, “Base, can you check customs records for São Paulo. Four years ago. Person of interest would have been travelin’ under the name Zara Gomes on January 2nd. I need this yesterday if you can swing it.”
“Does this mean you believe me?” I ask, carefully stretching my legs out in front of me. The chill from the cement floor seeps into my skin, my wet clothes not doing me any favors, and I clench my teeth to stop them from chattering.
“No. But I’ve had a bad feelin’ about this case since the file landed on my desk. And if you’re tellin’ the truth and I hand you over? I’d never be able to live with myself.”
* * *
It takesten minutes for whoever’s in Seattle to get back to him, and we spend every second staring at one another like two alpha wolves in a standoff. The thought almost makes me laugh, exceptI’mthe one sitting on damp, frigid concrete with my wrists and ankles bound.He’swearing a posh leather jacket and gloves.
Don’t ogle your kidnapper. Even if he does have piercing blue eyes. And those dark brows. Rough stubble. Get a grip, Zephyr.
“So what do we do now? Party games? I’m great at Twister.”
Mr. Leather Jacket glowers at me. “No.”
