Page 7 of Lethal Vengeance
My original plan was to drink myself to sleep tonight, but my ghosts refused to eave me alone. Desperate to escape, I dressed up and fled here. A place with zero memories.
My gaze swings around to the individuals seated around the bar. Most of them are couples out for a night on the town or single men. I skip over the man I smiled at earlier and continue down the bar.
An incredibly handsome and superbly dressed man catches my eye. Blond hair, artfully styled, a strong, square jawline, and a gorgeous, full-blown smile is all I can make out from this distance. I let my gaze drift away, so he doesn’t catch me staring, but continue to watch him from the corner of my eye.
Someone sits beside him, and a resigned sigh escapes. I casually swivel around to check out his companion and find the man from the cantina. The CIA’s ghost. A chill runs down my spine.
A coincidence? Doubtful. I jerk my head toward the empty shot glass sitting in front of me and stare at it while I contemplate what to do next.
My contact said he went into the private sector. He’s not US government. While he could be part of the cartel, it doesn’t feel like it fits either, especially with his blond friend. Could this be about the money and drugs I stole? It’s been a couple of years, though. Why come after me now? Or did I piss off someone else?
Before I can decide, the bartender comes back with a refill of water and another shot. My eyes settle on the cute young man in front of me. His expression changes from pleasant to impatient while he waits for me to order.
Make a decision, I urge.
He’s obviously following me. I assume his friend is in on it, too. Two against one. It would be crazy to stay. Or would it? A feeling of recklessness washes over me. Maybe I’ll watch them for a while.
Their faces blur. I need food. Knowing I need something in my stomach and wanting to eat are two very different things, but I force myself to order.
“I’ll take the chicken flautas from the appetizer menu,” I tell the bartender.
Laughter comes from the end of the bar, and I steal a quick glance at the two men. The handsome, gregarious man I saw earlier is laughing and slapping the ghost on the back.
Their friendship seems unlikely. One polished and sophisticated with a confident laugh, and the other casual and reserved, his smile rare and brief. But their gestures are relaxed, not forced, and even though I can’t hear their words, the banter feels easy, like they’ve been friends for a long time. Colleagues or friends? Maybe both.
I know I need to stop staring, but I can’t.
Damn tequila.
All my fucking common sense is gone.
Might as well go all in tonight. I down the shot sitting in front of me and ask for another.
Thankfully, my dinner comes, and I get enough food down to counteract the tequila. Not enough to kill the lovely haze surrounding me, but enough to feel steadier.
About thirty minutes after I finish my meal, the bar begins to thin out, and panic hits me. I need to get out of here. Raising a finger, I capture the bartender’s attention and request my bill. While I’m waiting, a flash of light shines briefly, and I turn to see the two men staring down at their phone. I frown. Did they snap a picture of me?
Warning flares in my gut. Uneasy, I glance around the restaurant, but nothing stands out. I swivel back to them.Shit!The polished blond is gone. The ghost remains.
The bartender returns, and I hand him a hundred. He can have the change. Something isn’t right. Sliding from the stool, I sling my purse across my body and head toward the door. When I hear footsteps closing in behind me, I dart around the group in front of me to put distance between the person following me. The front door is close, but at the last minute, I dart into coat check to hide.
Barely breathing, I listen for anyone who might have followed me in here. My heart thumps wildly while I count off the seconds. Ten minutes go by. Several women come in to get a jacket, but nobody notices me standing in the corner. It’s been long enough. I need to move.
The black silk wrap hanging nearby becomes my newest possession. Draping it across my shoulders, I steadily move to the doorway, and when the coast is clear, I move farther into the restaurant.
The back entrance shares an alley with a nightclub. If I go out this one and into the other, I’ll be able to hide there for an hour before I call a taxi.
When I pass by the bar, it’s empty. Does that mean they’re waiting outside? I quicken my steps, wincing at how loudly my heels strike against the tile floor. I’m tempted to stop and take them off, but I don’t dare slow down.
Using the wrap to hide my actions, I reach into my purse and pull out my gun. Feeling considerably better with a weapon in my hand, I steadily make my way down the dimly lit hall to the kitchen. I’m five feet from the door when the airs stirs behind me.
Turning, I raise my hand, but I’m too late. Disarmed in record time, he pushes me face first against the wall and holds me there, his hard body pressed into mine. I throw an elbow back. It misses, but my heel doesn’t, and I hear him inhale sharply. The weight pressing against me never moves.
Shoving against the wall, I create a bit of space and reach for the knife strapped to my thigh. My fingers grab the handle, but his comes down on top of mine, trapping it in place.
“What do you want?” I grind out, still pushing against the hard body behind me.
“Rodrigo is following you.” A low voice with a slight Southern accent states quietly in my ear.
