He made another unexpected choice in selecting a place to eat. There were several palapa-style restaurants in the area, but they were all more expensive than the simple taco stands downtown. Instead of wandering into a touristy bar and grill, he walked east a few blocks, locating a busy street vendor.
Isabel stayed out of sight, pretending to shop for jewelry and handcrafts while Brandon put away more tacos than she could count. When he was finished, he thanked the vendor and headed back to the main drag. There were a couple of sports shops near the beach, including Smokey’s, which rented surfboards.
Brandon stopped at EcoTours, the store next to Smokey’s. It was closed, so he perused the sign in the front window. The business offered outrageously expensive tours to remote locations of Oaxaca, including the “secret” beach they’d just visited. Some surfers would pay anything for a chance to ride a virgin wave.
Brandon took his cell phone out of his pocket, dialing the number on the sign.
Isabel let out a frustrated sigh. She could show him the least-crowded spots around here for a fraction of the price. He’d found Playa Perdida on his own, probably by noticing her vehicle parked at the side of the road.
If he wasn’t American, and a possible threat, she might have approached him as a guide. She could use the money. But she couldn’t take a chance on him recognizing her as Izzy Sanborn. The way he’d looked at her, as though he was picturing her naked, had made her squirm with a pleasant sort of discomfort. He was in his late twenties, at the most, and her photo spreads had been very popular with young men.
He moved on, ducking into the least authentic place in all of Puerto Escondido: Señor Frog’s Cantina. The bar catered to loudmouthed college students and hosted wet T-shirt contests. It was a puke party every night.
“Ugh,” she said, disappointed by his bad taste. She couldn’t follow him in, so she took a small notebook and a pen out of her satchel. Propping her back against a brick wall on the opposite side of the street, she got some work done, scribbling notes about this morning’s session at Playa Perdida. In the past few months, she’d sold several articles to Wave magazine, written anonymously as the Lost Surfer.
The paycheck was small, but she’d been delighted to receive it. She had a fake ID as Isabel Sanchez and a PO Box set up here in Puerto Escondido. When the check came, her heart had swelled with pride.
It was the first time she’d earned money with her brain.
An hour later, Brandon came out of Señor Frog’s, and she’d outlined a new article. He must have knocked back a few drinks, because he had the loose-hipped gait of a man who was feeling his spirits. Isabel put her notebook away, relieved. He was just another party animal surf jock. A paid assassin would be more circumspect.
She followed him back to the hotel anyway, not worrying overmuch about being seen. He took a wrong turn, wandering down a cobblestone alley. This late in the afternoon, the area was quiet, dim and deserted.
Isabel removed her sunglasses and put them in her pocket, annoyed by his recklessness. Not only was he drunk and alone in a foreign country, he was begging to get mugged. He might as well leave his wallet on the beach while he went for a swim.
He disappeared around the corner and she hurried after him, sticking close to the back of the building. She paused at the edge, listening for footsteps. Her hand wavered by her knife, fingertips tingling. She heard nothing.
Afraid of losing him, she stepped out of the alleyway. A flash of movement startled her into action. She leaped backward, drawing her knife. Brandon caught her wrist in a crushing grip and spun her around, shoving her against the wall.
Gasping in pain, she dropped her weapon. When he eased his hold on her wrist, she wrenched her arm from his grasp and slammed her left elbow into his midsection. Whirling to face him, she aimed a hard right at his throat.
He blocked it easily. Too easily.
Isabel realized a couple of things at once. First, he wasn’t drunk. Second, he knew how to fight. Third, he was surprised to see her.
“You,” he breathed, backing up a step and holding a palm to his midsection. “I thought somebody was trying to rob me.”
She flattened her back against the wall, her heart thumping in her chest. She’d mistaken his level of inebriation and made a serious error in judgment. Her knife glinted on the cobblestones, out of reach.
He followed her gaze, his eyes narrowing. “Are you trying to rob me?”
“No,” she said, moistening her lips.
“I have ten dollars in my wallet. Do you want it?”
“No! I saw you come out of the cantina and I was trying to catch up with you.”
“Why?”
She swallowed hard. “I’d like to offer my services as a tour guide. I know all of the best surf spots.”
He crossed his arms over his chest, deliberating. “How much?”
“Fifty a day, U.S.”
“What does that include?”
She thought fast. “I’ll take you to a choice location, spot you for a few hours of surfing and bring lunch.”
“You’ll drive?”
“Sure. My Jeep has a surf rack.”
“Okay,” he said, nodding. It was a much better deal than he’d get from EcoTours. They made arrangements for her to pick him up at his hotel in the morning, and shook hands. Isabel felt the same zing of pleasure as she had the first time he’d touched her.
He released her hand slowly, a crease forming between his brows. “I don’t pay women for sex.”
She recoiled in horror. “Of course not.”
“I just wanted to make sure that wasn’t on the table,” he said, raising both palms. “Don’t attack me again.”
Her cheeks warmed with embarrassment. “Sorry about that. Gut reaction.”
He studied her for a moment, as if wondering who or what had made her so cautious. Instead of asking, he minded his own business. “Can I walk you home?”
“No thanks. I have another stop to make.”
“See you tomorrow then.”
“Tomorrow.”
She reached down to retrieve her knife, watching him walk away. When he was out of sight, she sheathed the blade, hurrying down the alley. As she rounded the corner, she almost collided with a stocky man in a fedora.
There was an odd moment, not unlike the one she’d just had with Brandon, in which Isabel experienced a jolt of awareness. She looked into this man’s cold, dark eyes and knew: it wasn’t Brandon who’d been following her.
Before she could react to that certainty, the stranger reached out to grab her upper arm. He also flipped back the tails of his shirt, revealing a handgun tucked in his waistband. He was in his fifties, about Carranza’s age, but hardly soft. “Come with me,” he said in a low voice, his lips curled into a tight grimace.
Isabel was already primed for action, and she’d trained for this occasion. She lashed out, striking his forearm in a brutal chop. His grip loosened, but he backhanded her across the face, trying to subdue her.
The tactic worked. Pain exploded in her left cheek, hot and bright. Knocked off balance, she spun around and almost fell to her knees. When he grabbed her by the hair, she cried out, certain he was going to execute her. Panicking, she drew her knife and stabbed backward, using the same motion