She’d have to advance on the hut diagonally from one corner, the only blind spot. Still grasping the club, she crept forward an inch at a time, dropping to all fours once leaving the protection of the jungle. She stopped beneath one of the windows, flattening herself against the cool stucco. Should anyone lean out the opening and look down she’d be completely exposed, but she doubted the stranger would be willing to show himself.
Minutes ticked by. There was a slight sound, then a shadow moved across the window. Angel had her answer. He was in there. Now she just needed to draw him out.
If he carried only the knife, she had a chance. A gun would prove more difficult to defend against. Either way, the element of surprise would be her most effective weapon. If she could disarm him, she could neutralize him just as effectively in hand-to-hand combat.
The automatic thought made her pause, a distant part of her now noting the natural way she plotted engaging the man, perhaps killing him. There was a sense of shock at this glimpse into what she was. What she may have been. But the rest of her was grim, focused. And utterly intent on staying alive.
She stood carefully and listened. Hearing nothing, she scooped up some damp sand, squeezed it then threw it up on the roof. She repeated the action a few more times and then rounded the corner, sliding along the wall until she could peer around to the front.
A black clad figure hoisted himself onto the window ledge and straightened. He was about a half foot taller than her, she estimated, around six-three. And the blade of the knife he carried gleamed in the darkness.
He sheathed it at his waist before reaching up to where the wall of the hut met the thatched roof. She figured he’d used the gap there to pull himself up and check out what the person on the roof was planning.
Except no one was there.
She moved swiftly, racing forward with the club raised. Swinging hard, she caught him in the knees just as he turned his head toward her, causing him to fall from the ledge. Her next blow was to his wrist. She wanted to debilitate his grip before he could pull the knife. But while the blow found its target, in the next instant he was rolling away and getting nimbly to his feet. He pulled the weapon with his other hand.
He grinned, a macabre show of teeth against the black cloth of the face mask he wore. “Did you enjoy your swim the other night?” Both of them were crouched, eyeing each other for the best angle of approach. “I was kind of hoping sharks would finish you off, but you always did have the devil’s own luck.”
He was American, she was almost certain. But she was given little time to reflect on that fact. He feinted toward her with a series of short jabs that she easily deflected with the club. Rather than falling back, she drew nearer to him. By pinning him against the side of the house, she could control his movements to some extent. But he wouldn’t be so easily trapped. He lunged toward her, swiping downward with the knife, catching her shoulder.
Red-hot pain sliced through her as she brought the club down on his exposed forearm and heard the sickening crunch of bone breaking. The knife dropped to the ground and she kicked it away. With his injury, the field had leveled somewhat, but she wasn’t foolish enough to believe that this was over.
It would be a fight to the death.
As if in recognition of that, he aimed a lethal kick at her femoral nerve. Whirling away, she grabbed the club in both hands and rammed it at his groin. He caught it in one fist and moved sharply backward to pull her off balance. He pounced, spinning her around and pressing the club against her neck in a choke-hold. Angel could see gray spots forming before her eyes.
“By the way, Sammy sends his regards.” His voice was a poison-laced hiss in her ear. She balled her fist and punched repeatedly at the broken bone in his arm while stomping on his foot. Then she drove her elbow back into his solar plexus and finally felt his grip on the club loosen a little.
He tried a hip shot that threw her to the ground. She rolled with it and lashed out to kick him in the face, scrabbling for the knife while he dived down on top of her.
And as his hands went to her neck, no doubt intent on snapping it and ending the fight, she brought the blade up and rammed it in his heart.
For a moment his hands tightened, his eyes behind the mask going wide. Then his shoulders relaxed, his fingers leaving her to go to the knife hilt. She pushed him off her and, seeing his black and shiny blood in the darkness, kneeled beside him.
“Who are you? Who’s Sammy?” she asked urgently.
But he just smiled, a dreadful stretching of the lips that was more of a grimace. “He’ll…just send…one of the others. You’ll…die…” He released a shuddering breath, the sound rattling out of him. “Traitor…bitch.”
“Who am I?” Her hands clutched his shoulders and she shook him violently, emotionally. But her efforts were in vain. His body went limp and his eyes stared blankly, mocking her even in death.
She rose, swaying a bit, her breath sawing like razors out of her lungs. Then she stumbled toward the hut, aware of the pain in her shoulder. Touching it, her fingers came away sticky with blood.
Inside, she wet a towel with a bottle of water and jammed it against the wound. Then she lit a candle. Carrying it back to the body, she dropped to her knees and reached out to remove the man’s hood.
Angel waited for a glimmer of recognition, but there was nothing. He was blond, square jawed and his sightless eyes were blue. And he’d known her—his words attested to that. She’d thought that perhaps the sight of something, or someone, familiar would spark her memory, but it remained blank. He might as well have been a stranger.
His clothing had been stripped of tags. A search of his pockets yielded nothing, but the empty knife sheath secured to his belt hung beside a narrow pouch, eight inches long.
She took it off and emptied it. There was a large roll of bills in a sealed clear plastic bag, and a small vial of liquid and a syringe.
With quick movements she undressed him. Holding the candle close, she surveyed his body, looking for any marks that might help identify him later.
She almost missed it. The blood from the knife wound had smeared across his upper chest, leaving only a hint of white showing through the stain. Angel took his shirt and wiped away the blood to discover a small tattoo.
There was a roaring in her ears, and a wave of dizziness hit her. It was a small winged horse, identical to the one on her ankle.
A rumble of thunder reminded her that time was precious. From the little the stranger had said, it was obvious that there were others working with him. There was no way to be sure how long she had before they followed. Grabbing the man’s pouch, she rose and made her way back into the jungle, hoping that she’d find Maria.
After several minutes of calling, a bush stirred, and the child crawled out from beneath it. Relief—then grief— swamped Angel. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. But it’s over now,” she said in Spanish as the child approached. “Come. I’ll take you to your grandparents’ home.”
Maria refused to grasp Angel’s outstretched hand. “I don’t need you to take me. I know the way.”
“I’ll go with you to make sure you’re safe.”
Tears poured from the girl’s eyes, but the venom in her voice was surprisingly adult. “Like Mama was safe? It’s your fault she’s dead!” The girl turned and raced out of the jungle toward the beach.
Angel’s answer was nearly silent, but it etched a guilt-filled scar through her heart. “I know.”
Chapter 1
Six Years Later
Sheriff Kingsley motioned for attention from the deputies and raised a hand to begin the signal. On the count of three, the deputy in front used the entry device to blast the door twice, then stood aside as the sheriff raised a booted foot to send it crashing