“We must go. Now!” Emilio grabbed Miguel’s arm.
Knowing at this point that his best course of action was to take cover and wait for the police, he allowed his friends to guard him as they crossed the square to reach the big black limousine waiting for them.
Carlos hopped out and opened the back door. “Are you all right, Señor Ramirez?” the chauffeur asked, true concern evident in his voice and his facial expressions.
Miguel patted him on the back. “I am fine, Carlos.”
Once inside the limo, Emilio said, “The Federalists were behind this assassination attempt. I would stake my life on it. There is no other explanation.”
“We cannot make accusations without proof,” Roberto cautioned. “If it was the Federalists, then we will find the proof and tell the people. But it could have been a disgruntled citizen, someone out to kill a politician.”
Shaken and angry, Miguel agreed with his two best friends. “Emilio is right. I believe the Federalists sent someone to kill me because they fear that Hector Padilla cannot win reelection. But, you, too, are right, Roberto. We cannot make accusations without proof.”
“From now on, you must have a bodyguard with you at all times,” Emilio said. “I tried to tell you from the very beginning that you would not be safe without protection.”
“How can I parade around with a bodyguard at my side when my opponent has never resorted to using armed men to protect him?” Miguel balked at the thought of showing any weakness. “Padilla has made a point of telling the people that under his leadership, the president has no need for bodyguards as El Presidente of old had, back in the days when the government leadership changed at the drop of a hat and dictators and presidents alike were murdered on a regular basis.”
“Miguel is right. He can show no sign of weakness. The Federalists would use it against him,” Roberto said. “We must find another way to protect him, one that does not require a bodyguard.”
“By not taking heed, you will not only put Miguel’s life at risk, but jeopardize our party’s chance to take power. We will lose the opportunity for a representative of the people to govern this country.” Emilio glowered at Roberto.
“Do not argue, my friends,” Miguel said. “I believe I know a solution to our problem.”
Both men turned to Miguel, their expressions questioning.
“I was lucky today, but I may not be so lucky a second time. Two good men were killed because they were with me. I cannot show weakness by hiring an armed bodyguard, some burly man who will remind the people of the past. But if a beautiful young woman were in my company, day and night, no one would suspect her of being my protector. They would simply say how fortunate Miguel is to have such a lovely companion. If necessary, we can even pass her off as my fiancée, so as not to upset the female voters.”
“Are you suggesting we hire a female bodyguard?” Roberto asked.
“That is a brilliant idea,” Emilio said.
“There are no female bodyguards in Mocorito.” Roberto threw up his hands in exasperation.
“But I am quite certain that there are female bodyguards in America,” Miguel told them. “We will simply contact Will Pierce and ask him to arrange for one to be brought here as soon as possible.”
“The CIA cannot send one of their agents here,” Roberto said. “The Americans must appear to have no interest in this election. If they provide you with a—”
“I am sure Will can arrange something through an independent agency.” Miguel narrowed his gaze thoughtfully. “I will suggest he find me a tall, elegant blonde. Everyone knows that I have a weakness for blondes.”
Chapter 1
J. J. Blair zipped in and out of Atlanta traffic on her glacier-white Harley, loving the feel of riding the big, roaring brute. For a woman who was five-two and weighed a hundred and seven pounds soaking wet, the FXD/FXDI Super Glide Custom was big, even though it was actually one of the smaller motorcycles that Harley Davidson built. However, it fit her and her needs to perfection. She never felt more herself, more free and in control than when astride her customized hog. It had taken her three years to put aside enough money to pay cash for this sweet baby—a cool fifteen thousand, once she added all the extras. Two months ago, after purchasing her dream machine, she’d sold her old reliable FXR, the bike she’d bought used six years ago when she’d run away from her old life in Mobile, Alabama.
Having worked off her last case for the Dundee Private Security and Investigation Agency only four days ago, she had thought she might have a full week to kick back and relax. But Daisy Holbrook, the office manager, had phoned her late yesterday evening to inform her that their boss, Sawyer McNamara, needed her to show up for a meeting first thing in the morning.
All Daisy had said was, “The job is in Mocorito, so I figure since you and Dom speak Spanish fluently, you two will be assigned to this case.”
“Know any details?” J.J. had asked.
“Nope.”
J.J. did speak Spanish fluently, as well as French and some Italian. She also knew a little German, Japanese and Russian, but not enough to do more than order a meal or ask where the restroom was. Her father, Rudd Blair, had been a career soldier, so, as a kid, she’d lived all over, at least until her parents had divorced when she was eleven. Her teachers had been amazed at how adept she’d been at picking up foreign languages. But her mother Lenora had said fiddlesticks, her people, the Ashfords of Mobile, were all brilliant and Jennifer Joy was half Ashford, wasn’t she?
As J.J. drove into the underground garage of the building that housed the Dundee Agency, which leased the entire sixth floor, she tried to remember what she knew about Mocorito.
Mocorito was a small island nation off the coast of South America, the population a mixture of races, but the strong Spanish influence of the earliest settlers dominated the country. Okay, so she remembered that much from either high school social studies or from having read something more recently. She wasn’t sure which. One thing for sure—her father had never been stationed there.
After removing her shiny purple helmet and shaking loose her black curls, she unzipped her purple leather jacket and headed for the bank of elevators.
Hadn’t she heard something on the ten o’clock news last night about Mocorito? She’d been in the kitchen making herself a cup of hot cocoa while the news was on and had returned to the living room just in time to catch the last snippets of the story. The presidential election was coming up in a few weeks and somebody had taken a potshot at one of the candidates. Yeah, that’s what it was. Some guy named Romero or Rodriguez. No, no. Ramirez. That was it.
As the elevator zoomed upward, J.J. groaned. Surely that incident didn’t have anything to do with this new Dundee assignment. After all, why would a South American presidential candidate hire a security firm based in the U.S.?
When the elevator stopped on the sixth floor, J.J. exited straight into the heart of the Dundee Agency, where she had been employed for the past three years. After leaving Mobile over six years ago, she’d traveled around the country on her FXR for a couple of years, picking up odd jobs here and there and trying to figure out who she was and what she wanted to do when she grew up. Then four years ago she’d wound up in Atlanta. Back in the South. But not the South in which her mother had been reared as one of the privileged Ashfords of Mobile, with hot and cold running servants, membership in all the exclusive clubs and an air of snobbery acquired over generations. No, Atlanta was part of the new South, having shed the past like a snake shedding dead skin.
She had worked for nearly a year at a local martial arts studio, where she’d finally acquired her black belt. Although she’d enjoyed that job, it hadn’t been challenging enough for her. When she’d met an Amazonian redhead in a coffee shop near her apartment and discovered