Chapter Two
ACCORDING TO PATRICK Killion’s favorite data analyst at the Agency, he was a half-inch short of being the perfect romance hero. As long as the inch she was talking about was his height and not his dick, he didn’t give a rat’s ass.
Today, at a measly five foot eleven and a half inches, he towered above the locals. His height, combined with his sun-bleached blond hair, meant he definitely did not blend in with the Colombian population. He didn’t bother to try.
The CIA dealt in threat assessment and probability levels, manipulation and human intel. Lockhart’s appearance, expertise, hidden Cayman Island bank account, and the fact she was in the right place at the right time for Vice President Ted Burger’s murder, made her his number one suspect. So, despite FBI ASAC Lincoln Frazer telling him to back off yesterday, he was still following her. He couldn’t walk away.
Last night he’d shaken the tree to see what fell out.
He ignored the twinge to his conscience. He’d been a little rough. He hadn’t wanted to risk her getting the drop on him. He had given her a get-out-of-jail-free pass and probably saved her life—that should count for something.
Except she hadn’t behaved as she should have. She hadn’t called her employer. She hadn’t grabbed a bag and run. Instead she’d reported the assault to the local cops and had gone in to work today. Maybe she’d been busy destroying evidence or delaying until the last possible moment before she made a mad dash for some small private airfield. Maybe she was overconfident about her abilities. Or maybe she was innocent.
It was the last “maybe” that bothered him.
As he stood in line for a ticket to the ecological park, a pretty redhead in a strappy top and high-heels eyed his neon orange T-shirt and red plaid shorts with a distasteful grimace. He’d committed a class-A felony and the fashion police were about to convict.
“Airline lost my luggage.” Killion raised his palms in a pitiful shrug, putting enough misery into his travel-worn appearance that the woman’s expression immediately shifted from disgust to empathy.
“That blows. How long ago?”
“Two days now. They swear they’ll get it to me sometime today—”
She gave a disbelieving snort. “Yeah, they once lost my luggage on a trip to Mexico and by the time it arrived I was getting on the plane home. Worse, they refused to reimburse all the clothes I needed to buy…”
Off she went, and he was in. Phase one of this mission accomplished. He walked into the conservatory as part of a group of American tourists, rather than as a single white guy traveling alone. They milled loosely about, looking at Lepidoptera specimens that fluttered about like giant-sized pieces of confetti.
A family of seven—five women who all looked like they’d rather be at the mall, an older man, and a teen who read every piece of information like he was cramming for a test. Killion stayed close to the stacked redhead because he looked like the kind of guy who’d stay close to a stacked redhead, but he also chatted to the others in the group, gleaning information. They were down from Florida, visiting family over Christmas. The Americans had arrived in a large minivan with an armed driver, but the driver stayed with the vehicle so they weren’t too worried about security. In this country, staying in one spot for any length of time meant you attracted attention—and not the, “Oh my, don’t you have pretty eyes” kind of attention.
It wasn’t a good thing.
Hot sun bore down on the forest canopy that shaded the ecological park. The small interpretive center affiliated with the Amazon Research Institute attracted local schools as well as the occasional tourist, but it was Monday, January 5 and schools were closed until after Epiphany. The place was deserted except for this little band of intrepid explorers. The ground steamed and sweat beaded on his skin as his adopted people wandered slowly from enclosure to enclosure. A rivulet of perspiration soaked into his shirt.
A huge yellow butterfly drifted over his head and landed on a piece of cut fruit on the feeder tray. The redhead barely contained her squeal of excitement and took twenty pictures with her little point-and-shoot. Killion’s point-and-shoot dug into his spine and held fourteen rounds. Their group finally headed into the amphibian enclosure where decaying damp earth mixed with traces of ammonia, and the musk of rotten leaves.
Welcome to the jungle.
His new friend grabbed his arm, pointed. “Aren’t they cute!” A minuscule, neon-yellow frog was stuck on the side of a glass tank.
“They may look cute”—said a familiar voice with just the barest hint of a Kentucky twang—“but one golden poison dart frog contains enough toxin to kill ten-to-twenty grown men.” Dr. Lockhart wore spectacles on a string around her neck and reminded him of the class nerd—the one all the guys had secretly lusted after but had been too intimidated to ask out on a date. The professor had unusual violet-blue eyes that showed clear signs of a sleepless night. He would have felt guilty, but more than one person had told him he was a heartless bastard who didn’t have a conscience. A sociopath by any other name.
He didn’t give a shit, so they were probably right. Hell, she should be thanking him. Being tied up and threatened sure beat the hell out of a trip to a Black Camp or a lifetime in prison—and those were the more civilized options.
Audrey Lockhart wore ubiquitous jeans over Birkenstocks and a tight white tank top that molded her breasts in a way that left little to Killion’s undeniably vivid imagination, all topped off with a thin purple shirt that she left open. She wasn’t carrying a weapon—unless she had a frog in her pocket. “I’m Dr. Lockhart, I study anurans and my specialty is the family Dendrobatidae—poison dart frogs.”
For all intents and purposes she appeared to be exactly what she said. A scientist, dedicated to her research. He rarely trusted appearances. That’s what data analysts, surveillance, and background checks were for—not to mention interrogation.
“I thought captive ones weren’t poisonous?” Killion pointed to a little guy about an inch long that was sitting at a precarious angle on a large green leaf. The creatures didn’t look real—they looked like miniature plastic toys. They certainly didn’t look like the deadliest creatures on the planet. He placed his hand lightly on the redhead’s back, and she sank against him, proving her taste in men was as terrible as his taste in clothes.
The professor’s eyes ran over him and his new squeeze, then away, dismissing him as just another tourist.
She didn’t recognize him from last night. There was no obvious guile in her gaze. No deception.
“You’re right in that individuals bred in captivity have no toxicity, but these specimens were pulled straight from the nearby rainforest where they are endemic and, trust me, you wouldn’t survive a close encounter.” Her voice was husky, sexy enough to raise his awareness of her as a female rather than a target.
He’d always had a thing for voices. And nerds.
She continued, growing more serious, “It takes years for them to lose their toxicity, and even touching a paper-towel that has been in contact with the skin of these particular individuals can kill you. They are extremely dangerous.”
“Death by frog.” His smirk didn’t reach his eyes. “Bet that ain’t pretty.”
The redhead laughed. The professor did not.
“We’re very careful how we handle them.” She looked stern now, like she was the teacher and he was the naughty schoolboy. And there was his vivid imagination going nuts again.
“Have you ever seen someone die after touching one?” asked his new friend.
“Thankfully, no.” The professor’s gaze was open and sincere.
What did he expect? Skull and crossbones instead of pupils? He’d been with the Company long enough to spot an operative with one quick glance, but this woman was an enigma. Either she was an incredible actress, or he was way off base in his assessment of the facts. Hell, maybe she was just another enviro-nut trying to save the planet—or, in this case, frogs.
“Do they taste like chicken?” he joked.
Those violet-blue eyes flashed. “I don’t know,” she bit out. “Would you like to try one?”
Ouch.
Her fiery response was hot as hell, but obviously she didn’t appreciate his sense of humor—he’d been told it was an acquired taste. He didn’t look away, instead used the opportunity to study her carefully. Her gaze was determined, but he could see fear at the edges—from the scare he gave her last night? Or did she live in constant fear, waiting for her time between the crosshairs? He didn’t figure being an assassin was particularly good for your long-term health. Someone, somewhere was always trying to tie up loose ends.
The information he had on Lockhart was solid, but facts didn’t necessarily add up to truth—something he’d learned during his time in Iraq. He needed to dig deeper, get closer. But didn’t dare tip her off. Hence his little tourist trip today. Like Lockhart with her frogs, he wanted to study her in her natural environment.
“Aren’t you scared, working with them?” His new friend asked in a voice that was as thin and high as her heels. “I mean, what if one hopped on you?”
“I’m more scared of people than I am of frogs.” Sadness touched one side of the biologist’s stern mouth.
Join the club, sister.
“I’d be terrified.” The woman shuddered beneath his palm and relaxed back into him. He removed his hand. God, he hated using people, and yet he was so fucking good at it.
“What d’you feed ’em?” He searched for questions a normal tourist would ask, rather than “do you stay and watch your targets die, or do you take off early to avoid traffic?”
“Ants, beetles, some plant material. We go out and forage in the jungle for fresh food every few days,” the professor told him.
“You go into the rainforest alone? Aren’t you scared of being kidnapped?” he asked.
K&R was a lucrative business throughout South and Central America, as well as many Middle-Eastern countries. One of his best friends was a former SAS soldier who worked full-time as a negotiator for the families of kidnap victims. This was prime territory for those who liked to extort a little extra pocket money with relatively low investment, so why was Dr. Lockhart immune? Were the local bad guys more scared of her than she was of them? Was she connected in some way? None of his sources had any information on the professor that he hadn’t already gleaned for himself.
“I don’t go into the jungle alone.” Lockhart’s gaze skewered him, seriously questioning his intellect—he got that a lot. “I’m extremely careful, obviously, but it’s no more dangerous here than in some parts of the States. I’ve never had any trouble in the rainforest.”
She’d experienced trouble somewhere though and not just his visit last night—he could see the echo of experience in her eyes. Men like him exploited weakness like that.
“You studied these things for long?” He sought to distract her from her memories.
She made direct eye contact this time in a way that told him she didn’t like him very much. Ignoring his question, she checked her watch and called out to the others to begin her demonstration. Four o’clock on the dot.
Killion moved closer, close enough to catch the scent of lavender on her skin and to see her gaze flick warily over him. Her complexion was pale, skin fine-grained. Lips soft and deliciously pink.
She was delicately-boned, petite, but not skinny. Even so, he’d had a hell of a time holding onto her last night and had almost got his balls twisted off. He wouldn’t underestimate her again.
He brought his attention back to the talk.
The teen asked a lot of questions. Maybe the kid was a wannabe frog geek. Or maybe he liked listening to the doc’s voice as much as Killion did. She had a wicked chuckle that seemed to affect a certain part of his anatomy that should know better. He shifted uncomfortably.
If her career in science fell through, she’d make a fortune doing phone sex.
The fact he was thinking about phone sex when she was talking earnestly about chytrid fungus and climate change being the biggest global threat to frog populations, combined with habitat loss and over-harvesting by the pet trade, suggested he was long overdue in the getting laid department. He now knew far more than he’d ever wanted about frogs and the effect of Audrey Lockhart’s voice on his libido.
Talk about torture.
She knew her stuff, but then this was her field. His was finding people who didn’t want to be found and extracting information they didn’t want to reveal. His expertise usually garnered those he captured some quality time in a US institution. The really lucky ones got to travel the world, although it was hard to be a tourist with a bag over your head.
Audrey Lockhart, Ph.D., looked squeaky clean, but she’d been in Kentucky the day Ted Burger had been murdered with batrachotoxin—a deadly alkaloid secreted in the skin of Phyllobates terribilis, the golden poison dart frog. Murdered by a woman pretending to be the maid, of the same general height and weight as the good professor. Eye and hair color were easily altered, but how many women knew how to handle these suckers without dropping dead on the spot? Not many.
Coincidence?
Not likely.
Problem was Audrey Lockhart wasn’t throwing off operator vibes, and that bothered him. It bothered him a lot. Whoever killed the VP had waltzed past security into his fancy house, served high tea, and then walked calmly away as the guy lay frothing at the mouth on his study floor. It took either balls or a sociopathic coolness under pressure. And he wasn’t seeing it. Not last night, not today.
Lockhart looked innocent. Actually she looked almost too innocent, all perky frog geek, which automatically raised red flags for him. How could anyone be that innocent after the last fourteen years? Or maybe he was getting soft. The current shit-storm in the Middle East had him questioning what all those years in the sandbox had been for. Bin Laden was dead, but the situation was more fucked up than ever with extremists trying to initiate Armageddon—and not figuratively. They were literally trying to instigate the end of times, as if the world wasn’t fucked up enough.
What was wrong with these assholes?
People in the US had no idea how lucky they were, and it was his job to make sure they continued to thrive in blessed ignorance. He should be out there, figuring out a way to help moderate people regain control of their countries and reduce the threat to his homeland. That’s what he should be doing.
Instead he eased to the back of the crowd, pulled out his cell phone and snapped a photo of the group. He’d seen enough, but he waited until the professor finished her spiel and he drifted away with the others. No drawing attention to himself. No standing out. He even bought a frog T-shirt from the gift store, and said a warm goodbye to his new friend from Miami and her family.
It was late afternoon and the sun went down fast in this part of the world. It was already getting dark. He started the engine of his rental, but hesitated as a small sedan pulled up in front of the ecological center. Killion took a photograph of a man getting out of the car before he headed quickly through the entrance—a definite player judging from the bulge near his left shoulder. The guy left the engine running, and if that didn’t scream “quick getaway” Killion didn’t know what did. Was this Audrey Lockhart’s ride? Maybe the guy had her new identity tucked into the pockets of his bad boy leather jacket.
Killion dialed a number he knew by heart. “Crista. I need an ID on the photograph I just sent.”
There was a pause. “Running it through facial recognition programs. How you doing, babe?”
“Been better. How’s the new boyfriend?”
“A jerk. Ex-boyfriend.”
“Give me his number; we can start a club.”
“Oh, please. You are so not an ex-boyfriend.”
“I seem to remember doing some very girlfriend-boyfriend activities with you a few years back.” He rubbed his chin, only half concentrating on the conversation.
“The fact you think sex is the same as dating just proves my point. Have you ever actually been intimate with a woman?”
“Don’t tell me you slept through some of the best experiences of my life?”
“Intimate, jackass. Not inside. We all know you’re an expert on what to do with a woman’s body, but do you ever dare to try and figure out their minds?”
“Hell, no. And what do you mean ‘we all know’?” He was still watching the gate. “Did you go and start your own club?”
“Not yet, but I’m thinking about it.”
He turned his mind back to the conversation. “This guy really did a number on you, huh?”
“I guess.”
“Bastard.”
“Kill him for me?”
“As soon as I get back,” Killion promised.
“Sorry I was bitchy—but I kind of meant it about your inability to do more than connect physically when you’re in a relationship.”
“I don’t do relationships.”
“Exactly. Hey, before I forget, Maclean was looking for you.”
“What did you tell him?”
“Nothing.”
The last thing he needed was his boss suddenly poking his nose into his business while working this particular mission. “Thanks.”
“You’re welcome, darlin’. Okay, I have a name for you. Hector Sanchez. Listed as a known associate of El cartel de Mano de Dios.”
Killion’s eyes widened. He’d heard of good old Hector. The guy was an aficionado of the art of tying the Colombian necktie. Audrey Lockhart sure had friends in low places. She’d fooled the hell out of him.
It wasn’t the first time, but he didn’t like being conned by a pretty face.
“Thanks, Crista. Gotta go.”
“Be careful,” she told him.
“Always am.”
“Liar.”
He grinned as he hung up, then stared thoughtfully at the entrance to the park. What was taking Lockhart and Sanchez so long?
* * *
AUDREY WALKED BACK to the lab wishing she could shake the low-grade anxiety that had plagued her since the attack last night. All she wanted was sleep, but the idea of going home to bed filled her with dread. Her PTSD had reduced over the years, but being assaulted last night had brought back the symptoms in huge crashing waves and she knew she had weeks of flashbacks and nightmares to look forward to.
She hated living in fear.
The detectives who’d come to take the report last night had been more interested in her body than in the threats her assailant had made. They’d taken her statement, but made no effort to look for evidence and hadn’t even bagged the plastic ties that had cuffed her wrists and ankles. She hadn’t been raped, robbed or beaten and they didn’t seem to know why she’d called them. When she had the energy she’d get in touch with the embassy in Bogota, but right now there was nothing to do except jump at shadows and scream like a weenie whenever something moved in her peripheral vision.
The Gateway Project. What the hell was the Gateway Project? She’d googled it and got nothing but computers.
Her phone rang. She checked the caller ID—Devon Brightman. If he were just her ex or her sister’s new boyfriend she’d blow him off. But he was also Rebecca’s younger brother and because of the grief they’d shared, no matter how she was feeling on any particular day, she would always pick up.
“Hi.”
“Hey, how’s my favorite nerd?”
“Said the techno-geek.”
“Techno-geeks are way cooler than nerds.”
“Only they and their toys think so.” She laughed. When Devon wasn’t being over-demanding and possessive, he was actually a good guy.
“You back in Colombia?” he asked.
“Yep.” She removed glassware from an autoclave and stored it on a rack.
“You cool with me dating your sister?”
“Sure.” She stopped for a moment and realized she was cool with it. Devon and Sienna were closer in age, both being a few years younger than she was, and had a lot more in common. “Just don’t screw it up.”
He laughed. “Everything going okay down there?”
She opened her mouth to tell him about her attack last night, but stopped. He might tell Sienna and her sister would definitely rat. The thought of giving her mother something real to worry about was enough for a vow of silence. “Everything’s great, but I have work to do. Gotta go.” Not wanting to linger, she hung up.
Pleased with how maturely she’d handled that transition, she got down to work. Shakira played loudly on her music system and her hips were swaying as she measured out Ringer solution. Her work revolved around examining how high levels of batrachotoxin in the indigenous frog’s skin affected the fungus that was wiping out their brethren worldwide. It might give the wild poison dart frogs an advantage in an ever more challenging environment. Or not. She tried to be optimistic, but it was hard to protect the environment in the face of big business. She often argued with Rebecca and Devon’s father, Gabriel Brightman, about how he ran his massive pharmaceutical company. He occasionally listened to her, but he listened harder to his shareholders.
Even though the fungus was naturally present in the environment, she didn’t keep it on site. She wouldn’t risk it escaping into the wild and being responsible for more deaths. Instead she used a level three laboratory in the city and at her home university in Louisville, Kentucky to conduct the exposure experiments under controlled conditions. Here she collected eggs and samples of the toxin.
The public displays and guided talks at the Amazon Research Institute were a way of educating and inspiring locals and tourists to engage with their environment and support conservation efforts. It was also a way of giving back to the community. She usually enjoyed sharing her knowledge and enthusiasm with people, but not today. After last night she just wanted to fade into the background.
She pushed her reading glasses up her nose. Maybe she could scrounge up some company to go to a bar for a few drinks tonight. Then she thought of her sister and decided relying on a chemical depressant to numb herself into oblivion might not be the smartest idea.
She doubled up on latex gloves and pulled her lab coat sleeves down over her wrists before putting her hands inside the terrarium. Using a sterile cotton bud she swiped the tip over the back of the nearest frog. She was gentle and he didn’t seem to mind too much, but she did have to prod him a little to secrete more toxin. It beat shoving a stick through his body and out his hind leg the way the Embera tribe did when they wanted poison for their arrows. Still that was their culture—who was she to judge? Their environmental impact was minimal. She didn’t want to think about the damage her culture had inflicted upon the world or she’d spend all her time running in circles screaming, “We’re all going to die.”
Having collected a bunch of swabs from several different individuals she placed the Q-tips in pre-labeled sterile containers and secured them. Then she noted a fatality in the corner of the tank. The lifeless body was a reminder of all the things she couldn’t control, like her sister’s drug addiction and a stranger attacking her in the dark. She picked up the limp body of the dead frog. The sound of the main door opening and closing had her glancing around. She hadn’t realized anyone else was still here. A man she didn’t recognize walked into the lab and turned his head this way and that as if looking for someone. He had jet-black hair and bullish shoulders beneath a tight T-shirt and heavy leather jacket. His eyes were black as coal and when their gazes met, his locked onto her. He gave her a smile that drove stakes into her spine.
Was this the man from last night?
“¿Quién es usted?” she asked. Who are you?
He didn’t answer, nor did he stop walking toward her.
“Can I help you?” she asked, her voice rising in panic. No response. He just kept coming. Oh, God. Considering the look on his face and lack of greeting she wasn’t hanging around to find out what he wanted. She took off running. When he started chasing her she knew she was in serious trouble.
She darted through the door that led into the park and screamed for help, but there was no one to hear her. The receptionist who also sold the tickets in the kiosk always left at five sharp. Audrey had given her student the day off, and most of the local scientists were still on vacation. The place was deserted. Darkness had fallen. Good. Plenty of places to hide. Her white coat made her an easy target but the man was so close on her heels she didn’t have time to take it off—and she was still wearing her gloves and clutching the little dead frog in her hand. She needed to remember what she touched so she could clean up later. She almost laughed. Stupid what went through people’s minds during moments of extreme duress—Rebecca had lain dying in her arms pleading over and over to make sure her cat, Marley, was taken care of.
The memory ripped through Audrey’s mind like a machete.
She was not going to die.
Her feet pounded the concrete. If she could get to the area where they hatched the butterfly chrysalises, she could lock and barricade the doors, then use the landline to call for help. Her cell was in her purse back in the lab.
She dashed nimbly down a small path that wound between different enclosures. There were no lights because they didn’t want to disturb the natural rhythms of the animals, but she knew the way. She heard the man stumble and swear, falling farther and farther behind. Good. Exhilaration filled her. She was going to make it.
Her sandal caught on a piece of hosepipe and she flew through the air, losing her glasses a split second before she smacked her head on a post. Pain and disorientation exploded inside her skull. The sound of labored breathing brought her back to the present. A dark shadow dropped to his knees beside her. The smell of cigarettes on hot rancid breath turned her stomach.
“What do you want?” she asked weakly.
Something sharp pressed against her side, and she tried to pull away, but it didn’t stop coming. Pain was all consuming, and shock crashed through her as a knife slid deep. Her mouth went wide in astonishment and she grabbed the man’s wrists, nausea rolling through her body. She struggled frantically to push against his arm.
“W-why are you doing this to me?” she panted. Agony streaked along her side. She could barely breathe, let alone think. “Help,” she begged someone, no one. “Help me.”
He said something indistinguishable in Spanish, but after a few seconds he loosened his grip on the knife and fell backward to the ground. All she could think about was the fact this man had stabbed her and it hurt. Then she understood what had happened. The neurotoxic steroidal alkaloid from the frog’s skin had transferred from her gloves and was now making her attacker’s heart beat too fast as the poison irreversibly opened the voltage-gated sodium channels of his body’s cells. She dragged herself to her knees, tugging off the lab coat in case she’d got batrachotoxin on that too. The man needed immediate medical attention if he was going to live. Ignoring him and her own wound, she carefully peeled off her gloves, balling them inside out before tossing them aside. Blood ran down her hip in a hot, slick trickle that streamed down her leg.
Holding onto the fence she dragged herself to her feet and staggered along the path. She knew she shouldn’t remove the knife, but it cut into her with every step. Blood soaked her jeans, making the denim feel wet and heavy against her leg. She swayed unsteadily, clinging desperately to the fence. Her assailant thrashed on the ground behind her, having a seizure.
The equivalent of two grains of salt could kill a man. She doubted he’d last until she called the ambulance, but she had to try.
The sound of footsteps made her freeze in fresh horror. He had a partner. She wanted to scream with frustration at the unfairness of it all. She couldn’t run. She could barely walk. The beam of a flashlight hit her full in the face, and she tried to shrink back into the shadows.
“Come to finish the job?” she bit out. The pain in her side was so intense she couldn’t concentrate, but the lightheaded feeling from losing too much blood was more worrying. The beam of light swung from her to the ground where her would-be killer lay prone on his back with his mouth wide open, eyes staring fixedly into the sky. If he weren’t already dead, he soon would be. The newcomer bent to check his radial pulse.
“Don’t,” she warned sharply. “Poison on gloves.” Her words came out in short gasps. “Transferred to skin.” A throbbing wave of hurt pulsed through her. “I-I didn’t mean to hurt him.” Why was she warning the guy? So he could finish the job his buddy had started? But avoiding the inherent danger of the frogs was so ingrained she couldn’t keep her mouth shut. “If you touch him you might die, too.” She spoke in English because her brain wasn’t up to translating into another language, but he seemed to understand. Her thought processes were dulled from blood loss and shock. Her entire left side was hot, sticky, and numb. She stumbled away along the path.
She didn’t get far. At first she thought she’d fainted. Then she realized the dizzy sensation was her being scooped up in strong arms and carried along the path. Her cheek nestled against a hard male chest and she could feel his heart beating against his ribs. Something about his scent teased her senses, but its significance drifted away as she slipped into unconsciousness.