Chapter Nine
Katrina strained her ears for the sound that had awakened her. Metal scraping over metal. Her head came off the pillow as she lurched upright. In the darkness of her bedroom, her door was framed by a wavering light, as if someone out in the hall was holding a flashlight.
Martí. The realization of who was out there and why had her bolting out of bed. She’d been afraid he might attempt to force his way in. As a precaution, she’d stolen the master key from the reception desk, and now it seemed he was sawing his way in, perhaps with a hacksaw.
Panic streaked to her extremities. Considering her a traitor, her brother meant to get to her to do God knew what.
Quietly, she reached for the backpack she had stuffed with personal items ready for her early morning departure. As a precaution, she had gone to bed fully dressed. Grateful for her foresight, she jammed her feet into her favorite shoes, then stepped onto her bed, reaching for the narrow window over it. For years, it had served as her fire escape. Tonight, it would help her to escape the nightmare her life had become.
The hinge squeaked in protest, and the sawing at her door ceased.
“Katrina, open the door,” Martí demanded.
The mad edge to his voice galvanized her. Tossing her backpack out onto the street, she wriggled through the casement after it. Cool air wafted from the sea. Shivering with fear, she shouldered her pack and moved quickly up the alley. What now?
Cruising the streets during curfew would ensure her arrest. The only safe place to go was right back into the hotel, using the master key she’d lifted. She would hide out until dawn.
Wishing there was another choice, she found herself minutes later standing at the door of Mitch’s hotel room, out of breath from running up the stairs. Doubts assailed her. She had ruined his vacation. He had every right to deny her shelter.
A flicker of light drew her gaze to the buttons over the elevator. Someone was moving through the hotel—perhaps Martí. Fear convinced her to knock firmly on Mitch’s door. Her heart thudded as she waited. A glance at the elevator showed that it was climbing.
What if Mitch and his friends had left already? Who could blame them? With no more time to deliberate, Katrina pushed the master key into the lock and shoved the door open.
Powerful hands hauled her into a pitch-black room, flung her around, and shoved her face-first into the wall. Something metal gouged her shoulder blade. The door clicked shut, and the light came on. Her assailant took one look at her and sprang away.
“Jesus!” The pistol he was holding disappeared behind his back.
Katrina calmed her racing heart as she took in Mitch’s appearance. He was dressed entirely in black.
His blue eyes blazed with concern. “What the hell are you doing? I could have killed you!”
His two companions edged into the light, both dressed as he was—like special operators working a nighttime op. Recalling the way they’d handled that day’s crisis, it came to her with sudden clarity that they weren’t your average, everyday sailors.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t know where else to go. Martí is after me,” she admitted in a rush.
Urgency tightened Mitch’s expression. “Does he know you’re here?”
“I don’t know. Maybe.”
He snapped off the lights. “We need to move out now,” he said to his friends. “Grab your stuff.”
“Where are you going?” Katrina asked, assuming they meant to leave her on her own.
“Anywhere but here,” Mitch said, moving away to collect his possessions.
“But the curfew,” she protested. “You don’t want to tangle with the Benemérita, trust me.”
“I’m open to suggestions. You got any ideas?”
Returning to her side, he curled a hand around her arm.
“Am I coming with you?” Relief made her question breathless.
“I’m sure as hell not leaving you here,” he replied.
“Thank you!” She hugged him then—hard—and an idea came to mind. “I know a room here in the hotel where no one ever goes. And I have the only key,” she added, realizing she still clutched it. “We can stay there until dawn. No one will bother us.”
Mitch briefly considered the offer. “Better there than here,” he decided.
A minute later, they darted into a deserted hallway. It must have been someone other than Martí moving through the hotel—perhaps Juan Carlos delivering room service. Leading the way to the sixth story, Katrina unlocked the penthouse suite. The curtains had been drawn half a decade earlier and never reopened. The smell of musty carpeting and stale linens made it evident no one used the room.
Using the lights on their cell phones, his teammates swept inside taking stock of the place.
“Woah, this is nice,” Austin called in a soft voice.
Mitch dumped his bag on the couch. “How come no one comes here?”
Katrina’s throat tightened. “My parents lived here when they first got married. After I was born, we all moved to the basement where there’s more space. After my mother died, Pare moved her belongings back up here and closed the suite to visitors.” She didn’t add that every year, on the eve of their anniversary, her father cloistered himself inside for days, mourning her mother’s loss.
The reminder of Pare’s recent passing impaled her suddenly. Sinking onto the sofa, Katrina buried her face in her hands and tried to come to terms with what was happening. She could hear Austin and Chuck murmuring to themselves as they located the second bedroom.
The cushion next to her yielded as Mitch sat beside her and smoothed a large hand up and down her back.
“I heard about your father,” he said softly. “I’m sorry.”
The warmth of his palm, combined with his sympathy, compelled her to turn to him for comfort and security. His solid presence, the powerful arms encircling her, were a balm to her frazzled nerves.
“I’m so sorry,” she whispered, her nose just inches from his neck. “I should never have involved you.”
“You did the right thing.” With that simple assertion he absolved her of her guilt. His arms tightened around her suddenly. “Will you let me help you?” he asked.
Her heart wrenched. Tears rushed into her eyes. “I don’t know what to do,” she admitted.
Mitch’s heart thumped beneath her ear. “You can’t stay in this city, Katrina. Members of The Liberation Front confronted us tonight. They’re pretty pissed that we wrecked their little protest.”
She lifted her head with alarm. In the dark, all she could make out was the clean lines of his all-American profile. “The Benemérita questioned you as well,” she recalled.
“Just a formality,” he assured her. “All the same, we’ve drawn a bit too much attention here. Time to move on and leave the populace to sort things out for themselves. You should come with us. We’re going to Seville.”
“Seville?” The historic town lay on the other side of the country, six hours away by high-speed train. Hope relieved the heavy weight on her chest.
“Yeah. And then we’ll figure out what’s next … after that.”
The words “after that” brought her fear right back. Of course, he hadn’t been suggesting that she stay with them indefinitely.
“I was planning to go to Panticosta,” she admitted. “It’s a resort village where we used to take vacations. I have a lot of friends there, though I haven’t been back since my mother’s accident.”
Mitch stiffened beneath her.
“That’s the first place your brothers will look for you,” he pointed out.
“Oh.” Why hadn’t she considered that? “You’re right. I should go with you to Seville then…until I think of a better place.”
“Yes. Good.” He sounded relieved. Pressing a button on his watch, he added as it lit up briefly, “Four hours left until daylight. We should try to sleep.”
Oddly, the thought of him making love to her held way more appeal than sleeping, but she knew he was right. Releasing him reluctantly, she pushed to her feet. Austin and Chuck had helped themselves to the second bedroom. “This way,” she said, picking up her backpack and heading into the dark, adjoining chamber. Her mother’s favorite quilt covered the queen-sized four-poster bed.
Mitch kept the door open and stowed his own bag on the dresser. “Keep the lights out,” he reminded her as she reached for a lamp.
The comment drove home the danger they still faced. She stretched out on the bed, turning onto her side to stroke the material of the quilt beneath her. Memories of her mother drifted through her mind, drawing her gaze to the small picture frame on the stand next to her. She decided to take it with her, perhaps even tear off a portion of the quilt to keep as a memento. Grief tore through her at the thought that she might never return to Barcelona.
The bed dipped at her back as Mitchell reclined next to her. To her relief, he scooted closer, looping an arm around her waist and fitting himself snugly against the lines of her body.
“You’re safe,” he murmured. He had told her much the same thing when they’d left the nightclub together. Dear Lord, was that just twenty-four hours ago? He’d kept his promise then. She was certain he would keep it now.
How fortunate Mitchell Thoreau had come into her life when he had! Without his encouragement, who knew if she’d have had the courage to defy her brother in the first place. Part of her reasoned she should go to the Benemérita and turn him in. What better way to ensure Martí went to jail where he couldn’t get to her? Who was to say, though, that the Civil Guard wouldn’t charge her and Jordi with collusion? After all, they’d known about the threat and failed to act until it was virtually too late. The prospect of facing charges, of having her name linked to the bombing in any way, filled her with aversion.
Better to slip away with Mitch’s help and avoid being associated, in any way, shape, or form to the radical movement.
***
Mitch resigned himself to lying awake in bed. Unlike most SEALs, he could not sleep anywhere, any time. Stressful situations kept his adrenaline cycling, which kept him alert. The feel of Katrina curled so trustingly against him offered him a welcome distraction.
He let himself ponder her future and whether it had been irrevocably derailed by her oldest brother. The captain of the Civil Guard was no idiot. Del Rey had made a point of examining their cell phones to see whom they might have taken calls from just prior to the explosion. “Merely a routine precaution,” he’d assured them.
One call in particular worried Mitch. He had called Chuck about ten minutes in advance of the explosion, using Katrina’s cell phone. That call would have brought Katrina into del Rey’s pool of suspects. Once the policeman learned her last name, he might well connect her to the radical separatist whose name was bound to come up as del Rey deepened his investigation. When that happened, he would most certainly want to question her.
The obvious solution was for Katrina to go straight to the authorities and tell them what she knew. She could offer to testify in exchange for physical protection. But then Mitch would never see her again. What’s more, he’d traveled enough to know that political prisoners often disappeared, never to be seen or heard from again.
Social responsibility didn’t always yield the best possible outcome, he reasoned. He could do more for Katrina by taking her away from the dangerous elements that threatened her. Not that his intentions were entirely selfless. He had to admit he wanted her to stay with him. He hadn’t been ready to see the last of her—maybe he never would be.
If only he could shake the sneaking suspicion his decision to bring her along was going to cost him.