Eight

Cofre del Tesoro, Colombia
March 2008

The tide was leaving, the shards of light scattered across the blue-green surface of the water losing their luster in the setting sun, growing dimmer and dimmer with every push and pull of the ocean.

He looked down at the little girl playing in the sand a few feet away. “Time to go,” he said before casting an appraising look down the length of the private beach. It was deserted. Always was, but he scanned the trees just the same. Looking for the flash a scope, the sudden scatter of birds. He’d been hired to keep Reyes’s daughter safe, and that’s what he’d do. Even if all he was protecting her from was hermit crabs and sunburns.

It’d been four months since he’d stood at the window in Reyes’s office, seeing the water in the distance. Four months since he realized that he’d never been to the beach without a gun on his back or a target to neutralize. Now a day didn’t go by without him dumping sand out of his boots.

He was living the dream.

Looking down, he wasn’t at all surprised to find that the little girl was still loading sand into a bucket in careful measured scoops, giving each a pat with the flat of her pink plastic shovel before adding another. He sighed. “Christina.”

“Why won’t you wear swim trunks?” she said. Ignoring the warning tone in his voice, she lifted her head just enough to eye the leg of his dark cargo pants. “I know you have some.”

“Because they’d look funny with my lace-ups.” He wiggled the toe of his boot, and she cracked a smile. “I’m serious—the tide’s out. Time to pack up.”

The smile died, and she allowed her gaze to travel upward until it hit his face. “You’re always serious.” Her dark eyes, the way they held his without wavering, were sharp. Too sharp to belong to a child. Sometimes it was difficult for him to believe she was only four. Correction: she was five. Her birthday had been last week. No party. No cake and pony rides with her friends. Christina wasn’t allowed to have friends. Aside from breakfast with her mother every morning and the occasional visit from her father, all she had was him.

Squinting behind his sunglasses, Michael looked away, pretending to do another visual sweep. He ignored the twinge—a mixture of guilt and pity. “I’m not your playmate, Christina. I’m your protector.”

She picked up the bucket and turned it over, giving it a wiggle. “I liked the last one better,” she said, lifting the bucket to reveal a perfectly formed tower. “He had a funny moustache and told knock-knock jokes.”

“Well, I hate to disappoint.” He smirked at her sass. “Knock, knock.”

She looked up at him again. “Who’s there?”

“Get your stuff, it’s time to go.”

She narrowed her eyes, pitching her pink shovel in the direction of her beach tote. “Make me.”

Michael took a deep breath, let it out slowly. “I’m warning you …” He let the rest of the sentence go, looking down at her with what he hoped was an appropriate amount of severity.

“I’m warning you,” she mimicked him, dropping her hands to her hips. “You can’t do anything to me. I’ll tell my—”

He didn’t wait for her to finish her sentence, just took a step forward and hooked an arm around her waist, lifting her out of the sand to sling her over his shoulder. She screamed, her tiny feet kicking against his chest, her equally tiny fists beating against his back. “You can’t leave my stuff here! Put me down!”

He ignored her, heading for the black H2 parked in the sand twenty yards away. A sudden flutter of birds took to the sky, bursting from the dense stand of trees, a breathless scatter that stopped him in his tracks. It was likely the girl’s screams that sent them flying, nothing more. But the skin on the back of his neck went tight, telling him something entirely different.

Without thinking he dropped to one knee, slinging Christina off his shoulder. “Hush,” he breathed, pinning her with a look that instantly killed her protests. The little girl went still. Eyes wide, she nodded, understanding perfectly. “Good. Now,” he said, pulling a set of keys from his pocket, “when I tell you to run, that’s what you’ll do.”

Something moved, a deeper shadow, crouched within the dense canopy of trees. Something that didn’t belong there. He looked down at the girl again. To whoever was watching, it would look like he was giving her a stern talking to over her behavior. “Just like we practiced, okay?”

Tears welled up in her eyes. “I’m scared.”

“Me too, but it’s gonna be okay. Do you trust me?”

She nodded. “Yes. Michael, I’m sorry I was so—”

“Shhh, I know. Ready?”

She nodded again, watched him as he pulled his Kimber .45 off his hip, keeping it low and tight against his thigh. “Run,” he said, breathing the word softly, relieved when she turned without hesitation, her bare feet digging into the sand as she pushed herself into motion.

As soon as she was clear, Michael brought the gun up. Levelling it at the trees, he squeezed off three shots in rapid succession, aiming into the canopy. If he was wrong—if it was an animal or one of the maids trying to sneak onto the private beach—they’d come out running. The silhouette startled but didn’t bolt … and it didn’t return fire either.

He cut a fast glance at Christina. She was almost to the H2, legs pumping fast and hard against the soft give of the sand. He used the key fob to unlock the SUV’s rear hatch—it popped open just as she reached it. Christina shot him a fleeting look before she scrambled inside and shut the hatch behind her.

Good girl.

As soon as she was inside, he locked the SUV, relying on its armored body and bulletproof windows to keep her safe. He stood, making his way toward the stand of trees quickly. His vision zeroed in on the shadow huddled against the thick trunk of a tree. “Los tres primeros fuero ndirigidos alto intenciona damente. Los tres siguientes no habrá.”

The first three were aimed high intentionally. The next three won’t be.

The shadow shifted mere seconds before it lost its courage and bolted deeper into the trees. He followed, dodging branches and clumps of bushes. “Stop,” he bellowed loudly, raising his gun, aiming it into the center of the shadow. He wasn’t sure if it was the tone or the actual word that did it, but the figure did as he said, stopping short.

It was a woman.

The cartels weren’t above using women and children as decoys and assassins. Her hands went out and up, fingers splayed wide.

“Date la vuelta. Despacio.”

She did as he said, turning slowly. As soon as he got a good look at her face, he dropped the gun. It was Lydia Reyes, Christina’s mother. “Goddamn it,” he swore softly. “Mrs. Reyes, what are you doing here?” It felt strange calling her Mrs. Anything—she was hardly older than his baby sister, Frankie.

“I just wanted to see her. Please, please don’t tell him,” she said, her eyes darting wildly from his face to the SUV behind him. “I just—he won’t let me see her.”

“You had breakfast with her this morning.” Michael ignored the twinge of guilt he felt when he said it. It was true—Lydia and Christina had breakfast together every morning, but they were under constant supervision. Reyes claimed that his wife was unstable. Michael was pretty sure it was all about control.

“I know, but I never get to see her,” she said, struggling for an explanation. It was unnecessary; he understood what she meant. Christina was like a living, breathing doll when her father was around. A pint-sized Stepford Wife. It was unsettling.

Still he shook his head, shifting from side to side. “Mrs. Reyes—”

“Lydia. Please, call me Lydia.” She took a step forward, her dark eyes wild with desperation. “I know you care for—” She must’ve thought better of her words because she stopped and changed direction. “Please. Can I just talk to her?”

Bad idea.

He crossed his arms over his chest. “It’s late. We’re getting ready to head back to the compound.”

“Oh, okay. I understand.” She dropped her hands to her sides and turned to leave. “Could you just … ” she said, turning her face in his direction. “Could you tell her that I miss her?”

He nodded, and she turned to walk away.

“Wait.”

She stopped again, turning fully to face him, hope etched plainly on her face.

He was going to regret this.

“We’re here every day; usually get here right after lunch.” He said it fast, before he could change his mind. “Approach from this spot so I can see you coming. And come alone.”

Her breath caught, hands fluttered at her sides, clutching at her skirt. “Thank you. Thank you, Cartero.”

“Don’t call me that.” The frown that settled onto his face must’ve frightened her, because she took a step back.

“I’m sorry, it’s what I hear Alberto and his men call you, so I thought—”

He cleared his throat and looked away. “It’s not my name. My name is Michael.”

“Thank you, Michael,” she said, a small smile trembling on her lips. “Tomorrow?”

He nodded and watched her walk into the trees, waiting until she was gone before he turned and made his way back to the H2 where Christina hid.

Using the key fob, he popped the hatch. “Christina, it’s safe to come out now.”

The lump under the ballistics blanket didn’t move.

“Christina.”

“You have to say the magic words. I can’t come out unless you say them,” she said, her voice muffled beneath the cover.

The magic words. The code they’d worked out to let her know that he wasn’t coaxing her from hiding under duress. “Pink pony,” he said.

Christina tossed the blanket away and launched herself at his chest, her little arms winding tightly around his neck, legs wrapped around his middle. His throat, suddenly hot and dry, worked itself against the well of emotion he usually kept in check. Without thinking, he lifted his hands to hug her back.

“Who was it?” she said into his neck. “Did you kill them?”

He kept a running list of bad ideas, and getting close to this kid was at the top of it. Instead of holding her, he wedged his hands between them and set her away. “It was no one.” He lifted her over the seat. “Get buckled up. It’s time to go.”