I move quickly up the steps and press against the side of the villa, the open doorway to my left. Blue is on my right, Nila next to him. I put my hand down, letting them know to stay behind me. Blue’s nose touches my hip.
A shock of lightning whites out the world then plunges it into blackness. I move, rolling into the entry, and popping up, my gun in both hands, scanning the space.
It’s empty. Simon’s door is cracked—a sliver of black in a world of charcoal. And now that I’m inside, away from the birds and the storm, I can hear sounds. The thud of fists against flesh, heavy breaths. A fight.
I stand and move quickly toward the ajar doorway. Lightning cracks, filling the villa with its white light. Through the opening I see two men fighting in front of the window. I recognize Simon’s tall frame. The other body is shorter and thinner. The stark white light reflects off the knife in his hand, catching on the coating of coppery blood there.
I toe the door open and flick on the overhead light with my elbow. Both men turn toward me, freezing in place. Their breath is heavy. Simon’s arms are up in a defensive position, his head ducked.
His left eye is swollen and a red mark on his jaw looks like it’s going to turn into a bruise as varied in color as the most beautiful of storms. If he lives. Simon’s shirt is slashed across his chest from left shoulder to right hip. Blood stains the white fabric. The scent of it fills the room with that iron-y tang.
My weapon is aimed at the knife-wielding assassin’s head. He stays still. Because he’s not stupid. I can see it in the ice blue eyes that meet mine. There are wheels turning, cranking.
He’s wearing all black—pants and a long-sleeved shirt tight enough for me to make out the lines of his body. His frame is wiry, like a rocker from the seventies, narrow and lithe.
A scar cuts down his right cheek and slices through the corner of his full lips, the scar tissue aged and thick. White-blond hair peeps out from under his black cap. His coloring is pale British man who hasn’t left the house in ages. So he has not been in Costa Rica long, or is nocturnal. Or both.
“Hey,” I say with a smile. “Whatcha doing?” His nostrils flare. “Another mute assassin,” I say, my tone annoyed. “If you’re not going to talk, I might as well just kill you.”
Wind rushes in through the open window behind him carrying the sound and scent of rain. Flying insects bump up against the screen, drawn to the light inside, the buzz of their wings and gentle thumps of their bodies a potent reminder of how often we seek that which will destroy us. The killer swallows, still holding my gaze. “Do you at least have a tongue?” I ask.
“Yes,” he answers, his accent as British as his pale skin.
“How about a name?”
His lips twitch into a version of a smile—the kind of smile that would haunt my nightmares if I dreamt of the men I’d killed instead of the ones I couldn’t save. “You can call me whatever you want.” He adds a creepy layer of sexuality over the words, like he’s a hooker and my fantasy is writing this script.
“How about Ziggy Stardust,” I suggest. “You’ve got the pants for it.” His smile widens into a grin like he expects to get the upper hand and make me regret whatever I do or say now unless it’s getting on my knees and begging for mercy. I cock my head, examining the teeth-baring coupled with bright-eyed amusement. I should use that the next time a man asks me to smile. It’s creepy as fuck.
“Simon, be a dear and get something to tie Ziggy up with.” Keeping my right hand on the pistol, I start to move my left toward the radio. I need to let Merl know what’s going on.
Ziggy ducks. Time slows.
I squeeze the trigger. The hammer slams the firing pin, popping the primer on the end of the bullet. It explodes out of the muzzle. The recoil reverberates down my arm. My jaw clenches tight. Ziggy launches himself toward the open window. The bullet hits the upper glass pane.
It shatters out into the night, the sound muted by the ringing in my ears. Ziggy’s hands grip the sill, his head ducked low, shoulders rounded. I lower my gun, aiming for the center of his back. I fire again. He somersaults out the window, knocking the screen free. The bullet follows him out. Ziggy disappears into the metallic dawn.
Oh no you don’t, motherfucker.
Both hands back on the gun, I stride toward the opening but Simon grabs my bicep, pulling me to a harsh stop. I turn to him with a snarl. Nila and Blue echo my sound. Simon raises a finger, the knuckle scraped and bleeding, to his lips, asking for silence.
I narrow my eyes but quiet. There is no sound of a man crashing into the jungle below. My eyes dart to the window but no fingers grip the edge. Flying insects buzz through the opening, rising toward the ceiling, their jerky trajectory aiming for the light.
Simon’s gaze drops to the weapon in my hands. I shake my head. No fucking way am I giving him my gun. I could give him the extra one in my pocket…indecision wars for a brief moment. Fuck it. I pull the pistol, a twin to my own, free.
Simon takes the weapon, fitting it into his hands like it was molded for them. Then he turns to the window. Approaching with caution, Simon flattens himself against the wall to the right of the window, peeking outside, his gaze angled down. He raises his gun with both hands. The bodies of the insects bump against the lamp above.
The muscles of Simon’s left arm come into sharp relief. Blood drips onto the floor beneath him from the chest wound. His forearm tightens as he squeezes the trigger.
The explosion of sound is followed by a sharp cry of surprise. Then the sickening yet satisfying sound of a body hitting and cracking branches.
Simon is already moving again, crossing back to the bed. He drops to his knees and pulls out a coil of rope. A woven rope thick as three fingers made of white material. My eyes rove over it. Part towel and part sheet. Petey Poppins made a fucking rope out of his bedding and towels. Of course he fucking did. I huff a laugh.
Simon throws me an apologetic grin, then winces. Bet that mischievous smile hurt his wounded face. Good.
The end of the rope has a reinforced loop on it…where did he get copper wire from? I glance around the room searching for a hole in the wall but see none. “The bedside lamp,” Simon says, answering my unasked question. “And the pistons he hung onto are from the core of the bed legs.”
My eyes dart to the bed legs which look untouched. Simon must have unscrewed them and taken out the metal then put them back so that no one would notice. “So resourceful,” I say, meaning for it to come out sarcastic, but I sound way too impressed for my own liking.
“I wasn’t going to escape,” Simon says as he moves over to the large dresser to the right of the window and bends down. “Just needed to be prepared.” Placing his gun on the floor, Simon uses one arm to lift the heavy piece of furniture and the other to slip the loop under one of the legs. He lowers the dresser back into place, securing the rope.
“Think that’s heavy enough?” I ask.
“I’m not done yet.” Simon crosses toward the bed, circling to the far side, leaving a trail of blood behind him. He’s going to push the bed up against the dresser.
I follow him and side by side we shove the bed across the room, angling it so that the rope goes from the dresser leg, wraps around the footboard, and then out the window. “That will hold,” Simon promises.
“Do you think he has a gun?” I ask. A mosquito buzzes my ear and I swipe at it.
“Yes,” Simon says, crossing to where his boots sit by the door.
“Then why didn’t he just shoot you?”
“We have a history,” he says, pulling on a boot.
“A history?” I ask.
“Yeah.” Simon crouches down to tie his laces.
“Don’t share everything all at once now, I might end up trusting you.”
Simon breathes out a soft laugh. “It’s a long story, and we need to get down there and end him.”
“You don’t think the fall killed him?”
Simon stands, meeting my gaze. “No.” Something in his eyes tightens my stomach with dread.
“I need to report this to Merl.”
Simon doesn’t answer, just starts towards the rope. “Do you think he’s alone?” I ask as he steps up onto the bed.
“Yes.” Simon picks up the rope and edges toward the open window. He kicks out the remaining frame, enlarging the opening, and disturbing the parade of insects flying into the room.
Simon loops the rope between his legs, around his left thigh, then brings it up across his chest and drops it over his right shoulder. It unfurls behind his back. He steps onto the still and turns to find my eyes. “You don’t need to come with me.” Motherfucker knows that is going to have the opposite effect. “You can go around with the dogs.”
“And let you have all the fun?” I ask, moving toward the bed.
He grins like he knows me so damn well and levers himself out the window—leaning against the rope, the tail in his left hand as he starts to walk down the side of the building.
“Merl,” I say into my radio as Simon’s figure disappears. “Found the intruder. He was going after Simon. Just jumped…fell out the window down the cliff. We are going after him.”
The radio crackles. “On it,” Merl replies.
I turn the radio down again, and start toward the window.