Page 2 of Fixed Asset

Once outside, I hustled east, back to the relative safety of the Central District municipality. I didn’t dally and take in the sights as I had during my stroll to the café—not that the sights were your typical vacation points of interest. Unlike the modern buildings and high-rises near the US Embassy—and the Centro Morazán, with its gleaming, blue-tinted glass rising forty stories above the busy, clean street and shopping boutiques on the bottom levels—Guadalupe reeked of desperation and fear. The buildings were dilapidated and rough. As with any major city, only blocks separated the different areas, the juxtaposition mind boggling. Two kilometers divided shopping malls, nice cars, a Popeyes, and a KFC from the dangerous slums.

A turn down the wrong street could mean death—literal death. Thus, I was paying attention to where I was going. My hotel next to the embassy should’ve been a little over a two-kilometer trek, according to Google Maps. However, my alternate route carefully skirting Mara Salvatrucha gang territory added twenty minutes to the walk.

A door to my right swung open. I quickly sidestepped the stumbling, drunk man coming out of the liquor store. A few meters ahead of me, a woman was yelling in rapid-fire Spanish at an older man—which was dangerous. The woman was speaking too fast for me to pick up more than a few angry words. The traffic on the street was busy. The cars did not stop for pedestrians here, but I’d rather take my chances playing Frogger and dodging cars than risk getting caught up in the domestic dispute up ahead. I’d had enough adventure for one day. I just wanted to get back to my hotel, study the maps my contact at the CIA gave me, and plan tomorrow’s outing.

I stepped closer to the curb, waiting for the traffic to clear enough that I could make a mad dash across the two lanes. Scooters, bicycles, rusted trucks, and cars in varying states of disrepair sped by.

One foot was on the crumbling curb, the other on the garbage-covered asphalt. I was getting ready to make a break for it when I caught a white van barreling down the road at a high rate of speed, narrowly missing a man pushing a cart.

I was on my back foot, preparing to jump out of the way, when someone came up from behind and hooded me. In an instant, everything went dark. Two arms banded around me, immobilizing me.

It was too soon.

This wasn’t supposed to happen here.

Not yet.

Not now.

I struggled and screamed, but the arms tightened. I heard tires screech. The smell of rubber and diesel mixed together.

The second I was lifted off the ground, I kicked out. My foot made contact with something solid; there was a grunt but no other sound. I was being attacked on a busy street. There were people all around, and not one person came to my rescue. Not one person shouted for my attacker to let me go.

Not a single soul helped.

My ankles were grabbed and, with quick precision, secured together. I twisted the best I could to get free until I heard the scraping of metal followed by a bang as the door closed, and I felt the van moving.

The whole abduction—from the hooding to getting me into the vehicle—took seconds. I hadn’t even had time to register how hard my heart was thumping in my chest. Fight-or-flight had kicked in, but the fear trailed behind. Now that I was in the back of a moving van, terror ripped through me.

My plan had looked good on paper—risky but necessary.

Now I was at the mercy of men who wouldn’t bat an eye at killing me—or worse—and I saw my mistake.

Jack had been right. I’d lost my mind.

The fight drained from my body, my muscles locked, and my training kicked in. Now wasn’t the time to try to escape while I was in a confined space with an unknown number of assailants. Now was the time to listen, gather intel, think, and plan.

I didn’t need my life to flash before my eyes—or to think about all the things I’d never done, never accomplished—to know if I died, I’d go to my grave with a mountain of regret. I’d leave this world never knowing what it felt like to be in love.

A flicker of a memory of Jack teasing me before everything had turned to shit. I’d convinced myself I’d fallen for him. I’d believed I meant something to him. Right up until those blue eyes of his—so dark they were navy, and unless you were in the light, they looked black—turned cold and he walked away from me.

I pushed the wayward thoughts of Jack out of my mind and focused. I’d been trained by the best, spent years attached to the First Special Group. I knew my way around a hostile interrogation—both in practice on the battlefield and in the classroom. I’d played hide-and-seek with my SERE instructors and survived—twice. My first go-around with my Human Intel class was easy, the second time not so much. SOCOM didn’t screw around when it came to training their soldiers.

Deep breath.

The van took a hard right, my body pitched to the side, but strong arms kept me in place.

Something wasn’t right.

I took another breath, this one more of a sniff.

Clean.

No body odor, no smell of booze or pot. All of which I’d smelled in abundance since I’d arrived in Honduras.

I didn’t think gang members cared all that much about freshly laundered clothes before they snatched a woman off the street. But that didn’t mean the Bratva hadn’t heard about an American woman roaming the streets unprotected and decided to make a play in rival territory. Though the Russians mostly kept to Ecuador, I’d been warned they were still operating in Honduras.

I wasn’t sure which was worse—the Russians or the Hondurans. One of those groups would have me in a shipping container headed to the Mother Country before anyone knew I was missing. The other would likely enjoy torturing me before help could arrive.