Page 6 of Final Approach

I would get another picture. And another book.

Standing, I dipped my head toward Santos, accepting this change of circumstance. I had no friends here, only allies of convenience, enemies, and would-be enemies. Staying was a suicide mission, even if it took another ten years to kill me.

“Lead the way, palhaço,” I taunted, as the two guards lingered a single foot behind me.

Agent Diaz brought us past three checkpoints. At the last one before the prison’s entrance, he nodded to the two guards behind me. Their hands went to my feet and I heard the sharp metal click of cuffs cinching around my ankles. They weren’t loose this time, fucking Lucas Silva’s last attempt at having a spine. His soft snicker boiled in my blood, but I said nothing. I’d never have to see the man again.

I heard the two guards retreat down the hallway until it was just Diaz and me. He stared through me as if trying to find my soul. It was in there — all men had souls until their deaths. Mine was buried so deeply he would have to excavate to find it.

Finally, he looked away to the final portico where a car was waiting. My shoulders rose, accepting the small victory. If we were going to be stuck together for the next leg of this journey, he should accept who’d eat who for breakfast.

A sneer lifted his lips as he opened the back door of the car, beckoning me inside. Ignoring him, I shuffled through the sand, anticipation rising in my chest at my first car ride in two decades. I had to bow my head to climb in, then awkwardly settled into the cracked leather seat with no help from Dickhead Diaz. I didn’t want him touching my skin.

What I wanted touching me was more of that air-conditioned air — a blast of the chill washed over my sticky skin. It felt almost as good as a hard fuck.

Diaz slammed my door and strode around the front to get in the passenger seat, the driver not even daring to look at me in the rearview mirror, probably afraid of what he would see.

I didn’t know what I’d see, either. I shaved my head with a hand-sharpened razor by feel, learning how not to slice my skin to shit a long time ago. I had more than a few scars along my lips and cheeks. My face honed into sharp edges from violence and years of near starvation. Most of the tattoos on my body I’d only seen through tiny shards of mirrors prisoners smuggled in to use as weapons. I hadn’t seen my own face — all of it, at least — in twenty years.

Diaz climbed into the car and told the driver to move in rapid Spanish. I hadn’t spoken my mother tongue in a while, but I could still understand. I eyed the prison from the outside as we pulled away. The crumbling walls and torn barbed wire looked more like a bombed city than any place for human beings.

Society had decided we weren’t human a long time ago.

Once the prison was out of our sight, Diaz turned his body toward mine in the back seat, a shining syringe resting against his palm.

“Someone paid an awful lot of money for you, cabrón. You’re going to Mexico, but you’ll beg for prison once they are through with you.”

Before I could retreat, or do anything to escape whatever drug he was about to feed me, the sharp prick of the needle drove through my pants and into my thigh. The heat of the drug coursed through my muscles and spread outward, my blood taking it right into my heart.

Heroin, I realized too late. My head dropped back in my seat and my breaths slowed as the drug took effect. I didn’t like heroin.

Before I could say a word, darkness took me for its own.

36 hours before takeoff …

“Nik, I just don’t think this is working.”

My brows furrowed as I stared at the man I’d called my lover and my boyfriend for the better part of six months.

“Was it the movie?” I asked incredulously, knowing full well it wasn’t the dubbed American slasher flick Timothy himself had chosen. Playing possum seemed to be the best idea, although instead of dead, I was playing dumb, which was a hell of a lot easier than accepting the rejection outright.

We stood awkwardly between our two parked cars, and at once I was grateful we’d driven separately after work tonight. Well, his work. I’d taken a few days of vacation, so I wasn’t on the flight schedule, and although my sister was in town, I’d hoped to spend some quality time with the one man I’d settled down for, starting with a terrible movie and ending with some great sex and Thai takeout.

“Do you know how hard it is to fall for someone who’s only half in?” His storm-gray eyes bore through my soul with the declaration, and my heart stuttered. Yes, I knew unrequited feelings, but only crushes, never love.

When he asked me to be exclusive, I had to think about it. This gorgeous man was the complete package: an aspiring career as a lawyer, a conversationalist beyond compare, one hell of a generous lover. I’d convinced myself it had taken me so long to give in because he was so good for me — too good.

Now, seeing hurt flash through the eyes I loved to stare into and the slash of his tightening lips, I could recognize the truth. He was too good. Too kind, too loving. Not nearly enough damage to rectify mine.

Blowing out an acknowledging breath through my teeth, I deflated when the pain in his stare melted into frustration. Quickly, I spoke.

“I never meant to be half in, Timmy. I love spending time with you. I love the adventures we share. I love—”

“But you don’t love me, Nikki. Me. Me.” He aggressively pointed his finger into his sternum to stress the word, each thrust hitting the bone. I winced sympathetically.

No, I did not love Timothy Anchorage, the fellow Brit I’d met at the São Paulo dance club. His pouty lips and sculpted physique had captured my lust just before his quick wit and charm had captured my attention, but he’d never managed to capture my heart.

Rolling my lips, I stared at him through smeared glasses. Confessions of the heart, or lack of one, were much harder than they made them look on television. His gaze held my green eyes captive, expectant.