Countdown to Zero Hour Page 18

  “Can we run?” She imagined disappearing into the town, cloaking herself with the ordinary life and commotion.

  “They’d find us.” His voice was steady and grim. “Or we’d be running forever. And anyone left behind...family...would suffer. We need to end them before they end us.”

  The hope of escape choked off, and she tried to resign herself to a prolonged struggle.

  Art stopped at the edge of the market and carried his steady gaze over the place.

  She restrained herself from sprinting to the nearby tables. “Those beets are calling to me.”

  He smiled warmly and clasped her hand. The food became less interesting as she absorbed the care of their connection. He turned her palm up and pressed a wad of folded peso bills into it. “I’m going to the hardware store.” His gaze flicked to a stall at the middle of a row. “Start with the tomatoes.”

  “Tomatoes?” His instruction was too specific. A cloud passed over the glow of freedom. There was some kind of business here.

  “Tomatoes,” he confirmed. “Meet you back here. Happy hunting.” He gave her hand a squeeze and headed off to the edge of the square.

  Was she walking on a minefield? She tracked her slow steps while she passed tables of carrots and peaches and unknown greens, on her way to the tomatoes.

  Maybe Art just had a great eye for produce. The piled tomatoes were beautiful. Deep color. Perfectly odd shapes. She picked one up, feeling how thin the skin was, delicate and not overengineered.

  “¿Bueno, si?” A woman with dark hair tied up into a bandana stood behind the table of tomatoes. She nodded knowingly, looking at the tomato in Hayley’s hand. There was something else in her eyes, a steely glint.

  Hayley had seen the same edge in Art.

  “Si,” she replied, cautious.

  “You’re the chef.” Surprisingly, the woman’s English had no accent. She casually scanned around them; no one was within earshot. Then she busied herself prepping a shopping bag.

  “Hayley.” Mimicking the everyday activity, Hayley went through the business of selecting the best tomatoes.

  “Mary.” The woman was around Hayley’s age, but built like an athlete. “Friend of Art’s.”

  “I was glad to find out he had friends.”

  Mary laughed. “I’m sure.” She took the tomatoes and put them in the bag. “That wall around the compound, is it reinforced cinder block?”

  Hayley tried to remember any detail she could about it. “I don’t know. Sorry.”

  “That’s okay, sister.” Mary winked at her. “Is there a little mound on the top of the wall, or is it flat?”

  “Flat.” That much she knew.

  Mary nodded to herself. “They rushed it. Doubt they had time to reinforce. A fifty will do it.”

  “Fifty dollars?” Hayley was lost again.

  “Fifty caliber.” This time, when Mary winked, she kept her eye closed, as if sighting down a rifle. “You ever shoot a gun?”

  “Couple of times, at a range.” If they could just talk about the produce, then she’d be in control.

  “Stay with Art.” Mary watched Hayley’s face when she said this.

  Hayley felt a slight blush betray her. She tried to keep the heat down, but all the need and attraction always pushed so close to the surface.

  Mary didn’t judge, but she nodded with understanding. There was even a slow small secret darkness, far away in her eyes. “He’ll get you out.” Mary leaned forward, dead serious. “But watch your six. If you pick up a gun, don’t point it at anything you don’t want dead. And if you have to pull the trigger, do it.” She took the tomato from Hayley’s hand. “Stay alive to say your Hail Marys to me later.”

  “I will.” Though Hayley couldn’t imagine herself with a gun in her hand. “Thanks, Mary.”

  “But I ain’t full of grace.” She handed over the bag of tomatoes. “Gratis.”

  The produce wasn’t nearly as heavy as the advice.

  But knowing that Mary was part of Art’s team, and there were others like her out there, gave Hayley a touch of extra confidence she might make it through whatever was coming.

  She paused before moving on to the next stall. “What’s your comfort food?”

  “Lebanese.”

  “I can work with that.”

  “No backing down now that you owe me.” Mary extended her fist, and Hayley bumped it. “Stay awake out there.”

  Hayley smiled a thanks and headed into the market. She was out of the house but still in the action. By the time she made it one stall over, Mary was gone, replaced by an older woman at the tomato table. The market was Hayley’s territory, but stable footing was hard to find. Art could only lead her so much. No one was what they seemed. Not even Hayley.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Automatik was ready. All Art had to do was call the shot. He didn’t see any of his team in the hardware store but knew they’d been there. The tools he needed to fix the propane line had been supplemented by them, stashed in a spot high on a shelf. It would’ve taken an employee a year to find the secret gear in the crowded aisles of the hot, cramped shop. And even if they did, it would’ve just looked like oily thin cardboard used for packing machine parts.

  Art knew what it could do, though, and carefully tucked the sheets in the paper bag with the rest of his supplies. He chatted in Spanish for a bit with the older man behind the counter, thanking him for the hardware, commiserating about the heat and taking in other details about the town.

  Back in the square, Art stalked through the market. Hayley wasn’t hard to spot under the makeshift umbrellas and awnings. She could not be rushed and stopped at each table to pick up the food, test it and think about it. Some she bought, some stayed behind. Among her bags were the tomatoes. Mary was gone from the market and was probably in the field, zeroing in the scope of her rifle.

  Hayley turned to see Art before he reached her. Good, she was aware and her radar was up. But her open smile was bright, nothing like a hardened merc or shell-shocked private.

  He stood close enough to take a couple of her bags, smelling the aroma of greens fresh from the dirt, and lean into her a bit. She shifted her weight, pushing back. “You met ‘Bolt Action’ Mary.” He kept a casual appearance. No one was close enough to hear them.

  “She has great tomatoes.” Hayley started to turn in the direction of the tomato table but stopped herself. “Glad to know she’s out there.”

  “Me, too.” He quickly negotiated the price of bell peppers and paid the person at the stall. Just by putting them in the bag, he could tell how sweet and spicy the bright red peppers would be. As he and Hayley walked to the next table, he told her, “She’s a sniper.”

  Hayley acknowledged him with her eyes and turned her attention to piles of carrots. For a few minutes, they were normal. People out shopping. He was just a guy hanging out with a woman who was a chef who found inspiration in a red onion.

  She was confident and comfortable in the square, even though she’d never been to this town before. And if she didn’t speak all the Spanish, she spoke food, and everyone else there understood her.

  At the end of a row, she sorted what she’d collected in the bags. “The last time we were at a farmer’s market, you kidnapped me into this job.”

  “It’s going to look great on your résumé.” He held open the bags he carried so she could inspect them.

  “Do you have a résumé?” She appeared satisfied with her haul and peered up at him.

  He barely moved his lips to speak, deepening his voice. “Graveyards are my résumé.”

  Her eyes went wide, and he saw doubt tremor through her.

  “I’m kidding,” he reassured, laughing at her slow realization.

  “Jesus Christ.” She sighed a relieved breath, then burned him wi
th her eyes. “You sounded like a fucking killing machine.”

  He admitted, “I did shake down the hardware store owner for the most important intel.”

  Her jaw set, anticipating trouble, but he quickly reached forward to give her arm a reassuring squeeze.

  “Lunch.” He turned her so she could see a tiny restaurant tucked under a taller building. “Best machaca in town. At least, that’s what the shop owner’s last words were.”

  “If it’s a final confession, it must be true.” She hefted her bags, and the two of them walked away from the market.

  People watched them. The town was small enough that strangers were noticed. Garin’s trip in had probably caused a stir, and now here were Art and Hayley marketing like locals. But they weren’t local. Curious gazes followed them across the street to the restaurant. Women talked, unashamed to stare. Men were wary, protective of their space. Open hostility blazed out of a few of them. Art marked them in his memory: worn boots with an exposed steel toe. T-shirt with a soda logo on it. Rust-red car.

  The owner of the restaurant, who was also the waiter, lit up like family when Art and Hayley came in. When he spotted the bags of produce and found out that Hayley was a chef, the holiday started. The owner refused to bring menus and said he would serve the best.

  To show Hayley and Art how authentic food was cooked, he escorted them from the dining area, with only about five tables and a TV in the corner, into the kitchen. The man’s wife abandoned her post at the cash register to join them, crowding the already small space.

  Every surface was dangerous. Boiling water, open flames on the stove, searing-hot griddles. Hayley was at home, grinning and taking it all in with an expert gaze.

  He asked over the sound of sizzling meat, “Are all kitchens like this?”

  “Some are bigger.” She stepped around the owner to get beside the hurried young cook. “But this has everything you need.”

  The cook continued with his business but took extra time to show her the process. She nodded appreciatively, asking a couple of questions in decent Spanish and getting terse answers. Art watched her bank the information. She was so alive, in the moment. And he could see that she was itching to jump into the dance.

  When the cook expertly spun two huge tortillas on the griddle, she turned to Art, eyes wide and drawing him into her enthusiasm.

  He braved all the burning surfaces around them to step closer and whisper in her ear, “You’re so beautiful, mi reina.”

  She reached forward and caressed her hand down his forearm. Her gaze stirred his blood. But there was a touch of sadness in her eyes, and he understood. Feeling good only made the inevitable battle that much more terrible. He should’ve stayed away from her. The way he’d avoided too much close contact during his military career. And during his work with Automatik. But there was no escaping Hayley.

  Licking her lips, her words were for him alone. “I’m starving.”

  “Let’s eat.” He repeated the idea to the owner, this time in Spanish.

  Plates clattered while the owner and his wife collected lunch. Art and Hayley were swept out of the kitchen and back to their table. Machaca burritos. Roast chicken. Cactus and corn salad. Art had seen most of it being cooked and knew how fresh it was.

  He sat with his back to the kitchen so he could watch the front door and sidewalk outside.

  Hayley hadn’t even picked up her fork. She stared at the food, turned the plates for different views. Her analysis was far from unemotional. She breathed in the aromas, closed her eyes for a moment, then came back to his world with a smile.

  The owner and his wife monitored them from the edge of the small dining room. Even the other people at their tables watched and waited for Hayley to eat.

  Her fork continued the discovery. Pieces of the food were lifted, exposing the layers below. How could she not dig in? Art was starving, poised to attack his food, and she took the smallest bites of everything on the plates.

  Watching her experience the taste made him hungry for other satisfaction that tortillas and chicken couldn’t bring. She closed her eyes, chewed slowly. Her shoulders swayed, like she danced to a slow song. He’d felt her rhythms through him and wanted her again. More and more.

  His cock tightened in his jeans and he wasn’t even touching her.

  She opened her eyes after savoring a bite and looked at him. “Aren’t you going to eat?”

  “Aren’t you?” The fork almost bent in his clenched fist.

  “I am.” To prove it, she took a large bite of the roast chicken and salsa. When she groaned with pleasure, he wanted to smash the table to splinters so he could reach her. “It’s so good,” she said after finally swallowing. “You’re missing out.”

  “I’m just...making plans.”

  That slowed her. Her wicked, knowing smile licked a new frenzy into his blood.

  “There’s got to be a room to rent in this town.” She tapped his shin with her toe.

  “I’ll break us into a house if I have to.” His head spun with the idea of her and him in a cool, quiet living room with the shades drawn.

  “I thought you were one of the good guys.” She resumed eating and gave the restaurant owner an appreciative nod.

  “I’ll be bad for you.”

  She shook her head, sober. “Be good for me.”

  Could he? He’d protected her, but only because he’d put her in this terrible situation in the first place. “Until I’ve got nothing left.”

  * * *

  No one had ever dedicated that much sacrifice to her. Hayley saw that he meant it. Burton had bailed when things were just getting real and she’d needed him the most. But Art didn’t run. Every time the crisis tightened, he came closer.

  She couldn’t let him die. Not for her or any other cause. Art had to survive.

  He must’ve seen her concern and smiled to lighten the mood, then attacked his food.

  Every taste and texture was excellent. Rustic and refined. The chaos of the small kitchen was tuned like a race car engine, and the cook was a driver. She tried to identify unknown herbs and suspected they grew only in someone’s backyard in this very town.

  Art appreciated the food, too. He nodded with each bite and rapped his knuckles on the table. The owner and his wife watched, satisfied, then returned to their duties in the restaurant.

  The food disappeared from the plate. Hayley grew full. But she wanted to order the food she hadn’t tried. Anything to keep her and Art there. Their time was stolen. They were outside the crisis, and she didn’t know if she could handle going back into that pressure cooker of a house.

  The restaurant owner returned to the table, oblivious to Hayley’s dark thoughts. He was all smiles while he cleared the empty plates to the back. When he returned, he was joined by his wife and the cook. Art helped translate the parts of the lively conversation that whirled around them. Many compliments were given, and a couple of the cook’s secrets. She thanked him twice for the technique of smoking avocado leaves before seasoning the chicken with them. He credited his mother and smiled warmly.

  Plans were made to visit her kitchen, but she had to explain that her restaurant was a distant possibility. She understood the Spanish when Art told them that it wouldn’t be long. Was he saying it to make her seem important in their eyes? Or did he believe in her that much?

  After many handshakes, Art paid the bill, they collected their produce and stepped back into the heat of the day. The car was somewhere off the square to their left, but Art started walking right.

  He’d been navigating her through a twisted maze ever since they’d met. She had no choice but to follow again.

  But she could still school him. “Do you know how hard it is to start a restaurant?”

  “No.” He shrugged, keeping his gaze moving along the street and checking any inte
rsection.

  “There’s permits and insurance and cash, cash, cash. And that’s just above the table.” Merely operating a steam cart outside Rolan’s club had gotten her into this situation. “A lot of palms need to be greased to make it all come together. And that’s before publicity, word of mouth, exposure.”

  “You had a plan for all that.” He wasn’t daunted. “You had a plan for the place you almost opened.”

  “Burton and I had come up with it. He was better at PR, front-of-the-house stuff.” Son of a bitch. “He had more contacts than I did. That’s why it all fell apart so fast.”

  “I don’t know how hard it is to open a restaurant, but I do know how hard it is to walk into a house full of Russian mobsters and hold your head up and excel at your job.” He stopped at a corner and turned to her. “That’s what you’ve done.”

  “With your help.” Yes, he was partially responsible for pulling her into this world, but how terrible would things have turned if he hadn’t been watching out for her since then?

  “That’s my job.” An undercover secret soldier with a gun under his jacket, and he managed to look badass holding bags of produce from a farmer’s market. “You’re doing yours.”

  His confidence always found its way through her doubt.

  “Thank you.” She brushed her free hand down his chest.

  He took a long breath with the touch. “Thank me in private.”

  Impossible. Luxuries like privacy and safety were unobtainable.

  With all his experience, he must’ve known what she was thinking. A secret glittered in his eyes, and he purposefully scanned up a side street. She followed his gaze to see a small four-story brick hotel tucked between apartment buildings.

  “But first,” he said, holding the bags of produce, “I need you to reach into my right front pocket and pull out the pesos.”

  She started for his jacket.

  He redirected her. “Pants pocket.”

  “Oh.” She stood close, rubbing her thigh on his, and slipped her hand into his jeans pocket. “Nasty boy.”