Mercy Killing (Affairs of State Book 1) (10 page)

“
Muy bien.
” Sebastian watched her stride briskly across the paving stones of the
Zocalo
. She looked strong and fit, her shining honey-colored, shoulder-length hair swinging in the hot breeze.

He reined in an automatic physical reaction. At least tried to. A man might tell his body to behave itself, but that rarely worked.

Her friends were motioning her toward the entrance to the
Gran Hotel
. No doubt they would lunch inside, at the restaurant on the 4
th
floor,
El Mirador.
Most tourists who could afford the luxury did. But the Davis woman was saying something to them. Pointing to the far side of the plaza.

The two other women took her shopping bags along with their own and entered the hotel. As he watched, Mercy Davis moved away, alone.

Seemingly oblivious to the curious stares of local men, who considered an unaccompanied woman either a prostitute or man shopping, she wandered through the
Mercado
. Today it was packed with artists’ booths, hand-loomed textiles, pottery, gaudy papier-mâché piñatas and ornaments.

Sebastian was too far away to hear conversations through the clamor of the mariachi bands and the heavy traffic constantly swirling around the square, but her behavior seemed innocent enough. Then he saw her slip a small white card to one of the vendors.

His eyes narrowed. “Look there!” he said.

“She just arranging delivery of a painting,” Carlos whispered. “We watch her do this many times. Her business card with address, that is all. She pay on delivery. No cash to carry.”

Wise woman,
Sebastian thought. If it really was a simple business transaction. He noticed she still carried a shoulder purse, its mouth unzipped at the moment.

Sebastian frowned.

“Something is wrong?” Fredo asked.

“I’m not sure.”  Was it just his imagination or did he detect growing anxiety in the woman’s manner. She was looking around her as though expecting someone. “Come. Let’s get closer.”

Fredo grinned as they marched across the plaza beneath the immense red-white-and-green flag of Mexico flapping overhead. “If she is police spy, she a very pretty one. Hey, Carlos. We don’t mind getting close to
that
, hey?”

“Don’t be a fool.” Carlos’ hard eyes flicked toward his friend. “No one is more dangerous than a beautiful woman.”

Sebastian wasn’t sure he agreed. The best covert agents were unremarkable people. They were capable of dissolving into a crowd, like grains of sugar stirred into hot tea. The exact opposite of a flashy James Bond character—male or female.

Lucius Clay was a prime example. The man was a mere puff of smoke on the wind. A shadow on an overcast day. He was as ordinary in appearance as could be. But Sebastian knew he was also as treacherous as they came.

This woman, though…this pretty Mrs. Davis had a passion for brilliant colors and a bold personality that would stand out anywhere. And, at the moment, she wasn’t masking her emotions very well. She seemed increasingly worried.

Sebastian stopped in front of a menu posted outside a restaurant.

Fredo stuck his cigar in his mouth and mumbled around it. “You wanna eat? We can keep following her.”

“No.”

His men underestimated her. Maybe he had too. If she had been trained by an American security agency, she would have already spotted her tails. Maybe this was all an act. Her bewilderment. This tension that he felt in his own body even from a distance.

“Leave the car. Take the truck back to the ranch and wait there for me.”

Fredo scowled, touching the gun-lump in his jacket. “One of us should stay with you.”

“We can’t chance scaring her off. I’m going to try to engage her.” Sebastian watched her move toward another vendor's stall. He felt drawn to her but told himself this urge to connect with her was necessary for his own protection. Know thine enemy. “It’s time I welcomed the Señora to Ciudad Mexico, no?”              Carlos’ wolf eyes tracked her. “If she is a threat to you, boss, better she leave Mexico. I can make sure she go. Very fast.”

Sebastian cringed at the man’s words. The last time Carlos had acted on his behalf, his bodyguard had killed a man and left two others wishing they were dead. However, if Carlos hadn’t interceded, the three highway thugs would have murdered Sebastian for his car and money.

He couldn't really blame Carlos for doing what he paid him to do. Yes, the man's quick temper was a concern. But how did you fire someone who had saved your life? Aside from that, hiring at least slightly disreputable characters suited his strategy.

“No,” he said, “you two go on. I’ll take care of her.”

11

Mercy stepped around a dusty blanket piled with hand-painted earthenware and papier-mâché masks. She pretended to admire a pretty blue ceramic pitcher.
Where the hell is Clay?

In the two weeks she’d been in Mexico, he’d failed to supply her with any new information about her mother. His emails expressed frustration with getting information out of Kiev, but more and more often they just sounded like excuses. Even worse, her application for a visa had become mysteriously lost. The whole maddening process needed to be started over again.

Go to the Zocalo on the tenth, at noon,
Clay had instructed her three days earlier.
I will have news then.

But here she was, and he hadn’t shown up at the appointed time. She’d separated herself from her companions to give him an opportunity to approach her. Now he was over an hour late. She scanned the plaza one more time but saw no sign of the man.

A terrible thought struck her. What if she never saw her mother again? It wasn’t as if she hadn’t felt sickened by the same thought a dozen times before this. But now, standing here in the blazing sun, she felt dazed and terrified and desperate at the too-real possibility.
Oh, God, please no-no-no!
A subtle tugging at her shoulder brought her back to the here and now.

Clay. He’s here at last,
she thought.

Before she could turn a woman screamed, “Señora!
Cuidado
!” Watch out!

Spinning around, Mercy came face to face, not with Lucius Clay but with a scrawny boy in a filthy Rolling Stones t-shirt. Their eyes locked for a mere instant, his flickering with feral intent before she realized that what she’d felt had been her purse strap dragging down on her shoulder. Because the boy’s hand was thrust inside her Luis Vuitton purse.

Heart hammering in her chest, she joined the screaming woman, shouting, “
Policia! Help
!”

Fighting a thief for a purse with nothing more valuable in it than a few pesos and house keys was illogical and foolish. She knew that. Of course she did! But the sweet little leather bag was her mother’s last gift to her before she disappeared. She’d be damned if she let a street punk walk off with it.

Mercy yanked the Vuitton into a protective embrace, but the thief’s paw was trapped within the leather folds and he couldn’t pull it free. His eyes popped wide with panic. He cursed and struggled, trying to escape. But releasing her grip might give him enough play to whip the bag away from her, snapping the thin shoulder strap.

In a surreal blur, Mercy saw a fist coming toward her. She ducked. His knuckles glanced off her cheekbone. Pain shot through her face, ears, entire head. The blow was hard enough to throw her off balance and loosen her grip. She felt herself falling, grabbed for the front of her attacker’s shirt, taking him down with her onto the paving stones.

Hitting hard on one hip and shoulder, Mercy gasped at the pain but held onto her bag. At last, the boy’s hand slipped free. He rolled off of her and scrambled away through the crowd.

Mercy sat up, struggling for breath, battered but triumphant. She hugged her purse. Tears of relief spilled from her eyes.

“Are you hurt, Señora?” A man lifted her to her feet.

She automatically shook her head. But when she looked up at him she thought:
I know you
. It took her another few seconds to place him. Those rough, weathered features and distinctive blue-black eyes. It was the man who had intruded on her first meeting with Clay in DC. And he was now here, in Mexico. At the very spot where she was supposed to meet the CIA agent. Coincidence?

She would have questioned him, but as soon as he’d seen she was steady on her feet, he tore off across the plaza.

Strangers rushed to her aid. A woman put an arm around her and, cooing in Spanish, led her to a stone bench beside a fountain. Others apologized profusely for their fellow citizen’s behavior. A man offered to call an ambulance. A young American couple produced a bottle of water for her from their backpack. Someone shouted that they would bring back the
Policia Preventiva
, which sounded odd to her rattled brain. Preventing a crime seemed a bit late.

She accepted the water gratefully but waved off all other help.

“No,
gracias
,” she murmured. “I’m fine. Really.” She tried to smile but the slightest tightening of her facial muscles sent stabs of pain through her skull. She could still feel the impact of the thief’s knuckles against the bone beneath her eye. But at least her nose wasn’t broken.
Thank God he didn’t have a knife!
Or, at least, if he'd had one, he didn't use it.

She became aware of a murmur passing through the cluster of good Samaritans around her. Looking up she saw the stranger from the reception returning at a long-legged, effortless lope. Black shirt, black jeans, blue-black eyes flashing with something like anger. She watched, intrigued by the crowd’s reaction. People were making way for him, as if they were an obedient Biblical sea. Or afraid of him. No one was smiling.

By the time he stopped a few steps away from her, the last of those comforting her had silently backed away.

He stood in front of her bench and spoke in fluent English with just enough accent to make the words sound foreign, almost sensual to her ear. “I’m sorry. I couldn’t catch him. Boys of the street, they evaporate.”

“It’s all right,” she said. “I don’t think he got anything. At least nothing of much value.”

“You’re not hurt? The fall?” She was surprised by the gentleness of his voice, a contrast to the barely controlled fury lingering in his eyes.

“No. I’ve taken worse spills on the tennis court.” She shrugged. “I guess he decided whatever I might have wasn’t worth a fight, or the possibility of getting caught.” She stared down at her precious purse. It looked scuffed from the pavement but had survived.

“Do you want me to fetch your friends while you rest?” the man asked.

Her eyes shot back up at him, a silent alarm going off subliminally. “How did you know I wasn’t alone?”

“I was sitting over coffee across the square. How could I miss three such lovely ladies strolling the
Zocalo
?” He smiled. “Actually, we’ve met before. I was considering introducing myself when your two friends left you. Then I thought it inappropriate to approach. You being alone.”             

Mercy nodded her understanding. It was the way of the Latino gentleman—archaic by modern American standards, but still charming. She looked around her. Already the festive atmosphere of the grand plaza had returned. Lively
ranchera
tunes filled the blazing air. A tour bus pulled up in front of the cathedral, spilling out sweaty tourists. Vendors sang out their wares.

“Are you sure you don’t need a doctor?” he asked.

“I’m fine. A little sore, that's all. I’ll just go join my friends in the hotel.”

“Allow me to accompany you?” He held out a hand to assist her off the bench.

She had thought she didn’t need his help. But when she tried to stand up her hip ached like hell and her knees threatened to buckle.

“You are buying art today, I noticed.” As if he sensed her shakiness he cupped one palm beneath her elbow for support. She felt his strength and looked up at the slight zing of electricity that ran up her arm.

“Yes.” She deliberately shook off the all-too-pleasant sensation. “I particularly like Kahlo’s work, but I don’t expect I’ll stumble on one of her paintings here.” She opened her purse as they walked, checking for anything missing. Miraculously, her wallet was still there.

He laughed. “A Kahlo? No. Not here in the marketplace. Even in the best galleries, she is rare.” There was the slightest hesitation before he continued. “Actually, I own two of her earliest works.”

“Really.” Wasn’t this the kind of opening Clay had suggested? “I’d love to see them sometime.”

“That might be arranged. I'd enjoy showing you my collection.” His hand dropped away from her arm, but he watched her intently as she went back to rummaging through her purse. He stepped closer, as if to see what she was doing.

The moment felt strangely intimate. Although they were no longer touching, she imagined a not-so-subtle connection between them.