The Hunted. Elle Kennedy
rifle dipped lower.
“For the love of God, shoot the bastard.” Agony rang from Will’s voice. “Forget about me, Robbie. Forget—”
Tate tossed the gun onto the warm brown earth.
Triumph streaked across Cruz’s harsh features. Followed by a grin that lifted his lips. “Bad call,” he said lightly.
And then the rebel slit Will’s throat.
Chapter 1
Paraíso, Mexico
This is a mistake.
Eva took one look around the dark, smoky bar and nearly sprinted right out the door. It took her a second to gather her composure, to force her feet to stay rooted to the dirty floor. She couldn’t chicken out. She’d already come this far, traveled over seven thousand miles and crossed two continents to come here.
There was no turning back now.
Squaring her shoulders, she drew air into her lungs, only to inhale a cloud of cigar smoke that made her eyes water. She blinked rapidly, trying hard not to focus on the dozen pairs of eyes glued to her. Some were appreciative. Most were suspicious. It didn’t surprise her—this place didn’t seem as though it catered to many law-abiding citizens. She’d figured that out when she’d first spotted the dilapidated adobe exterior with its crooked wooden sign, the word Cantina chicken-scratched onto it.
The interior only confirmed her original assessment. The bar was small and cramped, boasting a wood counter that would probably give her splinters if she touched it, and a handful of little tables, most of them askew. Across the room was a narrow doorway shielded only by a curtain of red and yellow beads that clinked together. All the patrons were men; a few wore sombreros, several didn’t have any shoes on, and all were looking at Eva as if she’d just gotten off a spaceship.
Ignoring the burning stares, she made her way to the counter, her sandals clicking against the floor. Her yellow sundress clung to her body like wet plastic wrap. It was nearly seven o’clock, and the humidity refused to cease, rolling in through the open front door like fake fog from a horror movie.
The bartender, a large man with a thick black beard, narrowed his eyes at her approach. “What can I do for you, señorita?” he asked.
He’d spoken in Spanish, and she answered in the same tongue. “I’m looking for someone.”
He winked. “I see.”
“I was told he’s a regular here,” she hurried on before the bartender misinterpreted her intentions. “I have business to discuss with him.”
Gone was the playful twinkle in the man’s eyes. He looked suspicious again, which made her wonder just how many times he’d heard this same old line before. Hundreds, probably. Paraíso wasn’t the kind of town you visited on business, at least not the legitimate kind.
In her research, Eva had discovered that this little mountain town was a frequent stop for drug runners, arms dealers and men involved in all other sorts of nefarious activities. It was also the perfect place to hide. According to her sources, Mexican law enforcement turned the other cheek to what went on here, and with its mountainous landscape and neighboring rain forest, it was easy to disappear in a place like Paraíso. Its name translated to paradise. Irony at work.
“I’m afraid you’ll need to be more specific,” the bartender said curtly. He swept an arm out. “As you can see, there are many men here, almost all of them regulars.”
She swallowed. “The one I want goes by the name Tate.”
Silence descended over the room. The laughter of the patrons died. Even the music blaring out of the cheap stereo over the bar seemed to get quieter. From the corner of her eye, Eva noticed that the gray-haired man at the other end of the counter had blanched, his tanned leathery skin turning a shade paler.
So she’d come to the right place. These men knew Tate. And they feared him—she could feel that fear palpitating in the stuffy air.
“I take it you know him,” she said to the bartender.
His dark eyes grew shuttered. “Actually, I can’t say I’ve ever heard that name before.”
She suppressed a sigh and reached into the green canvas purse slung over her bare shoulder. She fumbled around until her hand connected with the roll of American bills she’d secured with an elastic band. She peeled off four one-hundred-dollar bills and set them on the counter.
The man’s jaw twitched at the sight of the cash—about five thousand pesos after the conversion.
“What about now?” she asked softly. “Have you heard of him now?”
Greed etched into his harsh features. “No, still doesn’t ring a bell.”
She added two more hundreds to the pile.
Smirking, the bartender pocketed the cash and hooked a thumb at the doorway in the back. “I believe you’ll find Mr. Tate at his usual table, stealing money from poor, hardworking souls.”
With a quiet thank-you, Eva headed for the doorway and slid through the string of beads.
The corridor was narrow, illuminated by an exposed lightbulb that dangled from the ceiling on a long piece of brown twine. Only one other door in the hall, all the way at the end, and she heard muffled male voices coming from behind it. A burst of laughter, a few Spanish curses and then … English. Someone was speaking English. She immediately picked up on a faint Boston inflection. Having spent her entire childhood and adolescence in New York, she knew an East Coast accent when she heard one.
Tate was definitely in Paraíso.
Eva’s legs felt unusually weak as she made her way down the corridor. She instinctively reached into her purse, tempted to grab her cell phone and call the babysitter just to make sure Rafe was all right, but she resisted the impulse. The quicker she did this, the faster she could get back to her son.
Still, she hated leaving Rafe alone for even a few minutes, let alone the two hours she’d already been gone. She worried that if she let him out of her sight, she’d never see him again.
Lord knew her son’s father was doing his damnedest to make that happen.
Her stomach clenched. God, what a fool she’d been. And as humiliating as it was to admit, she had nobody to blame but herself. She was the one who’d left New York to volunteer with the relief foundation in San Marquez. She was the young and idealistic fool who’d actually believed in Hector’s cause. She was the idiot who’d fallen in love with an outlaw rebel.
But now she had the chance to be free of Hector Cruz. After three years of running, after five close calls and half a dozen fresh starts, she finally had the opportunity to vanquish her personal demon once and for all.
Assuming Tate agreed to help her, of course.
Tucking an errant strand of hair behind her ear, she approached the door and knocked, then opened it without waiting for invitation.
“Who the hell are you?” a rough male voice demanded in Spanish.
Eva did her best not to gape. Her gaze collided with four men sitting at a round table littered with colorful poker chips and a pile of crumpled cash. A lone cigar sat in a cracked plastic ashtray, sending a cloud of smoke curling in the direction of the door. Two of the men were dark-skinned, with matching shaved heads and menacing expressions. The third looked like a fat little character from a Mexican cartoon, boasting bulging black eyes and a generous paunch.
But it was the fourth man who caught and held her attention. He was sitting down, but she could tell he was tall, judging by the long legs encased in olive-colored camo pants. A white T-shirt clung to a broad chest and washboard stomach, the sleeves rolled up to reveal a pair of perfectly sculpted biceps. His chocolate-brown hair was in a buzz cut, and his face was ruggedly handsome,