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  Behind her, Heath fired three times, then shifted his weight to his left, making Hammett compensate by turning right.

  “Got my four,” Hammett yelled over the din.

  “Gas,” Heath replied.

  Hammett wondered if that was some sort of Spanish colloquialism for great or nice work, but Heath continued to turn, forcing her to see the front exit. Someone had lobbed a few canisters of an aerosol weapon into the bar. She assumed it was tear gas, as that was the most common. But then she saw several patrons double over and puke, and realized it was something worse.

  Chloropicrin. A vomiting agent.

  Used by the Nazis in WWII, it wasn’t lethal. But it was able to penetrate gas masks, which then forced soldiers to remove them or drown in their own spew, exposing them to more deadly gases.

  Hammett had heard about it regaining popularity for riot control in various cities around the world. During her Hydra training, she’d been intentionally exposed to chloropicrin.

  It hadn’t been pleasant.

  If it had been tear gas, she would have made a try for the exit. But this stuff had already turned half the bar into Mardi Gras on Bourbon Street at 4am, the sound of violent hurling replacing the panicked screams. Even if she held her breath and ran for it, the chances of staying upright weren’t good. It hadn’t been more than a few seconds, and the floor of Jack’s had already become a pukey Slip ’N Slide; people throwing up and falling and then throwing up some more. It looked like a pie fight from a Three Stooges two-reeler, only a lot more disgusting.

  Hammett pushed left against Heath’s back, spinning him like a gun turret, until she spotted the No Admittance door.

  “Upstairs,” she said, breaking into a jog before Heath answered.

  Hammett closed one eye, dropped a shoulder and knocked over a man in her way, hurdled two young girls who crouched on the floor holding hands and crying, and then kicked the door. As she’d guessed, it opened to a staircase, and Hammett took them two at a time, aware Heath was a few steps behind her.

  The stairs ended in a hallway, gas starting to leak up through the slats in the wooden floor. Hammett held her breath and sprinted, seeing another door, shouldering through it, and finding an empty office. There was a window on the far wall, and she ran over, jerking it open. It let out onto the roof, overlooking the street. Hammett opened the eye she’d closed earlier, her pupil dilated to speed up her night vision, but she almost needn’t have bothered because the stars and moon were out and the sky clear.

  She took in her surroundings. Drunk, vomiting partiers were spilling out of Jack’s and three sedans were parked in front. At least ten of Guterez’s men stood watch, guns out, scanning the escaping crowd for Hammett.

  But that didn’t interest her as much as something she saw two hundred meters to the west, next to the curb. A black Cadillac Eldorado with tinted windows, bull horns perched on the hood above the grille.

  Assuming there weren’t many Caddies with horns in Tijuana, that car belonged to her target, Fernando Guterez. Watching his orders being carried out from what he thought was a safe distance.

  He thought wrong.

  “You are going for Guterez, aren’t you?” Heath, behind her, breath hot on her neck.

  Hammett tucked away her weapons, opened the window, and slid through, blending into the night. The roof was tarred, flat, radiating heat beneath her footfalls as she sprinted for the edge of the building. The building next to Jack’s was a meter higher, and had a stone lip along the roof. Hammett judged the gap between them to be the width of a small alley. She lowered her head, accelerating—

  —and then dove off the edge, hands outstretched for the lip, feet coming up under her to take the impact of the wall.

  She judged it right, hitting with her fingers and toes at the same time, then scrambled up the side, fell onto the roof in a shoulder roll, and continued to sprint while eyeing her next obstacle.

  Heath, apparently as quick on his feet as he was while flirting, had caught up with Hammett and matched his pace to hers. As their feet beat out a steady rhythm on the tar paper, he turned for a moment, appraising her.

  “You are indeed a most capable woman, chica.” His words came easily. Even though he’d just leapt over an alley, he wasn’t winded.

  Neither was Hammett.

  “You know parkour?” she asked.

  Also known as free running, it had been invented in France as a way to best traverse military obstacle courses. The goal was to conserve movement and use the terrain to your advantage, letting momentum guide you. It had been explained to Hammett as taking the path of least resistance, like water in a stream. But rather than appear passive, practitioners of parkour (traceurs for men, traceuses for women) often looked like extreme skateboard riders—flying and flipping through the air—except they weren’t riding anything.

  “I know many—”

  Heath’s words were cut off as he confronted an air conditioner. But like any good traceur, he vaulted it leapfrog style, and landed right in step with Hammett.

  “—different things,” he finished.

  Hammett sighted ahead of her. The next building was two meters shorter, and the jump longer than the last one. Putting on a burst of speed, Hammett launched herself into the open air, headfirst with her hands outstretched, seeing the alley blur past beneath her, and then she tucked and flipped in the air. She timed it correctly, landing on the roof, on her feet, then continued the momentum with a somersault and came up running.

  Heath had also opted for flashy, doing a side flip, landing fast but dissipating the higher force of his landing with a shoulder roll. Hammett hadn’t met many people, women or men, who could keep up with her. But before she could be impressed they were coming up to another jump, this one to fire escape scaffolding, at least two meters higher than their current level.

  “It’s too far, bonita.”

  Heath was right. Had she been alone, Hammett would have slowed down and scouted another route. The jump was damn high. But she had a strong competitive streak, and it had been a while since she’d tested her limits.

  Besides, she wanted to prove the cocky son-of-a-bitch wrong.

  So Hammett turned a cartwheel into a back flip, then another, then sprang off the roof with all the force and speed she could muster, twisting in the air—

  —and immediately realizing she was going to come up short.

  She stretched, extending her arms and spine, pointing her toes and keeping her knees together to be more aerodynamic, while the reptile part of her brain screamed “YOU’RE GOING TO DIE!” Her fingers brushed the rusty, iron railing, but she was already starting to fall and couldn’t maintain a grip, and she glanced down and saw there wasn’t anything else to grab and no soft places to land.

  If not death, then several broken bones. She’d heard vague rumors of an operative who’d taken a big fall from a building, irreversibly crippled thanks to a miscalculation. Hammett didn’t want an error in judgment—brought about by the spirit of one-upmanship—to be her undoing, so in the nanoseconds after missing the grab she was already figuring out the best way to land.

  When something caught her wrist, she was as shocked as she’d ever been. And not much shocked her.

  “So what is the going rate for saving a damsel in distress?” Heath asked as he hung from the scaffold by one hand, his other clasped around hers.

  She stared up at him, at a loss for words.

  “The mattresses at the Hotel Solamar in San Diego are quite firm, mamacita. They also have excellent room service.”

  Hammett pulled herself up his arm then hung alongside him, staring into that damn amused eye. She’d misjudged the jump, was surprised Heath had caught her, and didn’t know what to say when he had. All signs she was off her game, and should have gotten the hell out of Dodge.

  Instead she gave him a slow, soft kiss. His tongue darted out to meet hers, but she’d already pulled away.

  Heath let out a big, dramatic sigh. “Even if that
is the only thanks I get, it was worth it.”

  “I’ll thank you with more feeling later,” Hammett surprised herself by saying. “Help me kill Guterez, and Solamar’s penthouse is on me.”

  Heath scrunched his brow, as if considering it. “The penthouse on you, you on me.” Then he smiled. “I like this idea.”

  Hammett smiled back, taking care to make it look genuine, then she chinned up the fire escape and swung onto the stairs.

  Thirty seconds later she and Heath had climbed back down to street level. The Eldorado was still parked at the curb, its engine running. The limo was at least ten years old, but it looked to be in decent shape, and had so many coats of wax polish it could probably be seen from space. Hammett couldn’t peer through the tinted window glass, but if she had to guess, Guterez was either alone in the backseat, or with female company, having sent all of his thugs to go after her. He was probably armed, and so was the driver.

  “Sneak up on the driver and take him out,” she told him. “I’ll make sure the doors are open, and that he’s not looking at you.”

  “What is the plan, bonita?”

  Hammett handed her guns to Heath, then began to strip. When she got down to her bra and panties, Heath gave a soft whistle through his teeth. When she was completely naked, his breath caught.

  “Perfecto,” he whispered.

  She looked into Heath’s eyes, but his were on her body. “Do you have any blood left in your head to follow instructions, or did it all rush to your dick?”

  He smiled at her. “I’ve missed you.”

  “Yeah, me too,” she dead-panned. “Forty seconds, then take the driver out. Start counting now.”

  Hammett pulled down her lower eyelids and touched her fingers to her pupils, prompting tears. Then she put on a frightened expression and ran out of the alley, toward the limo.

  Nudity was useful for many things. It showed you were unarmed. It projected vulnerability. To some people it was a shock, and to others a distraction. As she staggered to Guterez’s car, she had a pretty good hunch he’d let her in, or at least open the window to talk.

  Her hunch proved correct. When she was within five meters of the car, the rear window lowered. Hammett saw an older mustachioed Mexican man stretched out in the back seat. On his lap was a Mexican girl wearing whorish make-up who looked young enough to still play with dolls.

  “Problema, señorita?” Guterez asked. His eyes were wide, and he looked inordinately pleased with himself.

  Hammett fell onto one knee, counting off in her head.

  Twenty-two… twenty-three…

  She didn’t glance to see if Heath was circling around to take the driver, and wasn’t sure he’d actually follow her orders. But she went on the assumption that his obvious infatuation, coupled with his need to show off, made him a temporary ally.

  “Por favor, señor! Por favor!” she yelled to the limo.

  A few staggering steps later and she was at his window.

  “Qué pasa?”

  “Me violaron. Ayúdame, por favor.”

  Guterez’s amused expression morphed into a leer. “ Dígame.”

  Thirty-eight… thirty-nine…

  Hammett reached into the window, grabbed Guterez’s upper lip by the mustache, and yanked as hard as she could, pulling his head out the window. A moment later, the driver’s door opened, and she wondered if she’d misjudged Heath and he’d abandoned her. But then there was an “ummph” and the sound of a body hitting the street, followed immediately by a gun skittering across the pavement.

  Guterez was also reaching for a gun, but his bent position, and the minor still on his lap, meant he couldn’t get his hand into his suit jacket.

  Hammett used her other hand, latched it onto his ear, and tugged until he had no choice but to follow her out the window or literally lose face. When the back of his neck was exposed, she dropped an elbow and snapped his spine as deftly as breaking a board in karate class.

  “Vete a casa,” she told the girl.

  The girl scurried out the opposite door and ran into the night.

  “It gives me much pleasure to watch you work, querida.”

  Heath had taken the driver’s seat, and was staring at her through the partition, smiling. Hammett opened the door, let Guterez flop out, and climbed into the back.

  “Do you have my clothes?”

  “Yes. But must you put them on? It is like hanging a sheet over a Degas. Such beauty should not be covered up.”

  Was this guy for real?

  She decided to find out.

  “You said something about the Hotel Solamar?” Hammett said.

  He stepped on the gas.

  “Celebrate life when you can,” The Instructor said. “It’s what you should be doing between ops.”

  They didn’t make it to the Hotel Solamar.

  When they were less than a mile away from Guterez’s murder, Hammett told Heath to pull over. He parked in an alley and got into the back with her. He reached for the champagne.

  She reached for his fly.

  She freed him in one, deft movement and wrapped her hand around him, already half hard in her fist.

  He groaned deep in his throat, struggling to remove his pants without interrupting the stroke of her palm, the tease of her fingertips. After almost a minute of fumbling, he managed to push his pants down his legs and kick them free. Then his mouth was on hers.

  Hammett had always found it easy to tell from a man’s kiss how he would be in bed. Some hurried the exchange, as if it was a chore one had to endure in order to get to the rest. Some were soft and romantic, imagining themselves soulful lovers when in reality, they were simply lazy and uninspiring. And then there was Heath.

  Heath kissed with his whole body, as if lips and hands and hips and cock were all making love to her at once. And Hammett found herself wondering if, when this was over, she really needed to kill him. As if sensing her thoughts, Heath pulled away.

  “You do not seem like yourself, mamacita.”

  Hammett rubbed her thumb up his underside and offered a wicked smile. “Is that a bad thing?”

  “Bad? No. But I do not feel the fire, the passion, I felt in Nevada.”

  An odd thing for a guy to say in a situation like this. He was quite obviously aroused. What more did he want?

  She lowered her head to take him in her mouth—

  —and he put up an arm to block her.

  Hammett hadn’t ever encountered that before. And while she was off-guard, Heath suddenly had her in a hammer lock, forcing her face into the leather seat, his weight atop her.

  He tricked me! He’s the enemy! I need to—

  Then she felt his breath on her neck, his tongue trailing up to her ear. At the same time, his free hand cupped her hip, his fingers making their way between her thighs, beginning to stroke her.

  He’s not trying to kill me. He just wants to play.

  She closed her eyes, sighed, allowed him to caress and nibble her. But when she felt herself getting close, she bent his finger, leveraging him off her and onto his back on the limousine floor.

  Hammett gracefully rolled onto him, locking his manhood between her thighs, but not allowing him to enter her. She pinned his wrists and moved her lips close to his. He tried to kiss her, straining his head up, but she moved just out of reach.

  “Oh chica, you’re killing me.”

  He tried to buck his hips, but she clenched tighter. Then he smiled and whispered something, either mercy or merci, and his body relaxed.

  Hammett began at his throat, running her tongue across his rough stubble, up his jawline, penetrating his ear. She heard him gasp, and she licked her way back to his mouth, kissing him slowly, enjoying his taste.

  In a quick movement, she had moved down his chest, running her teeth over the hair on his chest, catching his nipple in her mouth, giving it a quick bite and making him groan.

  She moved lower. No longer able to pin his wrists, but still wanting to keep him compliant, Hamme
tt skimmed her hand down his body and cupped his testicles. She held them firmly, but not cruelly. Heath grunted again, and she scooted backward and rubbed her chin across his tip. His cock bobbed against her cheek, and she gave him a slow kiss, trailing her tongue up his length.

  Heath reached for her, and she gave his balls a warning squeeze, again not enough to cause pain, but enough to assert she was in control.

  Then she began to tease the holy hell out of him.

  She used her lips. Softly. Kissing him from the base to the top. Her tongue. Gently. Following the same path her lips had taken. Her breath, making him slick with her saliva and then blowing warm and cool. Even her teeth, giving him a hickey on his shaft and causing him to hold his breath for the duration.

  But she didn’t take him in her mouth. Even when his hips began to buck.

  “Lo siento,” she said, nuzzling him with her chin. “I apologize for having no fire. No passion.”

  “I may… I may have misspoken, bonita.” His voice was deep, throaty. “And I do hope you accept my humblest apologies.”

  She quickly surrounded him with her mouth, sucking hard, making him cry out. Then she just as quickly pulled away, watching with amusement as he twitched and bounced.

  “Such cruelty will be returned in kind,” Heath said, his breath coming quicker.

  “Cruelty?” Hammett laughed. “You have no idea.”

  Then she lowered her mouth again, taking him deep into her throat, and then staying completely still. Just as she’d done while kissing him. When Heath strained upward, she retreated, not allowing him to thrust.

  Hammett hadn’t teased a man like this in a long while. Probably because she hadn’t found any worth the time and effort. The last one she’d done this to hadn’t been able to hold out for more than a few minutes. She hoped Heath would do better. Either way, she could still get hers. But she would be disappointed if she couldn’t impale herself upon him.

  So the question was, make him beg until he comes, or be selfish and ride him?

  She chose to make him beg. A treat, because he’d saved her from falling. A punishment because he’d been able to make the jump that she missed.