A man emerged from the jungle edge behind them as if the vegetation had simply decided to produce him—stepping out of the green wall with the unhurried ease of someone for whom dramatic entrances were a personal minimum standard.Builtdidn't begin to describe him. He stood at least six-three, his shoulders broad enough to block out the sun behind him, casting a shadow that arrived before he did. Muscles corded his arms, his chest, his neck—not the decorative muscle of vanity but the dense, functional kind that came from putting a body through years of genuine violence and surviving it. His hair was dark blond, close-cropped, and his eyes—when they found hers—were the flat, pale blue of a winter sky that had decided against warmth. He moved with a fighter's grace, each step deliberate and controlled, his weight distributed with the unconscious precision of a body used as a weapon.
Gabriella could tell all of this because the man reminded her so much of Mateo. And as she learned recently, she had been a terrible judge of character. This man was dangerous. She knew that now.
Mateo drew his pistol and aimed.
“Easy there, friend.” The stranger raised his palms, showing empty hands the size of dinner plates, a smile curving his mouth—entirely unbothered by the threat of a gun pointed at him. “I am here to talk.”
“Then talk,” Mateo said.
The man's eyes flicked to Gabriella. The assessment was instantaneous and complete—a single sweeping glance that took her apart and catalogued every component, that made her skin pull tight across her shoulders in visceral discomfort. Not sexual. Clinical. A surgeon examining how to amputate a limb.
He's already decided what I am, she thought.He's deciding what to do about it.
“My name's Gil,” he said, returning his attention to Mateo with an affable calm. “I figured we should have a conversation before things get messy.”
The implication of that word raised the hairs on her arm as Mateo responded. “Messy?”
Gil nodded. “Oh, yes. Quite.”
“A conversation about what?” Mateo asked, clearly on edge.
“About the girl.” Gil jerked his chin towards Gabriella—a gesture so dismissive it almost impressed her with its economy. “She's got half the US military looking for her and now I have the Mafia breathing down my neck. Black ops teams, CIA, the works. They want her back.”
Gabriella's stomach dropped through the ground as she whispered, “What?”
The word came out thin and small, swallowed by the market noise around them, and she hated it—hated the smallness of her own voice in the face of what he'd said.US Military? Mafia?The phrases landed in her mind like stones into still water, sending rings outward through everything she thought she understood about her situation.
Why?The question sat in her chest like a splinter, too small to see, too sharp to ignore.
I am a marine biologist, she thought, the absurdity of it acute and almost physical.I study sea turtles, attend departmental meetings, fight with funding committees about grant allocations, and I have some strong opinions about sustainable fishing practices … why do either of them even know my name?
“Someone important wants you alive,” Gil continued. “I don't know why, and I don't particularly care. All I know is an Italian Mafia offered to give up some juicy information to the US in exchange for their help and they jumped on it. But they'retearing through Central America in a mad panic trying to find you, and they're not being subtle about it.”
Italian Mafia?Her heart sped faster as her thoughts drifted to her last conversation with her cousins before she left. Both of them complained about their deals gone wrong. The marriage offers and their pride being stung at how other families were looking down at them. There’s no freaking way that’s related to her cousins. But something about that bothered her, and in the back of her mind, she was almost afraid to know why.
Before she could follow up, Mateo’s voice broke between them. “What’s your aim?” His jaw clenched, a muscle leaping beneath the dark stubble of his cheek. “Why tell us this?”
“My point is you've got two options.” Gil crossed his arms, biceps pressing against the fabric of his shirt. “Surrender her now, walk away clean. Or keep running and get caught in the bloodbath when they catch up.”
Mateo didn’t falter from his position. His arm and aim steady. “Not happening.”
“Didn't think so.” Gil's smile widened, genuine and cold in equal measure, as if he found predictability professionally satisfying. “You always were stubborn. That's going to get you killed.”
That raised Mateo’s guard up instantly. He took on a protective stance with Gabriella, cocking his gun ready. “How do you know me?”
“I know everyone worth knowing in this business. I read your file. I know your dirty secrets Mateo.” He glanced at Gabriella again, and this time—just for a fraction of a second—what moved through those winter-blue eyes was something that looked almost like pity. “Word of advice, sweetheart. Your boyfriend here? He's good. Maybe even great. But he's not good enough to outrun what's coming.”
Sweetheart.The word landed with a pat-on-the-head condescension that made her back teeth press together. She was not going to respond to that. She was going to stand here and breathe and not say a single word about what she thought of being called sweetheart by a man who had described half the American intelligence apparatus closing in on her location.
“Thanks for the warning,” Mateo said flatly. His voice held no inflection. The words fell, dull and heavy, carrying nothing. But Gabriella saw the shift in his body. She had watched him intimately the last few days and was starting to read him better than she wanted to admit.
“Almost.” Gil stepped closer—a single, deliberate stride that closed the gap between them with a casual authority. Mateo's hand tightened on his gun, the knuckles whitening, but the massive man didn't attack. He leaned in, dropping his voice to gravel. “Whatever you're planning with José—exposing the Obscura or whatever noble bullshit you're selling yourself—it won't work. You're outmatched. Outgunned. And your luck expires real soon.”
Obscura.Gabriella caught the phrase and held it.
He straightened to his full, considerable height, looked at each of them in turn—a final assessment, comprehensive and unhurried—then nodded once. And turned. And melted back into the jungle with a silence so complete, so absolute, sowrongfor a man of his size, that it raised every hair on her arms.
The market carried on around the space where he had been, indifferent and unchanged, as if a six-foot-three wall of deliberate menace had not just stepped out of the vegetation, rearranged her understanding of her situation, and disappeared again.
