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Added into the equation were death and destruction and the fact that these fuckers had killed so many people in the last two days, daring the US to stop them. They had murdered clergy and people who were peacefully worshiping, lawyers who were collaborating to deliver needed legal advice internationally, and DEA agents who were cleaning up a world that was overrun with drugs.
All of it compounded her determination to catch these monsters and make them pay for their crimes. Once past the shopping mall, he took a left at an intersection, shooting ontoAvenue America. More shops whizzed past, and the mouth-watering whiffs of street food had her stomach growling.
La Paz’s citizens were all about shopping and lived to conduct business on the streets, lined with pedestrians andcholas—bowler-hatted, colorfully clad Aymara women—seated in the stalls selling salty, greasy snacks, glasses ofmocobincbimade with dried peaches and cinnamon, souvenir llama-motif bobble hats, and SIM cards.
She glimpsed the rear of the motorcycle before it disappeared between traffic. This guy wasn’t going to get away. He’d go underground and locating him would be nearly impossible. She angled the bike up the street, weaving around pedestrians and cars, and generally pissing off the locals. Damn, she just wished these people would freaking go home.
She bent over the handlebars, shooting between two trucks and jetting ahead, gaining on him. He opened the throttle and roared down the avenue, with her almost on his tail. He braked hard and turned sharply right ontoCalle Tumusula, forcing her to do the same, leaning into the bike as it took the turn faster than she should.
They approached a traffic circle, and he took the first left ontoMurillo, then a sharp right ontoCalle Jimenez. More food scents assaulted her, and she wanted to catch this guy and sate her appetite in more ways than one. Their tires bounced over cobblestones and the street narrowed past apartment houses and a billiards club.
She realized he was headed for theEl Mercado de las Brujasor the Witches Market, which was packed with people and where it would be easy to lose him. She saw the crowds ahead, not surprised when he ditched the bike, starting for the throng of constantly moving humanity. The streets swarmed with action, but she kept her focus completely on the fleeing terrorist. The area smelled exotic with herbs like chamomile, lavender, mint, rosemary, and sage. Stalls lined the street with the same Aymara women tending them in their layered skirts and bowler hats, each stall filled with different wares: snakes, naked couples, dried frogs and turtles, aphrodisiacs, owl feathers, and oddly shaped black candles. Karasu wasn’t deterred. She pushed through the crowd, pissing off more people before she saw him duck behind a booth with dried llama fetuses hanging from hooks. These dead animals were considered part of rituals to the goddessPachamama, mother earth for protection, good luck, and prosperity.
This guy was going to need some good luck as she followed, rounding the stall and seeing him. She spotted some bolas and grabbed up one, aimed, wound up, and threw the weapon made of weights on the ends of interconnected cords used by gauchos to entangle the feet of animals. The air twanged with the release, her aim true as it caught the terrorist right around the ankles. Incapacitated, he careened right into a stall full of amulets. Thecholawho owned it started hitting him and shouting, until he rolled to his back and pulled out his gun.
Karasu was ready for him with another bola as she let it fly, just like at the construction site when the terrorist had knocked Preacher’s gun out of his hand. She set her hands on her hips and grinned.
“Nice shot.” She whirled to find Preacher standing behind her, his deep voice wrapping around her like soft, warm velvet. Cops converged on the terrorist, disentangled him, cuffed him, and led him away. He glared at her as he passed, but she just gave him a bland look like she ate terrorists for breakfast. She reached into her pocket and offered the bola seller a twenty. The woman’s eyes lit up and she took the cash.
“Payback is a bitch,” she said.
His low chuckle sent giddy flutters into her gut. Damn, she was pathetic. The longer she knew this man, the more she wanted to know. He tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear, that small gesture just as powerful as his sexy voice. He had been so serious in Banja Luka and she’d turned her back on him. She’d heard every word he said, and she hungered for the same thing. She’d seen the emotions flicker across his handsome face that had nothing to do with the kiss they’d shared, or how disappointed he had looked.
She shouldn’t feel sorry for him. He’d hate it if he knew she’d felt an ounce of pity, even for a second. He was right—they were both products of their upbringing, but mostly as a measure of their ability to overcome some pretty serious obstacles.
She shivered a little, thinking about how he’d tasted, how he’d kissed her back as though he knew her, as though he’d been kissing her for decades. She had wanted to go home for so long, but she wanted Preacher even more than that.
He had something that weakened her. Not so much his looks, although, the way he filled out his clothes was nothing to scoff at, and she could barely breathe when he was naked. But men, even gorgeous ones, usually didn’t throw her off her game or knock her out of her armor, but Preacher had done both, telling her he didn’t just look dangerous, hewasdangerous. Really, his kisses were amazing, and the way he made love addictive. She melted a little at the memory of it. He touched her in places she hadn’t wanted any man to touch her, leaving her vulnerable, warning her that connections in her line of business weren't bright. She’d avoided emotions like the ones running rampant inside of her for him.
She was scared that he would be her strength and her weakness.
Taking her armor off for him was what he wanted. That’s why he told her she could tell him anything. She recognized that progressing this relationship meant she would have to bare her soul. He would accept nothing less.
The question was: Could she? Even for him?
“What’s next?” she asked, deciding that she was too hungry and tired to give her thoughts a thorough analysis.
“I already contacted Ice, asked if he wanted us in Copacabana. He said no that we should get some rest and they would be back tomorrow. Rose wants to interrogate the terrorists when she returns.” That tweaked Karasu’s memory. They had Volk and Zorra. The terrorists wanted her to bring them Rose. Something she should tell Preacher, but she wanted to think about it for a while. If she went after Volk and Zorra on her own, she wouldn’t have to put Rose in danger. She hated like hell they were trying to coerce her, and she didn’t want to jeopardize Volk and Zorra, but there may be a better way. She had connections all over the city. Maybe one of them had some answers for her.
“They’re on their way to the hospital. I asked to have the vials removed.”
“Good call,” she said, disliking keeping this information from Preacher, but old habits died hard. She wasn’t a Shadowguard for nothing.
“Okay.” They walked to the head of the street. “Right, the Rover is toast.”
“The cops can—”
“No. That’s fine. I can get us wheels. Hang tight.” She paced away and made a phone call. Five minutes later, she got information. Turning to Preacher, who was looking at some alpaca sweaters at a stall, she said. “Alpaca sweater, huh?”
“For my mom.”
“Souvenir shopping. I guess you get to do that often.”
“No, too busy kicking doors.”
“Find one you liked?”
He held up a gorgeous blue cardigan with Illimani depicted on the back. “You have good taste.”
