Chapter One
Hotel Palma Dourada
Cuiabá, Brazil
Gripping his 9-millimeter Beretta, Nicholas Charboneau peered through the peephole of the penthouse suite, responding to a soft knock. The red and black uniforms of hotel personnel should not have given him any cause for alarm. And yet, the hair at the nape of his neck reacted to a rush of adrenaline. Two men stood by a rolling cart of white linen, covered with food platters and a bottle of Brazilian Merlot with a distinctive label.
Compliments of the house…or a Trojan Horse? The bottle of wine told the tale.
A lazy smile curved his lips. At his age, he relied more on wit and cunning, leaving the chest thumping to younger men. He had no intention of answering the door, making himself vulnerable.
“No way,” he scoffed, muttering under his breath. “Nice try, but never would’ve happened.”
“Who is at the door?” The voice of his young bodyguard, Jasmine Lee, drew his attention. Towel drying her black hair, she stood near the wet bar dressed only in the white robe of the hotel. “Did you order room service, Nicky?”
He raised his hand and shook his head, silently mouthing the word, “No.”
Her body tensed, dark eyes flared in alert.
The sound of shattered glass from across the room broke his concentration. Jasmine darted from his sight, heading toward the noise.
As he rounded the foyer corner, three men dressed in black paramilitary uniforms burst into the room from the balcony, guns raised. Without hesitation, Jasmine tossed her towel toward the nearest man, a distraction. She punched a fist to his solar plexus, doubling the man over. To finish her attacker, she elbowed the back of his head, toppling him to the carpet. Now, she faced another, chin down and fists raised in defiance.
One down. White queen takes black knight’s pawn, threatening the rook.
Nicholas’s body reacted on pure instinct as chess maneuvers ran through his head, a practice in discipline and control. Adrenaline fueled his anger. He raced across the room, Beretta leveled. Unarmed, she wouldn’t stand a chance if they started to shoot. He chose a spot to her far right, forcing the men to split their attack. A tactical maneuver.
Nicholas squared off with a man who’d been coerced to turn his back on Jasmine. His assailant flinched, fear in his eyes as he faced the Beretta. Not wanting to start any gunplay, he backhanded the man across the jaw, knocking him down.
“Arrgh.” Wincing in pain, the man writhed on the floor, holding his jaw. Blood dripped through his fingers.
Two down. White knight to king four, checkmate in two moves.
He smelled victory. With Jasmine at his side, he tilted his head and glared at the final man. His gun aimed dead center between the stranger’s eyes. “Who sent you? And you better pray I believe you.”
“Mãos ao alto.” A stern voice came from behind.
Clenching his jaw, Nicholas wavered for an instant. He gripped the Beretta, maintaining what little tactical leverage remained. But he had a feeling all that was about to change. Unwilling to lower his weapon until he knew for certain, he shifted his gaze to catch a reflection in the mirror behind the wet bar.
The seductive country of Brazil had beckoned Nicholas to its borders, the fertile ground of corruption awaiting his influence. Now, the reality of that summons had a face. The room service attendant narrowed his eyes in challenge, matching his stare in the mirror.
Despite the night air coming from the open doors to the balcony, he noticed the man had a bead of sweat at his temple. The droplet lingered on the brink of a sun-weathered crease, one of many lines marking his face.
Nicholas did not speak Portuguese. But since the uniformed man held a Kalashnikova assault rifle aimed at his head, understanding the native tongue became a moot point. The universal language of the AK-47 made his meaning perfectly clear. Nicholas lowered his weapon, allowing one of the men to take it, then raised his hands in compliance.
He had no option. Given the odds against a semi-auto rifle in tight quarters, they were severely outnumbered. And one of the men held a gun on Jasmine. Check. The black bishop had taken his queen out of play. As in the game of chess, he would voluntarily topple his king to concede, not wanting to risk her life.
Checkmate. Game over. In an instant, everything changed.
Glancing toward Jasmine, Nicholas noticed her dark eyes communicating a clear message. He knew from experience she would fight if he gave her the slightest encouragement. The beautiful woman’s unspoken connection to him made words unnecessary. With a subtle shake of his head, Nicholas gave his order.
You and I shall live to fight another day, my love. He would not challenge the inevitable. Whatever the purpose of these intruders, he would soon find out.
“I’m sure there’s been some kind of mistake.” He glared at the menacing faces of the five men. The two who entered through the front door via passkey had wheeled in a large portable table. Aroma from the food wafted in the air, making his stomach grind. “The hotel knows never to send me wine made in Brazil.”
Insulting the local wine was his calculated attempt to determine whether these men spoke English. The leader’s expression remained deadly focused on him. The man held the rifle tight to his shoulder, clenching the weapon in a taut grip. With no reaction to his first offense, he ventured a second for good measure.
“I hope you realize…” Nicholas raised an eyebrow. ”...there will be no gratuity.”
The head honcho had no sense of humor, nor did he apparently speak any English. Nicholas would not be dissuading him with his keen negotiating skills. Without the use of his quick wit, his best weapon would be gone from his arsenal, along with his gun. Nicholas churned his brain considering his limited options.
The intruder spoke again.
“Você quer tirar sarro de mim, porco americano? Respeite quem aponta a arma na sua cabeça. Você vai saber logo quem esta engarregado ou vai morrer.”
The comment had been directed at him. With so few visits to this country, he had picked up very little Portuguese, but he did recognize the term American Pig and the word morrer had something to do with death.
All things considered—this was not a good sign.
The man standing before him clearly had Indian blood coursing through his veins with his mocha brown skin, pitch-black hair, flat nose, and high, angular cheekbones. The hotel uniform did little to disguise his raw, primitive intensity. An ancient lineage reflected in his dark eyes. The man looked out of place in this urban setting.
So why was he here—and holding a rifle with deadly determination? Desperation forced men to take chances. Unlike the men in this room, Nicholas was not desperate. At least, not yet. Greed was a familiar vice in his area of the world, but Brazil had refined it to an art.
“I’m sure we can come to some…arrangement. If you would allow me to get my wallet, I’ll reconsider your gratuity.” Carefully, he gestured with his hands, making the universal sign of payola.
Encouraged, he watched the headman give a nod, directing one of his followers to act. Nicholas heard a sound behind his back. Maintaining eye contact with the leader, he resisted turning around until… He gasped when something pierced his neck, a sharp sting. Pain forced him to wince and shrug a shoulder.
Too late. The damage had been done.
“What have you—?”
Within seconds, the skin at his neck burned. Muscles in his legs tingled. His equilibrium challenged, he felt weightless and the room swayed. Walls drained their color.
Gravity pulled at him, forcing him to submit to its will. Nicholas dropped to his knees, his arms falling limp by his sides. He no longer had the strength to lift them. From the corner of his eye, he caught a motion.
Jasmine fought for her freedom, a blur of white. Sounds of a struggle distorted in his head, as if filtered through mounds of cotton. Noise deadened to a dull throb—an erratic and faint pulse. A dark shadow eclipsed his line of sight and an arm flung in retaliation. He sensed Jasmine’s loss. It spurred him to stay conscious. His concern for her overwhelmed his body’s surrender to the drugs injected into his system—drugs flooding him with an unmerciful indifference.
Falling face-first to the carpet, he held one eye open, searching for her. The muffled sound of his breaths came in shallow pants, slowing with each passing second. With his eyesight failing, he sensed Jasmine’s dark hair near his face. Her familiar scent penetrated the veil of his stupor. The coppery smell of blood tainted the memory.
Was she—?
The possibility of her lying dead by his side made his heart ache. Dulled outrage compounded his torment. If anything happened to his beloved and loyal bodyguard, the eternal damnation of hell would appear like a day at the spa for the bastard committing the deed.
He vowed this with his last moment of consciousness, before he drifted through a threshold to his own brand of hell.
Read more..
