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  Maya resisted the temptation to look back and see if her stalker had followed her into the bar, and instead pressed her way through the final five feet to the rear courtyard. There were fewer people outside, although she knew that within a few hours the entire establishment would be standing room only.

  She looked around and spotted the area of the outdoor wall that had brought her to the bar — two bathrooms she remembered were in a brick enclosure that had open air over the commodes. Maya darted to the women’s room and locked the door, wasting no time in standing on the toilet seat and reaching to grab the lip of the wall.

  Her injured hand screamed in protest as she pulled herself up and over, dropping silently into the alley before sprinting off. Whoever was chasing her was improvising now — there was clearly no plan other than to terminate her, and they were probably shorthanded since three of them had been neutralized at her shop.

  A chunk of mortar tore off the facade next to her, and she heard the distinctive sound of a ricochet, so she increased to a flat-out run to put distance between herself and the shooter. Another shot missed by a wider margin — she dared a glance over her shoulder. The gunman was firing through the rear bathroom window, probably standing on the toilet to reach the aperture, which had iron bars on it to prevent break-ins. She didn’t want to waste any of her precious bullets, so she raced to the end of the long block rather than shooting back. A silenced 9mm round would lose accuracy every yard she put between her and the gun. Given the distance, she liked her odds — which changed when she turned the corner into an even smaller street and confronted a running figure thirty yards away brandishing a pistol.

  They must have been communicating, probably by radio or a private com channel.

  The gunman hesitated for a split second, and Maya fired through her purse. Two of the rounds went wild, but the third connected, and he went down, shooting even as he dropped. She felt a tug at the bottom of her new shirt, and she saw a smoking hole in the loose folds around her waist. The bullet had missed her by no more than a centimeter, which was enough, but still too close.

  Another round went wide as the shooter tried to hit her. Moving a few steps closer to him, she pulled the Beretta free of her purse, aimed carefully, and fired. The man jerked as his weapon rattled against the cobblestone, and then he lay still.

  Maya approached cautiously, gun trained on his inert body, and when she reached him, she toed his gun out of reach. She noted that his Beretta was the twin of hers — then her legs swept from under her, and she was falling backwards. The shooter had sweep-kicked her, and she hadn’t reacted in time, realizing her error even as she went with the momentum and rolled.

  The pain from the impact shot up her side as she hit the hard street, but she ignored it and concentrated on maintaining her grip on her weapon even as she tried to get far enough from the downed man to avoid any more damage from him. Her wrist struck the ground and went numb for a split second, and she involuntarily dropped the pistol with a wince.

  He kicked at her again, but she surprised him by launching herself at his face, leading with her elbow. She felt a satisfying connection with his jaw and heard his head smack against the street’s rough surface. She followed it up with another brutal downward blow with the same elbow and heard a crunch as his nose fragmented.

  Her head snapped back and blinding pain shot up her jaw as his fist bashed into it, then she felt impossibly strong arms wrap around her upper torso, seeking a hold. She pivoted with his pull and rammed the heel of her damaged hand into his ruined nose, but he twisted at the last second, avoiding the lethal strike that would have ended his life. Maya instantly followed with an eye dig, ignoring her hand’s protest as she drove her fingernails into his corneas. This time he wasn’t quite fast enough, and he howled in anguish — the first noise either of them had made during the deadly contest.

  The scream was cut off by her next strike: both palms slammed against his ears, instantly bursting his eardrums — an injury she knew caused unspeakable agony. His arms fell away from her as they groped for his head, and she completed her follow-through by slamming his skull against the pavement. The sickening crack confirmed that the fight was over, and he lay still, blood trickling into the gutter from underneath him.

  She rolled away, rose to her knees, then stood and stepped to where his weapon lay. Confirming that it was the same as hers, she popped the magazine out and slipped the full clip into her purse. There would be time to reload her gun once she had some breathing room.

  Another figure peered around the corner of the building at the end of the block, the muzzle of his silenced pistol pointing in her direction — she instinctively reacted, whipping the clip-less pistol at him and pulling the trigger.

  The lone chambered round that remained in the gun discharged, and she watched as the side of his face blew off and his body collapsed back behind the building.

  After dropping the empty gun, she scooped hers up and approached the latest attacker’s motionless form as she mulled her options. She could either keep running or stay and concentrate on taking out anyone else pursuing her. The momentary glimpse she’d gotten of the latest shooter hadn’t looked like the man who’d been following her, so there was at least one more out there. Maybe more.

  She peered cautiously in the direction she’d come from, but the alley was empty. The gunman in the bar bathroom had likely elected to exit from the front entrance and loop around. That was valuable information. She could anticipate his approach.

  Still watching the alley, she reached her throbbing hand down and quickly went through the fallen attacker’s pockets, noting the telltale smashed earbud wedged under his head. State-of-the-art closed-loop com gear — as expected.

  His weapon was another Beretta clone, so she exchanged the clip for the one in her pistol and then melted into the darkness of a nearby doorway, prepared for the next attack.

  Which never came.

  She waited expectantly but nobody materialized. One minute, then two, and nothing.

  From the opposite direction, she heard conversation in Spanish over shuffling footsteps. It sounded like three young men arguing about where to go next. Their evening would be ruined when they came across the corpses, but that wasn’t her problem.

  She needed to get out of there, grab her pre-prepared escape kit, and disappear forever.

  Maya eased from the gloom, quiet as a ghost, and edged into the night, the echoing voices of the young men following her down the street as she became one with the shadows.

  Chapter 2

  Sirens keened in the distance as she marked out an unobtrusive pace — just another local on her way home after a long day.

  That she would wind up being hunted by the police was a given. The only question was how long it would take. If they had help, such as an anonymous call fingering her, it could be near instant. If they had to piece things together after finding the bodies at the cafe, she probably had a few hours.

  But she couldn’t count on catching any breaks — she hadn’t yet. It was safest to assume the authorities would start looking for her any minute, which made getting to her escape kit priority number one.

  Four blocks away, she turned and continued towards the park — her destination an English pub owned by a woman she’d befriended shortly after arriving on the island, who had helped her find an apartment and put her in touch with many of the workers needed to finish out the internet cafe. Chloe was a French ex-pat in her early forties who had been through two husbands, was on number three, and had wound up living on Trinidad by accident, as many did. She’d come on vacation and fallen in love with the bar owner — Vincente, husband number three. They had a nice business carved out catering to islanders looking for something different. Four months after meeting her, Maya had asked Chloe to store a few boxes in her cellar.

  The King’s Arms was slow this Friday night. Most of the action was down at the waterfront for Carnival, and there were only a few stalwart hard drinkers at the bar, a
nd three fat Germans enjoying a loud argument in their native tongue over why nobody but Germans could brew decent beer. Maya spoke seven languages, but when she entered, she kept her understanding to herself, even as they made leering comments to one another at what they’d like to do with her.

  Chloe was wiping down the bottles with a cloth.

  Maya approached her with a smile.

  Chloe frowned in return. “Sweetheart! What happened to you? What’s wrong with your hand?”

  Maya knew she looked worse for wear. She glanced down at the bloody mess of paper towels she’d hastily wrapped around her hand, keenly aware of the bruising that must have been starting on her face.

  “I’m such an idiot. I was trying to hang some new art, and it got away from me. I was using wire to suspend it, and it cut me when I fell off the chair I was standing on. I’m going to get stitches after I’m done here.”

  “What? Stitches? Good Lord! Did you hit your head hard?” Chloe exclaimed, her mothering instinct coming out.

  “Hard enough, but my hand got most of the damage. It looks way worse than it is. It was so stupid using a swivel chair. Listen, Chloe, I need to get into the box I left with you. I’m sorry about the hour, but is there any way I can? I’ll only need a few minutes.”

  “Are you crazy? Go and get that hand taken care of. The box can wait.”

  “I know, I know, but I’m here now, and I have a few things I absolutely need to get.”

  Chloe sighed her resignation. “If you say so. I can open up the cellar, but I’m single-handed so you’ll need to manage by yourself. Vincente is at Carnival with some friends. We expected it would be dead tonight. Everyone’s out in the streets.”

  “I’ll only be five minutes. I know exactly what I’m looking for.”

  “Cheri, you’re worrying me. The hospital will take hours to treat you. Let me make a phone call to a friend of mine — a doctor. A general practitioner, but he should be able to handle a few stitches. He lives above his offices. Only a few streets away.”

  Maya considered the offer, balancing it against her sense of urgency. She’d need to take care of her hand eventually or risk being in a situation where it could incapacitate her.

  “Oh, Chloe. Thank you so much. You’re the best friend ever. Really. I hate for you to go to the trouble…”

  “Nonsense. I’ll open up for you and then make the call. Hopefully he’s not drunk yet.”

  They walked together to the back, and she unlocked the door that led to the basement. Chloe switched on the light and pointed down the rickety wooden stairs.

  “It’s right where you left it, at the back by the two scuba tanks.”

  “I remember. Go take care of your customers. I’ll be back in no time.” Maya slipped by her and entered the dank space.

  Chloe nodded and softly closed the door behind her.

  Maya locked the deadbolt so she wouldn’t be disturbed and made straight for the box she’d left almost two years ago. It was still sealed with the original packing tape. She pulled it towards her and slit the tape with her keys, then reached in and lifted out a medium-sized aluminum suitcase designed for carry-on luggage. After thumbing the numbers on the latch dials, she flipped the levers, and they popped open with a snap.

  Maya glanced up at the door and then began her inventory.

  First came the Heckler amp; Koch MP7A1 machine pistol wrapped in oilcloth, followed by the sound suppressor. Then the four thirty-round magazines and three boxes of ammo. Next, a butterfly knife with a razor-sharp blade, and two hand grenades. A Ruger P95 9mm pistol with one extra clip, and a stainless steel Super Tool.

  Weapons spread on the floor, she reached in and extracted a heavy waterproof plastic bag. Inside were twenty thousand dollars in hundred dollar bills, a Belgian and a Nicaraguan passport in different names, matching driver’s licenses, a corporate credit card with an expiration date good for three more years in the name of Techno Globus SA that would allow her to access the account with a hundred and fifty thousand dollars in it from any ATM in the world. The final items were a first aid kit, hair dye and a handheld GPS resting on top of an empty Swiss slimline nylon backpack — virtually indestructible, with two compartments that were waterproof to five meters. After loading the magazines she repacked the box, replacing the locked suitcase before sliding it back into place next to the scuba tanks. She checked her watch then packed the weapons and documents in the backpack, amazed at how little room everything occupied. Maya felt much better now that she had her own guns and a couple of new identities in her hands.

  In no time at all she was back at the bar, thanking Chloe again.

  “See? I told you it wouldn’t take long.”

  “I managed to get hold of my friend. He agreed to see you in ten minutes at his office. It’s next to the little cafe that serves those great croissants. Do you remember?”

  “How can I forget? Thanks again, Chloe. I didn’t mean to disrupt your exciting evening with the boys,” Maya quipped, eyeing the inebriated Germans.

  “As long as they pay, I’m happy. Do you need his address? His name’s Roberto. Not bad looking, either.”

  “No, I can find it.”

  Maya reached out her good arm and hugged Chloe, kissing her on the cheek.

  “Ciao, sweetie. Good luck with the stitches, and call me if you need anything. I’ll be here till two,” Chloe said, still concerned.

  “I will. Be good.”

  The streets became more crowded as she wound her way back to the waterfront. The doctor’s office was five blocks from the shore — far enough for the rents to be drastically lower, but close enough to receive sick or hurt tourists. She found it with ease, and he was waiting at the door, holding it open.

  “Doctor Roberto?”

  “That’s me. And you must be Carla…” Carla was the name Maya used in Trinidad — her third alias, which was now blown.

  She nodded.

  “Come in. Let’s see what we have here.” He led her to the little examination room, which was already illuminated.

  Maya repeated her story for him as he examined the wound. She winced as he probed it and flushed it out with antiseptic rinse.

  “You’re very lucky. You missed the artery by a few millimeters. No tendons severed, so you should recover with no problems. You won’t be playing the piano this week, but apart from the pain, it’s not the end of the world.”

  “That’s a relief.”

  “I’ll give you something for the discomfort — you’ll need a few stitches.”

  “No, I’m good. I have a high pain threshold. Just do your worst.”

  He regarded her. “You sure?”

  “No problem. Just sew me up, and let’s get it over with.”

  Five minutes later, he was finished and had applied a proper dressing with a bandage and gauze wrap. She held it up and inspected it, nodding.

  “Thanks so much for this. I’m sorry to disturb you at this hour. Really.”

  “Any friend of Chloe’s is a friend of mine. Besides, you’re lucky you got me before I headed out. Which is my plan now.” He gave her another look and smiled. “Can I interest you in a cocktail on the water?”

  After a little back and forth, she was able to extract herself graciously, begging off due to a headache — Roberto refused to accept any payment but insisted she take his cell number. If she hadn’t been running for her life, she might have even been interested in having a beer or two with him, but tonight wasn’t meant to be. She had to figure out how she was going to get off the island while she still could. It was only a matter of time before the police locked it down.

  Maya paused a hundred yards from her apartment building, wary of surveillance. Further down the block, a dog barked — a pit bull that she knew from experience was mostly attitude. But the tone of the barking, strident and agitated, gave her pause — there was an unusual urgency to it.

  The few cars in the neighborhood were dilapidated, beaten by time, their exteriors corroded by the sal
t air and decades of neglect. She didn’t see any unfamiliar vehicles, so if her pursuers knew where she lived, they weren’t mounting a watch from the road.

  A few porch lamps provided scant illumination, the street lights long ago having burned out, the city’s promises of replacement as hollow as most of the other assurances of change. She moved cautiously in the shadows, senses on alert. There was still at least the one man from the bar out there somewhere, and quite possibly more, although the number sent to terminate one target would likely be low, and her adversaries might continue to underestimate her.

  Circling the block, she didn’t see anything suspicious. Maya always paid for the apartment in cash every month, no lease, so there was no way to track her to it short of following her, which she almost surely would have detected. Even if she was a little rusty, she still had the sixth sense for being watched that she’d honed. Many of the better field operatives developed it over time, and she had been the best.

  On second approach, she came in from the back of the complex, having climbed over a wall separating the garbage area from the neighbor. Her second floor apartment was dark, and there was no sign that anyone had been there. No watchers in the trees, no suspicious loitering figures.

  A black and white cat tore across her path with a hiss. Startled, she whipped out the pistol before registering what it was. Seeing its furry form scurry away, she took several deep breaths to slow the pulse pounding in her ears back to normal.

  Maybe she was more than a little rusty.

  In the old days, none of this would have raised her heart rate above eighty.

  As she took another few silent steps, she caught movement on the periphery of her vision. The glint of something by the parking area. Maybe a watch. She peered into the gloom, eyes searching, but she didn’t see anything more.