Cold in the Shadows 5

This book is a work of fiction. The characters, names, places, and events portrayed in this book are products of the writer’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, actual events, locales or organizations is entirely coincidental.

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For my brother, Ian.

Who tried to teach me physics.

And failed.

Hopefully he has better luck with the RAF.

Chapter One

T
HE OLD TRUCK
Audrey Lockhart had borrowed from the research station pinged noisily as she turned off the ignition and stared at the tropical surroundings of the Colombian rainforest. It was only five
PM
, but this close to the equator the sun set early, and it was already getting dark. She jumped out and dragged her heavy rolling suitcase from the bed of the truck before hefting two large bags of groceries, her laptop case, and a light rain jacket into her arms.

The Amazon Research Institute where she did her fieldwork was associated with local universities, who ran field courses and rented space to visiting scientists. Audrey had been coming out here on and off for the last five years and loved Colombia—the lush green forests, abundant wildlife, the salsa dancing, even the crazy road system and general lack of amenities. Life was simpler. The pressures of her academic life fell away like broken fetters. The only downside was that the little cabin provided by the institute squatted at the top of a steep hill, with no road access. She started slogging upward.

After a series of early morning flights from Miami to Bogota to Leticia, she’d driven straight to the research station to check on her frogs. She’d rushed home to Kentucky a few weeks earlier when her sister’s life had hung in the balance. Thankfully her sister had recovered. In Audrey’s absence, her grad student Mario had looked after her animals and had done such a good job she’d given him a few days off in reward.

Plastic from the heavy shopping bags cut into her fingers, and they doubled in their pain-in-the-assedness by hitting her shins with every step. Orff’s distinctive “
Carmina Burana
” chime sounded on her phone. She huffed out a frustrated breath and set down the shopping bags to dig her cell out of her pocket. If she didn’t answer her mother would panic.

“You didn’t call to say you arrived safely,” Sandra Lockhart said in a querulous voice.

“I was gonna call as soon as I got to my cabin.” She looked longingly up the hill.

“Considering all the other things I have to worry about I’d have thought you’d at least have the courtesy to call as soon as you landed.”

“Sorry, Mom.” Audrey rubbed her forehead. Back home in Kentucky, Audrey could go weeks without seeing her parents, but as soon as she headed south of the equator her mom freaked, and needed daily reports. It got old fast. “Everything’s okay with you guys, right?” She deflected. “No emergencies?”

“Your dad is putting Redford to bed.” Redford was her two-year-old nephew, father unknown. “Sienna went out on another date with Devon.”

And wasn’t
that
awkward—her drug addicted sister dating Audrey’s ex-boyfriend.

“I think he’s smitten.” Her mom sounded thrilled. Probably because Devon was heir to a billion dollar pharmaceutical fortune. She’d certainly been pissed when Audrey had stopped seeing him.

Audrey didn’t want to deal with the drama anymore. Except she was stuck with this new reality for the foreseeable future.

“Let’s just hope she can stay clean, huh?” Audrey winced at the cynicism of the words, but past experience had taught her to expect the worst. Sienna’s accidental OD in December had been the third in five years. Audrey had resigned herself long ago to it only being a matter of time before they buried her sweet, beautiful sister. But until her sister was ready to kick her drug habit nothing was gonna change, and Audrey only made it worse by pushing too hard.

Although, really, what was worse than dying and leaving your precious child an orphan?

It wasn’t Audrey’s problem—not right now. Her problem was catching up with her research after a month-long absence. “I gotta go, Mom. I need to unpack my groceries.”

“Be careful down there.”

Audrey refrained from telling her she’d experienced more violent crime in the States than she’d ever experienced here. It wouldn’t help. She said goodbye and hung up. Then picked up her heavy bags and struggled up the hill.

The noise of insects grew increasingly loud as if they were working their way up to a rousing crescendo. The sweat and grime of the day clung to her skin even as the cool breeze stirred the hairs on her nape. She couldn’t wait to have a shower, crawl into bed, and sleep for eight hours straight.

A wave of unease stole over her as she became aware of how dark it was. In the five minutes since she’d parked, dusk had eased into the velvet blackness of night. The porch light on the cabin hadn’t come on the way it was supposed to—the bulb must have burned out.

The snap of a twig made her startle and glance around.

Oh, no, you don’t. No running from shadows
.

She pushed aside the fear that wanted to rear up and forced herself to keep moving, one awkward step at a time. One tragedy was not going to define her life.
She
was the lucky one.

Living through violent crime made her sister’s choices all the more frustrating, but that was the beauty and burden of freedom and personal choice. Not everyone got it right. Audrey dragged her load the final few steps to her front door and searched her pockets for the key. It was so dark she could barely see her hand in front of her face. Behind her, the scream of a howler monkey filled the air.

Her heart virtually stopped. Then she laughed and the tension eased. She loved the wildlife here—except for the cockroaches. She could definitely live without the cockroaches.

Using touch alone, her fingers scraped over the smooth wood and found the cool metal of the lock. She inserted her key and stepped inside, flipping the light switch. Nothing happened. Dammit. She was going to have to head back down the hill and talk to the caretaker.

An arm snaked around her middle, pulling her roughly against an unyielding body. Terror flooded her mind as a gloved hand clamped over her mouth.

No, no, no!

Her assailant hauled her off her feet, and she dropped the groceries. Eggs smashed against the tile floor. The scent of sweat, the power in his arms, the rigid muscles of his chest told her the attacker was large, physically fit, and male. She drove her heel backward, connecting with his shin, but her sandals made little impact. Adrenaline flooded her body, reminding her of another time, another pulse-pounding moment of terror when she’d thought she was going to die. Reaching behind her, she dug her nails into the flesh of his waist. He hissed as she scratched him, then shook off her grip like she was an annoying fly. He carried her to the kitchen and maneuvered her until she lay face-first on the unforgiving floor.

He grabbed one of her arms, wrenching it behind her back. Pain shot to her shoulder blade and she yelped as he looped something thin and stiff over her wrist, roughly jerking her other hand to meet the first. He tightened the plastic zip ties and her arms were securely bound.

Oh, God!

He was going to rape her. She was going to die.

Panic detonated like a nuclear device inside her brain. She scrambled like a mad thing, twisting and squirming, then found her voice and screamed. His weight crashed full-force onto her chest and stole the air from her lungs. Her cry was smothered and she could barely move. This couldn’t be happening.

“
No te voy a hacer daño
.” The voice was a hoarse whisper of Spanish. A local?
I’m not going to hurt you.
Sure. That’s what murderers and rapists said so people didn’t give them any trouble while they destroyed your life. “I have a message for you.” English this time.

She wheezed. “Most people use email, asshole—”

The pressure on her back increased as he gave her his full weight. God, why hadn’t she kept her stupid mouth shut? Tears pricked her eyes. Her wrists strained against the tight plastic as he straddled her back then swiveled toward her feet. She kicked at his face, but he captured her legs one at a time, and wrapped another tie around her ankles, cinching it tight. Less than twenty-seconds and she was trussed up like a Sunday frickin’ roast. He rested on top of her for a moment, breathing heavily. She grabbed his testicles and squeezed.

He swore and shifted quickly out of reach, turning to face forward again, putting even more of his weight on her back as he lay down on top of her. Her skin crawled.

Then he chuckled. “
Luchadora
.”

Feisty
? She wasn’t feisty, she was furious.

Nausea threatened. “Please, I-I can’t breathe.” Terror made her voice thin, and she tried to force herself to calm down even as her heart raced. It was impossible. She wasn’t too proud to beg. She didn’t want to die.

Her vision wavered. The walls pressed in on her. The sound of her heartbeat thrashed in her ears. The floor was unrelentingly hard against her cheek, the tile digging painfully into her hipbones and breasts. She went inside herself, concentrated on trying to expand her ribs. After five long seconds of silence, the man eased up the pressure on her back, enough that she could suck in a little oxygen. He moved warily, even though it was hideously obvious she wasn’t the threat. She twisted her head to look at him, but it was too dark to make out any distinguishing features. He wore black clothes and possibly even a mask.

Maybe he wouldn’t kill her if she couldn’t identify him?

She tried to swallow, but there was no saliva left in her mouth. The last time she’d been this scared her best friend had died in her arms.

“
Tengo un mensaje para ti
,” the man repeated in deep rough Spanish.

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