Chapter 10 Víbora Mateo
Víbora
Mateo
Eight months later
Ihave an idea where we should go next,” Isla says, and I glance down to watch as she slides a strawberry past her lips. She’s bathed in morning sunshine, one arm tucked behind her head where she lies next to me on a blanket, her eyes closed as she savors the sweetness.
I resist the urge to kiss her and refocus on the view through my scope. “Where’s that?”
“Scotland,” she says at the same time Rolland says “vacation” through our earpieces. “Guess who just went back to Inverness?”
I glare at one of the guards patrolling the grounds of the fortified Turkish mansion where Nowak has been hiding for the last three weeks. “Tommy McCormick.”
“Yep. I’d love to watch him writhe in agony from some poisoned sticky toffee pudding at his local pub. Donnelly would be so proud. Justice for Carl. Wouldn’t that be fun?”
“Actually yes. That would be fun.” I track my scope toward the road that leads to the complex. “Anything yet, Rolland?”
“Not yet. And I agree about Scotland.”
“I didn’t say you were invited, Rolly,” Isla chimes in, giving me a wink when I meet her eyes.
“Darlin’, don’t you start with that ‘Rolly’ business. If it wasn’t for me, you’d both be dead. Multiple times in your case, Rocha.”
“Oh, speaking of which . . .” Isla sits up, shifting over to her backpack hidden behind our camouflaged blind. She withdraws a container from its depths, opening it before turning to present it to me. “Happy anniversary.”
I bellow a laugh at the karpatka nestled within the Tupperware container, Sto lat!
piped in dark chocolate on the plastic base.
“So we’re going with the date when you almost killed me for our anniversary, then?
” I ask. Isla shrugs, her smile beaming as she passes me a fork.
“That actually makes perfect sense. I’m not going to bleed from my eyes this time, am I? ”
“Well, if you don’t want to play karpatka roulette, there’s more for me,” Isla says, taking a forkful.
She winks at me, an ache building in my chest as though my heart grows too fast for my bones to contain it.
And I think she can see it. Her eyes soften, and she leans closer until there’s only a thread of space between us.
“I love you, Rocha. And I’m really glad I didn’t kill you.
Except when you leave ammunition on the coffee table—that makes me want to shoot you in the face. ”
Her eyes dance as I laugh. And then I sweep the hair from her face. I can see every piece of her. The lightness and laughter. The fear and sorrow. The bravery and strength. “I love you, too, Isla,” I say, then close the distance between us with a kiss.
“Quit making out, kids,” Rolland barks, and I groan against Isla’s lips, the sweetness of sugar and berries lingering on my tongue as I pull away. “I’ve got eyes on Nowak.”
I keep my scope steady on the house as a car with blacked-out windows snakes down the winding road. It stops briefly at the gate before the guards let it pass. A moment later, it disappears into an underground garage.
Tense silence descends as we wait for any sign of Nowak within the house. I keep my focus on the grounds. Rolland watches from the sandstone hills on the opposite side of the compound. And Isla peers through her binoculars, her gaze trained on the bedroom where Tomasz Nowak has been staying.
“I’ve got him—he’s in the bathroom, starting the shower,” she says, her voice tight with anticipation. Isla’s excitement is palpable, crackling in the arid sun. “This is great. I’m having so much fun.”
I snicker and look through the scope. I should keep my focus trained on the grounds, but I can’t help but sweep up toward the en suite window. Isla has been working on this for months, and her enthusiasm is infectious. “Well, you’d better not miss your shot. He’s about to get in.”
She blows out a deep breath, her phone poised in one hand, her binoculars in the other. “Three . . .”
Nowak tests the water temperature with his hand.
“Two . . .”
He slides his robe off, hanging it beside the shower door.
“One . . .”
Nowak steps inside the spray of water as Isla presses the button on her phone to detonate the canisters that will release her flesh-eating poison into the water lines of the compound.
A moment later, Tomasz Nowak is stumbling out of his shower, his mouth agape in a silent scream as he falls out of view.
“Nowak is down,” Isla says as pandemonium descends across the estate.
We take no shots, unwilling to risk our positions as guards burst into his bedroom and word of Nowak’s death travels across the compound. Armed men run through the house, searching for intruders. They scour the grounds, their weapons raised. But we’re not here for them.
We’re here for one more man.
“I’ve got eyes on Slange. Northwest corner, running across the grass toward the main gate,” Rolland says. I sweep the muzzle of my gun in that direction, searching for him through my scope. But Isla stops me with a firm hand around my wrist.
“Wait—I got you one more present for the occasion.” Isla holds her phone out to me, the circular button for the compound’s sprinkler system a tantalizing blue glow on her screen. “Want to do the honors?”
She gives me a wicked grin. I give her one back.
“Okay, Víbora,” I say, and press my finger to the glass.