Runaway Rule (The Fugitive Files #1)

1. Chapter 1

Pierce

The words of the letter burn through my mind while I’m supposed to be getting my head right before my meeting. Two hours later and I still can’t make sense of it. Does he have any idea what he’s done?

No, because he never cared about anyone except himself. So naturally, endangering my very existence wouldn’t faze him.

Clenching my jaw, I jump out of my truck, checking twice to ensure I lock it before heading into the more dangerous part of the city. I can’t get far enough from the letter burning a hole in my glove box.

How did he find me? The envelope wasn’t rerouted; it came straight to Mexico, where I’ve been hiding for the last six months. Before that, it was Paraguay. Chile, Brazil… I’ve lost track.

What if he’s here? I glance around the crowded downtown area, scanning the rundown stucco buildings and dirty alleyways, waiting for him to jump out as if he isn’t a seventy-year-old man.

I was trained to avoid detection, and I can’t even hide from my own grandfather. He’s not one to be underestimated. His forty years in the CIA prove that.

He may have taught me half of what I know, but I’ve picked up some useful skills over the last few years.

I’ll disappear again—quicker, smoother. I’ll go completely off-grid and won’t reach out to old contacts.

After the money from this job comes through, I won’t need to work.

I’ll retire in a small coastal town somewhere, take the odd job as a volunteer firefighter, or something.

It’s probably time. I’ve done enough, seen enough.

I’ve blurred the lines one too many times. So this is it. My last mission.

That’s what I need to focus on. But…

His letter was just cryptic enough to leave me wondering. Is my grandmother sick or hurt? My cousins Hailey and Emi?

I kick an empty beer can out of my way. This is exactly what he wants: to get in my head and make me question everything. He wants me to come racing back to him, trust him, when I’ve already sworn I’d never do that again. I don’t need him, his connections, or his money.

Whatever game he’s playing will have to wait.

I step off the sidewalk, pretending to be interested in a colorful donkey pinata while scanning the occupants of the outdoor cafe up ahead, nearly invisible against the fading sun.

There’s nothing good to eat at this cafe, which is why I suggested it. No reason to stay in one spot for longer than necessary.

My contact sticks out like a sore thumb.

He’s early. That’s always appreciated. He made the mistake of sitting in the only chair out in the sun, and is tugging at the neck of his Hawaiian-print shirt.

As if that weren’t obvious enough, he’s jumping at every sound.

A car backfiring, a soda can popping. Clearly, he’s never made an exchange like this before.

I’ll have to treat him like he’s a delicate little puppy.

Make him feel safe, get him to hand over his toy, then pat him on the head and send him on his way with a “good boy.”

I should be gentler. For normal people, this is the only brush with danger they will experience.

I live in this covert world, and him causing a scene is not what I need.

There are other people after this encrypted flash drive, which is why I was hired to be the courier.

I can take care of myself while keeping the information secure.

I only hope I have a bit of a head start.

I’d hate to fight someone tonight; the bruises on my knuckles just faded.

I watch the man and the surroundings for anything out of the ordinary.

I have little information on the contents of the drive.

I’m just the middleman; I don’t need to know.

All I need to do is get the information from point A to point B: from my contact to the man in Russia.

Of course, I’ll check the drive first and ensure it isn’t secretly a recipe for the next nuclear bomb; I do have some morals, but I was promised this was going to change lives for the better.

Not that I can trust the man who used a very untrustworthy ‘John Smith’ as his alias.

If the drive turns out to be dangerous, I’ll call in an anonymous tip to a group of undercover Feds to take care of the situation and simply disappear sooner.

I have backup plans, and more backup plans.

I wouldn’t be a good undercover freelance operator if I didn’t.

I’m optimistic about this job, and not just because it pays extremely well.

I was told this would cure something incurable.

For once, it’s not sketchy secrets and proof of affairs I’m passing back and forth from one rich person to the next.

That used to be enough for me. Now, for the first time since I left the CIA, there’s a promise of something better—something good.

I feel it in my bones. As long as I get my contact to hand it over before someone else snatches it up.

Which is why we are here in Mexico instead of California, where he was being watched.

This is where I can pass along secrets that never need to see the light of day.

My shoes crunch over the loose gravel as I step out from under the shade and cross a faux bridge, inspecting every person I pass, studying each for weapons or ill intentions.

Multiple ‘hidden’ handguns under tight-fitting t-shirts, unsurprising in this area, but no one appears focused on my contact or legitimately threatening.

It’s all clear to engage.

I pass the empty hostess stand—another perk of the joint—and weave around the small bar to where my contact waits.

Approaching the table, I take off my glasses and tuck them into my pocket with a smile.

“How’s the tequila?” I address him with the phrase he wrote in his email. Seems he got a drink to help sell the story, though I’m not sure what liquid is in the dark blue, dirty glass.

His frantic eyes dart to mine, and a little of the fear eases from his tense shoulders. Then a waitress drops a plate on the table next to us, and he nearly jumps from his seat.

I sit down, perfectly at ease. “Are you having a lovely vacation?”

He swallows, brushing a hand over his mustache. It’s awful. Patchy and orange despite his black hair. He should shave, but I’m not here to offer unsolicited advice. I charge extra for that.

“Vacation?” he asks.

My smile freezes in place. This might be harder than I thought. He’s too nervous.

“Maybe you’d enjoy a trip to the beach sometime, very relaxing.”

“Relaxing?” his head bobs. “Yes. I need to relax.”

I lean across the table. “Do you have something for me? Pictures of your adventures, perhaps?”

He turns his head, blatantly looking left, then right, and I silence a sigh. I’m tired of working with amateurs. This man wouldn’t last two seconds with the cartel.

“Do you have something for me?” he asks.

I frown. He’s going off-script, and I don’t like where it’s headed. “No. Only here for a good time.”

He rocks to the side of his seat so far, I’m afraid he’s going to topple off the cheap wooden thing.

He leans over the table, coming within spitting distance. I now know he’s drinking a beer, which is much more intimate than I wanted to be with this stranger. I inch back. “I want a good time too,” he whispers. “That’s why I’m here. What do you have on you?”

What is he doing? I straighten, discreetly scanning the area. Did I walk into a trap? I clench my jaw, then unclench it in case we are being watched. “You have something for me.”

He jerks back and fumbles with his glass of beer, spilling some on the table. I move my leg away from the liquid that drips through the cracks in the cheap wooden top. What is wrong with this man?

Maybe he’s been spooked.

“Did something happen?” I say quietly. “Did someone else approach you, threaten you. I can hel—”

My words are cut off by the sound of a high-pitched laugh. It has the same effect as a gunshot, and my head whips toward the bar to locate the intruding sound.

It’s a woman. No, it’s worse. It’s a tourist. Blonde hair, a bright pink sundress, tanned legs. She’s alone. Not many tourists find their way to this section of Puerto Vallarta, but the ones who do are looking for something. What is she looking for? She shouldn’t be here.

I clear my throat and turn my focus to Mr. Smith.

She’s not my problem.

“Mr. Smith, give me the drive,” I say, cutting to the chase. I’ve been here long enough already.

His attention darts from me to the woman who is laughing at something the bartender is saying. “Mr. Smith? I’m not Mr. Smith.”

I clench my jaw so hard it clicks. “You’re not?”

He leans across the table, once again invading my space with the very air he breathes. “I thought you were here to sell me pills to get my bowels moving.”

I blink.

He’s a nobody—a nobody who sat at the wrong table. I kick the table leg, and it jolts, sending the rest of his beer sloshing onto my knee.

“Have you ever heard of laxatives?” I ask through clenched teeth.

“My situation is a little more dire. Things have been stuck ever since my surgery last week and I need—”

I hold my hand up, not wanting to hear more.

How did I screw this up? I could blame my grandfather’s unwanted and mysterious letter for knocking me off my game tonight, but it’s my fault for not paying better attention.

This man is clearly a tourist who came to town for illegal surgery and is now looking for cheap drugs.

I’ve got to get rid of him before the real Mr. Smith shows up. Unless Mr. Smith has already come and gone, because this idiot sat down at my table. I browse the cafe, looking for a single guy. I find only empty tables or large parties.

“Leave,” I say.

“But I ordered a burrito. And I need something,” he whispers the last part, as if this part of Mexico has never heard of a shady deal. “Do you have any oxy at least?”

“No.” Over the man’s shoulder, a movement catches my eye. A man in a navy-blue shirt. Dodgers baseball cap. Sunglasses. Trying to blend in when he’s clearly out of place. He’s keeping his head down, so I can’t get a good read on his face. It could be Mr. Smith.

“I’m not leaving I want—”

“I’m a cop.”

The magic words finally get him moving. At least some part of him is capable of doing so.

He leaps to his feet and takes the other exit as if his pants are on fire.

I sit back in my chair and open my phone, casually encouraging the real Mr. Smith to approach.

I use my camera to clock his movements, not aiming it any higher than his fancy leather oxfords. Definitely American, though I don’t want to jump to conclusions this time.

His feet turn in my direction, and I wait.

Get on with it.

He might think I double-crossed him, so I understand the hesitation. But I have a flight to catch in two hours to complete this deal for him… and for the money, but mostly for him. I risk a glance up, just as a scream pierces the air.

“Help! My purse! Someone call the police!”

I straighten, assessing the situation. It’s the blonde, hands clasped to her chest as a man dressed in black disappears around the back of the building.

Nobody moves in the area, except ‘Mr. Smith’, who runs in the opposite direction of the purse thief.

You’ve got to be kidding me.

“Mr—” I cut myself off. It’s useless. This meeting was shot from the beginning. I’ll contact him again with a different location and reschedule my flight. I can salvage this.

“Someone help!” the woman yells again, but no one reacts. Thefts like these happen hourly around here.

Then she does the unthinkable—she runs after the most likely armed and dangerous thief.

To be a good person or not? That is the question.

A low growl echoes in the deep part of my throat, and for some stupid reason, I chase after the purse thief instead of my contact. Curse my moral compass.