Crossing Lines by Adrienne Giordano

Venezuela

Killinga man had not been on Liz Aiken’s daily to-do list.

But she had one guard checked off and one left to eliminate. All in a barely lit basement that stunk of urine and three-day body odor after her assignment — and her cover — had been blown to hell. Her luck always did run bad.

She hovered over the guard’s body, knife still in him and her hand wrapped around it. Blood soaked through his worn T-shirt, drenching her fingers in an oily slickness that would make things interesting when guard number two showed up.

Seconds.

Probably all she had until Number Two came sniffing around to join his buddy in the supposed fun. For three days the two of them had been randomly appearing. First separately, when they’d wander downstairs, checking on her. Did she need anything? Could they get her more water? A snack? Something to read perhaps while they kept her locked up.

That was day one.

On day two they teamed up and put their hands on her, their disgusting fingers dragging over her breasts. The one called Luca held her down and the other attempted to rid her of her jeans.

If he weren’t dead right now, his balls might still be in his throat after she’d blasted him with her boot heel. Either way, after he became Mr. Broken Balls, they’d both turned tail and run. Well, Mr. Broken Balls needed his friend’s assistance up the stairs. He definitely hadn’t run anywhere.

Liz assumed they weren’t into women who fought.

Which was why, when Mr. Broken Balls came at her again today, holding that Ka-Bar, she’d added killing a man to her to-do list.

She glanced down at him, his hateful eyes now closed.

Bastard.

The now familiar squeak of the basement door buzzed her with a fresh batch of anticipation.

One down.

One to kill.

She gripped the knife, jerked it from his abdomen and popped to her feet.

Quickly, she scanned the area, her gaze locking on the shadowed corner under the stairs where two cardboard boxes had been stashed. She’d hide the body and get a jump on Number Two.

The man Broken Balls called Luca.

Ka-Bar still in hand, she hooked her arms under the dead man’s shoulders, hauled him toward the corner and used her foot to tuck him a few inches farther under the staircase. She stepped back and surveyed her work while panic kicked up her pulse. Fight it. When she was done, she could lose it. Allow herself a few moments to go insane. Now? No way.

She refocused on the body. Still visible, but not the first thing Number Two would see.

The first thing he’d see was her and the bloody knife. If she had her way, all seven inches of that blade would impale him.

She wouldn’t be the one to die.

Not today.

She wiped the knife handle and then her fingers across the thigh of her jeans. A shaft of light from the upstairs doorway splashed over the staircase, illuminating it enough to track Number Two. His soft-soled boots came into view as the man slowly descended.

Step.

Step.

Step.

Liz released a long, silent breath. She’d been trained for this. The only one in her class to withstand the torment. Mind over matter. That’s all.

And now she waited.

The second he hit the floor, she’d lunge, maybe get lucky and catch him off-guard before gutting him.

Were there others upstairs? She couldn’t tell by the earlier creaking of floorboards overhead and the voices had been too muffled. She thought it was only two, but…

Next.

She’d deal with additional men if necessary. One thing at a time.

In front of her, Number Two’s boots hit the floor and he stopped, just halted right there, staring straight ahead as if the coppery smell of fresh blood had overtaken the urine.

Now.

She charged from the shadows, Ka-Bar at the ready. He swiveled. His eyes widened and he swung a meaty arm. Force plowed her forward. She rammed her right shoulder into the support beam. Pain ripped into her neck and her vision flashed white.

Stumbling, she hooked an arm around the beam, felt the pull of muscle as her body went to war with momentum.

No going down.

Not with this asshole. Unlike his buddy, this one had more than eight inches on her and a good hundred pounds. Statistically speaking, she’d never overpower him.

But he hadn’t been trained by the CIA.

And she had the Ka-Bar.

And anger.

Lots of anger.

She steadied her feet and he came at her again, moving fast. She hopped left, swung back and lunged. He leapt sideways, his lips curving into a sick — hungry — lopsided grin.

“Go ahead,” he said. “Fight. All the better when I fuck you until you bleed.”

One of them, without a doubt, would leave in a bag.

Not me.

Liz smiled back. “You tried that already, remember?”

Before he could process the taunt, she lunged again. Missed. For a big man, his reflexes were good.

And now he was pissed. The smile was gone, his lips pressed tight, and even in the shadowy light, his dark eyes shredded her. “You bitch,” he said, his Spanish accent a little thicker than she’d grown used to.

He tackled her, knocked her on her ass — oof — and landed on top of her. Knife. She squeezed the handle. Without that, battle over.

Not dying in here. No way.

She jabbed at his eyes. He bobbed left enough for her to half-roll away. Still on the ground, he regrouped and reached for her wrist, keeping her on her side. She kicked out, her heel connecting with his knee. He howled.

Excellent.

Elbow. She swung it back and blasted him, taking satisfaction in the crunch of his shattering nose.

He reached up, instinctively covering his face with both hands. Now. Heart slamming, she leaped to her feet and sucked in a breath, tasted the dank, nasty air. The stairs were right there. Right there.

Freedom. So close.

She snapped one foot out, hitting him in the ribs. He howled again, but grabbed her ankle, yanked once, then again and her feet flew from under her. She hit the ground again, this time using her forearms to break her fall.

Knife. She still had it. But too quickly he was on her, straddling her. No. She focused on him. Throat. She’d go for the throat.

Before she could react, he drove his fist into her cheek — pow. Her head snapped sideways and pain exploded into her eye socket.

Jesus, that hurt.

Her vision flashed white one more time and the pain disappeared. Just…gone. It would come again. Later. Right now, adrenaline was her extremely generous friend.

Not dying here.

She peered up at him. A drop of blood dripped from his nose. She’d done that. Bloodied him.

Finish him.

He wrapped the other hand — huge hand — around her throat, crushing her airway. She’d given the intelligence community and her country everything she had. Including sacrificing a personal life. How much more did she have?

Not dying here.No way.

“I’ll fuck your dead body, bitch.”

He squeezed tighter, robbing her of air and smiling that same sick smile.

Not.

Today.

Her thoughts grew fuzzy, her vision blurring. She blinked, then blinked again.

Knife.

She lifted it. Rammed it into his side. The blade struck bone, lancing off a rib. He cried out, the piercing sound stretching her already fried nerves. She forced the knife deeper and deeper still, burying it to the hilt. Rage flooded her. Survive. That’s all she had to do.

The man’s eyes and mouth shot open, a gurgle bubbling in his throat.

Punctured lung. She ripped the knife free, then plunged again. His screaming filled the basement, the sound ricocheting off the walls. Focus. That’s all she had to do.

Her mission was already toast. All she needed to do now was survive.

She yanked again, then stabbed.

Stab, stab, stab.

The bloody blade hacked away and she craned her neck, fought to free her trapped throat.

His hold, that iron grip, finally loosened and she gasped, sucking in — amazing, beautiful, air.

“Not,” she choked. “Today.”

She bucked and he swayed left. She bucked again, shoved and . . . He toppled. Go. Pushing to her feet, she risked a glance at his crumpled body and heaving chest. He let out a harsh, watery gurgle and then…nothing.

Stillness.

Absolute quiet that roared at her.

Liz released a breath, her body folding as exhaustion and pain bullied through the adrenaline rush.

Get out.

She couldn’t stay here. Taking the knife with her, she hustled up the steps, her booted feet thumping against the wood. Stealth, at this point, wouldn’t matter. With all the screaming that had just gone on, anyone upstairs would have investigated.

At the top of the stairs, the door sat halfway open. She nudged it the rest of the way, peeped left and right. Nothing but a narrow hallway leading to…thank you…a rear door.

A backpack hung on the knob. She’d help herself to that.

Down the hallway she went, scooping up the backpack and opening the door to darkness and a blast of humidity. Had to be ninety degrees. Not necessarily unusual for Venezuela in May. And what the hell time was it? Above her a full moon lit the path leading from the house. They’d fed her dinner hours ago. At the latest, it might be midnight. That would give her plenty more darkness.

She closed the door behind her.

Freedom.

At least for now.