closer, and she saw a glimmer of something in his eyes.
Compassion. And it made her want to cry all over again.
“Tell me who killed Tony,” he said.
Fiona rolled the shot between her palms. “Who killed him?” Montoya had pulled the trigger. Fired the bullet.
But she’d put Tony in danger. Pushed him. Talked him into doing something stupid. She straightened her shoulders. “For all practical purposes, it might as well have been me.”
Chapter 2
He didn’t believe her dramatic claim for a moment but Angel recognized the emotion behind it—guilt.
“It wasn’t you,” he said, taking the shot from her hand. “I know what killers look like.” She didn’t have it in her. Not even an iota. “And you’re not it.”
“It might as well have been,” she whispered, but even as she argued, fatigue replaced the panic in her blue eyes as the adrenaline wore off. She wavered on her feet. Angel dropped the half shot, not caring that mescal sprayed across his boots.
Her eyes rolled backward, and he caught her in his arms before she hit the ground, one arm under her knees and the other across her back. While she was Amazon tall, she was lighter than she appeared, and carrying her across the room and laying her on one of the long tables was akin to zero exertion.
Leaning over her, he wondered what had happened. Gently, his fingertips skimmed her forehead as he pushed her hair away from her face. She was beautiful, with that perfect skin usually reserved for china dolls and airbrushed cover models.
She also knew Tony, which made her important. What was she to him? Friend? Revolutionary? Killer? Co-worker? Lover?
The last thought made him frown.
“Is she okay?” Juan asked, coming out from the back room.
“She’s fine,” Angel said. But what about Tony? He touched her bloodstained jeans. Her panic and fright told him that she wasn’t a professional soldier, so if it was Tony’s blood on her clothes, she might be wrong in her assessment of the situation. Tony might be hurt and nothing more.
Still, it was a helluva lot of blood.
Her eyelids fluttered.
“Give her this.” Juan pressed a cup into his hand.
“What’s in it?”
“More coffee. Black.”
“Thanks.”
“There’s breakfast on the bar.” He gave the woman a deliberate once-over. “A little food would do her good.”
Angel wasn’t so sure. She was thin, but in an athletic way. Not an underfed, someone-please-give-her-a-sandwich kind of way.
Before he could respond, the woman’s eyes opened, and she pushed her elbows under her, sitting up halfway. “What happened?”
“You fainted.”
“I fainted?” Her brows pressed toward each other, creating a furrow between them. “I’ve never fainted in my life.”
“Tough morning,” Angel said.
She squeezed her eyes shut, and for a moment, he thought she might cry. Again. “You have no idea,” she said, her voice tight.
“But I’d like to,” he replied.
She opened her eyes. With careful deliberation, as if fearing she might faint again, she sat up. Hesitating, she slid off the table and took a seat on one of the rickety wooden chairs. Angel handed her the coffee. Her hands shook, and the hot liquid sloshed over the edges and onto her skin. She grimaced. “Hell, I keep doing that.”
“Give it here—” Angel unwrapped her fingers from around the mug and took the ceramic container, handing it to Juan “—before you do some serious damage.”
“I am not a child.”
Angel nodded in acquiescence. “I don’t think you are, but you’ve been through something traumatic.” He pulled a chair closer and sat across from her, leaning with his elbows on his knees. “First, who are you?”
Her blue eyes widened. “Fiona. Fiona Macmillan.”
“Tell me what happened, Fiona,” Angel said.
“Tony and—” Her voice caught in her throat, and for a moment he thought she might break down. Instead, she continued, “Tony and I were at a hotel, the Luz del Bogotá.”
Angel gave a short, curt nod. He knew the place. It had been a four-star hotel until a few years ago. Now, the stucco walls were pitted with bullet holes, and the only people who stayed there were lovers who couldn’t afford better or the occasional turistas who were unfortunate enough to get a crappy travel agent.
She continued, “We were on the fourth floor, watching Montoya—”
“Ramon Montoya?” He tensed at the name. Montoya was not a man to cross, and as far as being a public servant…public enemy was closer to the truth.
She nodded. “Montoya was interrogating a woman, Maria Salvador. Do you know her?”
“Yes,” Angel said. His gut tightened, not liking where this was going.
“What did he want?” Juan interrupted. Angel turned to see the bartender watching them, his hands twisted in a bar towel.
“He wanted names. People in the resistance. In RADEC,” Fiona said. Her hands shook harder now. “He beat her.”
“Is she—”
Fiona held up her hand, signaling silence. “Please let me finish,” she said. Her eyes squeezed shut again, reminding Angel of a frightened child in a dark room, believing that if she opened her eyes, it would make the monsters real.
“We were watching Montoya and his men interrogate Maria. She refused to give up the names. To give that bastard anything. We thought he was letting her go. He told her to leave. Maria walked away.
“They shot her. Right there. Right in the courtyard. They shot her in the back.” Fiona’s voice broke, and for a heartbeat, the only sounds in the room were her sobs.
He wished there was something he could do to assuage her pain, but there was no fixing the situation. No bringing back the dead and reversing time. They had to move forward and act on the problems at hand.
“Maria’s dead?” Juan whispered.
Fiona continued as if she hadn’t heard him, her eyes still closed tight. “Tony jumped up and shouted. Montoya shot him, too. He died on the balcony in a pool of blood.”
She opened her eyes. Liquid blue, they zeroed in on Angel. “The last thing he said was to find you.”
Angel turned away from her stare, his fists tight. Tony was a good man, and he was dead by Montoya’s hand. Both him and Maria.
Behind him, Juan broke into violent sobs.
A grip on Angel’s arm caught his attention. Fiona’s fingers squeezed, digging into the muscle. “So, here I am,” she said, her calm, contained voice a sharp contrast to the tears of just seconds ago. “Can you help me?”
First things first, Angel reminded himself. Grief could wait. So could anger. “Did Montoya see you?”
She hesitated then shook her head. “I don’t think so, but he knows someone was there. I heard his men talking. I won’t have long until they put it all together.”
Damn it.
“Juan.” He grasped the sobbing man’s shoulder. “I need you to check the perimeter. We need to know if she was followed. Can you do that?”
Juan nodded, wiped his eyes and left through the front door, shutting