The Devil’s Heart

"I beg your pardon?" Marcos Navarre stared at the slight figure dressed in dark clothes. The gun pointed at his heart never wavered. "I said move."

This time the voice was less gruff. Marcos stepped away from the hotel room door, hands up just enough so this intruder wouldn't think he was about to do something crazy.

Like lunge for the gun.

If he could get close enough, he would do just that. This wasn't the first time he'd been on the business end of a weapon, and fear was not what motivated his seeming compliance. He'd become inured to violence during the years he'd spent living in South American jungles with a guerilla army. He knew without doubt there was always an opportunity, in situations like this, to gain the upper hand. So long as his hands were free, there was a chance.

No, fear was not at all what he felt. Rage was the word he was looking for. Bone deep rage.

The person facing him was small, though he knew better than to mistake small for weak. Darkness shrouded the room and he couldn't make out any details about his visitor. But Marcos had several inches of height, and many more stones of weight to his advantage.

The moment he had an opportunity, he would act. The key was to remain free, and to keep his senses on high alert. He refused to consider what he would do should this intruder attempt to restrain him in any way. Memories flashed into his mind: a dark room, the sharp odor of sweat and rage, and the feel of his own blood dripping down his wrists.

No. Focus.

"You are wasting your time," Marcos said mildly. "I am not in the habit of keeping large amounts of cash in my room."

"Shut up."

Marcos blinked. The gruffness in his intruder's voice was gone. The person holding a gun on him so coolly was most definitely a woman. He relaxed infinitesimally.

Dios mío.

Who had he offended this time? Wh