Cartagena, Colombia, two weeks earlier:
MATTHEW KNIGHT sat at a table outside the CafΓ© Esmerelda,
drinking a bottle of Colombian cerveza and wondering what
in hell he was doing in Cartagena.
Years ago, in what he sometimes thought of as a different
life, he'd left here and vowed he'd never return.
He'd even been in this cafΓ© before, at this table,
probably in the same goddamned chair, his back to the wall
and his eyes sweeping the busy square, trying to spot
trouble before it bit him in the butt.
Old habits died hard. So did memories that drove you from
sleep in the middle of the night.
Better not to think about that now.
It was hot but then, it had always been hot in Cartagena.
You came down to it, nothing had changed. The smells, the
traffic. Even the crowd jamming the square. Soldados and
policia, touristas loaded down with enough jewelry,
wallets and cell phones to keep the pickpockets happy...
A man had to watch his ass in Cartagena.
He'd known that the first time. He'd thought he was pretty
good at it, too, but if he had been good at it β if he had
been β
Damn it, he wasn't going there. The past was dead. So was
Alita.
Matthew drained the last cold drop of beer from the bottle.
He was here now as a civilian, not as an operative of an
agency where black was white and white was black and
nothing was ever meant to be what it seemed.
And, at thirty-one, he had the world by the balls. He was
in his prime, a hard-bodied six-foot-four-inches with the
chiseled bone-structure of his half-Comanche mother and
the emerald-green eyes of his Texan father. A razor-thin
scar angled across one high cheekbone, a souvenir of a
winter night in Moscow when a Chechnyian insurgent had
tried to kill him.
Women went crazy for that scar. "It makes you look so
dangerous," a little blonde had whispered to him just a
few nights ago, and he'd rolled her beneath him and, to
her delight, showed her just how dangerous he could be.
And he was rich.
Fantastically rich, and not a penny of it had come from
his old man. When your father had spent years ignoring
you β except for the times he told you that you'd never
amount to anything β that was one hell of a fine
achievement.
What had made Matthew rich was Knight, Knight and Knight:
Risk Management Specialists, the company he'd founded with
his brothers. A year apart in age, they shared the same
tough history.
A mother who'd died when they were young. A power-hungry
father. Teenage rebellion, a few semesters of college
followed by Special Forces and the Agency. Life became one
long adrenaline rush. Danger and beautiful women became
Matthew's drugs of choice, though the women never lasted.
A warrior never let his emotions control him. "ΒΏOtra
cerveza, seΓ±or?"
Matthew looked up and nodded. The beer was the only thing
he still liked about Cartagena.
Five years ago, the Agency had partnered him with an
undercover DEA agent and sent them here to infiltrate a
drug cartel. Their cover was that they were lovers,
looking for some money to set themselves up. They weren't,
but Alita liked to tease him and say if she ever got into
men, Matthew would be at the top of the list. And he'd
say, yeah, yeah, promises, promises...
Somebody sold them out.
Four armed men snatched them off the street and drove them
to a falling-down shack in the jungle. They beat Matthew
until he lost consciousness. When he came to, he and Alita
were tied to chairs.
Now you will learn how a man gives a woman pleasure,
gringo, one of their abductors said, sending all four into
gales of laughter.
Alita showed the courage of a lioness. Matthew fought the
ropes that bound him but he was helpless to stop what
happened.
When it was over, two of the killers dragged Alita's body
outside. The third went with them, saying he needed to
take a piss after such hard work. One man remained to
guard Matt. He grinned, showed a mouthful of brown teeth
and said he was going to prepare for the next round of fun.
He was bent over two lines of white powder just as Matthew
finally freed his wrists. "Hey, amigo," he said softly.
The man turned and came toward him. In an instant, Matthew
had his hand over the man's mouth and his arm around his
neck. One quick twist and he was dead.
He killed two of the others with the dead man's weapon but
only wounded the fourth. The guy ran into the jungle.
Fine, Matthew thought coldly. A jaguar would make a feast
of his flesh before the day ended.
He had other things to do.
Like burying Alita.
It was tough, not because it was difficult to scratch a
grave in the fecund soil but because his eyes kept
blurring with tears.
Standing over her grave, he vowed to avenge her. He drove
their abductors'car back to Cartagena, then to BogotΓ‘. The
embassy spook-in-residence debriefed him, expressed
regret...and told him there would be no search for the
killer who'd gotten away. When Matt demanded answers, his
boss ordered him back to Washington.
Sheer luck had Cam and Alex in D.C., too. Over a bottle of
Johnny Walker Blue, the brothers shared their
disillusionment with the Agency.
Risk Management Specialists was born. Based in Dallas, the
Knights provided their clients with solutions to difficult
problems β solutions that were always moral if not exactly
legal.
The Agency, and Colombia, became a memory... Until now.
Until Matthew's father asked him to meet an old friend
with a problem. As a favor, he said.
Avery, asking a favor? Cam's recent brush with death had
changed things. Matthew didn't entirely trust the change.
Still, he'd agreed to the meeting. He'd listen to the
guy's problem, maybe offer some advice. No way was he
going to take on something that would keep him β
A man was coming toward him. Matthew took in the salient
features. North American. Early forties. Good physical
shape. Undoubtedly military, though he was in civvies.
"Matthew Knight?"
Matthew rose to his feet and held out his hand. "Yes."
"Douglas Hamilton. Sorry I'm late."
"No problem, Mr. Hamilton."
"It's Colonel." Hamilton's hand was soft, but his grip was
strong. "I'm with the army." A quick flash of very white
teeth. "The United States army. Didn't your father tell
you?"
Matt motioned Hamilton into a chair, then signaled the
waiter for two more beers.
"My father didn't tell me much of anything except that you
and he are old pals."
Another flash of those white teeth. Matthew had seen
sharks with similar smiles.
"Actually the friendship was between your father and
mine." The waiter put down two icy bottles. Hamilton
ignored his. "How is Avery?"
"Fine," Matt said politely, and wondered why he disliked
Hamilton on the spot.
"I want to thank you for coming down here so quickly, Mr.
Knight."
Matthew didn't answer. You learned more by letting
silences grow than by hurrying to fill them.
"Trading on friendship is presumptuous but I needed a way
to get to you." Hamilton paused. "You and your company
have quite a reputation."
"You could have phoned. We're in the book."
Hamilton shook his head. "I couldn't discuss this on a
telephone."
"Discuss what?"
"Straight to business. I like that." Hamilton's smile
faded. "It's my fiancΓ©e. I'm afraid she's committed an,
ah, an indiscretion."
Matthew sighed. Every now and then, somebody figured
Knight, Knight and Knight for a detective agency.
"Colonel," he said politely, "I'm afraid you misunderstand
what our company does. I'm not a private investigator. I
don't deal in personal issues."
"I know that." Hamilton lowered his voice. "What I'm about
to tell you must be kept in strictest confidence."
Hamilton's fiancΓ©e had slept with another man. That would
surely be the so-called "indiscretion." Did Hamilton think
he could hire a hit man? A couple of people had come to
Risk Management with similar requests, but murder wasn't
on their list of services.
"My fiancΓ©e became involved in β in something."
"An affair with another man?" The colonel gave a harsh
laugh. "I wish it were that simple." He hesitated, leaned
closer. "She smuggled drugs."
Matthew blinked. "She smuggled β"
"Cocaine. As you know, diplomatic mail isn't subject to
customs searches. Mia used my embassy privileges to send
cocaine to the States."
Matthew stared at the man. It was a lot to take in. "Is
she an addict?"
"Not as far as I know."
"Then, why did she do it?"
"For the money, I suppose. A lot of money."
"What happened when she was caught?"
"She wasn't. Not by the authorities. Someone tipped me off
to what she'd done."
"Someone who owed you."
Hamilton smiled tightly. "You can put it that way, if you
like. The point is, I took care of it."
Meaning, the colonel had used his considerable clout to
bury the incident.
"I told Mia. I thought she'd be grateful. Instead, she was
terrified. She said the people who owned the cocaine would
think she'd cheated them and come after her."
"Well, she's probably right."
"I told her she'd be safe under my protection, but she
didn't believe me. This was four days ago." Hamilton took
a deep breath. "Yesterday, she disappeared."
The word made the hair rise on the nape of Matthew's
neck. "Kidnapped?"
"Maybe. Or maybe she ran away. Either way, she's in
terrible danger."
Matthew didn't bother disagreeing. "You've gone to the
authorities," he said, even though he knew the answer.
"I can't. I'd have to tell them the whole story. Implicate
Mia β"
"Implicate yourself."
The colonel didn't respond. He didn't have to. After a
minute, Matthew nodded.
"I see your problem, colonel, but I don't understand how
you think I can help."
"You can find her."
"That's out of the question."
"You know this country."
Matthew narrowed his eyes. "And you seem to know a lot
about me."
Instead of answering, Hamilton took a photograph from his
breast pocket and pushed it across the table.
"This is Mia."
Reluctantly Matthew picked up the photo and looked at it.
He'd expected the colonel's fiancΓ©e to be attractive. A
man like this wouldn't have a woman who wasn't, but Mia
Palmieri had the kind of face and body that inspired
painters and sculptors.
The picture had been taken on the beach on a day windy
enough to have tossed her dark curls into a sexy mane and
plastered her tank top to her high, rounded breasts. She
wore shorts that showed off a pair of endless legs. Her
eyes were wide and dark, her cheekbones sharp enough to
etch glass, and her mouth...
© 2003-2026