Page 43 of Wicked Intention

“I’m running to the motel right now.”

“Hurry,” she whispered, and then the phone disconnected. He picked up his pace.

This was a fucking mess, and the blame was completely his. He should have stayed far, far away from Zo. He knew better. From the instant he’d seen her, his brain had switched to the off position, and he’d been operating on desire.

He made a call.

“Stony, what the fuck?” Ski said when he picked up.

“I won’t make the meeting.” He explained that Torres might believe Finn was dealing arms behind his back. “In about ten minutes, I’ll be in a limo headed to the boss’s compound.”

“No, you won’t.”

Finn ignored him. “He’s not convinced I’m guilty, so I should have a chance to persuade him I’m not involved.”

“The Big Dog would tell you—”

“It’s not his call.” Even if the captain gave him a direct order, Finn was going in. He wasn’t deserting Zo.

“Listen to me, dude, you are not getting in that car. It’s too dangerous.”

“I’m going. They have Zo.”

“Who?”

“Zofia Parker, the archaeologist.”

Ski let loose with a string of profanities. When he finished,he said, “It’s my turn to tell you that you’re a fucking moron. What the hell were you thinking, Stony?”

“I wasn’t thinking, okay?” Fuck this shit. Finn ended the call.

He didn’t need Pienkowski to tell him he was an idiot. Finn knew it already. Zo was probably cursing him, too, and ruing the day he’d walked into her life. If he’d kept his distance, the bastards wouldn’t have kidnapped her today.

His phone started vibrating in his hand. Ski. Finn snapped it back at his waist and kept running. He had a deadline, and arguing would only slow him down.

Finn arrived at the front of the motel at the same time as the limo.

ZO HAD READ somewherethat a kidnapper was less likely to commit murder if their hostage became a real person to them. She wasn’t certain this applied to professional killers, but on the off chance it did, she’d hidden her distaste and tried to make some kind of connection with Torres and even Silva. She wasn’t doing well with the latter, but the former had invited her to call him Jorge. They’d found a common interest.

“There’s no evidence the Wari and Tiwanaku empires ever fought each other,” Zo said. “It’s believed they existed in a state of cold war, but these societies aren’t my area of expertise.”

“What is your area of expertise?” Silva asked. He was dressed in a custom-made suit with a crisp white shirt and a conservative tie. Always the businessman. Silva appeared about ten years older than Torres, although his boss was easily fifteen years his senior. Silva’s prematurely white hair aged him while Torres’ hair remained darker, the gray sprinkled in.

Zo finished the last bite of fish on her plate, took a sip ofwater, then said, “The focus of my graduate studies was on the Huarona people.”

“The same as your parents,” Silva said, letting her know she’d been investigated.

Had he turned up her connection to Mari? “Yes,” she said, forcing a smile, “the same as my parents.”

“I’ve never heard of the Huarona civilization,” Torres said. “Tell me more.”

Almost no one heard of them, and she’d given this spiel more than once. “There are only two known sites. There wasn’t much at the first location, but the other one appears to be a large city. The dates that came back when my parents were working there put it approximately 600 to 1500 CE.”

“What else do you know of them?” Fascination was obvious in Torres’ tone. He was dressed more casually than Silva in dark trousers and a white shirt with the collar open, and he seemed more relaxed, but the country gentleman guise was belied by his reputation.

“Most of what’s known is from local legends passed down orally, generation by generation. Only a fraction of the ruins were uncovered when the civil war ended the excavation, but what little we did see seemed to have been abandoned quickly.”

Torres looked crestfallen, although he was likely making out like a bandit arming the rebels. Maybe the government, too. “What happened to the Huarona?”