Reckless by Samantha Love Read Free Book Online

to see if Nick and José are following. I don’t see them, though I’m not surprised. They know where we’re going, so there’s no reason for them to follow too closely.
    At every tourist stop we pass, vendors sell alpaca booties and hats, brightly colored blankets, endless strands of beads, artwork, textile dolls and items whose uses and designations I can’t specify.
    An hour later, we pass through Urubamba, driving along the Vilcanota River. The mountain ranges press close together as if colluding to squeeze mankind out of the area with a slow thrust of geological warfare. Wandering through a troop of tour buses, we continue north.  
    Except for a few picturesque hostels and homes, we leave civilization, passing deep into a rising valley within the Willkanuta mountain range.  
    Within an hour, we stop outside a private gate where the road ends. The driver presses a button above him and the gate opens.  
    I watch the odometer as we drive.  
    The lonesome road curves around a crag in the mountain. A Mediterranean-style mansion the size of a small resort sits along a lee. The home’s façade faces the mountain, allowing the valley to serve as the backyard. I count three floors from the rear of the home, while the front deceptively reveals only one.  
    According to the odometer, we’ve traveled more than a mile. Shit. Nick and José won’t be able to listen in. I check my cell phone, but of course, I don’t have any bars this far out.  
    Reality sets in. I’m all-alone with high-profile criminals around me.

4

    The Escalade rolls over a smooth, white sandstone drive, stopping under the porte-cochère.  
    The assistant climbs out of the passenger door and helps me out of the SUV. He escorts me down a wrap-around balcony leading to the rear of the compound.  
    I hear Diego yell, “Jalar!” followed by gunshots. At the edge of a large terrace, Diego stands before a stone balustrade with panoramic views.
    “Jalar!” he shouts again.
    An assistant yanks a cord, sending a pair of clay pigeons spinning out of a machine.  
    They orbit over the valley.  
    Diego tracks them with the shotgun and fires twice. A plum of grey dust drifts behind him. One of the clay pigeons explodes, but the other drifts to the valley floor still intact.
    “Fifty-fifty’s not bad,” I say from the upper level of the terrace.
    Diego lowers the shotgun and looks up. “Caroline! It’s so good to see you. I was taking a break from business to get a little shooting in. Have you ever fired a gun?”
    “No,” I lie, continuing my LA-girl stereotype. “But I’ve seen a lot of action movies.”
    “Come down and give it a try. There’s no better way to relax.”
    I descend one of the curved staircases and join him.
    He hands me the shotgun.  
    I recognize it as a Ruger Red Label with an over-and-under barrel design. It’s not a bad gun, but with Diego’s wealth he could have done a lot better. My hands are so quick to move into position that I have to stop myself. I’m Caroline Davis from the LA suburb. I don’t know an action from a stock.  
    I feign fumbling with the weapon.
    “Allow me,” Diego says.  
    He places my hands against the receiver and the fore-end. Moving behind me, his fingers glide up my arm, resting on top of my hand. I should feel creepy about Diego touching me in this manner. This is a ruthless killer, a plague on the masses. Yet Diego’s touch is comforting. I feel safe in his arms, as if nothing from my past can touch me.  
    He guides the barrel through the air, lifting my arms.  
    “When the clay pigeons release,” he says, “lift the shotgun just like that. Try to aim right in front of its flight path and then pull the trigger.”
    He moves my finger off the receiver and onto the trigger.  
    He squeezes my finger.  
    The gun roars.  
    A bullet disappears over the valley—gunshot residue sweeps past my face.  
    God, how I love that smell.  
    “Now you try,” he says.  
    He reloads the