Free Crazy Kisses by Tara Janzen

couples sitting here and there on the benches, and the last thing he wanted was to draw anybody’s attention.
    Blending in—that’s what they were doing now, not running their guts out.
    Releasing the death grip he had on her arm, he slid his hand down to hers and gave her a quick glance. He’d been holding onto her pretty damn tightly—and sure enough, he’d marked her. Every one of his fingerprints stood out on her pale skin like a brand.
    Damn, he hated that, really hated it.
    Moving her along at a fast walk, he headed toward the street, toward the crowds of people making the scene in the Calle Uruguay, Panama City’s club district. On Friday and Saturday nights it was the biggest party in the country, the safest place for them.
    “We’re almost there,” he said, glancing over his shoulder. “You’re doing great.” That was a lie. She didn’t look like she was doing great. She looked shell-shocked. He could imagine what was running through her mind, and none of it was good.
    Letting go of her for a second, he did up a couple of buttons on the shirt. He had a round in the chamber of his .45, five left in the magazine, and thirty cartridges in his cargo pocket. Under the best of circumstances that was a damn short firefight. Under the worst of circumstances it was a goatfuck waiting to happen. Thirty-six rounds weren’t enough for him to win a gun battle if Conseco’s narco-guerrillas chased them down.
    At the street, he gave up on the buttons—three would have to do—and took her hand again. He didn’t wait for a break in the traffic. There was no break in traffic in the Calle Uruguay district on Friday night. Taxi drivers honked, and a few people cussed him out in two languages, but they made it across. Half a block farther and he pulled her into the shadows between two buildings.
    His heart was racing. Her breath was coming hard and fast.
Geezus,
that had been close, too damn close. Somebody at the DEA in Bogotá needed a freaking heads-up on their security protocols at the hospital, because they’d been breached every which way from Sunday. There was no other way for anyone to have traced him to Panama City, to his own house, except through the name on his hospital file, Peter Alexander Chronopolous.
    Cupping her face with his hand, he rested his cheek against her forehead, stealing a couple of seconds to assure himself she was all right. But she wasn’t. She was shaking like a leaf.
    “Shhh, Nikki. You’re safe.” Not really, not quite, not yet. But she didn’t need to hear the truth right now. She felt like she was going to come apart. She was still in one piece, though, still with him, and that’s what counted. He could fix everything else later.
    Still holding on to her hand, he turned back toward the street and scanned the area, especially in the direction of the park, looking for anyone out of the ordinary, anyone who might be carrying a weapon, anyone who looked like they were looking for him. When he’d checked the whole area over once, he did it again, reevaluating the scene, checking the new dynamics of the crowd, looking for someone who seemed hyperalert, someone who was doing the same thing he was doing.
    “There’s . . . there’s blood on my dress,” she said from behind him, her voice softly horrified. “I’m sure I didn’t . . . wasn’t—”
    He turned toward her, his grip inadvertently tightening on her hand, his gaze dropping to the front of her dress.
    “Are you hurt?” he said gruffly.
    “No . . . I—no.” She sounded confused.
    There was a bloody smear at her waist, but she couldn’t have run the way she had, for as long as she had—especially in the freakin’ little sandals she was wearing—if she’d been wounded, and the material wasn’t torn. It was just bloody.
    Then it hit him. He’d done that to her. Stabbed the guy, gotten blood on his hands, and then grabbed her. She had blood on the shoulder of her dress, too, a