Free Behind the Mask (Undercover Associates Book 4) by Carolyn Crane Page A

death was reliable—she knew him personally. Kabakas’s activity had ceased afterward.
    No, this had to be an impostor. Somebody had good aim, that’s all. It had been twelve years since Kabakas burst onto the scene—you could get those skills with twelve years of practice. Maybe. And there were guns now with automatic aim, almost like video games. It could be that, rigged for blades. Somebody hiding in the jungle, just shooting like that.
    She took advantage of the distraction to work on the ropes in earnest, wrists slick with blood. When that didn’t work, she leaned over the side of the Jeep and started going at the knot in the door handle with her teeth, right through the gag. It put her in the line of fire, but there was no other way. If she could get free, she could break to the jungle.
    “ Ahí! Ahí! ” She recognized Guz’s voice. He was pointing at the trees. There, there!
    She worked faster.
    More gunfire. The men were giving their attacker everything. Smoke billowed. The Jeep was pocked now and again.
    She worked away, tearing at the rope. When she felt as if her bottom teeth might fall right out, she twisted around and tried to go at it with her fingers, numb as they were. Fruitlessly she toiled. She felt like she was making headway and hauled back around to go at it with her teeth. And paused.
    The gunfire had stopped.
    The panting grew louder. Aguilo, frightened out of his mind.
    She glanced up. Bodies were everywhere. And then she saw him—a huge beast of a man in a Kabakas mask strolling casually and openly across the field toward the truck where one group had taken refuge.
    More shots. Still he walked—or more like stalked—right into the gunfire. He wore fatigues, leathers, black boots, pockets, and packs, all battered and battle-worn. He had the bandolier. Blades gleamed between the fingers of his massive leather-gloved hands.
    She couldn’t believe somebody was out there impersonating Kabakas. You impersonated comedians. Politicians. You didn’t impersonate Kabakas. Because he was fucking Kabakas. And he was dead.
    Or was he?
    One man broke off and ran toward the jungle. In the very next moment, a blade was sailing across the space, flashing in the light. It hit home, and the man went down. Another Kabakas thing—taking the neck when he couldn’t get the eye, right through the cervical vertebrae.
    More men started running. One by one, he dropped them as though it was the easiest thing in the world. His massive, leather-clad hand dwarfed the blades he threw. He was all dark confidence. Nerves of steel. No mercy, no apologies. Never a fuck-up. Never a break in his excellence. She watched him move, body torqueing, pure economy, fingers hugged by the leather, shining where it gripped tightest.
    A silver barong had appeared in his left hand, the essential Kabakas accessory. It seemed to glide alongside him as he closed the distance with a confident stride, brown skin gleaming with sweat, muscles surging over his forearms and disappearing into his gloves. The man pulsed with power.
    Surely it couldn’t be him after all these years, but her heart pounded all the same. It was like seeing your favorite rock star.
    She shouldn’t think of him like that, considering the Yacon fields massacre, but she had a special compartment for pre-Yacon fields Kabakas. The Kabakas from the photo. Her white whale.
    Another barong appeared. His pack, she noted, contained multiple barong swords. The multiple swords suggested he was a fake. Kabakas always carried just two barongs—never more.
    A shot tore the air. Dirt sprayed around his feet. He just kept going as though he believed himself impervious to bullets, another Kabakas thing. Another shot blasted out, and Kabakas, almost lazily, tossed the barong into the far-off jungle.
    Another mistake—Kabakas never tossed a barong sword. The barong was not at all a tossing weapon.
    And then a body tumbled down from the trees. With a sword through his face.
    She