Free Black Ops Chronicles: Dead Run by Pepper O'Neal Page B

leave for a few days. She’d give him some money for food and let him stay in the cottage for a couple of weeks until the rent ran out— provided they survived the night, of course.
    With that in mind, she closed and locked her windows and doors. Locks wouldn’t stop a determined assassin, but they might keep one from just walking in to find out who lived there. At any rate, locking up made her feel safer, and right now, she’d take what she could get. She also drew all the curtains since it was too dark for her to see out any longer.
    Heat hung heavy in the air. Without the breeze coming in through the windows, the temperature in the cottage bordered on unbearable. Sweat dampened her skin and permeated her clothes as she went through the house, piling her meager possessions into a small duffel bag. Her precious notes and sketches she packed in a little canvas satchel before stuffing them in her duffel. Someday she’d rebuild her life, and when she did, the information she’d collected could be the key to her future.
    While in Mexico, she’d become fascinated by the huge murals that graced the walls of nearly every public building. These paintings, depicting important events in Mexican history, played an essential role in educating the citizens of a country plagued by illiteracy. They also provided Tess with abundant examples of clothing worn over the past three hundred years. If she ever got out of this mess, she’d design a line of authentic Mexican costumes to add to the Medieval and early American costumes for which she’d gained quite a reputation in Salt Lake City.
    When she finished packing, she cleaned the cottage, removing any trace of her short stay. Every scrap of paper was collected, torn into tiny fragments, and flushed down the toilet. She never threw anything personal in the trash. It was the first place Nick’s men would look.
    She paid special attention to the bathroom, especially any stray hairs, which joined the bits of paper in the toilet. Long red hairs, in a country where the women’s hair was predominantly black, would be a sure giveaway. She knew she should’ve cut and dyed it months ago, but she had so few elements of her identity left, she couldn’t bear to lose one more. Besides, it was damn hard to find dark hair dye in Mexico. The natives had no use for it. If she’d wanted to go blonde, or a different shade of red, it would’ve been no problem. But somehow, she didn’t think that would help her much.
    When she fled Salt Lake City nine months ago, she’d hidden her hair under a dark wig. But she’d had to abandon it in El Paso, along with most of her other possessions, when she’d escaped Nick’s men by the skin of her teeth.
    That time, one of the rare few, she’d managed to interpret one of her dreams in time to save her ass, though it had been damn close. And there hadn’t been time to pack. Or plan. She’d barely made it out the back door before they’d broken in the front one. Thank God, she’d been able to grab her backpack containing what little money she had at the time. It had been just enough to buy a few clothes, the duffle bag, and a ticket to Cancun, where Karl had sent her some more.
    She sighed and shook off the memories of her near capture. She was more careful now and the assassins hadn’t gotten that close again.
    Making a final sweep of the cottage, she wiped all her fingerprints off the counters and doorknobs. As long as Nick’s men didn’t know she’d lived here, they couldn’t know for certain that she’d fled. So they might go on looking and give her more time to escape. Levi had once told her it was attention to detail that often made the difference between success and failure. She only wished she’d listened to him about Nick.
    She missed Levi. And Jonas. She wanted her costume shop back. And her few close friends. Somehow, joking with them about her weird, clairvoyant dreams always made her seem less of a freak. At least in her own mind. She