****
"Copy?"  You nod as you hear Robert's baritone voice over your ear piece.  You've split up to watch Lauren and Sark from different vantage points.

 

"I've got you," you answer, and take a sip of your iced tea.  You turn in the metal chair at the juice stand and focus on the pair as they walk down the main street.  "Are you able to pick them up?"

 

"Yeah, I've got them. Was the bunuelo okay this morning?"

 

You're shocked at Robert's question. Mr. Let's-not-discuss-that-hot-kiss is asking about if you enjoyed your breakfast.  "It was fine.  Thanks for bringing it."

 

There is a beat of silence and you figure that he's satisfied with your answer.  You keep your eyes on the pair as they round the corner and walk towards Robert's direction. "I'm heading your way," you say as you leave money on counter to follow them.

 

"Wait!" he hisses in your ear and you stop to watch a young boy play with his dog. "I only see two bodyguards.  There should be more. Be careful, Allison."

 

"I will," you mutter while taking his yellow bandana from your tote bag and wrapping it around your hair.

 

"When you reach the corner, Allison, hit the switch on the set of keys I gave you.  It picks up sound up to 100 yards. You're going to have to drop them near Lauren and Sark so we don't get any unnecessary noise."

 

A smile appears on your face as you feel for the keys in your bag. "A transmitter, Santos?  Is there a little tech geek inside the cowboy that I didn't know about?"

 

"Be quiet, Doren," he says without answering your question and you're almost sure you hear a smile in his voice. "You're on."

 

You look up as you reach the corner and see the pair sitting by an open window of a clothing store.  You walk down your side of the street, stopping to look at the wares of the local artisans.  You wander over to a woman selling sterling silver items.  You scan them over with one eye while keeping another eye on Lauren and Sark.  You stop as you see small belt buckle accented with black and silver.  There are four black arrowheads on it and gold colored rope surrounds it.  You know that you shouldn't.  It would be highly inappropriate and showing a moment of weakness at a time when it isn't prudent.  But when you think of the chance that you may get him to smile, you change your mind.

 

"Could you hold this for me for two hours?" you ask the older woman and she shakes her head 'no'.

 

"I'll pay double what its worth," you say quickly and you notice that they are moving.

 

The woman looks at you strangely and just shrugs. "Whatever you want, senorita."  You hand her the money, and she puts the buckle underneath her table.

 

"Gracias," you call over your shoulder as you cross the street.  Reaching the other side of the street you search for the two blondes. "12 o'clock, Doren," Robert's voice comes over you earpiece and you hear tension in his voice.  You turn and see them heading into a crowded aire mercado.

 

Keeping at least twenty paces behind the pair, you look for Robert somewhere in the milling crowd. He's here. You know it but damn it to hell if you can't see him.  "The tables straight ahead," he says over your earpiece and his voice is so low that you could swear that he was right next to you.  You walk in front of the open restaurant and you spot them sitting towards the back. Soon, another male joins them. White, mid-forties you would assume.  He looks out of his element as his eyes dart from side to side.  You make your way to the booth behind the tables and place the 'keys' on surface with the switch on.  A quick smile to the merchant, and you turn to head back towards the artisan who is holding the belt buckle for you.

 

#

 

You walk towards the rendezvous point you'd set up with Robert with the buckle firmly secured inside of your tote bag. You're not even sure you'll give it to him, but at least you made the effort.

 

"You did good, Allison. Really good," he says when you finally reach him and sit next to him on the fountain wall.  "Listen." He hands you a set of headphones and turns the volume up only slightly.  "We've got them."

 

"Mr. Kosoff, as you know, we've been put in charge of the North American cell of the Covenant," Lauren says with a cool tinge to her voice.

 

"I know who you are, Ms. Reed.  Mr. Sark, is it?  The last time I heard about you, you were working with—what was the young woman's name?  Allison Doren? The things I heard about her were impressive."

 

You can't help but smile at the man's compliments.  "Allison, unfortunately, was killed not too long ago," Sark says, and you don't hear any sort of sincerity in his voice. You don't know why you expected otherwise.  "Ms. Reed is quite if not more capable, Mr. Kosoff.  So, shall we get back to business?" The blasé tone in his voice grates your nerves, and you take a deep breath.

 

The other man chuckles and you can hear papers being shuffled.  "In two weeks, my cell leader will be staying at the Hotel du Lourve in Paris. These are records showing a loss of more than forty million US since Mr. Marsil took over, and these—" there's more shuffling of papers. "show that he's been embezzling those funds."

 

You wait to hear any sort of reaction from Lauren or Sark.  All of the sudden the signal dies and comes back.

 

"..should be able use this information to take over Mr. Marsil's operation. He'll be in Paris in two weeks."  The signal goes dead.

 

You look over at Robert and smile. "We've got them."

 

****

The wind picks up at dusk, cooling you off as you sit outside finishing dinner. He chose a popular taqueria close to your motel – for both the option of walking and its spacious outdoor dining area.

 

You were impressed with the food and with the ambiance, both authentic, both working to relax you after a long day.

 

Your resilience isn’t surprising to you, well not completely a surprise at least. Watching your former lover with his new one today was much easier than you thought. Much easier than the shock of those initial pictures, that’s for sure.

 

You’re fine. Not the fucked up, insecure, neurotic, and emotional kind, but actually okay. Moving on takes time, and you’ve determined that it’s time for you to start.  At that thought, you think about the belt buckle secured in your medium-tote bag and get nervous.

 

“Another margarita?” Robert asks you, finishing his beer.

 

Tequila flows stealthily through your blood, warming you, weakening your resolve, lightening your load. Normally you’d consider these bad things, but tonight you feel you deserve at least some escape.

 

After all, you’ve only consumed two.

 

“Please,” you tell him, sliding your empty to the side.

 

Plus, you hope it'll give you the courage to repay him for all he's done, even with something as insignificant as your gift.

 

The conversation between you has been next to nil. Oh, there’s chatter, but nothing carrying remotely any substance. You find yourself curious about him, and a little too scared to ask him questions.

 

You. Scared. Of asking him questions of all the bloody things. You feel like you’re twelve again.

 

“Your parents live in Laredo?”

 

He looks sharply at you, the question of ‘where the fuck did that come from’ in his eyes. A server sets another chilled drink in front of you and you immediately take a drink, eyes on him, telling him you expect an answer.

 

“My parents are no longer alive,” he replies with little emotion.

 

You should feel contrite about asking, but you don’t. After all, it’s a common question. You suck down a healthy swallow of chipped ice and nearly choke on it when he speaks again.

 

“Yours died when you were ten. Your father drank himself to death soon after your 'death' and your mother died soon after.  Someone could argue that it was because of a broken heart.”

 

Twenty years heals a lot of wounds, and yours are no exception. No matter how badly it hurt at the time, their deaths barely give you more than a dull pang. You find yourself smiling at how extensive his research was on you and your past.

 

A part of you smiles, too, so he doesn’t see a trace of that minor twinge.

 

“They did,” you reply in a tone equal to his. Then you add, “Touché.”

 

Both of you seem unable to hold eye contact. His jaw is clenched, but not exactly anger. Nervousness? Maybe. Whatever it is, the conversation seems to be stagnant again, but as you open your mouth to fill it, he beats you to the punch.

 

“My mother died when I was nine. Riding accident. After that, it was just dad and I until about seven years ago. Cancer.”

 

You nod. Not the best direction to keep the conversation going, especially for a night that has gone well so far. “You live in Laredo, too?”

 

He nods in response as he tips back the longneck, gulping almost a quarter of the frothy ale. When he sets it down, you see his eyes avert to his finger that’s peeling at a corner of the label. He looks out into the distance, all quaint businesses and desert, deep in thought that doesn’t look all too pleasant.

 

You breathe in the warm night air, and combined with the liquor in your system, you find that you’re relaxed. Even if this isn’t a vacation, it was much needed. Along with normal R&R, you seized the opportunity to react on being slighted.

 

Not only that, you’ll get paid nicely for it.

 

As if he’s reading your mind, Robert asks, “You made your decision?”

 

You don’t answer. Blankly, you look into his eyes, purposely shielding your expression. Too personal. Not to mention that what you say might implicate you somehow. Who knows how close he and Sean are?

 

Instead, you change the subject. “You’ve known Sean long?”

 

He calmly gulps down the remainder of his fourth beer, unperturbed by your evasiveness. “Eight years.”

 

Your brow rises instantly. Friends? He’s looking out into the night again, seeming uncomfortable with that, too, so you don’t press it.

 

Finishing the last of your drink, you reach into your purse, grab a bill, and place it on the table. You stand, catching Robert’s attention.

 

“It’s been a long day,” you explain, toying with the cloth-covered trinket.

 

He nods and you hesitate before setting the buckle on the table. "Here. Just a—a thank you of sorts."

 

Before he can embarrass you further by speaking, you leave him there.  This feeling, this nice, honest, good feeling of doing something for him feels so comforting, but you can't let yourself take it to heart.  That's when you get hurt. Yet, your heart is laughing at you because it knows that you already have.

 

When you make up your mind to glance back seconds later, you see him holding the glittering silver while looking pensively at the sky.

 

#

 

It’s that same dream again. The one where you’re fighting Will Tippin in a bright hallway. Sparks of light, shattering glass, throwing and blocking jabs and kicks. He’s acquired self-defense skills he didn’t have when you knew him.

 

This time, your motions are slower, less accurate. You feel drunk and drugged and you know it’s coming…

 

Then you’re up against the wall and the narrow blade slides in so quick, with the smoothness of cutting softened butter. He jerks it up and your eyes go wide, you open your mouth to scream but no sound escapes. You expect Sark to come save you this time. You swear you hear him calling your name.

 

He has to be around the corner…

 

“Allison.”

 

Please wake me up, you think as you feel the wall moving up your back. Only when you feel yourself slump to the floor do you realize the wall wasn’t going up, you were going down.

 

“Allison.”

 

Everything’s fuzzy now, the hallway just a dimming blur. You remember the coldness you felt as your blood spilled, the pain of the fresh wound. You remember going unconscious, too. You remember all the sensations that also transpired in the dream as well.  This new feeling is different.

 

You’re warm, not cold. There’s very little pain, but much comfort. At first you think he’s come for you, but the “he” in the picture your mind creates isn’t blonde.

 

“Allison.”

 

Warm clammy hands grabbing your shoulder jolt you. As your eyes pop open to witness dimness similar to the hallway at the end of your dream, it takes you a moment to recognize your surroundings.

 

A concerned Robert sits next to you, holding your shoulders as he gently shakes you awake. You look down and correct that. A wet, concerned, wearing only a towel Robert sits next to you.

 

“You were screaming,” he tells you.

 

“I-It was a nightmare,” you state the obvious, shrugging, trying to get your heart back in control. “I have them from time to time.”

 

You wish you could say your lack of control all stemmed from the dream, but when you smell the trace of soap circling around you and see a rivulet of water running from hair that’s stuck flat to his head down his neck and chest, you’re aware that it’s not.

 

He snaps your attention away from his body with one word.

 

“Gratz.”

 

You look in his eyes and you see something different. He’s haunted, but this isn’t his. It suddenly dawns on you, and you strangely find yourself embarrassed.

 

“You were there,” you tell him. “In Gratz. Sean used you on his recovery team.”

 

He doesn’t need to say yes, you can view the answer plainly in his eyes. He’s seen you at your worst, on the brink of death. You want to ask him what it was like, the gory details and surroundings in which they found you, feeling more comfortable asking him than you did Sean. But another droplet swirls down his collarbone and trails through the rippled plains of his chest and you discover the words aren’t there.

 

Why, of all times do you want what you shouldn’t have?

 

“Allison?” he asks unsteadily.

 

“I –” you start, but when your gaze moves up to him, he’s so close you can barely breathe.

 

A part of you is screaming to do this, use this opportunity to start anew. While the other chides you, mocks you for being a fool in the past. This is different, you tell that second part. This isn’t love.

 

His warm hands slide down your arms in a light, tantalizing way that has you leaning closer to him. No, you reiterate to that traitor in you. You might want this and maybe will end up loving this, but it’s not love. Not at all.

 

He’s scared, you realize, as your lips brush over his. It isn’t really a kiss, you just rub your lips from side to side. His breathing mirrors yours, short and getting quicker the longer you maintain even this barest amount of contact.

 

“I want to kiss you,” you whisper unabashedly.

 

You expect him to pull away, thinking that your words broke the ambiance around the two of you. But instead, he slides his hand up to the nape of your neck and closes the remaining distance.

 

He leans over your body, as what started out as a hesitant light kiss immediately takes on something more callous and needy. His tongue swipes against your full bottom lip before stabbing inside in a desperate search to find yours.

 

Your hands move to his body, your fingers craving warm and wet contact. One hand finds the peak of his shoulder blade while the other stays low, resting on his thigh. The too-small towel is gaping in between his legs, so your fingers slide inside, caressing the sensitive skin on his upper thigh.

 

He groans in your mouth and gently sucks on your tongue. You answer back by digging your nails into the skin just north of his thigh, then taking tiny jabs of your own in and out of his mouth.

 

Pushing you back on the bed, he covers you with his freshly showered body. Your thin gown sticks to your skin and chafes erotically against your sensitive nipples as he moves over you. You moan in his mouth and pull on his taut back, needing him closer even though it’s not possible.

 

His hot thickening shaft brushes against your upper thigh and you shamelessly shift your body. The movement startles to you both, and Robert withdraws too quickly for you to stop.

 

He rolls over on his side, running a frustrated hand through his hair. You turn to face him, seeing him frazzled and so unlike the Robert you met mere days ago. It makes you smile inside knowing that it is you who did this to him.

 

“What’s wrong?” you ask as he says, “Shit.”

 

Both of you remain silent, the sound of barely controlled breathing filling the room. You wait for him to speak, but he doesn’t, and you find that words won’t convey what you want to tell him.

 

Tentatively, you reach out and place your hand on his chest. His sweltering eyes switch from your face to your skin touching his, then back to you. Slowly, you begin to run your fingers down the middle.

 

It’s almost too difficult to bear, but the entire time your fingers are trailing down his chest, running over sleek skin and hard muscle, you hold his gaze. You want to see that spark that was similar to what happened between you two last night grow hotter – give you the sort of reassurance that you’re not the only one who needs and wants this.

 

His breathing changes again, almost a flutter that he’s trying to control, and it seems to almost match the alteration in your own. You reach the swirl of coarse hair that thickens as your finger descends and there it is…

 

“Aren’t you tired of solitude?” You hear yourself ask, as his brown eyes melt into almost black.

 

He doesn’t answer you with words, but you see it in his eyes. Yes. He’s tired of living this way, the lack of fulfillment, the loneliness, keeping unattached for fear of injury – his own or the company he’d choose to keep.

 

His hand twitches between you on the bed and you know he’s warring with himself. Wants to touch you again, feel you against him so this can move further. He needs to understand that you won’t break. That you’ve cheated death, twice, and know deep down there’s a reason you’re still alive.

 

You also want him to know you’re a big girl, a woman.

 

Before you reach the densest thatch of dark hair between his legs, you remove your hand from his body and place it atop his. He flinches at the contact, but once you lift his hand and bring it to cup your breast through your thin nightgown, he’s docile, ready to explore your body at your command.

 

He squeezes your pliant skin with his warm, rough hand, testing the weight of you. Your nipple pokes the center of his palm, and he must feel it too, for he grabs the pebbly tip between his fingers and pinches it lightly.

 

He releases a rush of breath as you close your eyes in ecstasy, wishing he would tighten his fingers and make the pleasure a slight pain. He does, your wordless plea somehow reaching him, and you groan.

 

When you dare to look at him again, you see his mouth part as if he wants to speak.

 

“Allison…”

 

You’re afraid he’s going to protest to this. That maybe the realization of what he’s doing is starting to weigh on his conscience. Your eyes close again and you shake your head “no”, hoping you’ll be able to tune him out and praying that he’ll continue.

 

So, you’re surprised when you hear no more words, but you feel…hands tugging your nightie over your head as warm lips and wet tongue, encase your taut nipple.

 

His mouth is almost as rough as his fingers, flicking the nub, then carefully biting down. Shocks sprint through you, igniting your body in a heat that's hotter than the desert night.

 

Your fingers dig into his hair, pulling him closer, helping him take the entire mound in his mouth. He sucks, hard, and your back arches with the feeling. He continues the enjoyable torment, teeth capturing the tip then soothing with his raspy tongue. You're making sounds that would normally embarrass you, but find you don't care.

 

Your hand descends over his stomach again, fingers gliding through his rough hair. Then your slender fingers slip around his strengthening arousal. Barely.

 

He freezes and his shoulders visibly stiffen. He rests his forehead just above your breast as you begin to stroke him, his uneven breaths tickling your skin. Your thumb rubs over the tip, smoothing the bead of moisture there across the surface. He groans, but subtly pushes his hips forward – you can tell the fight within has resumed, but is waning.

 

He seems lost in your touch. Each stroke you take of his hardness drives him further into a state where there is no thinking, but all feeling. He’s saying your name every third pump or so and the hissing sound makes something low in your belly clench. You’re ready, you can feel your proof seeping into the skin on your upper thighs. 

 

He reclines back on the bed, taking your singed body with him. Your legs slip down, astride his hips, and you firmly press the apex of the blaze on the length of his swollen manhood. He’s so solid and strong, and just the hint of penetration is bringing you to the point of no return.  

 

You break away from the kiss long enough to reach into the drawer of the nightstand for your purse. His hands are on your hips, sliding you forward and back, rubbing your clit against him. The shocks that spark in your nether regions bite and tear at your insides, a sure sign that you’re going to burst soon.

 

You groan low in your throat as he continues his pleasurable torture, fumbling with the foil packet when his lips grabs the nipple in front of him that grazes his mouth in your leaning.

 

“Here,” you say as you rush to place the condom in his hand. All you can think about how he’s going to feel inside you.

 

With an expertise that surprises you, he’s ready. Shifting your hips, you bring your core to the head of him and he guides himself inside. His hand lingers as you slowly sink down on him, brushing through the thin downy lined entry and placing his thumb on your most sensitive nub. You savor the sensation as you inch down on him while he’s gently flicking you, and by the time he’s fully embedded in you, you’re completely breaking apart.

 

Your eyes fall closed only to see bursts of light flash, colorful waves of it that morph with each throb of your inner muscles.

 

“Dios, Allison,” he moans once you’re put back together again. “This is…” you raise up off him and slowly lower yourself back down. “Too good.”

 

Elated, a primal sense of femininity surges through you, demanding deliverance of everything this male has to offer. He’s tugging on your nipples with masterful fingers, which jerks on a string that extends from there to where you’re joined.

 

“Your hands,” you breathe shakily. “Your…” your sentence is stolen by a harsh intake of breath, as darts of need arrow through you while moving above him.

 

Keeping himself seated in you, he takes short quick thrusts, frantic ones that give away his desperation. He’s riding close, another marvel your body brought out of him. You try to help with hurried swivels of your hips, but you’re distracted again, too. His eyes are glassy, unseeing as he grunts and groans, lifts and pounds all the ardency rising in him into your body.

 

You’re both panting now, from exertion and build-up and wicked awareness. Soon his hips are taking longer, more drawn out jabs in you, filling you and taking away with a languidness that hurts. Then he’s gruffly hollering your name and you’re falling, sliding down a wall that is so different than the one haunting your nightmares.

 

Bright, warm, and full of life besides yours. This hallway is more fit for your future dreams.

 

When you land, your body is flush over him, breathing heavy, and oh so spent. His hands tenuously shift you on him, drawing out the remaining shudders that are within you both.

 

He laughs breathlessly in your ear, revived, living again. It’s a sound that you’ll never forget, and will always correlate with this man and Mexico. You smile against his neck, experiencing the exact same joy.