Savage Hearts

I slip my backpack off my shoulder and clutch it to my chest, relishing the feeling of all the hard pieces nestled inside.

I have the gun and a few hundred rounds of ammunition. Now all I need is a little time to practice with my new weapon in an abandoned patch of jungle outside of town, and I’ll be ready. By the time the Sigma Beta Epsilon brothers touch down next week, I’ll be checked into the neighboring resort, have scoped out the perfect spot to lie in wait, and be ready to pick them off, one by one.

I know at least Todd and J.D. love to play golf.

As I climb the cracked marble steps to the hotel, I imagine how satisfying it will be to shoot them both through the chest as they’re arguing over their score. I’m distracted by bloodlust—the only desire I’ve allowed myself to embrace in the past year—and not as focused as I should be.

I don’t realize that the prickling feeling between my shoulder blades is back until I’m reaching for the door leading into the hotel lobby.

As soon as I sense eyes on me, I turn, searching the street in both directions.

To my right, there is a homeless man dragging a battered red wagon between a pair of garbage cans. To my left, a couple walks down the sidewalk hand in hand, a woman with a red shawl tied over her hair leans against the bus stop sign, and a flash of movement at the end of the block blurs the air as someone darts out of sight. I’m left with the vague impression that the person was tall and male, but that’s it. I didn’t look in time to see his face or clothing or anything that will give me a clue to his identity.

For a second, I’m tempted to run after him—if I’ve acquired a tail, I need to know who it is, what he wants, and how to make him go away and leave me alone—but my gun is still in pieces and the streets get darker and more dangerous in that direction.

I can’t afford to get into trouble while I’m in Liberia. My only chance of getting in and out of Costa Rica without being charged with multiple counts of murder is to be sure no one learns my name or remembers my face.

I’ll just have to wait, keep my eyes open, and be ready to quietly confront my stalker if he shows up again.

Cursing beneath my breath, I continue into the lobby, where an ancient air conditioner groans from the window near the front desk. The night clerk is reading something on her phone. After a glance my way and a fleeting smile, she returns to it, paying me no further attention as I cross the lobby and start up the stairs to my room.

The reviews for the hotel were critical of the lack of staff support and assistance in planning tours or navigating the city. That’s the reason I chose it. I don’t want support or assistance. All I want is to be ignored.

Since leaving L.A., I’ve mastered the art of being invisible. After a year in Miami, only a handful of people knew my name and it wasn’t the one I was given at birth. I paid for my studio apartment in cash, worked under the table for a restaurant laundry service, and kept to myself. I made connections, not friends. I dyed my hair, wore a ball cap pulled low over my face, and checked to be sure I wasn’t being followed when I went outside, just in case.

None of my family or former friends knew I was there, but there are a good number of street web cams in Miami. It would be easier to end up on camera and noticed by someone using facial recognition software than one would think. I didn’t think even my stepmother—the only one of my three parents with enough money to hire a high-priced private detective—would go that far to find me, but I took steps to protect myself all the same.

I’ve been so careful, and I’m so close.

The fact that I’ve suddenly become a person of interest to some shadowy stranger, days from accomplishing my goal, makes me want to scream.

For the first time in months, I’m consumed with emotion, so angry my hands shake as I open the front pocket of my pack and dig out my key. It takes three tries to get the key into the lock and once I’m finally inside my room, I can’t sit down.

I toss my backpack on the bed and pace the carpet between the bed and bureau, hands clenching and unclenching at my sides. I’m shocked to find myself craving a cigarette and know if I had one, I’d step out onto the pigeon-shit covered balcony outside my room to smoke.