BOGOTÁ, COLOMBIA

God help him if he didn't make it to the airport by seven.

Bryson Van Amee checked his watch for the fourth time in as many minutes and frowned. Armando, his usual driver, was as prompt and reliable as the sunrise, and just as cheerful, which was why Bryson — who was not a morning person — always requested him.

Of all the days for him to be late.

Bryson tamped down a hot surge of fear-laced irritation. He had to meet his incoming cargo in Barranquilla and make a three p.m. appointment in Cartagena, and he did not want to piss off this particular client. Just thinking about it made him sweat. Yes, he should have known better than to dip his toes into the murky pool of the gray market, but with that first not-quite-legal gun shipment, he had jumped in with both feet. Now, as he sank into the deep abyss of the black market, where all manner of nasty predators lurked, he couldn't find a life vest. No wonder his heart had been acting up over the past several months.

He tapped his foot, checked his watch again, checked the street. A skinny tabby cat perched on the edge of a dumpster in the alley behind him, but there was no other soul around. Even the vendor that sold handmade knickknacks, who always set up his rollaway shop on the low stone wall across the street, hadn't made it out yet.

Bryson normally enjoyed that Colombian attitude of I'll get there when I get there. No mad dashes through morning traffic with a Starbucks cup sloshing mocha frappe crap all over his Porsche. For a man used to the impatient get-up-and-go of American cities, visiting the laid-back country of Colombia was always a nice change of pace.

Except when his driver was running late.

Another quick check of the watch, street, watch. Twenty minutes late. Damn, he should have bought Armando a cell phone last time he was in town. At least then, he would have been able to call and find out what the holdup was.

He reached into his pocket for his own phone. He hated to report Armando to the limo company when the man had been so good to him, but he needed another car. Now.

Just as he swiped away the photo of his wife and kids on the iPhone's screen, the phone rang and his sister's grinning face popped up on the display. Audrey.

He considered ignoring her call — but, God, what if she'd gotten herself into a mess again? He thumbed the answer button and her face filled the screen. Make-up free, her golden brown hair pulled back in a sloppy ponytail, she looked so much younger than her twenty-seven years.

"Hi, Brys," she said with a bright smile. She'd always been a disgustingly chipper morning person, even as a baby.

"Something wrong, sweetie?" he asked. "Are you okay? Do you need more money?"

"I'm fine." She rolled her eyes and raised a coffee mug to her mouth.

God, coffee. He'd forgotten to grab a cup in his rush to get out the door and his mouth watered for a taste.

"And I've told you a thousand times," Audrey added after taking a sip, "I don't need or want your money."

The hell she didn't need it. "You can't tell me you're making enough doing caricature sketches for tourists."

"Uh, well, no. I'm not doing caricatures anymore."

Bryson suppressed the groan rumbling inside his chest, took off his square-framed glasses, and rubbed his eyes. He loved his baby sister, he truly did, but dealing with her was tiring and not what he needed this early in the morning when he was stressing out about the missing —

Ah, there it is.

The shiny black limo rounded the corner at the top of the street and cruised to a stop in front of his apartment complex. Instead of short, balding Armando, a tall dark-haired man got out of the driver's seat.

"Señor Van Amee?"

"Just a minute, Audrey," he said before addressing the driver in Spanish, "What happened to Armando?"

"His son is very sick and had to go to the hospital. I apologize for the delay. It took some time to find a replacement," the driver answered, hustled around the car, and opened the back door. He wasn't dressed in a suit, but Armando didn't always wear one either. "I am Jacinto. I'll get you to the airport in no time."

The hairs on the back of his neck prickled. He'd used this limo company for years now and had never seen Jacinto before. "Are you new?"

"Just started, Señor."

Bryson shifted on his feet, checked his watch again. The idea of using a driver he hadn't screened made him itch but, dammit, what other choice did he have? Barring any morning traffic or an incident at the airport, he should still make both his appointments on time if he left right this very second.

He climbed into the limo.

"Audrey, you still there?" Bryson asked as the driver slid behind the wheel and put up the privacy partition. A moment later, the limo started with a purr and pulled away from the curb.

So maybe Jacinto would do just fine as a replacement. Professional, friendly, and discreet — all excellent qualities in a driver. If his background check came up clean, it wouldn't hurt to keep him in mind for the future in case another emergency cropped up with Armando's family.

Bryson made a mental note to find out which hospital Armando's son was at and send a get well gift. Or money if the family needed it.

"I'm here," Audrey said and reappeared on the screen. "Ran for a coffee refill. Are you busy?"

"On my way to a meeting."

"I won't keep you then. I just wanted to make sure you remembered my opening next weekend at Museo de Arte Contemporaneo. You said you'd come."

Uh-oh. Her art show in San José, Costa Rica. He'd forgotten all about it. He checked the schedule on his phone. Could possibly move a couple meetings around, but that would take a lot of shuffling just to indulge her and her silly hobbies. "I'm sorry, Audrey, but — "

She set her coffee mug on the table in front of her with a hard thunk. "Brys, you promised!"

"Sweetie, I have some very important business deals happening that weekend, none of which I can shove back, and I have to be in L.A. on Sunday morning for ..." He shook his head as his train of thought slid away. What was he saying?

Audrey. Paintings. Work.

It was an old argument, one he could have while gagged and blindfolded, and he settled on one of his pat responses since his mind was suddenly, strangely blurry. "If you want to stay in that condo, I need to work and that means meetings."

"Well, guess what?"

No, he really didn't want to guess. She had that petulant look on her face — drawn brows, a poked out lower lip. The same look that had gotten her anything she wanted as a child. The one that told him he would not like the next words out of her mouth.

"Audrey —"

"I don't live in the condo. Never did. I sold it the week after you left and gave the money to a charity. I gave your accountant the receipt for your taxes."

"You what?" Oh God, then where was she living? Hopefully not in another beach shack with no indoor plumbing. His parents would roll over in their graves if they knew their precious baby girl enjoyed living one minuscule step up above a homeless person.

"I told you I didn't want it in the first place," she continued. "I was happy in Quepos. I was happy in my little hut. Don't you get that?"

"No, I —" His vision blurred. He blinked a couple times...