Out of Time

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Alex Tempest leaned on a dirt-crusted stone wall, head lowered, trying to control his breathing and ignore the pain. His legs felt like gelatin and sent sharp, stabbing jolts of agony into his hips; his head spun with a sudden wave of nausea. Every muscle was bowstring tight and his heartbeat ragged—every sound brought a flinch and a shift of disoriented senses.

The sun had begun to set over the Mexico City skyline, but the heat continued to roll off the streets in waves. On the floor of a villa just outside of town, Vincenzo Carrera lay dead in a pool of blood. His men hadn’t stopped to clear away the body, the blood or any of the evidence. They hadn’t even disposed of the kilo-sized bag of cocaine, blown to bits and strewed across the inlaid mosaic of Carrera’s garden. The powder floated about like fine drifts of snow. Carrera would never spend the money he’d expected to make on that sale. He would not make his reservations at La Villa Cordoba, nor his date with his wife and young daughter the following day at the beach.

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