Hit Man: A Sexy Action-Packed Alpha Adventure Romance Page 16

  Haven’t I done whatever I could to remain out of sight? Didn’t I take whatever precautions I could to stay alert and avoid detection? Mexico City’s population is in the millions. Chances were in my favor that they wouldn’t find me, assuming they were still searching for me.

  Which they are.

  Clearly they are if Juan Carlos has men stationed at the US embassy.

  I glance over my shoulder and nearly stumble.

  They’re behind me.

  They’re going to catch me if I don’t think of some way to escape them. Because trained guards like Juan Carlos’s are bound to be fast. Too fast . . . for me.

  I do what I can, and push forward. Wishing I’d left Mexico City entirely and had taken that trip to Hacienda Santo Miguel.

  Wishing the conga line didn’t ruin my emergency escape plan; now I’ll need to cut over a few blocks so I’m closer to my hotel and back on familiar ground. Where I have a fighting chance at avoiding them.

  Wishing for a miracle to pass my way before disaster catches up with me.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Diego

  I spent my adult life shaking off poverty’s stranglehold. The never knowing where your next meal is coming from or who you’ll have to fight to get it. Looking back, it’s clearer to see now that Luciana and I escaped it. At the time, it was hard enough trying to stay alive after our parents were murdered than to fixate on the injustice of it all.

  Now, as I head deep within the heart of a slum that makes my hometown of Mexicali seem like fucking paradise, poverty not only nails me in the gut, it sucker punches me right in the heart.

  Dios mío.

  The muddied streets are so narrow only pedestrians, horse-drawn carts, or motorcycles can pass through. Kids playing soccer, barefoot and mindless of the pollution around them. Countless groups of women gathered around the street vendors, their crude outdoor kitchens the main source for meals around here as most dwellings don’t have functioning kitchens. Old men with brown-bagged bottles line the rough roads, men who’ve given up hope for sweeter, alcohol-induced dreams.

  In Mexicali, life turned to shit when the gangs moved in. The violence, the bloodshed, the struggle for dominance, for power. I’d learned to navigate. I learned to kill. And most important, I learned if you can’t beat them, you overtake them.

  And when the time is right, you get the fuck out while you’re still alive. We sent my sister away. Hayden and I remained, settling old debts, killing off our enemies. Until the only gang remaining in Mexicali was ours.

  Los Lobos.

  Whose reach now extends across Mexico, and more importantly, here in Neza Chalco.

  It stands to reason Fahder would recruit local Los Lobos to work for him. Just like most middlemen, like his affiliates have done, and even like our old enemy Novák had done, Fahder’s recruiting men from the underbelly of society. Men like the Los Lobos leader El Chulo, who’d sell their country out for fast money.

  You do what you must to survive.

  Fortunately for TORC, Los Lobos’s involvement is an extremely fortunate turn in events. But first I have to locate them.

  I choose the street with the most food vendors. Because in places like this, everything comes at a price. And if the vendors are making money, then so is Los Lobos.

  I buy a Fresca, lean against my bike, and wait.

  I fight off the depression this place causes by focusing on my Harley. My pride and joy, my baby. The first vehicle I ever bought. I shipped her from Mexicali to Mexico City and hired a mechanic to fix her, something I’ve always wanted to do. But my long absence from Mexico and from the family home I still own has always prevented my following through. She rides like a beauty now, offering me the flexibility of movement as I navigate these narrow streets.

  I’m prepared for whatever comes my way. My Glock presses against my right hip bone, a smaller Ruger against my left. The army pack I’ve brought is filled with water, PowerBars, gauze, rope, additional ammo, an extra pair of socks and sneakers—lesson learned—and twelve custom-made sticks of TNT. Hayden’s warning or not, you never know what might happen so I never leave home without it.

  Still, I promised Hayden I’d work low-key. After Casa Bella, it’s important I do so.

  Despite the weather turning warm, I’ve slid on my old leather motorcycle jacket with a wolf in crossbones patched onto it. Something I’d kept stored inside the trunk on my bike. A symbol of days gone by.

  McDuff might be a master of disguises but I’m all about blending into my environment. And in this jacket, people don’t dare stare too long at me, afraid of the consequences. They understand the significance of this patch. Avoidance is the name of the game.

  The rain stopped awhile ago, the clouds rolling away to reveal a perfectly blue sky. The warmth feels good on my face, like a sweet caress helping me recover from a long, challenging week.

  All that time and energy dealing with stupid gilipollas wasted. Life’s lessons should have warned me that if something appears easy, it’s too good to be true. I’ve got to be more careful. Dios, and patient.

  I’ve got to forget that do-gooder. An unwanted complication.

  How she looked when I last saw her, so vulnerable, so lost.

  Mierda.

  I followed her to her apartment in a cab I hailed at the train station. Five minutes later, we were on the move again. At least she had enough common sense to abandon her apartment and check into a downtown hotel. Before my TORC meeting, I went so far as to steal inside her hotel room while she showered. Checking things out, checking her out. Conducting business and needing firsthand confirmation on who she is—or so I told myself. I found the housing plans she’d safely stored within a long cardboard cylinder. A hastily packed suitcase filled with black clothing and conservative shoes.

  I rub my hand across my jaw, feeling the five-o’clock shadow on my chin.

  I consider warning her about the hit out on her. But instead, I leave her be, stealing away from her room seconds after her shower has ended, comfortable with the knowledge that as long as she hangs low, she’ll be safe here.

  With me doing what I can to protect her.

  Fuck. I don’t have time for this. Or for driving by her hotel whenever I get the chance. Yet something deep inside me spurs me on. And whether I want to or not, and more importantly, whether Hayden wants me to or not, I’m going to keep checking on her. Once I complete my meeting with Los Lobos, I’ll swing by her hotel for a quick once-over.

  Just. In. Case.

  The sound of motorcycles forces me to stand.

  Women rush inside, waving the kids off the streets. The old men capable of fast walking follow them inside, the others hunch over and try to disappear into themselves.

  A vendor hurriedly gathers his cookware before pushing his cart in a mad dash toward a scrap-metal home. Doors open, then close. Like he’s naive enough to believe he’ll evade paying them. That they won’t find him with the cart tracks making a direct beeline in the sludge to his hiding place.

  He’ll be paying a higher price now. There’s no escaping Los Lobos.

  I place one hand on my Glock and wait.

  Six motorcycles round the corner, two men on each. They fan out into groups of four men, each pulling up and around the wiser vendors who know the drill.

  Payment time.

  I watch. Money exchanging hands. A few crew members shouting and patting down a man who’s pleading poverty. Until someone notices the cart tracks.

  Six men kick in the door, disappear inside, and return with the struggling vendor. They toss him into the street. Everyone circles him, ready to teach him a lesson. Sending a message to the rest of his kind: Pay up or pay dearly.

  I step into the street and whistle loudly.

  That does the trick—I’ve got their attention. “Leave him be, my friends,” I say in Spanish. “El Chulo is about to be a happy man with the dinero I’ll be handing over to you.”

  “Who the fuck is that?” one of the youn
ger men says.

  “Don’t know,” the man nearest him responds.

  “Check out his bike,” the most observant fuckhead adds.

  All eyes shift past me and to my bike.

  Look away, pendejo. Look away.

  Quicker than the vendor I saved, who is now halfway down the road, I withdraw my Glock and shoot. The bullet nips at the booted ankle of the hijo de puta staring at my sweet baby.

  Mission accomplished.

  “What the hell?” the man screams.

  I stalk across the short distance separating me from them, my gun aimed directly at the same man. Their leader, I’m assuming. “I’m Diego Murillo de Romero.” I offer them my real name, with good reason.

  “Dios mío. Romero.”

  I’ve built up a reputation that’ll probably last until my dying day.

  “Amigo, you are far way from Mexicali. What are you doing in Neza Chalco?”

  The other men eye my jacket, nodding their heads as they catch sight of my patches. Badges of honor earned in the most violent of ways. That’s how respect in earned within an environment like this.

  “I’m reacquainting myself with my Los Lobos compadres. Is there somewhere close by where we can talk? Like I said, it’ll be worth your time.” I arch my eyebrows and peer around at the nearly empty street as if the thin walls of the ramshackle buildings have ears.

  Their leader angles his head in the direction they’d come from. “Follow us.”

  We ride our bikes along the narrow streets until we arrive at a large rectangular clearing. It’s startling to see after being surrounded by so many people living in such close quarters. In the center of the clearing is a long warehouse-like building made of truck tires and scrap metal hammered together.

  Paradise compared to the squalor surrounding it. Motorcycles of all shapes and styles are parked outside the Los Lobos social club, along with a few small cars that look to be brand-new and that clearly don’t belong in the heart of the world’s largest ghetto. I peer inside one of them as I follow the crew to the entrance. A helmet sits on one of the seats, with a wolf and crossbones smiling a warm welcome at me.

  I blink my eyes, trying to adjust to the dark, smoky room I’ve entered. Several long folding tables filled with empty bottles of liquor and beer are lined up to my left. An impromptu bar. The bartender behind it relaxes his shoulders after he checks out my jacket.

  Perfecto. I’d prefer not to have to shoot my way inside.

  A curtain is to my right, laughter filtering in from whoever is gathered in the space behind it.

  I follow my newfound friends across the dirt floor.

  The curtain separating the spaces is pulled aside.

  A poker game is in progress. Six men, with piles of money on the table. Except one man at the head of the table with three times the amount in front of his smug face.

  Goddamn McDuff.

  Inside Los Lobos’s social club. And not where I expected him to be, in Acapulco.

  He’s dressed like a peasant, in a colorful serape draped over his large frame and a shit-eating, well-if-this-doesn’t-beat-all grin. And, for all outward appearances, he seems to be running this poker game.

  “Qué pasa con el gringo?” I ask the nearest man, nodding toward Finn, as if I have more of a right to be seated and playing poker with them than the smug Irishman does.

  “Él es un compadre,” someone offers.

  “Con el dinero,” another man adds.

  “With your money, amigos. Because you keep losing,” the Irishman speaks up, clearly following what’s being said. “But your friend is too late. The game is already in play.”

  Payaso.

  I turn away from the clown. “Is there somewhere private we can talk?” I ask the man I’d shot at. I don’t know how Shamrock infiltrated the toughest gang in Mexico so damn easily, but I’ll be damned if he outplays me on my own turf. Let him waste his day digging for information over poker. Within gangs, there’s a hierarchy with the big boss, in this case El Chulo, holding all the valuable information. I’m here to simply grease their palms, arrange a meeting with their boss, and head out.

  Five minutes, tops.

  Hell, I’ll even toss a few pesos onto McDuff’s pile on my way out.

  I ignore his taunting stare as I step through one curtain after another until I’m inside a section of the warehouse where two couches set in an L shape face an enormous flat-screen television. A group of men are seated and watching a local fútbol match.

  I dig into my pocket, retrieve a thick wad of pesos, and toss it onto the filthy plastic coffee table before them.

  “Is your boss in?” I ask in Spanish.

  “El Chulo? No.”

  “He still in Acapulco?” I take a wild guess. With so much money involved in that weapons exchange . . .

  My question surprises a few men. But fortunately, not everyone. “You part of that crew?”

  “Kind of,” I answer vaguely. “When is he returning? I have information for him.”

  Or rather, I need information from him.

  “I will pass on your message.”

  I sigh. “Amigo, what I have to say to him is for his ears alone. Understand?” I stare at the man, hard. Unwavering.

  “Wednesday.”

  “This Wednesday?”

  “Yes.”

  I smile. Simple. And mission accomplished in less than four minutes. I retrieve a few more pesos from my inner jacket pocket and place it in the man’s palm as I shake his hand, so the other men don’t see.

  His eyebrows arch in surprise. A pleased surprise. He won’t have to share.

  I take a step toward the curtain. Keep moving, idiota. Don’t stop. I pause and turn back. “Compadre, another quick question. Say I’m looking to earn some quick cash. Nothing drug-related but I’m not opposed to killing someone.”

  He chuckles. Violent men like violent humor.

  “Any jobs?” I smoothly ask, operating on a hunch that Mendoza might use his papí’s gang connections to make sure his dirty work gets done.

  “Sí, there’s seven retaliations. And a few private bounties.”

  “How about one on a woman?”

  That has my friend shaking his head. “You’re one of them sick motherfuckers?”

  I force a smile.

  The man stiffens. “There’s a bounty on some gringa that came in a couple days ago. Pays well. No one wants the job because she’s a woman, and an American.”

  “Tell you what. If you find her, don’t kill her. Keep her for me to deal with. I’ll split the bounty with your crew. Fifty-fifty.”

  “Seventy-thirty.”

  I sigh loudly. “Fine.”

  “Deal.” He walks with me toward the curtain. “The rumors are true. You are a real hijo de puta, aren’t you?”

  “Next time, I’ll aim for your balls instead of your ankle.”

  He laughs. No grudges. No harm done.

  I whistle an upbeat tune as I pull back the curtain and move back through the poker room. Noting McDuff’s pile of money and the scowl on his face.

  Play on, compadre.

  My bike is exactly where I parked it. No one messes with Los Lobos, not even the hungriest of thieves.

  Half an hour later, my stomach rumbles and I’m anxious to head back to the TORC safe house I’m living in. Aside from the Ranch back in Oklahoma, it’s the next best thing to living in the lap of luxury.

  But I find myself taking a quick detour and heading toward her hotel.

  Just. In. Case.

  I turn the corner and am immediately forced to break. The tail wheel of my bike fans out at a horizontal angel and I struggle to remain upright. “Mierda,” I curse, as the bike comes to a screeching stop, then glare at the cause.

  At the shape of the person whom I nearly plowed over.

  Running . . . for her life.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Diego

  Pinche cabrón.

  I’m just regaining control of my bike when t
hree men come charging at me. Familiar faces. Mendoza’s crew.

  I hunch my shoulders and duck my chin into my chest, disappearing in plain sight. If they spot me, I’m prepared to fight. Yet there’s no cause for concern. They race right by me, mindless of me and whoever else is on the street. Focused solely . . . on her.

  Can I say I’m fucking surprised? Hell, no. It was just a matter of time before they tracked her down. Cashing in on the bounty on my head must be frustrating work, considering the paperwork Mendoza received upon my initial employment had a false surname, an address to nowhere land, and the Mexican equivalent of a fake social security number. But Aubrey . . .

  Am I now so jaded I can’t tell an innocent victim from a player? A staycation at Casa Bella—it was too innocent a comment to overlook, yet I did just that. With that staycation of hers almost turned into a permanent one.

  Do I drive off and turn a blind eye? Crap, the fear in her eyes . . .

  You’re in the right place at the right time.

  Hayden better have not only left Mexico City but Mexico itself. If he catches wind of what I’m about to do . . . still, as the thought crosses my mind, I’m turning the handlebars and beginning my tail on Mendoza’s thugs.

  To Aubrey’s credit, she’s good. It’s like she understands exactly where to turn and what store to enter then exit through. She keeps well ahead of them, making a few interesting choices in her escape that force me to raise my eyebrows. Like ducking inside a launderette and exiting via a second door a few feet away but on the adjacent block. I hold my breath, certain they’ll catch her as I watch everything through the front shop window. But Aubrey is full of surprises. Not only do they not catch on to the fact there’s a nearby side entrance, they spend valuable time circling the machines, expecting to find her hiding somewhere.

  Her next move is a classic, bursting inside an everything-Elvis store. Stores like this always have a delivery door around back, which is where I hurry and position myself just out of sight. She bursts through seconds later, along with the echo of the lyrics “a hunk, a hunk of burnin’ love,” and the curses of men from inside.