Hit Man: A Sexy Action-Packed Alpha Adventure Romance Page 20

  That I don’t have a passport. That without one, it makes flying home problematic. “Tomorrow won’t work. I need time—”

  “Make it work,” he growls out, cutting me off as he narrows his eyes on me. I feel my spine straighten. “Don’t be difficult now. I don’t have time for this.”

  “Difficult.” I feel my lips draw into a tight line.

  “If you are worried about your possessions, clothes are replaceable.”

  But two years of architectural design work isn’t. And both the original and miniature copies are in my other hotel room. Yet instead of telling him this, I hear myself say in a hurt tone, “I bet you say that about women, too. We’re all replaceable to a stud like you.”

  He snatches hold of my arm before I can stalk way.

  “Aubrey.”

  I swing back toward him. Wishing I had a passport so I could take the next flight home and be far, far away from him and the disaster that has become Mexico City.

  “I’m glad I put a hickey on your neck.”

  I gasp and reach for my neck. Sure enough, there’s a tender spot and, from the feel of it, it’s the size of a thumbprint.

  “There’s one on your breast, inner thigh, lower abdomen.”

  Sure, I felt him nuzzling me. I felt a lot of things, a lot of him.

  “I left my mark all over your body,” he informs me with a smug yet restrained grin, denying me his dimples. “So in case you’re wondering, as far as other women go . . .” He’s quiet for a second, before continuing in a low, gravel-filled voice, “Just like you’ve got every inch of me on your body, I’ve got every inch of you stored away here.” He taps his finger to his head.

  My throat tightens. “Why are you telling me this?”

  “So you can go home, resume your career, find a boyfriend, live a great life but still know . . .” he softly informs me “ . . . how damn sorry I am we had to end this way.”

  I tap my foot impatiently, waiting for the bellboy to return with my suitcase and architectural plans. I paid him a small fortune, with the promise of more money if he could retrieve my possessions from my room and bring them to where I’ve tucked myself away and out of sight in the narrow hallway by the elevator bank.

  Just a precaution, I mentally remind myself by repeating Diego’s earlier explanation to me. An unnecessary risk, the more rational side of me argues. Still, I won’t be leaving Mexico City tomorrow, not without a passport. And although clothing is irreplaceable, my architectural plans aren’t.

  I’d entered the hotel through the secondary entrance at the end of this hallway. And aside from the strange way the bellboy reacted to my request that he do me this small favor—he starred at me with a huge smile brightening his face, like I’d just offered him a million pesos rather than a thousand—before telling me to wait here for his return.

  It’s been about thirty minutes. For the life of me, I can’t understand what’s taking him so long. But as soon as I decide to cut my losses and leave, the elevator chimes, the doors open, and out he steps with my plans and luggage in tow.

  There’s a piece of paper in his hand . . . a picture. But he tucks it away before I can see it more clearly.

  “Follow me,” he says, leading me down the hallway toward the door I’d entered through.

  Strange. But for someone who took his sweet time collecting my things, he’s in an awful hurry now.

  “Wouldn’t it be wiser to collect the second part of what I owe you inside the hotel?” Exchanging money on any street in a big city seems like a foolish idea.

  “No. It was my pleasure to help you, señorita.”

  I frown, suspicious. It’s hard to be anything but these days. Yet I have a taxi outside waiting for me so I hurry behind him.

  We exit the hotel.

  The taxi driver jumps out to help with my suitcase.

  They spend a few minutes talking before the driver reenters the taxi. He tucks a handful of pesos into the tall cup set inside the center console, along with what I believe is the same picture the bellboy had had.

  “Back to Hotel TransAtlantico?” he asks me in broken English.

  “Yes,” I reply, with an overwhelming sense of relief.

  “Okay if I lock the doors? Mexico is full of criminals looking to make a quick buck.”

  “Please do,” I sincerely reply. I’ve had enough surprises.

  “Eh . . . okay if I stop to pick up my niña?” He retrieves the picture from the cup and hands it to me. A beautiful little girl with a broad grin and sparkles in her eyes stares up at me from the faded photo.

  “What is her name?”

  “Margarita.”

  My heart skips a beat. Of all names . . . Margarita . . . my best friend’s name. A pang of remorse hits me. Remorse for my loss. Remorse that I failed to accomplish what I set out to do here in Mexico City.

  “I don’t mind if we stop,” I tell him, returning the photo to him.

  “The bellboy is her cousin, Fredo. My nephew,” he offers before falling silent.

  I sit back in my seat.

  A few blocks later, we stop in front of a church. No sooner does he pull to a halt than a little girl comes bursting out of the arched doorway. He opens the back door for her and she slips into the seat next to me.

  In a blink, she’s grinning broadly as her hand slides over mine.

  “Margarita is a beautiful name,” I tell her.

  “What is your name?” she asks in perfect English.

  “Aubrey.”

  “Aubrey is a beautiful name, too,” she tells me with a broad, gap-toothed grin, and taking my hand firmly into her own, holds it tightly.

  As do I with her little hand—actually I never want to let go. I feel an immediate affinity to this child. Perhaps it’s her warm smile or perhaps it’s simply her name and how she reminds me of my best friend.

  “I will drop her home first. Okay?” her father asks.

  “Yes. Of course,” I respond with slight hesitation.

  A short while later as the taxi breaks free of the high-rise jungle, the scenery abruptly changes. The bright blue sky overhead is deceiving because what it looks down upon is nothing short of dismal.

  Homes with brick facades turn into shacks with scrap-metal siding. The paved street ends, giving way to a labyrinth of winding dirt streets that are laid out with no rhyme or reason. The pungent smell of sewage mixed with rotting garbage has me closing the small crack I’d left in the back window.

  “Where are we?” I murmur.

  “Neza Chalco.”

  My eyes go wide.

  When I conducted my research on the largest slum in the world, I kept coming across the term abject poverty. Abject means “the lowest extreme possible” and poverty is a word familiar to everyone, old and young. Yet I was so caught up in my work and like most people who never truly struggled in life, I stored this term away without truly understanding the depths of meaning behind it.

  Desperation.

  Neglect.

  Almost beyond hope.

  Deep inside, I feel my resolve grow stronger. I might be leaving Mexico City as soon as feasibly possible but I’m not going to abandon my dream of helping those in need.

  I won’t disappoint Margarita. I can’t bear the thought of doing so.

  “I’m sorry,” the driver tells me.

  “Don’t be. You do what you can to survive in this world. I understand that, I really do.”

  My words seem to sadden him, so I stop talking.

  We turn down a side street. Crammed full of children playing, woman gossiping within tightly knit circles, men with brown-bagged bottles lining the roadways, and street vendors. Six vendors dominating one small area. He parks in front of a larger scrap-metal structure.

  “Will you come inside for a Fresca?” he offers.

  I smile. “Yes.” Besides, while I’m here, I’d like to get a long, hard look of the inside of a home and see firsthand if there’s anything in my plans that needs adjusting. It’s one thing to c
reate a concept from a school library far, far away but another to witness things firsthand. And with every corner turned, the reality that is Neza overwhelms the senses.

  I exit the taxi and little Margarita grabs me by the hand and pulls me inside. A young woman waves at us, and I’m escorted over to a long bench made out of two two-by-fours and two sturdy tree trunks that sits flank against a small, fold-out card table.

  Margarita scrambles up onto the bench beside me and two warm Frescas are placed before us.

  “Gracias,” I say, and the woman’s smile broadens.

  I casually glance around. The main room has a couch that has seen better days and a table made of two tires covered by a square plank of wood. Three hammocks hang in a neat line by the far wall. Small convenience-store crates, plastic and in a variety of colors, are stacked against the wall nearest to where I’m seated. I realize I’m in the kitchen. One with no running water, no refrigeration, no means of cooking.

  I hold back my frown and sip my Fresca. Calculating in my head how much I should tip the taxi driver without offending his pride.

  Off in the distance, I hear the thunder of motorcycles.

  “Los Lobos,” Margarita informs me.

  But I notice that her mama is no longer smiling. Instead, she is looking at her husband, who is standing by the curtained entryway.

  I scramble to my feet. “Thank you for the soda, but I think we’d better go.”

  The taxi driver shakes his head.

  His wife rushes by me and slaps him across the face.

  Margarita squeezes my hand tighter.

  There are no windows or doors other than the curtained entryway. But the motorcycles are already outside. It’s too late for me to escape.

  “I’m sorry, señorita.” The taxi driver says. “You do what you can to survive in this world.”

  Shouting erupts outside on the streets.

  I spring into motion, hurrying over to the curtain set up by the hammocks and pull it closed. It was foolish of me to trust the taxi driver. It was foolish of me to venture out of my new hotel room. Not only am I trapped in Mexico, but now I’m trapped inside this kitchenless, windowless home in Neza Chalco.

  I hear footsteps as men enter the shack.

  “Dónde está la gringa?” one of them asks.

  “Yo no sé,” I hear the taxi driver say. He doesn’t know.

  “Su sobrino nos dijo que ella está con usted.”

  “Se equivoca.”

  I hear Margarita cry out.

  “No, por favor,” her mother pleads.

  I can’t bear it. I can’t bear the thought of that little girl hurt because these men are looking for me. I pull the curtain aside and step forward.

  Both men are dressed in black leather jackets, each with a wolf’s head with crossbones patched on the sleeve. As one of them pulls a folded piece of paper out of his pocket and hands it to the other, I can see the same patch is on the back of his jacket.

  The Wolves. No doubt one of the numerous gangs operating within Mexico City. I swallow hard. But they’re here for me. The nephew, the bellboy, tipped them off. The taxi driver . . . drove me here . . .

  “What do you want with me?” I demand.

  “El Chulo wants to see you.”

  I blink. Not Juan Carlos, then . . . “Who is El Chulo?”

  The two men laugh.

  “Come with us.”

  He waves the paper at me and I catch sight of the photograph on it.

  This time, it’s not Margarita. This time, it’s me.

  And, not only that, it’s me in a sexy red dress. A picture that could only have been taken at one place.

  Casa Bella.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  Diego

  You did the right thing letting her go.

  I grimace, the rattling sound of the front fender of my Harley interrupting my thoughts. I curse, pull up to Los Lobos’s scrap-metal warehouse, and park. Bad enough my goddamn conscience has decided to grate on my nerves. Now my own bike seems to be competing for the numero uno spot in pissing me off.

  As for that mechanic, he’d better cough back up the money I’d paid him to fix my baby properly. Wrong freaking man to try and rip off, compadre. Shitty timing, my baby not being in her full glory. Impossible to navigate the Camaro down these streets. Besides, it’s cherry-red paint job doesn’t exactly scream low-key.

  Low profile. A hundred-percent committed to the job. No pretty distractions getting in my way, screwing with my head, giving me weird ideas about what life might be like . . . if I wasn’t the man I am.

  Fucking irony, that. Because now I’m about to play the man I used to be.

  I climb off my bike, straighten my leather jacket, and with my Glock loaded and my favorite blade sharpened to perfection, stalk into the place like I own it.

  I immediately spy the man I spoke with days ago and slap him on the back like we’re old friends. “It’s Wednesday. El Chulo here?” I demand, though judging by the large crew gathered inside, the answer’s clear. El Chulo loves a large audience, the power of men being at his beck and call. His mercy, too. New gang leader, same dynamic. Some things never change.

  I’m like a long-lost cousin dropping in for a surprise visit. My patch my entry ticket. I’m an original Los Lobos. Who ran with Hayden, the godfather of them all. We’re to be feared and revered. After all, respect is the name of the game.

  “He’s in the back,” the man tells me.

  With one more sound thump, I head off in search of answers. The gang is a means to an end. The end being information on the uranium. El Chulo better have news on what’s going down inside his territory. I’d like nothing more than to wrap up this assignment with a bang by beating McDuff to the punch.

  The scrap-metal warehouse is exactly as I left it, except crowded with men and missing one smug Irishman. Though a poker game is in progress, same as before.

  Nothing out of the usual. Nothing to be concerned about.

  I work my way between makeshift rooms to the back. Unzipping my jacket yet tightening my hold on my army bag.

  “Hola, compadres,” I say, directing my greeting to the men gathered around the coffee table. Interrupting the poker game in progress.

  Everyone stops and stares. Except the skinny bald man smoking a cigar, who keeps on studying the cards in his hand. “Who the fuck let this joker in?” El Chulo snarls in Spanish. “You’ve ruined my game.”

  “He’s Los Lobos, boss,” a familiar-looking man tells El Chulo.

  I drop my bag at my feet, reach into the side compartment, and withdraw a thick stack of pesos. I toss it on the coffee table. “I brought money for information.”

  That catches his attention.

  “A token of what I’m willing to pay,” I say, sweetening the pot.

  El Chulo slowly folds his hand of cards—not even a pair. Either I did the man a favor or his men are too afraid of him to outplay him. Two of his men rise to their feet, probably thinking they’re going to take my bag off me.

  “Try it, and I’ll put a knife in both your throats.” I grin at them and am rewarded by their eyes widening in confusion. Write me off or take me seriously. What will it be, pendejos?

  “Down,” El Chulo orders.

  His two rottweilers sit.

  “Where you from?”

  “Mexicali.”

  Someone whistles. Yeah, what can I say? Badass in my teens. Badass into adulthood. Working for the same Bastard, but now wearing suits instead of leather.

  El Chulo nods. “The original wolves. You running with them?”

  “Yes.”

  Fear and loyalty might come and go like a gunshot. But respect is something that lasts a lifetime. I don’t let it go to my head, though. I’m a man on a mission. “I’ve got personal business with this man.” Reaching into my pocket, I remove a blurry picture of Mendoza. It’s a grainy, unfocused picture. Hard to make out his face. I’m an explosives expert. Pretty good with women. A killer. If you want magazine-
worthy photos, you’re barking up the wrong tree.

  Yet it doesn’t matter. The picture is just a pretense to get El Chulo to talk. I already know Los Lobos are working for Fahder. What I don’t know is if they’ve been recruited by his son.

  “It’ll cost you triple this amount.”

  “Deal. You recognize him.”

  “Yes. He’s the same man that tight piece of ass came asking about.”

  A tight piece of ass?

  El Chulo’s men chuckle. One man grabs his dick and gyrates his hips.

  “A female? Who?”

  “That information will cost you another ten grand. But, compadre, it’ll be worth it. You’ll have a hard-on for a week after meeting her.”

  Dios mío. I’ve already got a stiff cock from a woman I’ll only see in my dreams. I grit my teeth. A woman? Asking about Mendoza? Who could she be? As far as I know, Hayden has one woman on his payroll . . . Kylie Smith. Yeah, she’d give you a hard-on for days. But I left her in Paris six months ago with another TORC hit man. Preoccupied and with her hands full, for sure.

  Not Kylie. So who? “Ten grand, agreed.”

  “She came to us asking for information about enriched uranium. Said she’d pay mucho dinero if we found out where the man you’re asking about is shipping crates of it to.”

  Holy motherfucker.

  El Chulo leans back in his recliner, then taps the wad of hundreds on his thigh.

  Jesus Christ. Like the warning Hayden gave to McDuff, someone else is working this assignment.

  Months of undercover work. My spinning around like a hampster on a wheel, up and down, around and around. No closer to ending things than when I began this assignment.

  “Patience,” Hayden is always reminding me. Dios, the time for being patient is when I’m six feet underground.

  “You’ve been digging up information for this woman. Fifty grand, for everything you’ve found out.”

  El Chulo’s eyes go wide.

  His men fall silent.

  Big news. Big problem. Big money. Hayden will have to get over it.

  “Someone’s planning on building a nuclear weapon,” El Chulo comments. For a man named the pimp, he’s pretty goddamn astute.

  “Looks that way.”