Hit Man: A Sexy Action-Packed Alpha Adventure Romance Page 21

“Terrorists. No one is safe.” He shakes his head. The same man who issues death sentences like he’s blowing snot into a Kleenex.

  “We’ve been paid by this man’s father to guard a warehouse in Acapulco. Guns, weapons, ammo from Marseille, France. Rumor has it his son, Juan Carlos Mendoza, the man in the picture, sent a few of his own men to help guard the warehouse.”

  “I’ve heard the same thing,” I share.

  “You hear he hired Los Navajas to fuck with my men? Forcing me to leave the comforts of home to visit Acapulco and put an end to it.”

  I frown.

  “At the first attack, we thought Los Navajas were after the weapons.”

  “And now?” I casually ask, instinctively knowing I’m about to get some answers.

  “After several more attacks, we caught a Navaja and . . . questioned him.”

  “And?”

  “Someone hired them to cause trouble.”

  Who?”

  “Before they took the job, they did what most gangs tend to do and traced the phone call back to some gringa in Tepoztlán.

  “Mendoza have a girlfriend? Did he have her place the call?”

  “He has many girlfriends,” El Chulo responds.

  “I want to talk to the Navaja.”

  “Too late. He’s got nothing more to say.” El Chulo smirks.

  I grind my teeth together. I came here for answers about the uranium. Instead, all I have are questions. And not only am I in a hurry to outplay the Irishman, there’s someone else in the game.

  “Did you pass this information on to the woman paying you?”

  “Of course.”

  Mierda. She’s one step ahead of me.

  “And the uranium? Any news where it came from or where it’s going?”

  El Chulo’s holding back something . . . I can see it in his body language . . . testing me . . .

  “You’ll have to ask the woman,” he says a little too smugly. Like what he’s offered is worth fifty grand. Giving me little more than information about a father and his bastard son’s pissing contest.

  I take out my blade from the holster beneath my jacket. It gleams in the faint light seeping in through the spaces in the roof. His men jump to their feet but I’m faster. My knife is up against El Chulo’s throat quicker than you can say pimp. “Flinch and I’ll carve a smile across his windpipe,” I calmly tell his men. “Compadre, I’m paying you good money. No hard feelings but I’m in a piss-poor mood, in a hurry, and El Bastardo is going to raise holy fuck if I don’t bring home more concrete information. Did you or did you not find out something important about the uranium?”

  “Did. Okay, compadre. I’ll tell you everything.”

  “That’s what I’m paying you for.”

  “I’m doing this out of respect for El Bastardo, you make sure he knows this.”

  Am I surprised El Chulo gives in so easily? No. Not after bringing Hayden’s nickname into the mix. My reputation is saintly compared to his. He earned the unofficial nickname El Bastardo ten times over.

  I remove my blade from his throat yet remain within striking distance.

  “The uranium is somewhere in Mexico City. We don’t know how it was snuck in. By truck, maybe. We’re watching the ports.”

  I keep quiet, waiting for new information to surface, yet relaxing slightly, knowing he’s telling the truth.

  “The Navaja did say something else. Something he overhead Mendoza’s men discussing. A large freight ship is arriving in Acapulco.”

  “For the weapons?” I say.

  El Chulo shakes his head. “The uranium.”

  “When?”

  “Saturday.”

  El Chulo grins and I inhale sharply. There’s more. “Where?”

  “Don’t know yet.”

  I frown, curious about the father-versus-son dynamics playing out. “Is Fahder aware of this?”

  “If I was a gambling man”—he nods toward the cards on the table—“I’d say Mendoza is about to overtake his old man. Keep him distracted in Acapulco, away from Mexico City while he loads crates of enriched uranium out of sight of Papí’s watchful eye. He’ll likely draw his father away from Acapulco sometime before Saturday.”

  “Or kill him,” I say.

  “That, too.”

  “And Fahder’s shipment, the guns?” I push. Might as well help an Irishman out, or get a bit of news before he learns of it.

  “We’re set to watch the warehouse for a few more weeks.”

  I consider this. Wouldn’t it be the ultimate double cross if the guns shipped off alongside the crates of uranium? Fahder returning to Acapulco to an empty warehouse?

  I frown. Is Mendoza really that clever?

  El Chulo sits up a bit straighter. “You came for information and I delivered.” Another smile spreads across his face. Dios mío. What else is he holding out on?

  I scowl at him.

  He stares at me, his eyes glimmering.

  I can see my blade glimmering as well—against his throat.

  He reads the warning in my expression, calmly licks his lips then, with great relish, asks me, “Wanna know how you can contact that tight piece of ass?” He takes out a folded piece of paper. Pink, with a goddamn flower pattern on it, and numbers. Her phone number.

  “It’ll cost you. Ten grand, on top of everything else.”

  “Five. El Bastardo is going to kill me.”

  “Seven.”

  “Deal. Money first.”

  I dig into my bag and retrieve what might possibly be the last money to ever pass across my fingers. I count out the fifty and add in the seven.

  The same man I spoke with a few days ago speaks up. “Boss . . . don’t forget the gringa . . .”

  I stop counting and the room temperature abruptly spikes.

  “That’s right. You made an agreement with my men over a bounty.”

  Pinche cabrón. “How much?” I demand, knowing exactly where this is leading. To Aubrey. To Aubrey in fucking Mexico City. To Aubrey in goddamn Neza Chalco.

  “Twenty grand.” Sly man. Half the bounty on her head yet I’m too furious to care.

  “Forty,” I snap.

  El Chulo’s eyebrows hit the scrap-metal rafters. “Done.” He stands, as do his men. “You need anything else, please don’t hesitate to come knocking. Pass on our greetings to El Bastardo. He gestures to a man across the room.

  “Bring out the gringa.”

  My patience quickly withers away. Minute passes and I’m on my feet. Three minutes and I’m glaring at the men around me. Thirty-seven seconds more and I’m ready to do some damage.

  The curtain rustles, and then Aubrey steps through it.

  The sight of her hits me in the gut. So stoic. So frightened. Beautiful beyond belief. I quickly run my gaze over her, my frustration lessening after I realize she’s okay. Unharmed.

  In the wrong goddamn place at the worst of times.

  Wide-eyed, her eyes skim across the room, pausing on the pile of money on the coffee table, then on El Chulo, before resting . . . on me.

  She visibly jerks. Her shock tangible, and something that doesn’t sit well within me. I can only imagine what she sees, me in my dirty old boots, black leather pants and a T-shirt, my Los Lobos leather jacket with the wolf in crossbones patch on it, and the knife in my hand.

  Chavita, get a good long look at what you stuck around for.

  “He’s come to collect you, gringa,” El Chulo tells her in broken English. “Paid me the entire bounty on your pretty cabeza.”

  I pin her with my glare. What the fuck is she still doing in Mexico City?

  “Wanna know who she works for?” one of the men say. “I did some investigating. She’s involved with that thieving scumbag, Maxwell Vessinger.”

  Her body stiffens as she turns to the man speaking. “What? Please tell me what you mean by ‘thieving scumbag’?”

  “You give him money upfront, preciosa?” El Chulo asks.

  My fingers tighten around the handle of my
knife. Precious . . . he called her precious . . .

  “You pay him to participate in one of his business deals?”

  Mierda. No.

  “Yes.”

  “More than a thousand dollars, sí?”

  “Ten thousand.”

  El Chulo laughs. “He ripped you off, mi preciosa.”

  “Look who’s calling the kettle black,” I mutter in Spanish.

  El Chulo shrugs his shoulders. “There are crooks. And then there are crooks.”

  She flinches, then recovers. “Ten thousand dollars. For a pay-to-work program. For my building plans to become a reality.” She inhales sharply, fighting for control. Her body rigid. Her fists clenched.

  “It was all a lie. The expensive offices, the last-minute cancellation of government funding. That jerk. I risked my life to raise money for him. For a project that he never intended to fulfill. Am I right?” she demands.

  The men all nod, which presses her buttons even more.

  “That goddamn, no-good, lying bastard. He made it all seem so legitimate. Where is he? I want a word with him.”

  Eyebrows raise but no one speaks. Too caught up in how she’s glaring at them like troublesome children instead of murdering gang members. Hands on her hips, chest heaving, cheeks flushed with passion.

  Beautiful.

  Mine.

  And just like that, I forget I should be furious at her.

  I fucking want her. I want up inside her. I want her body flush against mine. I want her crying out my name and laughing with pleasure. I want her . . . happy.

  “I’ll get your money back.”

  Her attention shifts back to me. “You will?”

  “Yes.”

  “But what about them?” She gestures . . . at the gang members . . . seeing straight past their violent facade and deeper into the depths of an oh-so-real struggle for survival. Like she’s looking into the soul of me.

  She continues on, missing the stunned expressions on their faces. Sympathy isn’t something these men are used to. “How could my boss do that to them? People in need of a kind hand, not some goddamn crook’s—”

  “That’s right,” someone shouts.

  “There are pendejos like your boss all around the world. Bigger pendejos, even.” I pause, my words sinking into my own thick skull. Yeah, bigger pendejos are my specialty . . . bigger pendejos like Mendoza, who are waiting for me. “Let’s get going.”

  What am I going to do with her?

  Aside from what I plan to do to her, as soon as possible.

  I slide my knife back into its place, scoop up my bag, and cross the dirt floor to where she stiffly stands. I take her hand in mine and, without another word, lead her outside to my bike.

  “Why are you in Neza Chalco? And why are you dressed like one of them?” I hear her murmur.

  I stop and kick a rock by my bike. Watch it bounce into the scrap-metal siding with a loud bing.

  She’s too good for the likes of me. A hit man. A lone wolf, still.

  “Because this is who I am,” I softly reply. “The root of all I’ll ever be.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  Aubrey

  My world flashes by me as I hang on tightly to Diego as he navigates the Harley along the dirt roadways. We pass kids playing soccer and old women who turn their heads as we drive by. We move past the makeshift houses that’ve become long-term residences. So many. So many they’ve become one enormous blur. We exit Neza Chalco, yet it’s hard to shake the social injustice of it all. I won’t give up on my dreams. I won’t be another person who turns the other cheek. I’ve got to undo the wrong predators like Maxwell have done.

  But how?

  Nothing makes sense. My roommate’s abandonment, the trigger-happy billionaire who evidently places bounties on people’s heads, even the leather-clad stranger, my lover, who has a knife tucked into his jacket the size of my forearm.

  He parks in front of a small corner café.

  I sit, straddling his bike, as I watch him intently.

  His abrupt manner. The harsh lines in his face.

  My lover. My handsome, passionate, badass lover. Yet I understand so little about him. What is clear is he’s furious . . . with me.

  He waves at me to follow him. I have to hurry to do so, following his long strides as he marches me down an alleyway wedged between the café and a furniture boutique that’s as wide as two arm spans. I chase after him, working my way around stray bureaus, buffets, and an occasional box until he abruptly halts before a coffee table blocking our path through the alley. He kicks at a leg, curses, and runs his fingers through his hair. He points to the coffee table and gestures for me to sit.

  All that pent-up energy.

  I stand, unsure and unsettled.

  He sits instead, raising his head and trapping my attention in an intense glare.

  I brace myself for what I’ve learned often follows.

  He doesn’t disappoint. “You didn’t listen to me, chava. Why are you still here? Do you have any idea what might have happened to you? In a Los Lobos warehouse? In Neza itself? You’re enough to drive a man loco.”

  Stop. Don’t poke the devil and think you’ll live to tell about it. “It doesn’t take much,” I inform him, rejecting common sense completely.

  This stops him cold. Matter of fact, his mouth hangs open, stuck somewhere between chewing me out and snapping it closed in an attempt to hold back the rush of curses I’m expecting to follow.

  He’s wearing a jacket with a wolf and crossbones.

  Dangerous.

  Handsome as sin. Built for sin.

  “Why are you dressed like you belong in that gang?”

  “What I do is no concern to you.”

  I blink. Ouch. So in other words, mind my own business.

  “Pendejo.”

  His eyes narrow. “Do you have a death wish?”

  “Are you threatening me?” Now I’m pissed.

  “You’re in my way.”

  I straighten my body, my spine stiffening with my displeasure. “How about I get out of your way for good?” I spin on my heels.

  “Stop. Don’t you goddamn get it? It’s not safe here for you.”

  The nerve of him.

  I stalk forward and kick the coffee-table leg, narrowly missing his shin. “You think I don’t know that? If it hadn’t been for that low-life scumbag Maxwell . . .” I’m so angry thinking about what that man has done, I struggle for air. My money, my dreams, my . . . hope.

  In a blink, he’s up and at me, clasping hold of my upper arms and forcing me back against the side of the building.

  “I’ll get your money back.” His lips inches away from mine. Close, close enough to kiss. “But I’ll say this once more. Leave. Mexico. City.”

  “I wish I could. But there’s a small problem. My passport is not within my possession. I tried to get a replacement at the embassy but Juan Carlos’s men were stationed outside.”

  “Mierda,” he murmurs, as he stares deeply into my eyes. “Why didn’t you tell me? I could have worked something out.”

  “I tried to but you cut me off and insulted me.”

  “Now I’m pressed for time . . .”

  “I’ll hang low. I’ll play it safe until a replacement can be arranged. I’ll stay in bed all day, every day if I have to.”

  His eyes go dark, like coffee minus the cream. “I’d like to give you a reason to do so. How I’d like to stay in bed with you with me deep inside you, all day, every day.” He draws his head impossibly closer, and licks his lips.

  My own lips part, unintentionally inviting him in for a taste.

  He shakes his head. “You’re the worst kind of distraction. Exactly what I don’t need right now.” But he doesn’t pull away, and his eyes fill with hot, unbridled lust.

  My heart races, adrenaline still pumping through my veins, urging me into action. I need him. I need to feel him. I need him to take me, fuck me, drive away my fears while I’m in the safety of his embrace
. After another near-death experience, I desperately want to feel alive. I step toward him until we’re barely touching.

  He cocks his head, pretending I have no effect on him. But I’m close enough to see his nostrils flare. I rake my eyes down his body and back up.

  His head is no longer cocked. “You trying to seduce me? Because I’m impossible to seduce,” he warns me.

  “Is that right?” I give him a saucy grin and am rewarded with his own soft smile.

  “We’re in the middle of an alleyway.”

  “So?” I say, arching my eyebrows. “The first time I saw you, you stripped down to your birthday suit in the middle of a living room. Matter of fact, I’ve grown used to seeing you naked. Why play shy now?”

  He grunts. “Shy? That’s not it at all.”

  “What is it, then?”

  “Time. Now isn’t the time for us.”

  “You said that before.”

  “I meant it before and I mean it now. I’m involved in dangerous work. You can’t be more a part of it than you’ve already been. I can’t tell you any more than that. I need to make new arrangements and see you safely gone. Mendoza could still be after you.”

  “You paid a bounty. He’ll think the worst, won’t he?”

  “It’s not a risk I’m willing to take.” He pauses, and draws me into his arms. “I’d want to hurt whoever harmed you.”

  My throat hitches at the sincerity in his words.

  “I don’t think I could . . . function if something happened to you . . .” he adds softly.

  I relax within his hold.

  He cares. This passionate, beautiful, bossy man cares about me.

  “You get it now?” he asks. But instead of staring down at me, he does the funniest thing, he glances up at the sky and shakes his head. Like he’s asking God for guidance. “A goddamn do-gooder. It just figures,” he mutters.

  “I get it,” I whisper, finding the button on his black leather pants and unfastening it. “I get it. And now you’re getting something—seduced.”

  “Now? Right here?”

  “Now. Right here. You’re the one who is pressed for time.”

  “Dios,” he murmurs with a cocky tilt of his head. “Give it your best shot.” He gently presses his thumb into my bottom lip. “Or maybe I’ll just fuck you against that wall, dirty girl?”