Hit Man: A Sexy Action-Packed Alpha Adventure Romance

by Michele Mannon

  Have at him, sister.

  We end our journey at a bus terminal located outside city limits. And I leave him behind without another glance in his direction and without so much as an adios.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Diego

  I slow my pace, focusing on the black Hummer limousine parked on the street a block away from the TORC safe house in downtown Mexico City. I’m wet, tired, and in need of a beer. I’m in no mood for conversation. And the last fucknut I want to be around right now is the Irishman.

  The door opens.

  “Mierda,” I curse, then slide into the backseat and next to the man seated there.

  He holds up a finger. One second, so he can finish the game pulled up on his iPad screen—Assassin’s Creed: Identity. How goddamn appropriate.

  I roll my eyes. McDuff’s got this laid-back just-rolled-out-of-bed vibe that drives a guy like me—who likes to get things done pronto—to drink. His jeans are ripped at the knees, he’s got a bright, rainbow-colored serape on, the poncho-like blanket engulfing his large frame. To top off his look, my man’s wearing a brown beanie pulled low over his head. He looks like a clothes-challenge college student more than a hit man.

  He ignores me.

  “Look, cabrón. Stop screwing around and listen.”

  “Hang on. Five jumps is all I need to descend Notre Dame cathedral.”

  This guy is unbelievable. I make a grab for his toy but, quicker than the assassin on his iPad, he snatches it out of harm’s way. “All right, mate,” he reassures me, clicking the game off and tossing the iPad onto the seat next to him. Then he arches an eyebrow at me. “What now?” he asks.

  I feel the V in my forehead deepen because he didn’t ask, “What happened?”

  The bastard knows.

  “Ya valió madre,” I mutter beneath my breath. “Hayden already hear my news?”

  “Don’t know. I was ordered to Mexico City but haven’t reported in yet. Been busy watching Mendoza’s boys running around with raging hard-ons for someone named ‘Diego ‘Rodriguez.’ Guess your cover’s gone caput?” my counterpart says with a zing.

  “That’s putting it mildly.”

  McDuff chuckles.

  I scowl, not liking the fact that he stands to benefit from my failure.

  We’ve got this love-hate relationship going. Ever since Paris, where he beat me to my last target, Kylie Smith. It took a hell of a lot of preparation on my end, tracking my fellow mercenary. She sold TORC secrets. Hayden put a hit out on her. Yet the fact that McDuff located her first still rubs me the wrong way. And now he’s in Mexico City . . . working my assignment . . .

  How long ago did Hayden bring the Irishman in? Or worse, has Shamrock been here all along? I straighten my legs and run my hand across the hairs on my chin. I need a shave and a drink, maybe in the reverse order. “What’s the news from Acapulco?”

  “I’ll share if you’ll do the same.”

  “Deal,” I grind out.

  “Fahder arrived in Acapulco to oversee the gun transaction.”

  Tell me something I don’t know. “He still dressing in dresses?” I respond, raising my eyebrows at the tight-lipped Irishman, as if to say Try a little harder at sharing new information. “And he’s hired Los Lobos to watch over the warehouse while he makes the transactions.”

  “Boss told you.”

  I grin, halfheartedly.

  “Did he also inform you Fahder is expediting the weapons exchange from Acapulco after hearing news about the Wild West show his son has put on? How he’s more suspicious than ever now that two spies who know too much are on the loose?”

  “Mierda,” I mutter.

  “Mierda is right, mate. However, at least we’ll find out sooner rather than later where the shipment is headed.”

  I grit my teeth until I’m calm enough to ask, “Any idea if Mendoza has traveled outside Mexico in the past months?”

  “Your man. You should know.”

  I roll my fingers into a fist, willing myself not to send it into McDuff’s smug face.

  “I was preoccupied with flushing Fahder out of his home and lost track of Mendoza for a few weeks,” I admit.

  “For fuck’s sake, Fahder’s been ranting about an explosion. You blew up his house, didn’t you? I should have known.”

  I shrug.

  “As far as I’m aware, Mendoza’s been in Mexico. Busy being a fame whore, or so Fahder is fond of saying. Why ask?”

  “Just curious,” I smoothly reply.

  “Bullshit.”

  I smile at him and it broadens when I catch his frown.

  “What have you found out?” he murmurs, with the slightest hint of excitement in his tone. One thing about McDuff, he doesn’t get excited about anything ever. Low-key and chill is his motto.

  “I need to report in. If Hayden wants to share my news . . .”

  “Wanker.”

  “Leprechaun.”

  His gaze drops to my bag and rises again, quicker than a blink. For such a laid-back guy, he doesn’t miss much.

  “I’ll give you this. Mendoza is double-crossing his Papí.”

  “He doesn’t have the mental capacity to pull off something like that,” McDuff replies.

  “My thoughts exactly. But . . . he is.” But first things first. As much as I’m reluctant to make this call, Hayden needs to be the first person I share my news with. I pull the burner phone from the center console and, grimacing, hit his number.

  He answers on the first ring. “Diego.”

  “Boss.” El Bastardo, I think but refrain from saying his nickname. “I’m here with Finn McDuff. “

  “I know.”

  I scowl at the Irishman, who shakes his head and shrugs his shoulders. But we both jump when there’s a knock on the window.

  The door unlocks then opens.

  Hayden slides into the seat across from us both and pulls the door closed behind him.

  “Put the burner away.”

  “Aw, blimey,” McDuff mutters, his accent thickening. “What the fuck’s he doing ’ere?”

  We’re both from the streets, McDuff and I. Belfast and Mexicali, respectively. Hard to shake the hood, and the gang life we grew up within years before being recruited by TORC. By the king of Los Lobos turned CEO of a team of killers. The most ruthless of us all.

  Hayden.

  “Mierda.”

  He sits across from us, dressed in an expensive suit, with his shoes polished to a high shine and his perfect teeth flashing bright and white. Posh. Sophisticated. So far away from how I remember him. He helped me out of a bad situation and recruited me into his gang. Protected me—and my sister, Luciana. He was responsible for getting her out of Mexicali and shipping her off to our aunt in Copenhagen, where it was safe. His money. His call, which I fully supported. Though he’s done some truly fucked-up things since then that make me doubt there is a kinder side to the man.

  For him to return to Mexico . . .

  “Quite the fireworks show up at Casa Bella last night.”

  I grind my teeth together. “It couldn’t be helped.”

  He leans forward and stares me down. An intimidating move, one I learned from him and nearly perfected myself. “If I’d sent McDuff in instead of you, the sky wouldn’t have been ablaze with gunfire. Low-key. Quiet. That was a goddamn order. You’ve jeopardized a year’s worth of work.”

  I keep quiet.

  “Don’t play the silent card with me,” he snaps. “You allowed a woman to ruin your judgment.” He tosses a sheet of paper on my lap. “Her goddamn picture is all over the place.”

  I feel my Adam’s apple lodge in my throat.

  “I ran a check on Aubrey Hamilton. She received a degree in architecture from Stanford, on full scholarship. She has a two-year visa to work in Mexico, listing a nonprofit called Architects Beyond Borders as her employer.”

  “She was at Casa Bella trying to hit Mendoza up to finance a project.”

  “Wrong place, wrong time,” McDuff
mutters.

  “She’s a nobody,” I say.

  “Not anymore. Mendoza put a bounty out on her head.”

  “Aw, fuck. I hate collateral damage. She’s a pretty thing, too,” the asshole next to me murmurs.

  “Fuck you, McDuff.”

  I feel Hayden’s stare. What happens to Aubrey isn’t my business. She’s collateral damage like McAsshole says. A pretty, beautiful, intelligent, soon-to-be-dead woman.

  “Don’t be getting any ideas.”

  Damn it. “About what?”

  Hayden leans in closer. “She is not your concern.”

  “Is there a wanted flyer out on Pretty Boy, too?” McDuff asks, breaking the tension between Hayden and me.

  “No picture. Just his name. Diego ‘Rodriguez.’”

  “So I’ve heard.” McDuff snorts. “Rodriguez. Is that the Spanish equivalent of Smith or O’Brien?”

  I ignore him and address Hayden. “I didn’t leave Casa Bella empty-handed. I’ve bad news that should please you. I found out what was inside those crates.”

  “Crates?” McDuff repeats.

  “Yes.”

  “More guns?” he asks.

  “You’ll never guess.”

  His eyes flash with challenge. “Money? Drugs?”

  “Not even close.”

  “I won’t be fucking guessing. We don’t have time for this,” Hayden snaps. “Stop fucking around. Tell me.”

  “I’ll show you.” I unzip my bag and withdraw the gray rocks, placing it on my knee.

  “Rocks?” McDuff questions. “They looking to hide drugs inside? Easy way to smuggle drugs across the US border. Better than drug mules swallowing condoms full of narcotics.”

  I hand Hayden the uranium disc. “The contents of that special delivery. Enriched uranium. Stolen or bought illegally.”

  “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph,” McDuff says. Yeah, nothing like a piece of nuclear fuel to get a rise out of the Irishman.

  “How many crates?”

  “Twenty-four. All about a third full. Probably too heavy to transport otherwise.”

  “Any markings on the crate? Signs of a country of origin? Markings made in Russian or Iranian?”

  “Not that I could see.” Not that I was looking. Christ, why do I always feel like a fucking amateur around this man? But there hadn’t been any marks, not unless they were scribbled beneath the heavy, immovable crates and hidden from sight. Impossible for one man to move one, no matter how big his guns are. “Mendoza was hell-bent on keeping this shipment a secret.”

  Hayden addresses McDuff. “You hear any mention of this in Acapulco?”

  “This is the first I’m hearing about it.”

  “A double cross. Who’d have thought Mendoza had it in him?” I add.

  Hayden falls silent. Thinking.

  McDuff clears his throat. “There’ve been a few attacks on the warehouse storing the weapons. A local drug cartel is upset an outside gang scored the security detail.”

  Los Lobos. Hayden’s and my eyes meet.

  “Nothing serious, yet enough to keep Fahder occupied,” McDuff continues.

  “Enough to keep him in Acapulco while his son pulls a bigger deal,” Hayden says. “Mendoza’s phone records show calls being made all over Mexico. None that last any length of time, except for when he speaks to his mother.”

  “His mother is Fahder’s mistress.” McDuff adds.

  “Ex-mistress,” I respond, catching his scowl.

  “We need to track the weapons to their buyer. And more importantly, we’ve got to figure out who Mendoza is selling enriched uranium to. You’ll work separately but if the need arises you’ll work together.”

  McDuff and I look at each other.

  “You’ll head back to Acapulco. Call in as soon as the off-the-book weapons shipment is going down or if you hear anything about Mendoza’s double cross.”

  “Boss, I have a contact in Mexico City who might have heard something. Permission to travel back and forth,” McDuff murmurs in a serious tone.

  “Fine. Use your best judgment.”

  I snort.

  “But, Finn,” Hayden continues, his eyes narrowing on the man seated next to me, “be careful who you trust. Rumor has it there is another operative in Mexico City.”

  I swear McDuff’s face pales. Hard to tell, his skin is so fair to begin with.

  Hayden’s attention swings toward me. “You will reach out to Los Lobos in Mexico City and see if they’ve heard anything.”

  I nod and brace myself for more.

  “You will not blow anything up. You will not draw unnecessary attention to yourself. You will obey or the consequences are going to be severe. Understood?”

  Bastardo. “Yes.”

  “Good. Report in when you have news.”

  He rolls the uranium in his hand before sliding it into the inside pocket of his suit jacket. I want to ask him how long he’s planning on staying in Mexico but he’s already in motion, tapping the window for the driver to unlock the doors. He climbs out of the car, then sticks his head back inside. “If my suspicions are right, we’re fucked.”

  The car door slams shut.

  It’s like all the air leaves the car with him. Even Finn seems uncharacteristically uptight as he stares at the door Hayden just exited through.

  Hayden never discusses strategy with us. He’s like a silent chess partner, making the moves for us, calculating our opponent’s next move. Weighing the role each piece plays on the board. Introducing new pieces while he eliminates old.

  Our boss is cool and calculated. Never . . . fucked.

  After a long pause, Shamrock breaks the silence. “Pink suites you.”

  “And you look like an asshole in that beanie,” I shoot back at him. Enough of this comradely bullshit. I don’t know what Hayden was thinking sending this gamer to Mexico City. The T in TORC doesn’t stand for teamwork.

  Time for that beer.

  I exit the Hummer without a good-bye. No need.

  “Just so we’re clear, we’re not working together,” McDuff grounds out.

  I snort. “I wouldn’t have it any other way, pendejo.”

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Aubrey

  I waited outside my apartment building for what seemed like hours before I felt confident enough I could quickly gather my things without incident. A risky move, and not the best of ideas, yet I’d rationalized that I still had time before the thugs found my place. And if, by chance, they did happen upon me in the five minutes it’d take to gather my original architectural plans, my belongings, and the main reason for returning, my only remaining form of identification—my California-issued driver’s license that I’d safely stored inside a larger wallet for fear of losing it during my stay at Casa Bella and with the luck I’ve been having, would have happened—I had a firm escape route in mind: exiting out the kitchen window and descending the fire escape into the alleyway below.

  Nowadays, I do nothing without a preconceived plan of action.

  With the utmost caution, I made my way up to the third-floor landing, anticipating the worst. Yet what greeted me outside my door wasn’t Juan Carlos’s men but an enormous bouquet of flowers.

  With my name printed on the crisp blue envelope.

  A thank-you written in perfect English. Along with a phone number and a personal invitation to tea at Hacienda Santo Miguel, located in the nearby city of Tepoztlán. From Señora del Leon . . . Little Lord Pain in the Ass’s mama. Surprise, surprise. I’m guessing she contacted The Linguistic Academy for my address.

  Yet it was the postscript that really caught my attention.

  I have your passport for safekeeping.

  I set the flowers on the kitchen table, hastily collected my things, and tucked her note inside my purse, then thirty minutes later I checked into a hotel across town and have been lying low ever since.

  I try to do the normal things while I work out my next move. Like ordering room service, and a local coffee called café de olla,
which is served with cinnamon and whole cane sugar. Anything laced with cinnamon immediately calms the nerves but I think it’s safe to say that at this point in my stay in Mexico City, I’ll need to order carafes of café de olla to maintain a sense of calmness and to keep my wits about me.

  A week later and I’ve come to the conclusion that although traveling to Tepoztlán sounds tempting and less of a hassle, my best option is to head to the US embassy, apply for a new passport, and, upon receiving it, return on the next daily flight home.

  I spoke with Zoey this morning and informed her of the news. She apologized for not calling me, and explained how Renaldo was using her cell phone while he worked as a security guard at a nearby warehouse. I tried warning her away from him and briefly explained what’d happened to me. But Zoey kept reassuring me Renaldo isn’t a thug, almost challenging me and the dismal events I’d shared with her.

  I’d hung up with a sour taste in my mouth. Still, I hope for her sake she’s right about Renaldo. And I’m certain he loves her, so hopefully he’ll keep her safe.

  I’m completely alone in Mexico City with no one to rely on but myself.

  And today, even the city seems to be working against me.

  Crowds of people have congregated outside the US embassy, which is conveniently located within walking distance of my hotel. I struggle to locate the entry line outside the gates from the multiple lines of dancers vying to join together to break the Guinness World Record for the longest conga line.

  Sad but true.

  My amusement quickly fades to exasperation as I dodge people grabbing at me and struggle against becoming an unwilling participant.

  I finally fall into the entry line.

  My driver’s license should be enough proof of identification for issuing a replacement passport. And if not, perhaps the embassy will accept a faxed copy of my birth certificate, which I’ll arrange for my parents to send if the need arises.

  The line inches forward as the conga line grows in number.

  I’m so caught up in my worries about replacing my passport and the rowdy crowd dancing before me, I don’t immediately notice the familiar faces of the men standing by the security booth. Until my eyes meet with those of one of the men.

  I don’t hesitate and, pushing myself into the crowd, I duck and dodge, duck and dodge, underneath arms and around dancing bodies, into the center of the group and through the other side, until I’m completely free to run, run, run.