She keeps well ahead of them, taking a sprint across a main highway, zigzagging her way through traffic. I want to pull up alongside her and snatch her off her feet. But I resist the urge for the same reason these three thugs aren’t shooting at her. The semicrowded streets. No one is going to gun down a gringa with that many witnesses.
I grit my teeth and follow her. See her slowing, her exhaustion a tangible thing. And . . . contagious, as her three pursuers are tiring as well.
Not good.
They might do something stupid. Might take a shot after all.
I contemplate terminating them. But damn it if I didn’t promise Hayden I’d hang low and out of sight. Murdering three of Mendoza’s crew doesn’t exactly scream subversive maneuvering.
I bide my time until Aubrey makes her first mistake.
It only takes one.
She’s leading them down an alleyway. Out of sight and out of the safety found within the general public. No one around to watch her execution. No one to tell the newspapers about a gringa being shot down in cold blood.
I climb off my bike, stand at the foot of the alleyway, and fire three shots. The slowest man grabs the back of his thigh as he falls. The man ahead of him mimics his actions exactly. But that bastard in the lead takes a bullet to the thigh and keeps on running. High on adrenaline or something else?
What a waste of bullets. But a man’s gotta do what a man’s gotta do. I pump a bullet into his other leg.
End of story.
Crippling shots, not killing shots. No bodies to be found. No proof who did the deed because I shot them from behind.
I freeze, my fingers clenching over the cold handle of my gun, as I watch Aubrey tumble to the ground.
Did the bullet clear his thigh and hit her?
I jump onto my bike and take off, circling around the building as I replay the shots in my head.
Impossible. That bullet had to pass muscle in order to exit.
Once on the other end of the warehouse, I park yet leave my bike running. I’m at the corner of the building in no time, pressing my back to the building and carefully inching forward until I’m able to peer around it.
Low-key. Do not draw the pendejos’ attention to you.
My adrenaline causes my pulse to pound. For the first time in years, I don’t relish the feeling.
Pinche. Damn it. How could this have happened?
I slowly stick my head around the corner.
Pain crashes into my skull as I slump against the building. I see stars, more light-headed than ever.
A brick. Aubrey nailed me in the head with a brick.
I fall back and feel her rush by. Blood gushing like a geyser down the back of my neck. Head wounds bleed like a bitch. Hurt like a bitch, too.
But what hurts more?
What has me straightening and shaking myself out of the stunned stupor I’m in?
The sound of my baby’s engine roaring to life.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Aubrey
Dr. Phil, Steve Harvey, Oprah. They’ve all said something that goes like this: In life, a person isn’t defined by what they’ve accomplished. A person is defined by how well they handle themselves when life turns to shit. So when a person comes to Mexico City with visions of grandeur, with the money and time and willingness to make an impact in the world, and is told, “Sorry. Your money’s tied up and the program’s a no-go,” she’s suppose to suck it up. Or when she unknowingly risks her life by pitching a plan to a billionaire drug dealer and comes away empty-handed and with men intent on harming her, she’s suppose to stay calm, handle herself.
When her life turns to shit, she’s supposed to rise to the challenge, take the knockdowns by rising back up. And when bullets sail her way, when the busy streets of Mexico City become her only chance at dodging killers with hard-ons for murder, who, by the skin of her teeth she barely evades, she must take a deep, cleansing breath and carry on.
Become the inspiration for one of those trendy signs people hang over their kitchen sinks: KEEP CALM AND NEARLY DIE.
Might possibly still die.
The Mexican police are out of the question; they could be on Juan Carlos’s payroll for all I know.
I’ve nowhere to go, no one to turn to.
And as the thought settles deep inside my frazzled mind, I do something even dumber than stealing a Harley that will take a Herculean effort to handle . . . I tear up.
Damn you Dr. Phil, Mr. Harvey, the ever-wise Oprah. Because right now, actions are the only things that are going to define me.
My frantic heart races along with my mind, my fear spurring me onward. I kick up the kickstand, slide across the seat, and folding forward over the handlebars, hit the throttle. The motorcycle roars to life. Seconds later, I’m off.
“A poco?” I hear someone scream from behind me, causing me to throttle the engine. When I was in my teens and mourning the loss of my friend, my brother tried to cheer me up by teaching me how to drive his Kawasaki. A bike half the size of this, with me only driving it twice around the block before I realized I prefer my rides to have four tires. It’s incredible I’ve even set this enormous bike into motion. But no way am I stopping. No way are they going to catch me now.
I glance over my shoulder.
Gasp, then brace myself—the bike isn’t the only thing moving at a fast clip.
Like a trick cowboy mounting a horse from behind, my assailant grabs hold of the bike seat and literally frog-jumps up and onto the seat behind me. I bounce, my body sliding forward as his body slams into me from behind. He snakes an arm around my waist, pulling me back and anchoring me against his chest, keeping me on the seat instead of flying over the handlebars.
I wiggle and shake, trying to free myself, suck air into my lungs as I do so. It’s like moving a mountain—nothing happens.
His arm tightens around my body.
“Mierda,” I hear, and stiffen. An instant before I feel his warm breath on my ear. “You might have fucked up my assignment,” he hisses, “but it’ll be a cold day in hell before you screw up my bike.”
Diego.
What. The. Hell.
I’m tired. Frazzled. Scared shitless. My thighs feel like lead, my feet achy after tracing hard across Mexico City’s unforgiving pavement. My shirt is torn and my shorts covered in dirt. My throat is hoarse and raw, probably from the combination of car exhaust, dust, and the knot of panic trapped inside there.
How did Diego find me? And, after everything we’ve been through, what could he possibly want with me?
Nothing good.
“Pull over. Now.”
I shake my head and tighten my grip on the handles. A mistake, as the motorcycle only speeds up. I can’t stop, can’t do anything but go, go, go. Run. Run. Run.
“Chava, you are trying my patience.”
I swerve, and hear him curse. I hit the throttle, and hear him curse some more.
His chest presses into my back like he’s trying to bend me over the handlebars, while he reaches around me and attempts to take control.
“Watch out for that pothole. You’ll ruin the rims.”
I turn and avoid the pothole in question. I catch his loud sigh as he says, “Gracias a dios.”
“Are you part of the group chasing me?” I shout, my tone ripe with accusation. And if not, where did he even come from?
“Do you have a bullet in your thigh right now?”
I gasp. All three men had fallen to the ground behind me because . . . he shot them? It’d crossed my mind how they may have tripped, just before I did. An illogical conclusion and too much of a coincidence but I was too thankful to really care about how it happened.
“Pull over, damn it. I’ll drive you to safety.”
I grind my teeth together.
“I’ll see myself to safety,” I shout. “I can’t count on a man who abandoned me at a dangerous bus station.”
“Believe whatever will get you through the day, chava.”
“I
’m not your chava.”
“Sweetheart.”
“Prick.”
“Naive fool,” he snaps. “Pull over. This bike requires body strength—”
I hit the throttle hard. Diego falls back in the seat, his grip around my waist the only thing preventing him from falling off.
“My patience is at its limit,” I hear him holler into the wind.
I shake my head, scattering my tears across my cheeks. Patience. He’s the least patient person I’ve ever met. But he grows quiet after that, so maybe I’m wrong.
Maybe I’m wrong about a lot of things—like what he’s doing here, holding me in place on this bike.
We speed out of a second alleyway and onto Boulevard Frida Kahlo. I feel Diego lean into the curve, using his body weight to keep us upright. He’s right about me being unable to handle this beast. But I’m too upset to pull over. And the last thing I want him to see is me crying.
Because once the deluge has begun, there’s no going back.
I’m fair-skinned with a faint hint of freckles. The worst skin type for tears. I’m an ugly cry. My cheeks turn red, along with my nose, neck, chest. My eyes become cautious cat eyes, narrow with dilated pupils before puffing up to the size of macaroons. Not to be outdone, my body gets into the action, chest heaving, body shaking, my soul giving me a firm, teeth-rattling shake. Every problem, every wrongdoing, every lie from the time I was five and lost my favorite LEGO piece—the one that had to be the base for the tower I was building for Prince Joe with the long hair—to the time I caught the flu during midterms and pulled an A-instead of an A+, resurfaces in a tirade of unstoppable tears.
To make matters worse, the heaving equivalent to a loud, resounding whimper escapes my throat. Which Diego immediately hones in on, evident in the sound of his muttered “Dios mío.”
Just like I couldn’t stop the bike, I can’t stop the aftermath of what has to be the second worst day of my life.
“It’s the adrenaline kicking in.”
I sniffle. Adrenaline or not, I earned this cry. Just the timing . . .
“Hush. You’re okay, Aubrey. Turn right onto the next side street and pull over. Let me take care of things from there.”
I do as he says, his body once again leaning into the turn and keeping us upright.
Then everything happens in slow motion.
The bike hits something in the road.
We both fly off the seat and, for a few horrifying seconds, we are airborne.
With lightning-fast reflexes, he uses his body to anchor us back in place. His muscular thighs squeezing the sides of the seat, his arms like two steel safety harnesses on either side of me. Somehow I manage to hang on to the handlebars.
A close call.
But it’s all for nothing. Our efforts are futile because right after that a pothole the size of a small crater that runs from one side of the road to the other is mere inches away.
I hit the brakes and the bike swerves.
This time, we’re airborne and flying through the air.
“Hang on,” Diego snarls, pulling me into him, using the weight of his body to turn us, so that when we hit the ground, he takes the brunt of it with me landing in the protective curl of his body and on top of him.
“You okay?”
I choke back a sob. “Yes.” No. I’m not okay. Not even close to being . . .
My thoughts are interrupted by a loud crash.
Diego stiffens beneath me as he rolls us up to a seated position. I can only stare at him through my tears and watch as he manipulates his jaw, opening and closing his mouth like his jawbone’s been knocked out of place and he’s trying to readjust it.
I want to ask if he’s okay. But I. Can’t. Breathe. We survived the crash, yet . . . my gaze falls to the Harley and its front fender . . . which now appears to be part of the handlebars . . .
“My baby,” Diego mutters, his tone ripe with pain.
I cry harder.
Next thing I know, I’m cradled in his arms. “An adrenaline rush can be a bitch if you’re not use to it. Let it out.”
An adrenaline rush? That makes sense. That helps.
“Don’t bottle it up. If you don’t let go, it’ll eat you up on the inside.”
I cry until I can’t manage another tear. His black T-shirt is drenched, the smooth skin of his neck wet, an unhappy tale of everything I’ve been through now passed on to him in a moist mess.
“You done?”
I raise my chin, blinking, and look him in the eyes. “I think so.”
“You have somewhere to go?” He looks away toward his battered bike and grimaces.
I pause. No. No, I don’t. “Yes.”
He stands and pulls me to my feet. “Good. Hang low and keep out of trouble.” He runs his hand through his hair and seems to decide something. Without making eye contact he turns away entirely and, with long strides, heads toward his motorcycle.
I watch him upend the Harley, cursing up a storm. Watch as he paces back and forth, kicking the dirt and muttering beneath his breath. All signs of the tender man from moments ago gone.
His bike. I wrecked his bike.
I’m in a daze. Dealing with the aftermath of my emotional breakdown on top of another near-death experience. With great effort I will my feet forward, stepping over garbage and litter and away from the man who appeared out of nowhere.
He saved me. That’s what happened.
Only I didn’t realize it until now.
I don’t have anyone to turn to. Zoey is unreachable, her cell phone has now been disconnected. Maxwell is untrustworthy. Diego clearly wants nothing more to do with me.
There is Señora del Leon’s invitation to tea at Hacienda Santo Miguel . . . No. Desperate or not, I’d feel awful showing up looking like I’ve come out on the losing side of some street fight.
Dust and mud cover my shorts and T-shirt.
There’s a scratch on my arm, my sole injury from our fall.
I’m tired. Feeling lost. Alone. So distraught I can’t seem to do anything except cry. It’s the adrenaline, that’s all. An overload of emotions you need to work through before you can carry on as normal.
An engine starts behind me.
Which fosters a new wave of tears. He’s going to leave me. He’s going to leave me here. . . .
The Harley shoots by, barely drivable, its front end a mangled mess. Still I watch him thunder off, expertly maneuvering it around piles of garbage and potholes, an abandoned car, and a steel drum someone’s using as a barbecue.
Watching him . . . leave me.
God, this shouldn’t hurt so much. I don’t even like him.
I wipe my eyes with the backs of my hands. Get a grip, Aubrey. You’re resourceful. You escaped those men. You’ll just have to find a way to a hotel. Clean up. Quiet your mind before you decide what to do.
My options are this: I can make a quick phone call to the embassy and see what they can do about issuing me a passport without my being present. I’ll explain my situation and the duress I’m under. There must be some kind of policy in place for situations like this. And hopefully with a new passport in hand, I’ll catch the first flight out of here. Hasta luego, Mexico City. Or . . . stay. Hang low until things die down. It’s unclear how far Juan Carlos’s influence goes. There are so many players and pieces in the air that I don’t know about, and it’s driving me crazy. If his criminal network is anything like his house parties, Juan Carlos has some serious connections and money. Money that can easily bribe the police, the border-patrol guards, hell, even the damn gate agents at the airport. That leaves me with one real choice. Relocate, regroup, and try to stay alive until I can come up with a better plan.
I blink away my tears, my mind calming. Searching for a sign, another bouquet of flowers after another horrible day, that all will be well.
I lift my chin.
Diego slows, red taillights shining bright.
And he waves.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Diego
I’m no McDuff.
The Irishman would have passed Aubrey a four-leaf clover for luck rather than sending her on her merry way. Hell, I’m not any of the ruthless, calculating assholes who work for TORC.
What I am is the idiota who brought a civilian home. Exposing his cover. Exposing himself.
And once Hayden finds out, I’m a dead man.
“Your apartment is beautiful. Not what I . . . expected . . .” she says in the way of a greeting as I tread barefoot back into the living space of the penthouse apartment, clean and smelling like expensive soap.
Aubrey’s decided to trust me, though it’s not like I’ve given her a choice after taking her somewhere safe, a goddamn TORC safe house.
This place is beautiful, ultramodern with a classy air about it. It’s the nicest of any of the TORC safe houses and, as previously negotiated, for my exclusive use while on assignment. My revised definition of “slumming it.” Seems I got a penchant for going from one extreme to another.
“It’s temporary.” Just like your stay in Mexico City.
I have to get rid of her. I can’t have her settling into this TORC safe house while I track down my target. Jesus, I should just put a bullet in my own head and end things right now.
Her back is to me as she stares out the floor-to-ceiling window, one of a series of connecting windows that make up the exterior wall overlooking the city.
“Would you look at that view?”
I do. I take in the view, with her there by the window, her hair damp and freshly washed, her cheeks pink from the hot shower she’s taken, her wide-eyed expression reflected in the window priceless. She’s a beautiful woman. I thought so before, when she wore that sexy red dress. Yet I never allowed myself the luxury of dwelling on what exactly it is about her that appeals to me.
She’s fresh and wholesome, with a sprinkle of freckles across her nose and an innocent air about her. Her being barefoot and wrapped in a fluffy white towel only adds to the natural air about her. The face of an angel with the body of a she-devil incarnate.
Hit Man: A Sexy Action-Packed Alpha Adventure Romance Page 17