Hit Man: A Sexy Action-Packed Alpha Adventure Romance

by Michele Mannon

  “You report in?” he asks.

  “Nothing to report . . . yet. You figure out where Fahder disappeared to?”

  “Checked with my contacts. There’s no trace of him. Time’s running out before I call in with the bloody news.”

  “Keep looking for them both until I wrap things up here. Señora is turning out to be a false lead.” One of us is going to be on that ship bound for Cork. This is not the time for our main target to disappear, for my lead to go belly-up, and for the entire uranium transaction to happen right between our noses without any links extending outside of Fahder and his fucked-up family. If something doesn’t happen today, Hayden is going to flip.

  I inhale deeply. Wherever Aubrey is, it’s unlikely Mendoza will still have his men searching for her. Not with the uranium transaction under way. Not after the bounty on her head was collected.

  “For what it’s worth, I like your girl. I’ll see what I can do. But, for Christ’s sake, something better give. I’m not boarding that goddamn ship blind.”

  Señora del Leon stands and gestures for everyone to come inside.

  “Later,” I say, hanging up. I make myself comfortable on a chair by another window, unable to act. Listening to the commotion below me, her young son excitedly screeching about, of all things, tea. High tea, his exact words. Like it’s birthday cake or something most kids would get excited about.

  My watch reads two o’clock. How long does it take to drink a teapot of watered down caffeine?

  I hear the car’s engine before I see it heading up the driveway. The large limousine pulls up to the main door and the kid is ushered inside. Followed by a younger woman dressed completely in black. Dios, where the hell did she come from? I’d been careful, monitoring the going and coming of Señora’s six employees. Evidently, doing an amateur job of it. She appears to be the boy’s nanny. Whoever she is, she’s out of my hair now. The limo departs, headed off to some high-tea playdate.

  I am about to step into the hallway when another vehicle arrives. Hurrying over to the window, I watch two men exit a large white truck. The back door bursts open and three more men clamber out. But it’s the fourth man who earns my complete attention. He’s pushed from the vehicle and lands hard on the driveway. His wrists are handcuffed. And there’s a bag over his head.

  Señora charges out of the house, holding a thick pipe . . . no . . . wait . . . a baseball bat. She wastes no time using it, nailing the man in the head and the sides and beating him down like a woman possessed. If I had any lingering doubts about her role in the uranium shipment, they’re crushed along with her victim’s quivering form.

  I wanted action. And Señora has come through in spades.

  She points the bat in the direction of the shed. The men grab hold of the viciously beaten man, still conscious judging by the way he squirms and kicks as the men drag him off. They enter the shed, Señora trailing closely behind them.

  Movement below catches my eye. Six of the hired help have assembled outside, an eager audience to the violence going on nearby.

  I’ve two choices. Find my way out to the shed and witness firsthand what it’s like to be on the tail end of Señora’s wrath. Or quickly, stealthily search the rooms below.

  I sprint for the door and down the spiral wooden staircase. Glancing to the right then the left before hurrying into the sitting room and across to the bureau beyond.

  A tea tray set up neatly on a parlor table rattles as I whisk by it. A warning to slow my pace. Steady my hand. Be patient.

  I retrieve my lockpick from my army bag.

  The bureau doors open in no time. Everything inside is neat and orderly.

  Fancy pens. Blue note-card paper. Receipts for toys and stuffed animals and little-boy clothing. A baseball mitt and baseball bat. Stacks and stacks of receipts.

  I hear a loud popping noise and my grasp on the papers tightens.

  Gunfire.

  Whoever pissed Señora off, adios amigo.

  She must have an office, right? Where she conducts her dirty deals? This room is full of fluff. Giving the illusion that she’s just another wealthy, well-bred woman who spends her days—my gaze falls on the tea tray—giving goddamn tea parties.

  I glance down at the paper in my hand. A receipt for a bouquet of flowers. With a shake of my head, I carefully place everything back in order.

  I stalk out of the fancy parlor and into a living room. With a quick glance around, I move on to the next room. And so on, and so on. Searching for answers.

  The front door opens with a bang. I step inside what appears to be her son’s playroom and close the door enough so I can peer through the opening. No reason for her to come inside here, right? The sound of boots echoes off the entryway’s tile floor.

  “Wipe your feet,” Señora snaps. “Follow me.” I freeze and hold my breath. I can reach the window and be long gone in the time it takes her to reach this room.

  But what good would that do me?

  I rrely on gut instinct. Hold steady. Hang tight and hope she passes by.

  When she does, I let out a silent sigh. I count the men as they follow her past me. Six servants. Plus five men from the van. Familiar faces. Mendoza’s men. Spying for Señora? The last face is the most familiar—Little-Man’s.

  “My last problem solved,” Señora tells them in Spanish.

  “He’ll think twice about double-crossing you again.” Everyone laughs but Señora.

  “Is my son moving the merchandise?”

  “Yes, Señora.”

  “Will it be ready to sail by Saturday?”

  “The crates are heavy,” Little-Man whines.

  “Is that a no?” she demands.

  “The cargo will be loaded and secured,” someone else with better common sense jumps in.

  “When do you anticipate the ship to arrive in Cork?”

  “Fourteen days. Departing and arriving on a Saturday.”

  “Can you hold off delivery by one day? The port will be less busy on a Sunday, I believe. It is the day of rest, after all.”

  I shake my head. Señora’s going to need a hell of a lot more than a visit to church to absolve her sins.

  “I’ll notify my partner in Ireland to expect delivery two Sundays from this upcoming one.”

  Her partner. No name. No sex . . . hell, she might be working with another woman. Damn it. Aside from confirmation that she’s not someone you underestimate, what new information have I learned?

  Nada.

  But as soon as I can steal inside her office next door . . .

  “Señor Mendoza said you’re responsible for paying us,” Little-Man speaks up, recklessly.

  “That’s correct. Thanks for reminding me.”

  Pop.

  Pop.

  Pop.

  I stiffen, hearing Little-Man scream, “Bitch.”

  Pop.

  “I’m counting on you to communicate the new arrangements. For Sunday, understood?”

  “Yes, Señora.”

  “I’m about finished with tidying up loose business. Here is your pay, along with these four fools. You’ve been the most reliable of helpers, Manuel. Now hurry and help my staff drag them out to the shed before you drive the van back to Acapulco. After we’re gone, you can bury them beside the others in the garden.”

  I feel my eyebrows arch, high enough to touch the rococo-themed ceiling above. Exactly how many men has this bloodthirsty señora killed?”

  “As you wish.”

  “They’ll be flies now and it’ll be a few days until I close up the hacienda,” she murmurs. “My son and I depart on Saturday so long as this airport nonsense ends.”

  Airport nonsense is correct. And I question her judgment. Why she didn’t kill them out in the shed and leave less of a mess to clean up is a mystery to me.

  “My son and his nanny will be returning shortly. I’m expecting company. Shall we?”

  I hear them grunting as they take hold of the lifeless bodies.

  “I’ll be i
n touch, Manuel.”

  He grunts his answer.

  “My boy is going to be excited to see wild tigers up close,” Señora del Leon squeals. Sounding much like her son did earlier, except instead of tea, it’s tigers.

  Wild tigers. A safari?

  It won’t be too difficult uncovering her destination. Is she leaving with Mendoza? Fahder? Or is she flying solo, a one-woman act? With a little son sidekick, how deceptively sweet. How unassuming.

  Dios, I’ve got to get into her office. If this woman keeps receipts on her son’s toys and her goddamn flower bouquets, chances are strong she’s kept records on who purchased the uranium. And, to soften Hayden up once he learns about my indiscretion with Aubrey, if I’m lucky, I’ll also dig up information on the supplier. Hayden will fucking love that, us knowing exactly the source of black-market distribution.

  The other thing working for me is these so-called guests of hers. Come for tea and a bit of illegal dealings, perhaps?

  I duck behind a long curtain and peer outside the window, watching the last man standing and her six staff members drag Mendoza’s men into the shed. She certainly prefers a foolproof way of keeping her spies from talking. Which is one reason how she’s been conducting her deals well below our radar.

  I need to be patient and wait for everyone to resume their positions after everyone settles down for some tea before searching her office. After her guests arrive and keep everyone’s attention occupied.

  Cracking open a window, I climb through. Working my way around to the back of the house and into the wooded area, I circle around to the front and draw close to the empty shed. I’m a few steps from entering it when I pause to witness the limousine’s return. Hastily, I push the door open and step inside.

  The stench of death hits me hard.

  I glance around me, shaking my head at the carnage around me. I sat across a table from most of these men. This could have been me. In another life, if I really worked for an asshole like Mendoza.

  I scowl down at Little-Man. He died as he lived, with his mouth open.

  To my surprise, the three guards patrolling the place are there as well. Señora is leaving Hacienda Santo Miguel with a bang, isn’t she?

  My nostrils flare at the pungent smell of blood. I ignore it, stepping over the bodies. Too curious as to the identity of the man with the burlap bag covering his head. I pick up a glove from a shelf and slide my hand inside.

  With a firm tug, I rip the burlap free.

  “Cabrón.”

  Fahder’s lifeless eyes stare at me. My target of nearly a year, a man I’d’ve happily terminated ten times over, is dead.

  A lackey. A pawn. A distraction to take the attention off of his former flame.

  So much for “Love thy ex.”

  I hear the sound of another car pulling into the driveway. More guests for the garden? I morbidly wonder.

  Shaking off the glove, I take out my cell phone. Time to call Hayden with the first of hopefully two quick updates.

  My boss wanted information. He better be sitting down.

  I’m about to dial Hayden when a flash of yellow catches my eye.

  A taxi.

  A woman exits.

  And if there was ever a time in my life when I’ve come close to being scared silent, it’s now.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  Aubrey

  Little Lord Pain in the Ass is the first to greet me, tearing down the front steps of the stunning hacienda and nearly knocking me back inside the airport taxi. “Aubrey, you come!” he screeches.

  I sigh. “Came. I came, present tense.”

  Yes, time certainly makes the heart grow fonder.

  I understood his father and mother had separated, and that Little Lord resided with both parents. Yet having never met Señora del Leon, I based my expectations of her home on the strange man I met that day outside The Linguistic Academy. I expected cold. Uninviting. A closed-off air about it. What I never anticipated was the natural, breathtaking beauty of this hacienda.

  It’s the kind of house I’d die to live in.

  Its adobe-clad frame is a pale butterscotch color, offset by the red clay roof tiles and pavers leading up to the double-doored entrance. Wide arching windows overlook the meticulously groomed grounds. Iron shutters and lighting features add to the home’s rugged romantic beauty. The hacienda offers the perfect textures of stone, wood, earth, and tile. Unpretentious in its exquisiteness.

  Once inside, a dark wooden beamed ceiling invites you in and a magnificently large spiraling staircase, with rails of wood and wrought iron, make you never want to leave.

  But as I’m led into a parlor to my right, it’s the sight of the massive, intricately designed stained-glass window, featuring a rainbow of roses, irises, daisies, and daffodils, that steels my breath away. Colorful light dances off the cool white tile floor.

  I’m in total, absolute love.

  I glance around in wonderment, until my gaze halts on a woman with rich chestnut-colored hair, standing off to the side by the door. She’s dressed in a crisp black button-down top and a black A-line skirt. All she needs to complete the outfit is a red ribbon tied around her throat, I think. The perfect picture of a humble servant except for . . . her hostile stare that seems to reach across the room, grab me by the throat, and say, “You are not welcome here.”

  “Señora del Leon is preoccupied preparing for her departure. You are to sit and wait. Tea and crumpets will be brought in shortly,” she offers in a sharp American accent.

  Little Lord, standing by my side, enthusiastically claps his hands. “Teatime.”

  “You’ll wash up first.”

  Little Lord sticks out his tongue and seems totally unperturbed by her harsh manner. His tongue is still stubbornly stuck out as she marches across the room, snatches his hand, and ushers the little hustler right out of the room.

  Hostile or not, my respect for her has automatically multiplied.

  I settle down onto a creamy white settee, and think about my conversation with Señora del Leon. She seemed only too delighted that I’d belatedly accepted her offer to meet. “Perfect timing,” she’d said, as she and her son were headed off to Kenya for a once-in-a-lifetime safari vacation. I’m hoping after she hears about the fiasco at the airport, she’ll offer me a place to stay for the night. I intended to stay at a nearby hotel. Yet what I wouldn’t give for time spent exploring this marvelous home.

  Which is why I shouldn’t let the nanny’s lackluster welcome ruin my visit. It’d be nice to leave Mexico on an upbeat, nondramatic note.

  I bite my lip as Finn’s words flicker through my thoughts. “You haven’t seen the last of Diego.” But, despite his reassurances, I don’t see how a reunion between us is even possible. Seriously? Government work or not, it’s unlikely he’ll track me down in the Bay Area, where I’m hoping to find an apartment. I want to be close to Stanford and work on my connections there. I have important work to do, just like he does.

  A servant enters carrying a silver-plated teapot. Soft clouds billow out of its spout as she sets it down on the tea tray on the coffee table before me. As she leaves, another woman enters.

  I stand and offer her my hands in a warm greeting. “Señora del Leon.”

  “Aubrey, welcome to Hacienda Santo Miguel. My Sylvester has told me so much about you. I owe you the deepest gratitude for keeping my baby safe.” She greets me in perfect English. “I understand that a bomb went off near the school? His father is a careless man who should have paid a bit more attention to his son instead of his maid staff. He thought I wouldn’t find out.”

  I blink, unsure how to respond to that. “Yes. Incredible, right? A wall inside the school split right open from the vibration of it. I didn’t think bombs were such a common thing in Mexico. But, as I told you, my flight home was cancelled due to a security scare.”

  “It was on the television. This nonsense happens all over the world, though I plan on creating a bit of a fuss if it’s not resolved by Sat
urday. Tea?” Without waiting, she picks up the silver pot and pours an aromatic blend of amber-brown liquid into a dainty white teacup. “There’re cream and sugar cubes.”

  I fix my tea and watch her graceful movements as she does the same for herself.

  She’s an attractive woman. Midthirties, I’m guessing by the faint crow’s-feet around her eyes. Her blond hair is pulled back into a neat ponytail. Her makeup is a bit more than what I’m comfortable wearing, with bright red lipstick that leaves a lip print on the teacup. She’s wearing a crisp white blouse and matching slacks, not a wrinkle or dirt smudge in sight. Other than a scratch on her hand and two chipped fingernails, she’s the perfect picture of refined elegance, just like her home.

  “How did you expect to fly home without a passport, eh?” she asks.

  I stiffen. Her tone is polite yet there’s something in her manner that is unsettling. I refrain from telling her how the Irishman made arrangements for me. Not DEA. Not CIA. Who does he work for? Who does Diego work for? I feel her stare, and offer her a lie. “I’d heard that there’s a custom office inside the airport. I’d hoped to replace my passport there.”

  “It sounds reasonable.”

  I resist the urge to shake my head. No, it sounds like I’m lying to you.

  “You like my home?” she asks, mercifully changing the subject.

  “I love it. Your stained-glass window is absolutely exquisite. I love how the light plays off of the white decor.”

  She smiles with pleasure. “I own several around the world but this one is my favorite. I suppose it’s because my son was born here. My youngest son, Sylvester. My oldest was born under different circumstances.” She frowns, but soon recovers from whatever bad memory had flickered across her thoughts. “I dreamed about living in such a place as a little girl. I worked with an engineer, an architect, and an interior designer on this house, planning every room, every detail. The exterior. Interior. The grounds.” She sighs. “I’m pained to have to leave it.”