Page 106 of Hit Man
I hear her snort on the other end, before responding, “He’s just a lackey.”
My fingers tighten around my cell phone. “Who then?”
“I can’t share that information right now without it compromising my assignment,” she informs me.
“Mierda. I’ll pay you double. Triple. Name your price.”
“It’s not about the money . . . sorry. However, if you work for the CIA, you’re an intelligent man. You’ll figure it out.”
I grit my teeth.
“I’ll leave you with this, something your friend told me. We might be working for the same side but it’s each man for himself. Or . . . eachwoman. . . I should say. Tell Antonio, or whatever the hell his name is this: Never underestimate the power of a woman.”
The phone goes dead and I simply stare at it. I’m positive that if I were to call the number back, it’d be disconnected. An intelligent woman like her would only be using a burner phone.
Fahder is a middleman.
Mendoza is a middleman.
And a woman, someone totally off our radar, is calling the shots.
Our enemy, our target, is female.
As far as I know, there’s only one woman with strong connections to both men. Fahder’s ex-mistress. The mother of his bastard son.
Mendoza’s mommy.
It’s worth investigation. All I need is an address.
I could call Hayden. But I’m not scheduled to report in yet and I’ve another woman to contend with. A beautiful do-gooder who presently is tucked away inside a booth and sipping tea like it’s the best beverage in the goddamn universe.
I need a beer.
Or a bullet in the head.
Because really there’s one person I can turn to. Someone, thanks to this phone call, I have a bit of leverage over. Someone who’ll owes me a favor for not cluing Hayden in on his cover being blown by a woman who clearly hates his guts. Not that it is blown, but he won’t know that. I’m not above bribery or little white lies, especially because I’m desperate.
Someone who can make the necessary arrangement to ensure Aubrey is on tomorrow’s flight while I call Hayden with an update.
Shamrock.
31
Diego
As I carefully make my way closer to Hacienda Santo Miguel, I consider last night, and my conversation with McDuff. One that both began and ended with a “What the fuck?”
“What the fuck?” he’d demanded, as I bowled over him, forcing him to step aside and allow Aubrey and me entry inside his safe-house apartment.
“Like what you’ve done with the place,” I said, shaking my head at the bohemian native-Mexican vibe of his place. Shamrock is a big guy yet everything inside was low to the floor. The huge colorful pillows of his Middle Eastern–style sofa. The low coffee table that was more like a breakfast tray. An assortment of candles in varying lengths and sizes scattered across the wood surface. “If he offers you Turkish delight, better pass,” I told a quiet Aubrey. Nervous, probably. Or worse, sensing my next move before I even made it.
“Jesus Christ. Is she a civilian?” McDuff muttered.
“Yes.”
“And you brought her here?”
“Appears that way.”
