Page 109 of Hit Man
“Home,mate. Home.”
“What the feck?” he muttered.
And that’s how I left things several hours ago, McDuff with his mouth hanging open and Aubrey so damn beautiful, so damn trusting of me, it hurts.
My mother warned me that when I fell in love, it’d feel like being caught up in a windstorm. Spun around and around. Dizzy. Giddy. She neglected to say it happens suddenly, catching you off guard and when you’re at your weakest. She forgot to mention the nagging ache in the pit of your stomach when things end. Because for a guy like me, it always ends.Dios, things never truly begin. Until Aubrey came along, the beginning of the end of my casual overnight encounters.
You let her go. She’s not for you.
McDuff is right about one thing: “What the fuck?” I can’t afford to get distracted. I’ll deal with my goddamn heartbreak later. I’ve information to dig up and an assignment to complete.
Señora del Leon. What are you up to?
The sun is on the horizon by the time I arrive at Hacienda Santo Miguel in the city of Tepoztlán, an hour and a half ride south from Mexico City.
I circle my motorcycle around the property once, slowly taking mental notes of the security in place, the areas of access, any weaknesses I can manipulate.
There’s a small gated door hidden behind thick shrubbery in the back of the sprawling estate. Locked, of course. And no dogs prowling the grounds, which is a good sign things are going my way. I don’t hurt animals. Period.
I spend a few minutes digging in the dirt beneath it, planting my sticks of boom-boom, the handwoven fuse easily accessible from the inside. Just a precaution, in case I need to leave out of the back door in a hurry. Matter of fact, my army bag is loaded with precautionary measures. I’m prepared for just about everything.
A large gated wall with barbwire shaped in the form of roses both decorate the top of the fence and prevent anyone from scaling over it. Almost anyone—a few whacks with the mallet I’ve packed should flatten out a few thorns. Yet to the untrained eye, the only way in and out of the hacienda is through the guarded front gate.
I stash my motorcycle in a wooded area a few yards away. Nobody better steal my baby or there’ll be hell to pay.
I begin my wait, and watch.
At 9 p.m. sharp and then at 10 p.m., the security detail switches positions. Six men total. Three at the gate, three patrolling the grounds.
Midnight rolls around. Another exchange. Their predictability is my green light to go.
I tap my foot and hold steady. Until it’s 12:55 and the guards inside are preoccupied in readying for the changeover. Five minutes to crawl across the dark roadway. To secure my rope over the roof of the security booth and, as quiet as a lamb, haul myself up onto the roof and over it.
Would a little bang-bang of my mallet and my hopping over the fence be the easier approach?Claro que sí!—of course. But I get off on the challenge. And besides, there’s bound to be more to see if I approach the hacienda from the driveway.
I’m over the booth without incident. Retrieving my army bag, which I’ve tossed over the fence, I sprint toward the main house with less than a minute to spare.
The winding driveway leads me through a maze of outer buildings. A barn, a toolshed, a garage separate from the one attached to the house. As I expected, there’s a lot to take in. The night is calm, the air quiet with the faint sound of the wind rustling the leaves. Unlike the constant noise coming from inside Fahder’s former estate. Or the incessant buzz from Casa Bella’s energy grid as it turned off and on . . . compliments of yours truly. It’s strange there’s such little thought to security at the hacienda. Like Señora del Leon has nothing to hide.
Maybe she doesn’t. Maybe I’m wrong. Maybe I’ve got the wrong woman.
I tighten my grip on my army bag.
No time like the present to find out.
I spend the next few hours familiarizing myself with my surroundings. Plotting out an emergency plan in case I need it. Laying my explosives all over the place, connecting the fuses, carefully covering them up.
My mood lightens along with my pack. By all appearances, this couldn’t be any easier.
But I’ve made that mistake in thinking before.
I settle down inside the barn, with a clear vision of the Spanish arch and cobblestone walkway leading toward the front double doors. Just in time to watch the trio of useless amateurs march by, one of them pausing to ensure the front door is locked.
Like whoever is inside wouldn’t secure the door behind them.
What a trio of clowns. They never once looked my way or thought to check the exterior buildings. Easy access inside this estate. Lax security.Dios, I’m beginning to think I do have the wrong woman.
To add to my growing doubts, the hacienda isn’t what I expected. There’s a natural elegance to the place. Lights in the bushes cast a soft glow on the house. Showcasing, even in the dark, it’s salmon-color exterior, the green shutters, and matching green window pots. The red, pink, and yellow flowers add to the picturesque vibe. One solitary fountain in the driveway.
