Page 40 of Hit Man
I’ve spent my day tucked away, out of sight and hopefully out of mind. Reliving the events of this morning and contemplating what to do. Arriving at the same conclusion: call a cab at the first opportunity.
Something I’m dreading dealing with for obvious reasons.
Men waving guns. Barging into people’s rooms uninvited and unannounced. Chasing me across the grounds. Why? Because I saw them moving a crate? What on earth could be inside it that they don’t want anyone to know about?
This place might look like something out ofLifestyles of the Rich and Famousbut aside from the events of this morning, there’s something just beneath the surface that alarms me.
Nothing is as it seems.
Even Diego. Where did he even come from earlier? He popped up out of the shrubbery and dragged me across the grounds like he’s spent a lifetime maneuvering and evading. And what kind of man fucks someone to help foster a lie?
It’s absurd.
A staycation, I told him. How about a hell-cation? One that with luck and courage, will shortly be at an end.
I run the broom handle once more beneath the bed but come up empty-handed. No raincoat. I’m on all fours when there’s a knock on the door.
Instantly, I’m on my feet and clutching the broom.
A second knock. A third. knock. The door handle doesn’t turn. Whoever is outside could easily enter . . . on a normal day.
“Just a minute.”
With a sigh, I first move the chair out of the way. It takes a bit of effort to slide the heavy bureau far enough so that I can open the door a few inches to peek through.
A man I’ve never seen before is standing there. Despite the awning, he’s holding a huge blue built-for-two umbrella overhead. “Señor Mendoza asks that you come with me to the main house.”
His tone in monotone, giving nothing away.
“Did he say why?” I ask.Calm. Keep calm.
“Yes.”
I draw in a breath, then prompt, “And . . . ?”
“You requested an audience with him. He’s decided to give you what you asked for.”
I blink at the man. An audience. Juan Carlos’s accountant must have arranged it.
“I’ll need a few minutes.”To calm my panic.I don’t want to meet with him. What I want is to get out of here.
“I’ll wait.”
Swallowing hard, I force myself to move. Grabbing the miniature copies of my drawing from my suitcase and neatly tucking them inside my oversize purse. Normal. Acting normal. Calm. Anxious. Panicky.
Dig deep. Pretend it’s what you want.
We head outside and trudge in silence toward the mansion. My escort is all business, which helps. Several times the umbrella inverts, the deluge drenching us as wind sweeps across the mountaintop. We’re almost to the French doors when it does it again, and my companion breaks his silence. “Goddamn it,” he shouts into the wind.
“At least it’s a warm rain,” I holler. Normal. Calm. Like nothing is wrong.
I’m soaked straight down to my underwear as he knocks on the meeting-room door. My hair and clothing are plastered to my body. My loafers ruined.
My now-frazzled escort knocks three times, until the door is opened and we’re ushered inside.
“You’re late,” Juan Carlos says in the way of a greeting.
“Sorry, sir. The rain . . .”
