Page 65 of Hit Man
My foot catches on a stone and I stumble. His fingers wrap around my elbow to steady me. I jerk away. “You admit to killing people?”
“You’re the one who said ex-military. A Marine.” He runs ahead of me, getting out in front of me and turning as he walks, so now we’re face-to-face. “I didn’t hurt you.”
“You scared the crap out of me.”
“I was wrong, okay. Dead wrong. But I had to know.” He looks past me, then says in an entirely different tone, one filled with warning, “We have company.”
My pulse quickens as he motions for me to follow him to the side of the road.
I hear the engine approach.
Spy the quick upward lift of Diego’s lips before he runs back into the road.
The vehicle stops and its doors open.
Diego is already climbing aboard. “You gonna stand there?”
All the tension leaves my body in one great whoosh.
A bus.
Thank you, blessed Mary.
I dig out a few pesos from my purse, enough to cover our passage, and hand it to the bus driver.
“Horrible day to be caught out in the rain, señorita,” I roughly translate the bus driver’s greeting.
“Sí, correcto,” I respond as best I can then take a seat, up front and near the exit in case I need to get out fast. Far away from Diego, who had headed toward the back.
To my surprise, he leaves me be. Guess we’re well past the point of being polite.
At this early hour, it seems like every woman from Puerto Peñasco to Mexico City is riding this bus. It’s a wonder the front end isn’t six feet off the ground given the combined weight of the passengers clamoring around Diego, his female fans continuing to double with each stop.
I grimace as I hear them teasing him about his torn sweatshirt and those damn flip-flops. Something that began as a funny, ridiculous source of humor now causing an unexpected sense of loss to rise up inside me. Alone. I’m all alone. Forgotten. A victim of his seductive ways.
As the bus turns to pull into the bus station, it hits a pothole, sending me airborne and causing me to turn in my seat as I land. Causing me to gasp, as I spy the fast-moving devil in full Don Juan mode. He’s smiling at a pretty, dark-haired woman halfway on . . . his . . . leg . . .
Ridiculous that I care. I’ve no rational reason to be pissed. I don’t like the man. I don’t trust him after the stunt he pulled back there. And even if he’s the next star ofMagic Mike, that doesn’t overshadow the fact that he’s dangerous. To the eye as well as a girl’s well-being.
Have at him, sister.
We end our journey at a bus terminal located outside city limits. And I leave him behind without another glance in his direction and without so much as an adios.
19
Diego
Islow my pace, focusing on the black Hummer limousine parked on the street a block away from the TORC safe house in downtown Mexico City. I’m wet, tired, and in need of a beer. I’m in no mood for conversation. And the last fucknut I want to be around right now is the Irishman.
The door opens.
“Mierda,” I cuss, then slide into the backseat and next to the man seated there.
He holds up a finger. One second, so he can finish the game pulled up on his iPad screen—Assassin’s Creed: Identity.How goddamn appropriate.
I roll my eyes. McDuff’s got this laid-back just-rolled-out-of-bed vibe that, for a guy like me who likes to get things donepronto, drives me to drink. His jeans are ripped at the knees, he’s got a bright, rainbow-colored serape on, the poncho-like blanket engulfing his large frame. To top off his look, my man’s wearing a brown beanie pulled low over his head. He looks like a clothes-challenge college student more than a hit man.
He ignores me.
