Page 70 of Hit Man
“Just so we’re clear, we’re not working together,” McDuff grounds out.
I snort. “I wouldn’t have it any other way,pendejo.”
20
Aubrey
Iwaited outside my apartment building for what seemed like hours before I felt confident enough I could quickly gather my things without incident. A risky move, and not the best of ideas, yet I’d rationalized that I still had time before the thugs found my place. And if by chance they did happen upon me in the five minutes it’d take to gather my original architectural plans, my belongings, and the main reason for returning, my only remaining form of identification—my California-issued driver’s license that I’d safely stored inside a larger wallet for fear of losing it during my stay at Casa Bella and with the luck I’ve been having, would have happened—I had a firm escape route in mind: exiting out the kitchen window and descending the fire escape into the alleyway below.
Nowadays, I do nothing without a preconceived plan of action.
With the utmost caution, I made my way up to the third-floor landing, anticipating the worse. Yet what greeted me outside my door wasn’t Juan Carlos’s men but an enormous bouquet of flowers.
With my name printed on the crisp blue envelope.
A thank-you written in perfect English. Along with a phone number and a personal invitation to tea at Hacienda Santo Miguel, located in the nearby city of Tepoztlán. From Señora del Leon . . . Little Lord Pain in the Ass’s mama. Surprise, surprise. I’m guessing she contacted The Linguistic Academy for my address.
Yet it was the postscript that really caught my attention.
I have your passport in safekeeping.
I set the flowers on the kitchen table, hastily collected my things, and tucked her note inside my purse, then thirty minutes later I checked into a hotel across town and have been lying low ever since.
I try to do the normal things while I work out my next move. Like ordering room service, and a local coffee called café de olla, which is served with cinnamon and whole cane sugar. Anything laced with cinnamon immediately calms the nerves but I think it’s safe to say that at this point in my stay in Mexico City, I’ll need to order carafes of café de olla to maintain a sense of calmness and to keep my wits about me.
A week later and I’ve come to the conclusion that although traveling to Tepoztlán sounds tempting and less of a hassle, my best option is to head to the US embassy, apply for a new passport, and, upon receiving it, return on the next daily flight home.
I spoke with Zoey this morning and informed her of the news. She apologized for not calling me, and explained how Renaldo was using her cell phone while he worked as a security guard at a nearby warehouse. I tried warning her away from him and briefly explained what’d happened to me. But Zoey kept reassuring me Renaldo isn’t a thug, almost challenging me and the dismal events I’d shared with her.
I’d hung up with a sour taste in my mouth. Still, I hope for her sake she’s right about Renaldo. And I’m certain he loves her, so hopefully he’ll keep her safe.
I’m completely alone in Mexico City with no one to rely on but myself.
And today, even the city seems to be working against me.
Crowds of people have congregated outside the US embassy, which is conveniently located within walking distance of my hotel. I struggle to locate the entry line outside the gates from the multiple lines of dancers vying to join together to break the Guinness World Record for the longest conga line.
Sad but true.
My amusement quickly fades to exasperation as I dodge people grabbing at me and struggle against becoming an unwilling participant.
I finally fall into the entry line.
My driver’s license should be enough proof of identification for issuing a replacement passport. And if not, perhaps the embassy will accept a faxed copy of my birth certificate, which I’ll arrange for my parents to send if the need arises.
The line inches forward as the conga line grows in number.
I’m so caught up in my worries about replacing my passport and the rowdy crowd dancing before me, I don’t immediately notice the familiar faces of the men standing by the security booth. Until my eyes meet with those of one of the men.
I don’t hesitate, and pushing myself into the crowd, I duck and dodge, duck and dodge, underneath arms and around dancing bodies, into the center of group and through the other side, until I’m completely free to run, run, run.
Haven’t I done whatever I could to remain out of sight? Didn’t I take whatever precautions I could to stay alert and avoid detection? Mexico City’s population is in the millions. Chances were in my favor that they wouldn’t find me, assuming they were still searching for me.
Which they are.
Clearly, they are if Juan Carlos has men stationed at the US embassy.
I glance over my shoulder, and nearly stumble.
