Page 72 of Hit Man
I followed her to her apartment in a cab I hailed at the train station. Five minutes later, we were on the move again. At least she had enough common sense to abandon her apartment and check into a downtown hotel. Before my TORC meeting, I went so far as to steal inside her hotel room while she showered. Checking things out, checking her out. Conducting business and needing firsthand confirmation on who she is—or so I told myself. I found the housing plans she’s safely stored within a long cardboard cylinder. A hastily packed suitcase filled with black clothing and conservative shoes.
I rub my hand across my jaw, feeling the five-o’clock shadow on my chin.
I consider warning her about the hit out on her. But instead, I leave her be, stealing away from her room seconds after her shower has ended, comfortable with the knowledge that as long as she hangs low, she’ll be safe here.
With me doing what I can to protect her.
Fuck. I don’t have time for this. Or for my driving by her hotel whenever I get the chance. Yet something deep inside me spurs me on. And whether I want to or not, and more importantly, whether Hayden wants me to or not, I’m going to keep checking on her. Once I complete my meeting with The Lobos, I’ll swing by her hotel for a quick once-over.
Just. In. Case.
The sound of motorcycles forces me to stand.
Women rush inside, waving the kids off the streets. The old men capable of fast walking follow them inside, the others hunch over and try to disappear into themselves.
A vendor hurriedly gathers his cookware before pushing his cart in a mad dash toward a scrap-metal home. Doors open, then close. Like he’s naive enough to believe he’ll evade paying them. That they won’t find him with the cart tracks making a direct beeline in the sludge to his hiding place.
He’ll be paying a higher price now. There’s no escaping the Lobos.
I place one hand on my Glock and wait.
Six motorcycles round the corner, two men on each. They fan out into groups of four men, each pulling up and around the wiser vendors who know the drill.
Payment time.
I watch. Money exchanging hands. A few crew members shouting and patting down a man who’s pleading poverty. Until someone notices the cart tracks.
Six men kick in the door, disappear inside, and return with the struggling vendor. They toss him into the street. Everyone circles around him, ready to teach him a lesson. Sending a message to the rest of his kind: pay up or pay dearly.
I step into the street, and whistle loudly.
That does the trick—I’ve got their attention. “Leave him be, my friends,” I say in Spanish. “El Chulo is about to be a happy man with the dinero I’ll be handing over to you.”
“Who the fuck is that?” one of the younger men says.
“Don’t know,” the man nearest him responds.
“Check out his bike,” the most observant fuckhead adds.
All eyes shift past me and onto my bike.
Look away, pendejo. Look away.
Quicker than the vendor I saved, who is now halfway down the road, I withdraw my Glock and shoot. The bullet nips at the booted ankle of thehijo de putastaring at my sweet baby.
Mission accomplished.
“What the hell?” the man screams.
I stalk across the short distance separating me from them, my gun aimed directly at the same man. Their leader, I’m assuming. “I’m Diego Murillo de Romero.” I offer them my real name, with good reason.
“Dios mío. Romero.”
I built up a reputation that’ll probably last until my dying day.
“Amigo, you are a far away from Loreto. What are you doing in Neza Chalco?”
The other men eye my jacket, nodding their heads as they catch sight of my patches. Badges of honor earned in the most violent of ways. That’s how respect is earned within an environment like this.
