Page 96 of Hit Man
“We’ve been paid by this man’s father to guard a warehouse in Acapulco. Guns, weapons, ammo from Marseille, France. Rumor has it his son, Juan Carlos Mendoza, the man in the picture, sent a few of his own men to help guard the warehouse.”
“I’ve heard the same thing,” I share.
“You hear he hired Los Navajas to fuck with my men? Forcing me to leave the comforts of home to visit Acapulco and put an end to it.”
I frown.
“At the first attack, we thought Los Navajas were after the weapons.”
“And now?” I casually ask, instinctively knowing I’m about to get some answers.
“After several more attacks, we caught a Navaja and . . . questioned him.”
“And?”
“Someone hired them to cause trouble.”
Who?”
“Before they took the job, they did what most cartels tend to do and traced the phone call back to some gringa in Tepoztlán.
“Mendoza have a girlfriend? Did he have her place the call?”
“He has many girlfriends,” El Chulo responds.
“I want to talk to the Navaja.”
“Too late. He’s got nothing more to say.” El Chulo smirks.
I grind my teeth together. I came here for answers about the uranium. Instead, all I have are questions. And not only am I in a hurry to outplay the Irishman, there’s someone else in the game.
“Did you pass this information on to the woman paying you?”
“Of course.”
Mierda.She’s one step ahead of me.
“And the uranium? Any news where it came from or where it’s going?”
El Chulo’s holding back something . . . I can see it in his body language . . . testing me . . .
“You’ll have to ask the woman,” he says, a little too smugly. Like what he’s offered is worth fifty grand. Giving me little more than information about a father and his bastard son’s pissing contest.
I take out my blade from the holster beneath my jacket. It gleams in the faint light seeping in through the spaces in the roof. His men jump to their feet but I’m faster. My knife is up against El Chulo’s throat quicker than you can saypimp. “Flinch and I’ll carve a smile across his windpipe,” I calmly tell his men. “Compadre, I’m paying you good money. No hard feelings but I’m in a piss-poor mood, in a hurry, and El Bastardo is going to raise holy fuck if I don’t bring home more concrete information. Did you or did you not find out something important about the uranium?”
“Did. Okay, compadre. I’ll tell you everything.”
“That’s what I’m paying you for.”
“I’m doing this out of respect for El Bastardo, you make sure he knows this.”
Am I surprised El Chulo gives in so easily? No. Not after bringing Hayden’s nickname into the mix. My reputation is saintly compared to his. He earned the unofficial nickname El Bastardo ten times over.
I remove my blade from his throat yet remain within striking distance.
“The uranium is somewhere in Mexico City. We don’t know how it was snuck in. By truck, maybe. We’re watching the ports.”
I keep quiet, waiting for new information to surface, yet relaxing slightly knowing he’s telling the truth.
