Page 98 of Hit Man
“Forty,” I snap.
El Chulo’s eyebrows hit the scrap-metal rafters. “Done.” He stands, as do his men. “You need anything else, please don’t hesitate to come knocking. Pass on our greetings to El Bastardo. He gestures to a man across the room.
“Bring out the gringa.”
My patience quickly withers away. Minute passes and I’m on my feet. Three minutes and I’m glaring at the men around me. Thirty-seven seconds more and I’m ready to do some damage.
The curtain rustles, and then Aubrey steps through it.
The sight of her hits me in the gut. So stoic. So frightened. Beautiful beyond belief. I quickly run my gaze over her, my frustration lessening after I realize she’s okay. Unharmed.
In the wrong goddamn place at the worst of times.
Wide-eyed, her eyes skim across the room, pausing on the pile of money on the coffee table, then on El Chulo, before resting . . . on me.
She visibly jerks. Her shock tangible, and something that doesn’t sit well within me. I can only imagine what she sees, me in my dirty old boots, black leather pants and a T-shirt, my Los Lobos leather jacket with the wolf in crossbones patch on it, and the knife in my hand.
Chavita, get a good long look at what you stuck around for.
“He’s come to collect you, gringa,” El Chulo tells her in broken English. “Paid me the entire bounty on your prettycabeza.”
I pin her with my glare. What the fuck is she still doing in Mexico City?
“Wanna know who she works for?” one of the men say. “I did some investigating. She’s involved with that thieving scumbag, Maxwell Vessinger.”
Her body stiffens as she turns to the man speaking. “What? Please tell me what you mean by ‘thieving scumbag’?”
“You give him money upfront,preciosa?” El Chulo asks.
My fingers tighten around the handle of my knife.Precious. . . he called herprecious. . .
“You pay him to participate in one of his business deals?”
Mierda. No.
“Yes.”
“More than a thousand dollars,sí?”
“Ten thousand.”
El Chulo laughs. “He ripped you off,mi preciosa.”
“Look who’s calling the kettle black,” I mutter in Spanish.
El Chulo shrugs his shoulders. “There are crooks. And then there are crooks.”
She flinches then recovers. “Ten thousand dollars. For a pay-to-work program. For my building plans to become a reality.” She inhales sharply, fighting for control. Her body rigid. Her fists clenched.
“It was all a lie. The expensive offices, the last-minute cancellation of government funding. That jerk. I risked my life to raise money for him. For a project that he never intended to fulfill. Am I right?” she demands.
The men all nod, which presses her buttons even more.
“That goddamn, no-good, lying bastard. He made it all seem so legitimate. Where is he? I want a word with him.”
Eyebrows raise but no one speaks. Too caught up in how she’s glaring at them like troublesome children instead of murdering cartel members. Hands on her hips, chest heaving, cheeks flushed with passion.
Beautiful.
