Page 113 of Hit Man
“Later,” I hang up. I make myself comfortable on a chair by another window, unable to act. Listening to the commotion below me, her young son excitedly screeching about, of all things, tea. High tea, his exact words. Like it’s birthday cake or something most kids would get excited about.
My watch reads two o’clock. How long does it take to drink a teapot of watered down caffeine?
I hear the car’s engine before I see it heading up the driveway. The large limousine pulls up to the main door and the kid is ushered inside. Followed by a younger woman dressed completely in black.Dios, where the hell did she come from? I’d been careful, monitoring the going and coming of Señora’s six employees. Evidently, doing an amateur job of it. She appears to be the boy’s nanny. Whoever she is, she’s out of my hair now. The limo departs, headed off to some high-tea playdate.
I am about to step into the hallway when another vehicle arrives. Hurrying over to the window, I watch two men exit a large white truck. The back door bursts open and three more men clamber out. But it’s the fourth man who earns my complete attention. He’s pushed from the vehicle and lands hard on the driveway. His wrists are handcuffed. And there’s a bag over his head.
Señora charges out of the house, holding a thick pipe . . . no . . . wait . . . a baseball bat. She wastes no time using it, nailing the man in the head and the sides and beating him down like a woman possessed. If I had any lingering doubts about her role in the uranium shipment, they’re crushed along with her victim’s quivering form.
I wanted action. And Señora has come through in spades.
She points the bat in the direction of the shed. The men grab hold of the viciously beaten man, still conscious judging by the way he squirms and kicks as the men drag him off. They enter the shed, Señora trailing closely behind them.
Movement below catches my eye. Six of the hired help have assembled outside, an eager audience to the violence going on nearby.
I’ve two choices. Find my way out to the shed and witness firsthand what it’s like to be on the tail end of Señora’s wrath. Or quickly, stealthily search the rooms below.
I sprint for the door and down the spiral wooden staircase. Glancing to the right then the left before hurrying into the sitting room and across to the bureau beyond.
A tea tray set up neatly on a parlor table rattles as I whisk by it. A warning to slow my pace. Steady my hand. Be patient.
I retrieve my lockpick from my army bag.
The bureau doors open in no time. Everything inside is neat and orderly.
Fancy pens. Blue note-card paper. Receipts for toys and stuffed animals and little-boy clothing. A baseball mitt and baseball bat. Stacks and stacks of receipts.
I hear a loud popping noise and my grasp on the papers tightens.
Gunfire.
Whoever pissed Señora off,adios amigo.
She must have an office, right? Where she conducts her dirty deals? This room is full of fluff. Giving the illusion that she’s just another wealthy, well-bred woman who spends her days—my gaze falls on the tea tray—giving goddamn tea parties.
I glance down at the paper in my hand. A receipt for a bouquet of flowers. With a shake of my head, I carefully place everything back in order.
I stalk out of the fancy parlor and into a living room. With a quick glance around, I move on to the next room. And so on, and so on. Searching for answers.
The front door opens with a bang. I step inside what appears to be her son’s playroom and close the door enough where I can peer through the opening. No reason for her to come inside here, right? The sound of boots echoes off the entryway’s tile floor.
“Wipe your feet,” Señora snaps. “Follow me.” I freeze and hold my breath. I can reach the window and be long gone in the time it takes her to reach this room.
But what good would that do me?
I rely on gut instinct. Hold steady. Hang tight and hope she passes by.
When she does, I let out a silent sigh. I count the men as they follow her past me. Six servants. Plus five men from the van. Familiar faces. Mendoza’s men. Spying for Señora? The last face is the most familiar—Little-Man’s.
“My last problem solved,” Señora tells them in Spanish.
“He’ll think twice about double-crossing you again.” Everyone laughs but Señora.
“Is my son moving the merchandise?”
“Yes, Señora.”
“Will it be ready to sail by Saturday?”
