Page 1 of Hit Man
Prologue
Aubrey
On my very first day of what’s to be a year abroad, Mexico City drew me into her bosom in a boisterous, merciless hug. Trapped in my taxi in the square of Centro Histórico, truncated by traffic, and headed nowhere fast. Though in no way, shape, or form did this resemble a Los Angeles commute, where the blame for its bumper-to-bumper traffic rested solely on the Southern California freeway developers’ blatant lack of foresight. This traffic was like being stuck in aNight of the Living Deadreenactment. My taxi being surrounded by fourteen thousand giddy ghosts, ghouls, and goblins dressed in white socks and red-leather, brass-buttoned jackets. The equivalent of New York City’s entire population dressed up as Michael Jackson and moonwalking through the streets.
I might be able to explain the different uses of hot glue versus white glue versus rubber cement, but for the life of me, I couldn’t wrap my head around what exactly those people were doing.
In fact, nothing in the past three months has gone according to plan. The way I like things to be. Orderly. Neat. Underwhelming rather than overdone. It’s the nature of any architect to be imaginative yet decisive. Saint Peter’s Basilica in the Vatican would never have reached completion if Michelangelo had only had his head in the clouds. Still, I’m learning to be more adaptable—I have no other option.
Two days after being beset by this city’s quest to break a Guinness World Record in a “Thriller” dance-off—thus the traffic—I was dealing with my own living nightmare. I had saved then invested my entire savings in securing a year-long interim position on a pay-to-work program with the now-derailed Architects Beyond Borders. Until the government’s urban planners decided on reallocating funding in favor of putting a baby-size Band-Aid on Mexico City’s water crisis. Leaving me without a job and without the ten thousand dollars I paid to ABB. Now my money is tied up in the nonprofit’s finances. I should have seen that first taxi ride for what it was: a sign that my plans would not unfold smoothly. Not unless alternative funding can be found to jump-start our program.
Which leads me to today, my last day teaching English as a second language at The Linguistic Academy, a private school located inside a posh, gated community that caters to the wealthy elite. In theory, it should have been an opportune position, a way to rub shoulders with parents, then subtly appeal to their philanthropic nature. Except my conversations have been limited to limousine drivers and nannies charged with picking the little darlings up.
Now school’s closing for summer break; all the children, teachers, chauffeurs, and nannies are gone; and I’m ready to head home to my downtown apartment, empty-handed and heavyhearted. Oh, and without a job or savings to help pay the bills.
I stare at Little Lord Pain in the Ass, who with one hand is bouncing his basketball—indoors in careless disregard for school rules—, and with the other hand is waving the passport I thought to distract him with around in the air. There has to be another way toward securing funding, one that doesn’t involve my horrendously incompetent talent in working with children.
My last day, and I’m left in charge of that one kid who never stops moving and always seems to be coming at me from different directions.
Except at this precise moment, Sylvester’s as still as a statue . . . clutching his basketball . . . staring at the wall . . . which is slowly beginning to crack . . .
Plaster from the ceiling crashes onto the floor by my feet. The floor shakes, the entire building seems to tilt to the left, and I’m reminded in the harshest of ways how Mexico City is nothing like I expected. Despite my coming here to build things, everything seems to be quite literally caving in around me.
“Run,” I shout, pushing him forward toward the door. Figures the kid would freeze up now, fascinated by the walls collapsing around him in the recklessly naive way young children can be—oblivious to the dangers surrounding them.
I grab my purse, then usher Sylvester outside and toward the small crowd assembled on the street sidewalk.
A woman screams.
I stop and glance around in confusion, searching my limited Spanish vocabulary for the right word. Cursing my roommate Zoey for gifting me with the ever-so-helpful Spanish-to-English dictionaryFilthy, Dirty Street Spanish. A lot of help it’s done me—both in the bedroom, and, need I say it, in dire moments like this.
“Earthquake?” I ask the screamer.
“Terremoto?” she replies.
We’re really getting nowhere fast.
“No, no.Mira,” a teenage boy says, then points.
I follow the invisible line his finger makes to the billowing cloud of smoke rising up into the first smog-free sky in ages.
“Unabomba.”
“A bomb?” I gasp, uncertain if I interpreted his thick accent correctly.
“Sí.” He cups his hands together then pulls them apart in an upward, circular cloud motion while enthusiastically making an explosion noise. Like bombs going off a block or two away is an everyday occurrence.
An explosion? Seriously? I began my day arriving to work late, all thanks to another Guinness World Record traffic jam, this one unbelievably caused by a one-and-a-half-pound enchilada chow-down that blocked pedestrian traffic for miles. Which is why I’ve been designated as the last person to close up school, annoyingly upending my plans for the rest of my day. Plans to make plans, and figure out what my next step will be.
But a bomb?
I run my fingers through my hair, trying to process the unimaginable. The neighborhood is overrun with kitsch mansions uniform in their Corbusian, boxlike structures yet distinguishable by their gated entryways, immense sizes, and elaborate facades. I inhale deeply, coughing when the thick air burns my lungs. The potent smell of gunpowder along with the truth is heavy in the air.
Anything goes here in Mexico City.
Sylvester drops his basketball and it bounces into the street.
And then my heart drops and a cold hand of fear grips me by the throat. Because . . . there . . . Sylvester . . . goes.
