Page 53 of Hit Man
I shine the flashlight on the object in my hand. And with one single motion, an answer takes shape inside my mind.
Qué chingados.Talk about a nuclear explosion. Hayden’s going to bust a nut over this news.
Uranium. It has to be. During training, I’d seen pictures of it along with pictures of what it looks like when it’s radioactive properties are activated. Enriched uranium is the main ingredient for any loser looking to make a nuclear weapon. A Molotov cocktail for any amateur bomb maker looking to cause multiple deaths and destruction.
Bad, fucked-up news. Drug money and weapons would have been better than this.
But enriched uranium? Who is Mendoza sending this to? Or is he planning something himself? Something massive. Something that threatens national, global, the whole goddamn world’s security.
No. The man doesn’t have the mental capacity let alone the imagination for something like that. He’s a middleman, I’d bet money on it.
Now that I’ve identified what I’m holding, I don’t waste time standing around and staring at the thing. I can’t, me and my little black box are on a tight schedule. I secure the enriched uranium inside my bag, pausing to wonder if I should wrap the black paper around it, given its radioactive properties. There’s no time. And if Hayden wants proof of a bigger plot in play, I’ve just found it.
The electricity falters and I quickly yet methodically remove paper after paper from the lenses, fisting them into balls and nestling them around the uranium inside my pack.
When I’m done, I pull out the pièce de résistance, Little-Man’s driver’s license. Dropping it on the stone floor, I use the tip of my toe to partially wedge it beneath a crate.
Covering my tracks.
Planting bigger asshole tracks. Just in case.
Last time around, I exited to my left, using the cracks in the rocky surface to pull myself up by. But I’m better prepared. I’ve already tossed a rope over the side of the cliff which landed behind a large bolder. I’ll retrieve it and use it to make my ascent.
A shitty, wet climb, all the same.
With a sigh, I jump back into the pool and swim across to the bolder. Exiting the water, I find the rope. It takes only three tries to snap the loop I’ve made around a rock close to the top. I pray it holds as I begin my climb, swinging slightly until I find my footing on the rock wall. One hand after the other, one step at a time. Over and over, with my feet sliding out from under me on occasion, though mercifully not at the same time.
The rope holds.
I reach the top and haul myself over. Almost stunned by how quickly . . . how goddamn efficiently . . . I scaled that wet beast of a cliff. Damn, I’ve got moves.
And so far, that’s the most challenging part of this whole operation.
Yet there’s no time for a mental high five. Power outage number three is about to begin. Giving me enough time to make it across the lawn and back to the path leading toward the bungalows.
I feel great. Feel confident. Feel safe in my assumption that no one will be patrolling the grassy field. Because Mendoza, in his infinite wisdom, has now set up trip wires around the area. No more snooping around at nighttime. Not if you want sirens going off like a WWII air-strike warning.
Unless you’re me, that is.
I step over the first one easily. Part of my planning had been to memorize each and every placement.
Truth is, I’m a cocky bastard who relishes outsmarting his enemy, even a lightweight like Mendoza. I get off on the rush of adrenaline I feel at my outmaneuvering him. A little excitement in one of the easiest tasks I’ve ever tackled. And a huge motherfucking step forward in our investigation of this family.
Looks like I just beat the leprechaun to the pot of gold.
I smile. Nothing is more satisfying, except for wild, raucous sex, than my outperforming McDuff.
The lights go out, casting the grounds into complete blackness.
I feel like whistling as I calmly pick my way across the field. Lifting my legs every so often, one wire, two. Twenty more to go and I’ve barely broken a sweat.
No one killed.
Everything low-key and quiet.
At the halfway point, I contemplate doing the unthinkable. I might tidy up, secure my newfound prize, and drop in on Aubrey. What would she do if I entered through the bungalow skylight and crawled between her thighs. What would she do if I told her I’ve been missing the taste of her on my tongue? What would she do if we fucked bareback and I came on her stomach? I’d like to see that, my juices coating her smooth skin.
And as the dreamy image of my come wetting her lower abdomen clears my mind . . . I see her.
