Page 75 of Hit Man
Diego
Pinche cabrón.
I’m just regaining control of my bike when three men come charging at me. Familiar faces. Mendoza’s crew.
I hunch my shoulders and duck my chin into my chest, disappearing in plain sight. If they spot me, I’m prepared to fight. Yet there’s no cause for concern. They race right by me, mindless of me and whoever else is on the street. Focus solely . . . on her.
Can I say I’m fucking surprised? Hell, no. It was just a matter of time before they tracked her down. Cashing in on the bounty on my head must be frustrating work considering the paperwork Mendoza received upon my initial employment had a false surname, an address to nowhere land, and the Mexican equivalent of a fake social security number. But Aubrey . . .
Am I now so jaded I can’t tell an innocent victim from a player? A staycation at Casa Bella—it was too innocent a comment to overlook, yet I did just that. With that staycation of hers almost turned into a permanent one.
Do I drive off and turn a blind eye? Crap, the fear in her eyes . . .
You’re in the right place at the right time.
Hayden better have not only left Mexico City but Mexico itself. If he catches wind of what I’m about to do . . . still, as the thought crosses my mind, I’m turning the handlebars and begin my tail on Mendoza’s thugs.
To Aubrey’s credit, she’s good. It’s like she understands exactly where to turn or what store to enter then exit through. She keeps well ahead of them, making a few interesting choices in her escape that force me to raise my eyebrows. Like ducking inside a launderette and exiting via a second door a few feet away but on the adjacent block. I hold my breath, certain they’ll catch her as I watch everything through the front shop window. But Aubrey is full of surprises Not only do they not catch on to the fact there’s a nearby side entrance, they spend valuable time circling around the machines, expecting to find her hiding somewhere.
Her next move is a classic, bursting inside an everything-Elvis store. Stores like this always have a delivery door around back, which is where I hurry and position myself just out of sight. She burst through seconds later, along with the echo of the lyrics “a hunka, a hunka burnin’ love,” along with the curses of men from inside.
She keeps well ahead of them, taking a sprint across a main highway, zigzagging her way through traffic. I want to pull up alongside of her and snatch her off her feet. But resist the urge for the same reason why these three thugs aren’t shooting at her. The semicrowded streets. No one is going to gun down a gringa with that many witnesses.
I grit my teeth and follow her. See her slowing, her exhaustion a tangible thing. And . . . contagious, as her three pursuers are tiring as well.
Not good.
They might do something stupid. Might take a shot after all.
I contemplate terminating them. But damn it if I didn’t promise Hayden I’d hang low and out of sight. Murdering three of Mendoza’s crew doesn’t exactly scream subversive maneuvering.
I bide my time until Aubrey makes her first mistake.
It only takes one.
She’s leading them down an alleyway. Out of sight and out of the safety found within the general public. No one around to watch her execution. No one to tell the newspapers about a gringa being shot down in cold blood.
I climb off my bike, stand at the foot of the alleyway, and fire three shots. The slowest man grabs the back of his thigh as he falls. The man ahead of him mimics his actions exactly. But that bastard in the lead takes a bullet to the thigh and keeps on running. High on adrenaline or something else?
What a waste of bullets. But a man’s gotta do what a man’s gotta do. I pump a bullet into his other leg.
End of story.
Crippling shots, not killing shots. No bodies to be found. No proof who did the deed because I shot them from behind.
I freeze, my fingers clenching over the cold handle of my gun, as I watch Aubrey tumble to the ground.
Did the bullet clear his thigh and hit her?
I jump onto my bike and take off, circling around the building as I replay the shots in my head.
Impossible. That bullet had to pass muscle in order to exit.
Once on the other end of the warehouse, I park yet leave my bike running. I’m to the corner of the building in no time, pressing my back to the building and carefully inching forward until I’m able to peer around it.
Low-key. Do not draw thependejos’attention to you.
My adrenaline causes my pulse to pound. For the first time in years, I don’t relish the feeling.
