Page 94 of Hit Man
The two men laugh.
“Come with us.”
He waves the paper at me and I catch sight of the photograph on it.
This time, it’s not Margarita. This time, it’s me.
And not only that, it’s me in a sexy red dress. A picture that could only have been taken at one place.
Casa Bella.
28
Diego
You did the right thing letting her go.
I grimace, the rattling sound of the front fender of my Harley interrupting my thoughts. I curse, pull up to Los Lobos’s scrap-metal warehouse, and park. Bad enough my goddamn conscience has decided to grate on my nerves. Now my own bike seems to be competing for the numero uno spot in pissing me off.
As for that mechanic, he’d better cough back up the money I’d paid him to fix my baby properly. Wrong freaking man to try and rip off, compadre. Shitty timing, my baby not being in her full glory. Impossible to navigate the Camaro down these streets. Besides, it’s cherry-red paint job doesn’t exactly scream low-key.
Low profile. A hundred percent committed to the job. No pretty distractions getting in my way, screwing with my head, giving me weird ideas about what life might be like . . . if I wasn’t the man I am.
Fucking irony, that. Because now I’m about to play the man I used to be.
I climb off my bike, straighten my leather jacket, and with my Glock loaded and my favorite blade sharpened to perfection, stalk into the place like I own it.
I immediately spy the man I spoke with days ago and slap him on the back like we’re old friends. “It’s Wednesday. El Chulo here?” I demand, though judging by the large crew gathered inside, the answer’s clear. El Chulo loves a large audience, the power of men being at his beck and call. His mercy, too. New cartel leader, same dynamic. Some things never change.
I’m like a long-lost cousin dropping in for a surprise visit. My patch my entry ticket. I’m an original Los Lobos. Who ran with Hayden, the godfather of them all. We’re to be feared and revered. After all, respect is the name of the game.
“He’s in the back,” the man tells me.
With one more sound thump, I head off in search of answers. The cartel is a means to an end. The end being information on the uranium. El Chulo better have news on what’s going down inside his territory. I’d like nothing but to wrap up this assignment with a bang by beating McDuff to the punch.
The scrap-metal warehouse is exactly as I left it, except crowded with men and missing one smug Irishman. Though a poker game is in progress, same as before.
Nothing out of the usual. Nothing to be concerned about.
I work my way between makeshift rooms to the back. Unzipping my jacket yet tightening my hold on my army bag.
“Hola, compadres,” I say, directing my greeting to the men gathered around the coffee table. Interrupting the poker game in progress.
Everyone stops and stares. Except the skinny bald man smoking a cigar, who keeps on studying the cards in his hand. “Who the fuck let this joker in?” El Chulo snarls in Spanish. “You’ve ruined my game.”
“He’s Lobos, boss,” a familiar-looking man tells El Chulo.
I drop my bag at my feet, reach into the side compartment, and withdraw a thick stack of pesos. I toss it on the coffee table. “I brought money for information.”
That catches his attention.
“A token of what I’m willing to pay,” I say, sweetening the pot.
El Chulo slowly folds his hand of cards—not even a pair. Either I did the man a favor or his men are too afraid of him to outplay him. Two of his men rise to their feet, probably thinking they’re going to take my bag off me.
“Try it, and I’ll put a knife in both your throats.” I grin at them and am rewarded by their eyes widening in confusion.Write me off or take me seriously. What will it be, pendejos?
“Down,” El Chulo orders.
