Page 97 of Hit Man
“The Navaja did say something else. Something he overhead Mendoza’s men discussing. A large freight ship is arriving in Acapulco.”
“For the weapons?” I say.
El Chulo shakes his head. “The uranium.”
“When?”
“Saturday.”
El Chulo grins and I inhale sharply. There’s more. “Where?”
“Don’t know yet.”
I frown, curious about the father-versus-son dynamics playing out. “Is Fahder aware of this?”
“If I was a gambling man”—he nods toward the cards on the table—“I’d say Mendoza is about to overtake his old man. Keep him distracted in Acapulco, away from Mexico City while he loads crates of enriched uranium out of sight ofPapi’s watchful eye. He’ll likely draw his father away from Acapulco sometime before Saturday.”
“Or kill him,” I say.
“That, too.”
“And Fahder’s shipment, the guns?” I push. Might as well help an Irishman out, or get a bit of news before he learns of it.
“We’re set to watch the warehouse for a few more weeks.”
I consider this. Wouldn’t it be the ultimate double cross if the guns shipped off alongside the crates of uranium? Fahder returning to Acapulco to an empty warehouse?
I frown. Is Mendoza really that clever?
El Chulo sits up a bit straighter. “You came for information and I delivered.” Another smile spreads across his face.Dios mío. What else is he holding out on?
I scowl at him.
He stares at me, his eyes glimmering.
I can see my blade glimmering as well—against his throat.
He reads the warning in my expression, calmly licks his lips then with great relish, asks me, “Wanna know how can you contact that tight piece of ass?” He takes out a folded piece of paper. Pink, with a goddamn flower pattern on it, and numbers. Her phone number.
“It’ll cost you. Ten grand, on top of everything else.”
“Five. El Bastardo is going to kill me.”
“Seven.”
“Deal. Money first.”
I dig into my bag and retrieve what might possibly be the last money to ever pass across my fingers. I count out the fifty and add in the seven.
The same man I spoke with a few days ago speaks up. “Boss . . . don’t forget the gringa . . .”
I stop counting and the room temperature abruptly spikes.
“That’s right. You made an agreement with my men over a bounty.”
Pinche cabrón.“How much?” I demand, knowing exactly where this is leading. To Aubrey. To Aubrey in fucking Mexico City. To Aubrey in goddamn Neza Chalco.
“Twenty grand.” Sly man. Half the bounty on her head yet I’m too furious to care.
