Page 10

Brakes squeal and I know they spotted me.Cue my exit.I start the engine and jam on the gas.
The sun is starting to come up, which means my ride should be landing soon. Good. I’ve had enough of this place. A moment after that thought crosses my mind, gunfire pops through the air and I hear the ping of bullets on the car’s flawless exterior. Destroying this beauty? Oh, that hurts. Plus, it’s too early for this crap.
Ah, well. I do lead the life of a thief.
Steal the biggest emerald in all of Colombia from a baddie like Alejandro Torres and, yeah, I can expect to be chased.
And fuck, this puts a bit of a wrench in my plans. I can’t exactly drive to the airport now. The last thing I want to do is lead these idiots straight to Hunter. Who knows what kind of weapons they might have—machine guns, grenades, a fucking RPG?
It’s not a chance I’m willing to take. If Hunter isn’t ready, and we don’t get up into the air fast enough, it could lead to something really bad happening.
Nope. Time for Plan B. Or am I on Plan C now?
“What is Plan C, Beckett?” I casually ask myself as a bullet cracks the back windshield. I’m honestly not sure, but I need to figure it out fast. Spinning the wheel, I channel my inner Brighton and put my evasive driving skills to the test.
I’m not worried. I never worry. It’s a waste of time and energy. Maybe because I always find a way. My dad used to tell me I could fall into a pile of shit and come out smelling like roses.
#Facts. Maybe it’s my easy charm or pretty face, but he’s right. I could talk my way out of The Louvre with the Mona Lisa tucked under my arm.
I’m just that good.
My mouth curves up in a half-smile, half-grimace as I careen around a corner. As much fun as this is, these idiots are screwing with my schedule. I could still be napping, but now I’m driving around the city like a maniac.
My pursuers have become more persistent, and I look in the rear view mirror and sigh. By now, Deck and the emerald should be safely back in Denver, and I’m guessing Hunter will be landing shortly. Weighing my options, I think my best bet is to lose these dillholes again, hunker down somewhere and call Hunter for a pickup.
They chase me through another section of town, and I manage to fly through a red light, zip around a truck and shoot down an alley. On the other side of the block, I stop andtake a look around. It’s a touristy area full of small shops and restaurants.
Time to ditch this beauty and hole up until Hunter can get me.
After making sure I’m no longer being followed, I pull up to the curb and cut the engine. I wait for a few extra minutes. Confident the coast is clear, I slip out, tucking my pistol back in the holster beneath my jacket. Staying alert, I pop the front trunk and pull my duffel bag out.
It’s early and the scent of baking bread makes me groan. My stomach wins and I head in the direction of pastries and carb heaven. Jogging forward a block or so, I pass endless shops and finally spot the bakery. Ducking around the nearest corner, I follow my nose, moving fast, counting doors. Stopping at the fourth one down, I peer through the flimsy screen to see a middle-aged woman working at a flour-covered counter, rolling dough.
Without a second to spare, I open the door and step inside.
“I’m sorry,” I say in Spanish, and she looks up, startled. Giving her my most dazzling smile, I concoct a story about being a lost tourist who was nearly robbed. I tell her I managed to get away, but that a few men are looking for me. “So I ducked in here.”
Once she hears my story, her shoulders relax and she tells me it’s becoming more and more common. My Spanish is decent enough to get by and I discover she speaks English fairly well, so we switch over.
“It smells delicious,” I tell her, dropping my duffel bag. “Any chance I can hang out here until the coast is clear? And buy some breakfast? I’m starving.”
That seems to do the trick, and suddenly I’m embraced with good ol’ Colombian hospitality. She ushers me into the front of the store and points out the baked goods in the display case. Through the glass, I spot quite a few tasty-looking goodies—bread, pastries, and lots of South American sweet treats. I choose a few things then pull my wallet out of my back pants pocket, peel a couple of hundreds off my stash and hand them to her. I may be a thief, but I don’t like taking from people who work hard to make a living. That’s not my style.
For as much as I’ve accumulated, I’ll never forget where I came from—a working class family who struggled to make ends meet.
Her eyes go wide and she shakes her head.
“I insist.Muchas gracias.”
She points out a small table, serves up my breakfast and a cup of steaming coffee with gusto, and tells me to stay as long as I need. The moment she disappears into the back room, my gaze slants out the front window.
Fuck.A group of men are wandering up and down the sidewalk across the street. They must’ve found the Lambo and now they’re searching for me on foot. Angling away from the window, I make sure to stay out of sight.
The surrounding businesses are still closed, so I should be fine for now. Unless they start breaking down doors, of course. As much as I’m enjoying my breakfast, I probably should get a move on.
I savor the last bite of a delicious pastry then pull my phone out.
Ah, the life of a thief. Stranded in a bakery in South America, being hunted down by an arms dealer’s thugs, while waiting for a pickup from some former military guy. As much as I love the danger and excitement of what I do, I can’t help but wonder again how much longer it’ll continue.