Page 2 of Hit Man

Off and running, a future all-star sprinter in the making, chasing after it.

Damn it. I should have hung on tighter to him.

“Volver aquí de inmediato,Sylvester,” I shout.Get back here,a familiar phrase, one I’ve repeated since being assigned to the little rascal. But usually he’s out back in the playground, penned in by a six-foot-high cement wall.

I catch sight of his dark-haired head as he barrels into the four-lane boulevard. The road’s size is unnecessary given the under-abundance of homes in this neighborhood. Normally, a few vehicles pass now and then. But with the commotion a few blocks away . . . “Stop,” I yell, taking off after him. “Sylvester,volver aquí.”

He halts midway, standing immobile on the grassy median lined with trees. Then he shoots me that look. The very one with the devilish catch-me-if-you-can twinkle in his eye.

“No.”

Sylvester takes off after the still-mobile ball, and I grit my teeth and race after him.

Limousine brakes squeal yet I sprint on by, holding my palm out a second too late in a thank-you-for-stopping gesture. I hurdle the median and keep running, gaining ground on the little rascal, while praying the rush of vehicles headed away from the bombing have enough sense to stop for a little boy.

And you . . . don’t forget you.

I catch Sylvester by the hood of his sweatshirt, then pull him up into the air and off his moving feet.

Another screech.

I feel the cool rubber bumper of a second vehicle against the back of my knees. So close.Oh my God—way too close.

“Put me up,” Sylvester demands.

“Down. Put me down,” I correct him as I carry his wiggly body back to the spot I dropped my purse on the sidewalk in front of the school. “Stop squirming.”

The woman from before hands me my purse, and I somehow manage to slide the strap handle over my shoulder.

Yet I never seem to learn my lesson. The slightest distraction and I’m done for. Sylvester kicks back and nails me between my legs. As I gasp in pain, the lingering smell of gunpowder reminds me of the danger still present. It takes more strength than Iron Man combined with the sticking power of Spider-Man to hang onto him.

Which is why, in my struggle, I fail to notice the haphazardly dressed woman exiting the old Cadillac still stopped in the middle of the street. But once I do, I can’t look away.

She’s wearing a rumpled, three-sizes-too-small black button-down dress that’s open from the throat to her belly button. Like she rushed to grab the first item of clothing from the dirty laundry pile and hastily tugged it on. The dress hem rides up, baring the top of her thick calf.

A thick, hairy calf.

“Let’s get you back inside, buddy,” I hastily say, wincing as I usher Little Lord Pain in the Ass toward the Linguistic Academy entrance.

“Okay, buddy,” he repeats, mimicking my less-than-amiable tone.Yeah, his parents are going to thank me for his refined English vocabulary.

I glance at the bearded woman, who is clearly not a woman at all but a man haphazardly dressed as one, charging toward us. Too late, I realize the time to run has passed. His little black cap, the kind I’ve seen the maids working in the homes around these parts wear, is askew, hanging low over his forehead like a midday sombrero. But this man—and I’m willing to gamble this one heck of afailedattempt at dressing as a female—is anything but laid-back.

He grabs my arm.

I push Sylvester’s head into my shoulder, while I struggle to free myself. First explosions, then his beat-up Cadillac comes barreling down the road, nearly running me over . . .

He’s about a foot taller than me, which isn’t saying much at my five-foot-six stature. Yet the fact that he’s still holding onto my arm combined with his furious scowl speaks volumes. This isn’t a man you mess with. Period.

Run.

An impossible thought.

I lower Sylvester onto his feet and push him behind me.

Mexico City, like all urban centers, has its dangers. Kidnapping for profit is common here with the kidnappers’ preferred targets being the affluent and the vulnerable.

I tighten my hold on Sylvester’s arm, much like the stranger has on mine, and brace myself for a fight. This child has been left inmycare.Myproblem.