Page 3 of Hit Man

The man shifts his hand from my arm to my shoulder. Then he shoves me, causing me to stumble sideways.

“Échate a un lado,” he orders.

I’m not prone to losing my temper. Getting emotional over things isn’t my style. When my ex-fiancé Howie cheated on me with that French major whose vocabulary was limited to the wordoui, did I freak out and dump his belongings onto the front lawn? Okay, maybe that isn’t the right scenario; the liar deserved it. But I’ve dealt with chauvinistic men before. Heck, there’d been a handful of barbarians in my physics classes with certain opinions about “women’s work”. Architectural design not being something a female could handle. Ridiculous, archaic talk.

But I’ve never been manhandled before.

I straighten my spine and force myself between the man and little Sylvester.

“Keep away from him,” I warn the man, too uncharacteristically furious to be afraid.

“Step aside,” he hisses between clenched teeth, his English perfect. Explosions. The subsequent chaos erupting around us. No way will I allow this opportunist take advantage of the chaotic situation. His eyes narrow, enough that the groove in his forehead deepens as he angrily stares me down.

Nope. Not going to budge.

“Papi,” Sylvester screeches, breaking free of my firm hold, then dodging around my body barricade and lunging for the stranger, wrapping his arms around the man’s leg.

Papi. . .father.

“You are not leaving with him without showing me ID,” I insist. Do I think he’s Sylvester’s father? Yeah. There’s a resemblance between them: the cut of their chin, that horrible glimmer in their eyes when trouble is coming. But I can be stubborn, and besides I’ve reason to be cautious. A Mercedes always picks Sylvester up. Either his chauffeur or his nanny comes to collect him. Today, they’re over an hour late.

Then, the bomb . . .

Ignoring me, he takes Sylvester firmly by the arms and thrusts him away. “Deténte hijo,” he orders. I blink, then double-blink when Sylvester stops squirming and immediately stands as stiff as a little obedient statue.

I draw in a stubborn breath. “I still need to see ID.”

“Proof?Bueno.”

He shifts his dress aside. I swallow back my surprise as I catch the flash of silver tucked into the waistline of his boxers. A gun.Is he threatening me?

“What kind of person do you think I’d be if I let a stranger steal him away?”

He reaches inside his dress pocket, retrieving an expensive black leather wallet, which he flips open, flashing his license at me.

Sylvester Fahder Nortega.

Papito Sylvester Fahder del Leon.

The address on his license is a block or two away. Within walking distance . . . toward the direction of the bomb blast. Yet I’m certain Sylvester travels an extremely long distance, from an entirely different town, to the Academy . . .

He tucks his wallet away, then rubs his fingers across his jaw, staring off into the distance for a few tense seconds before cursing beneath his breath. “My beautiful home, gone.”

“It was your place that exploded?”

“Yes. Why else would I be dressed like this?” He scowls at me. “I was forced out of my home and had to disguise myself like some weak, helplesspajero. We escaped in that.” He waves a hand toward his car and the second person in hiswe, the waiting woman in the driver’s seat.

I can’t help but drag my gaze across the car’s rusty exterior, then back for second disbelieving look at his clothing. Maid’s clothing. Like he left home in a hurry and pulled on the first thing within reach . . .

“If I wasn’t in the servant quarters and in the outer structures behind the main house, I’d be dead. Whoever did this will pay.”

“You believe it was intentional? Not some irresponsible person storing guns or other hazardous substances?”

He doesn’t answer me, instead beckons to Sylvester. “We must hurry.”

“If there is anything I can do . . .” I bite my tongue. I have a tendency to be extraneously polite whenever I find myself in uncomfortable situations. Though this exchange is far from the socially awkward ones I’ve had, it still qualifies for the most blatantly awkward experience ever.

“You’ve done enough. Hismamáwill be pleased by—eh, how do you say—your tenaciousness?”