Page 32 of Hit Man

Then a pained grunt followed by silence.

Did they see me?

Am . . . I in danger?

I tug my hood, making sure my face is covered. It’s likely no one will know its me unless I’m caught.

With great effort and determination not to slip and fall, I race up the pathway.

Don’t get caught.

Don’t. Get. Caught.

By the time I reach the red-hibiscus garden, I’m waterlogged and winded and frightened beyond belief. I pause to catch my breath, raising my head. Noticing how the lights are now on in the upstairs suite. Can Juan Carlos see the men from up above? Is he . . . watching?

A chill runs up my spine.

I push ahead, rushing up the inclined path toward the Cupid statue.

Run. RUN!an irrational side of me urges me on.

I’m about thirty feet away from Cupid when my foot hooks on something hanging low along the ground, catching my ankle and causing me to stumble.

Pain shoots across my ankle as I flail my arms in an attempt to brace my fall.

But instead, I’m lifted. High, grabbed by the waist and hoisted into the air.

Before I can scream, a hand covers my mouth and I’m dragged off the path and into the bushes.

“Mierda,” a familiar voice hisses, the devil’s hand dropping from my mouth. My body slides against his own until my feet touch the ground. “Stay still and quiet.”

I’m too frightened to do anything else.

Seconds pass, and my breath regulates. I try not to panic about what is happening. About the way he’s hooked his arm around my back, anchoring my chest against his side, holding me steadfast and in place.

His shirt is soaking wet. He’s wet, soaked to the bone like he’s come from a swim.

Footsteps sound.

I swallow hard. Are they following me? Or him?

Three men abruptly shoot past us, coming from the direction of the mansion. They disappear down the steep pathway.

“Let’s go.” He grabs my hand and leads me deeper into the vegetation.

“What’s going on?” I demand, my question coming out in huffed breaths.

“Chava, drop the innocent act. You’re going to tell me why you were spying on them. But first things first. How fast can you run?”

“But we’re . . . good, right? They ran past us.”

“Mierda,” he murmurs instead of answering me. Tightening his grip on my hand, he drags me along as we race across a large expanse of lawn. We hug the bushes and the line of trees instead of walking mid field. Whatever was inside that crate has placed me in danger.

We dip in and out of the shrubbery. “Cameras,” he says over his shoulder after the first time.

Cameras.

That flash in the puddle . . . was that a camera flash?