Page 39 of Hit Man

“You know what? Renaldo can keep his bitch. Her friend is fucking hot,” one of thependejoswith a death wish says.

“You’ll have to fight Diego for her. Isn’t that right?” Little-Man says with a sly smile.

“My man doesn’t waste time. She breathes and he’s up on her. You think you gonna do any better?” One of Mendoza’s men prevents me from answering.

Yeah. Little-Man’s been making enemies. Something, when the timing is right, I’ll use to my advantage.

The video switches to the familiar sight of Aubrey kicking a stone across the garden path and tossing a note into the shrubs.

There’s more off camera action. That’s when her actions become suspicious. She leaves the red dress on the picture. Why? What comes next, which is not on camera yet is equally suspicious and that I’m at a loss for understanding, is her hiding her possessions underneath the mattress before setting a clever trap with that suitcase to mess with any unsuspecting visitors. Beneath it she hides money, her personal information and a credit card. An amateur move if I ever saw one. Her actions don’t fit the puzzle I’m hastily pulling in place.

I calmly prepare myself for what happens next.

Aubrey at last night’s party.

Aubrey leaving the party.

Me kissing her beneath the little bastard cupid.

A collective laugh sounds off in the meeting room. Even Mendoza seems amused. “How romantic. You sure he rode her like a stallion all morning or all night? Or was he more of an ass?” he comments, trying to get a rise out of me.

I stare at him, straight-faced. Giving nothing away.

Mendoza presses his thumb at the fast-forward button like an overeager game-show contestant. More black screen.

“No goddamn audio, either.”

“My guess is it’s probably a loose wire,” I casually remark.

“Call the installer and tell him I need to speak to him immediately,” Mendoza orders one of the men, who takes off in a hurry from the room.

But my attention’s drawn to the image paused on the screen.

My throat clenches tight. It’s a snapshot taken of a hooded shape. You can’t see her face and because of the rain, it’s even hard to make out her slight form, whether we’re staring at a female or male snoop.

Mendoza might suspect Aubrey but he’s got no proof his spy was her.

And he has no fucking clue I helped her escape capture.

“My father is going to fucking flip. I can’t have a spy reporting my mistakes to him. Or worse, to the police. I don’t care if you have to strip the rafters off each goddamn bungalow. Find that raincoat.”

“What didhesee that has you so upset?” I ask, playing dumb as a stump.

Mendoza points his finger at me. “None of your goddamn business. A word of advice, Diego. If you weren’t doing me a favor by bribing those cops, I’d put a bullet in your arrogant head. Mind your own business.” He jumps to his feet and stalks out of the room, shouting at his men as he leaves.

“Find. That. Fucking. Raincoat.”

My eyes meet Little-Man’s, and I resist the temptation to smile.

11

Aubrey

I’m on my stomach, lying on the tiled floor of my bungalow, working the broom beneath the bed with one hand while I raise the comforter off the floor with the other.

Everything is packed, except my raincoat, which seems to have grown legs and marched itself out of here because it’s not with the soggy pile of clothing Diego kicked beneath the bed.

Fighting the urge to panic, I rationalize that even if the thugs did find it after I left, I’d be long gone from this nightmare and easily lost back at my apartment in Mexico City.