Page 56 of Hit Man

I bite my lip. So Diego didn’t leave me to go to her last night. Yet I’m too afraid to bask in the sudden rush of pleasure this news brings me.

“Señor Mendoza is insistent nothing go wrong. His father doesn’t know about this shipment.”

“Think it was her who saw us?”

“Doesn’t matter. A dead women can’t squeal.”

My mind lets out a silent squeal.

A. Dead. Woman.

What do I do now?

“I told you she didn’t go this way. No woman would attempt these jagged rocks in the dark. She’s either headed toward the cliff or our friends tracked her further along down the driveway.”

“There’s a straight drop about a mile long on the other side.”

Silence, like they’re imagining my body lying broken at the bottom.

“That bitch probably saved us some work. Let’s go.”

I keep quiet and still. Curled over my bag, the closest thing to the hug I so desperately need. Waiting for them to find me. Waiting for them to discover that I’ve fallen a mere three feet away.

How am I going to get off this mountain? No one, except Zoey who at this point has proven herself to be undependable, knows I’m here. Not my family back in Sacramento.

Not even Diego.

Who was also out in the predawn dark, half-naked and barefoot.

Seriously, the man has one wicked aversion to clothing. But I’m still too shaken to find humor in anything.

I wait, and wait some more before I cautiously rise and peek around boulder, searching for any signs of company.

Clouds have rolled in, filtering whatever predawn light there is to the point where I can barely see my hand before my face. I find the handle of my bag, grit my teeth, and begin to move forward. Two steps. Ten steps. Twenty. Thirty. It’s at forty that I hear a bloodcurdling scream.

Far too similar to the scream the man who fell off the dance floor made. A long, drawn-out shout of terror followed by abrupt quietness.

A man who, according to Diego, may or may not have been pushed to his death.

Go. Get moving.I’ve got to get out of here.

But my feet won’t move. A noise escapes from deep inside my throat. A whimper.

Hold on, Aubrey. Steady. You’ll make it out of here. You’ve got a lot of important work ahead of you. Finances to be found. Homes to be built. Love. Marriage. Babies.

Another whimper, slightly louder.

Don’t scream. Do. Not. Scream.

I inhale sharply, and that’s when a hand covers my mouth as I’m slammed from behind. Except I don’t land on rock. I land on . . . him, Diego, who at the last second, rolled to the side to break my fall and who is now lying on his back beneath me.

He removes his hand from my mouth.

“What the hell—”

“Shut the fuck up,” he growls, cutting me off.

The boulder field suddenly sounds like a real-life reenactment of the landing on Normandy beach. Guns blazing; bullets sailing overhead, pinging against the rocks; men shouting.