Page 60 of Hit Man

Maybe she is a subcontractor? Working for a different private contracting company? Maybe she’s just that good, intentionally making amateur mistakes to throw me off. Was she assigned to ruining my plans? I shake my head. “Mierda.”

“Are we going to stand here all day, cursing our mothers and lord knows who else?” she says.

Cojones. The set of balls on her, despite what we’ve been through. Probably pissed off at how I dropped her. Or maybe she just doesn’t like me.

Just as well.

I retrieve the flip-flops and, cursing beneath my breath, slide them on.

“Oh my God. Your feet.”

“No big deal.”

“They’re almost the same color as my flip-flops. Bleeding profusely and shredded like they’ve been pushed through a cheese grater. It must hurt?”

“Now who’s standing around, wasting time?” I scoop up my bag, adjust the ripped sweatshirt across my shoulders, and stalk off, leaving her and her misplaced compassion behind.

“You don’t have a gentle bone in your body, do you?” she says breathlessly after she finally catches up to me. Yeah, despite my barking dogs, I’m moving at a fast clip. Daybreak is in full swing and I want to be as far away from this mountain as possible before someone spots us. Still, her question can’t be ignored.

I cup my cock. A vulgar move on a woman like her. But hey, it’s not like we’ll be exchanging cookie recipes anytime soon. No, the sooner she’s out of my hair, the better.

“Oh, brother. Another man with too much penis pride.”

I snort and pick up the pace.

“Figures a jerk like him would be hung like a prize stallion,” I hear her mutter behind me.

It might be her backhanded compliment or just the fact my feet hurt like a motherfucker, but I slow down enough so that she draws up next to me, then silently we continue on.

Now what the hell do I say to Hayden? A change in plans, boss. Shit happens, boss. Fate fucked with us, boss. At least I discovered what Mendoza had shipped to Casa Bella.

Uranium. Highly enriched uranium. The main ingredient for building a nuclear weapon.

Stolen merchandise? Or a black-market steal?

Chances are Mendoza’s either investing money in stockpiling illegal enriched uranium to resell to someone else or he’s building weapons. He has to be selling it. He doesn’t have the mental capacity or the temperament to keep such a project secret. I’ve been on this job for a few months yet mostly focusing my energy on Fahder while Mendoza’s been hosting parties and living in the spotlight. Those fundraisers, I doubt his guests realize what they’re financing. They likely think their money is being donated to a good cause like Aubrey’s housing. Though it’s quick money, it’s hardly enough to finance purchasing crates full of uranium. Did he usePapi’s money? Steal from his old man? Is he using these philanthropic causes to justify spending family money? There has to be a hidden money trail somewherePapihas overlooked.

I scowl. Not even on his best day would I have expected Mendoza to pull something like this off.

Hayden is going to fucking flip.

I might have experienced a career-low fuckup, but I’m not limping out of here without something important to share.

“Are you Mexican or American?” Aubrey’s question interrupts my thoughts.

“Both.” I’ll give her that much. I don’t bore her with how I got my green card years ago and how I’m a Scandinavian, Mexican, and American citizen.

“Are you an army veteran? An ex-Marine?”

“There’s no such thing as an ex-Marine.”

“I knew it. No one maintains your kind of physique unless you’re military.”

I turn and raise an eyebrow. “What kind of physique are we talking about?” Yeah, I like this turn in conversation along with knowing she’s been checking out my body.

She may be blushing. Hard to say with her cheeks flushed from overexertion.

“So?” she says after a while.