Page 74 of Hit Man

I sigh. “Amigo, what I have to say to him is for his ears alone. Understand?” I stare at the man, hard. Unwavering.

“Wednesday.”

“This Wednesday?”

“Yes.”

I smile. Simple. And mission accomplished in less than four minutes. I retrieve a few more pesos from my inner jacket pocket and place it in the man’s palm as I shake his hand, so the other men don’t see.

His eyebrows arch with surprise. A pleased surprise. He won’t have to share.

I take a step toward the curtain. Keep moving,idiota. Don’t stop. I pause and turn back. “Compadre, another quick question. Say I’m looking to earn some quick cash. Nothing drug-related but I’m not opposed to killing someone.”

He chuckles. Violent men like violent humor.

“Any jobs?” I smoothly ask, operating on a hunch that Mendoza might use hispapi’s cartel connections to make sure his dirty work gets done.

“Sí, there’s seven retaliations. And a few private bounties.”

“How about one on a woman?”

That has my friend shaking his head. “You’re one of them sick motherfuckers?”

I force a smile.

The man stiffens. “There’s a bounty on some gringa that came in a couple days ago. Pays well. No one wants the job because she’s a woman, and an American.”

“Tell you what. If you find her, don’t kill her. Keep her for me to deal with. I’ll split the bounty with your crew. Fifty-fifty.”

“Seventy-thirty.”

I sigh loudly. “Fine.”

“Deal.” He walks with me toward the curtain. “The rumors are true. You are a realhijo de puta, aren’t you?”

“Next time, I’ll aim for your balls instead of your ankle.”

He laughs. No grudges. No harm done.

I whistle an upbeat tune as I pull back the curtain and move back through the poker room. Noting McDuff’s pile of money and the scowl on his face.

Play on, compadre.

My bike is exactly where I parked it. No one messes with the Lobos, not even the hungriest of thieves.

Half an hour later, my stomach rumbles and I’m anxious to head back to the TORC safe house I’m living in. Aside from the Ranch back in Oklahoma, it’s the next best thing to living in the lap of luxury.

But I find myself taking a quick detour and head toward her hotel.

Just. In. Case.

I turn the corner and am immediately forced to break. The tail wheel of my bike fans out at in a horizontal angle and I struggle to remain upright. “Mierda,” I cuss, as the bike comes to a screeching stop, then glare at the cause.

At the shape of the person whom I nearly plowed over.

Running . . . for her life.

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