Page 76 of Hit Man

Pinche. Damn it. How could this have happened?

I slowly stick my head around the corner.

Pain crashes into my skull as I slump against the building. I see stars, more light-headed than ever.

A brick. Aubrey nailed me in the head with a brick.

I fall back and feel her rush by. Blood gushing like a geyser down the back of my neck. Head wounds bleed like a bitch. Hurt like a bitch, too.

But what hurts more?

What has me straightening and shaking myself out of the stunned stupor I’m in?

The sound of my baby’s engine roaring to life.

23

Aubrey

Dr. Phil, Steve Harvey, Oprah. They’ve all said something that goes like this:In life, a person isn’t defined by what they’ve accomplished. A person is defined by how well they handle themselves when life turns to shit.So when a person comes to Mexico City with visions of grandeur, with the money and time and willingness to make an impact in the world, and is told, “Sorry. Your money’s tied up and the program’s a no-go,” she’s supposed to suck it up. Or when she unknowingly risks her life by pitching a plan to a billionaire drug dealer and comes away empty-handed and with men intent on harming her, she’s supposed to stay calm,handleherself.

When her life turns to shit, she’s supposed to rise to the challenge, take the knockdowns by rising back up. And when bullets sail her way, when the busy streets of Mexico City become her only chance at dodging killers with hard-ons for murder, who by the skin of her teeth she barely evades, she must take a deep, cleansing breath and carry on.

Become the inspiration for one of those trendy signs people hang over their kitchen sinks:keep calm and nearly die.

Might possibly still die.

The Mexican police are out of the question; they could be on Juan Carlos’ payroll for all I know.

I’ve nowhere to go, no one to turn to.

And as the thought settles deep inside my frazzled mind, I do something even dumber than stealing a Harley that will take a Herculean effort to handle . . . I tear up.

Damn you Dr. Phil, Mr. Harvey, the ever-wise Oprah. Because right now, actions are the only things that are going to define me.

My frantic heart races along with my mind, my fear spurring me onward. I kick up the kickstand, slide across the seat, and folding forward over the handlebars, hit the throttle. The motorcycle roars to life. Seconds later, I’m off.

“A poco?”I hear someone scream from behind me, causing me to throttle the engine. When I was in my teens and mourning the loss of my friend, my brother tried to cheer me up by teaching me how to drive his Kawasaki. A bike half the size of this, with me only driving it twice around the block before I realized I prefer for my rides to have four tires. It’s incredible I’ve even set this enormous bike into motion. But no way am I stopping. No way are they going to catch me now.

I glance over my shoulder.

Gasp, then brace myself—the bike isn’t the only thing moving at a fast clip.

Like a trick cowboy mounting a horse from behind, my assailant grabs hold of the bike seat and literally frog-jumps up and onto the seat behind me. I bounce, my body sliding forward as his body slams into me from behind. He snakes an arm around my waist, pulling me back and anchoring me against his chest, keeping me on the seat instead of flying over the handlebars.

I wiggle and shake, trying to free myself, suck air into my lungs as I do so. It’s like moving a mountain—nothing happens.

His arm tightens around my body.

“Mierda,” I hear, and stiffen. An instant before I feel his warm breath on my ear. “You might have fucked up my assignment,” he hisses, “But it’ll be a cold day in hell before you screw up my bike.”

Diego.

What. The. Hell.

I’m tired. Frazzled. Scared shitless. My thighs feel like lead, my feet achy after tracing hard across Mexico City’s unforgiving pavement. My shirt is torn and my shorts covered in dirt. My throat is hoarse and raw, probably from the combination of car exhaust, dust, and the knot of panic trapped inside there.

How did Diego find me? And after everything we’ve been through, what could he possibly want with me?