Page 93 of Hit Man

I smile. “Yes.” Besides, while I’m here, I’d like to get a long, hard look of the inside of a home and see firsthand if there’s anything in my plans that needs adjusting. It’s one thing to create a concept from a school library far, far away but another to witness things firsthand. And with every corner turned, the reality that is Neza overwhelms the senses.

I exit the taxi and little Margarita grabs me by the hand and pulls me inside. A young woman waves at us, and I’m escorted over to a long bench made out of two two-by-fours and two sturdy tree trunks that sits flank against a small, fold-out card table.

Margarita scrambles up onto the bench beside me and two warm Frescas are placed before us.

“Gracias,” I say, and the woman’s smile broadens.

I casually glance around. The main room has a couch that has seen better days and a table made of two tires covered by a square plant of wood. Three hammocks hang in a neat line by the far wall. Small convenience-store crates, plastic and in a variety of colors, are stacked against the wall nearest to where I’m seated. I realize I’m in the kitchen. One with no running water, no refrigeration, no means of cooking.

I hold back my frown, and sip my Fresca. Calculating in my head how much I should tip the taxi driver without offending his pride.

Off in the distance, I hear the thunder of motorcycles.

“Los Lobos,” Margarita informs me.

But I notice that her mama is no longer smiling. Instead, she is looking at her husband, who is standing by the curtained entryway.

I scramble to my feet. “Thank you for the soda, but I think we’d better go.”

The taxi driver shakes his head.

His wife rushes by me and slaps him across the face.

Margarita squeezes my hand tighter.

There are no windows or doors other than the curtained entryway. But the motorcycles are already outside. It’s too late for me to escape.

“I’m sorry, señorita.” The taxi driver says. “You do what you can to survive in this world.”

Shouting erupts outside on the streets.

I spring into motion, hurrying over to the curtain set up by the hammocks and pull it closed. It was foolish of me to trust the taxi driver. It was foolish of me to venture out of my new hotel room. Not only am I trapped in Mexico, but now I’m trapped inside this kitchenless, windowless home in Neza Chalco.

I hear footsteps as men enter the shack.

“Dónde está la gringa?” one of them asks.

“Yo no say,”I hear the taxi driver say. He doesn’t know.

“Su sobrino nos dijo que ella está con usted.”

“Se equivoca.”

I hear Margarita cry out.

“No, por favor,” her mother pleads.

I can’t bear it. I can’t bear the thought of that little girl hurt because these men are looking for me. I pull the curtain aside and step forward.

Both men are dressed in black leather jackets each with a wolf’s head with crossbones patched on their sleeves. As one of them pulls a folded piece of paper out of his pocket and hands it to the other, I can see the same patch is on the back of his jacket.

The Wolves. No doubt one of the numerous cartels operating within Mexico City. I swallow hard. But they’re here for me. The nephew, the bellboy, tipped them off. The taxi driver…drove me here…

“What do you want with me?” I demand.

“El Chulo wants to see you.”

I blink. Not Juan Carlos then . . . “Who is El Chulo?”