“Get your fucking hands off my woman,” Pierce growled good-naturedly…mostly.
Brea giggled as Matt released her and held up his hands. “Just being friendly, man.”
“Find another woman to be ‘friendly’ with. I’m going to go get friendly with my woman now. We’ll talk later.”
Was he kidding? He’d all but announced they would be having sex. Her face flamed hot. “Pierce!”
“What? Matt knows I haven’t seen you in a month, so he knows where I’ll be spending the night.”
She blushed. “It’s impolite to talk about the bedroom.”
“That’s one way of putting it. A lot nicer, too.”
Matt burst out laughing.
Brea frowned. There was a grand joke, and she clearly didn’t get it. “What other way is there to put it?”
“Inside you.” Matt tried to wipe the smile off his face—and failed miserably. “That’s what One-Mile meant.”
“You’re a fucking mind reader.” Pierce fist-bumped him before he wrapped an arm around her and swung her off her feet, against his chest, ignoring both her red cheeks and her surprised squeak. “You mind holding down the fort, man?”
“As long as you lovebirds keep it down. I don’t need to be reminded of what I’m not getting in this town.”
Pierce pushed his way through the door and emerged into the foyer, killing the nearby lights with his elbow and throwing the space into shadow. “Probably not going to happen. You’re better off turning up the TV.”
“Yeah?” Matt laughed uproariously and winked her way. “I wouldn’t have taken you for a screamer, little thing.”
She gaped at them, her face broiling with embarrassment. “I… You…”
Pierce chuckled. “Have I ever told you that you’re perfect and I love you just the way you are?”
Brea closed her mouth. When he said stuff like that, it was hard to be angry.
And when he took her upstairs, into his dark bedroom, and slowly pulled off her clothes, worshipping her with his sure caresses and soft strokes of his tongue, she forgot that Matt and every other person in the world existed, because, for her, there was only Pierce.
Chapter 19
Friday, January 9
One month later
Outskirts of Mexico City
One-Mile pulled his hoodie over his face and bowed his head against the pelting rain. Normally this part of the globe was a sweltering cesspool of humidity and humanity, but Mexico City—like a lot of the world—was recovering from a hectic Christmas and a raucous New Year’s. He’d missed both of those at home, and he hoped Brea understood. But Montilla and his band of thugs hadn’t taken a week or two off to celebrate the holidays. The average citizen, however, seemed to be partied out. Most of the tourists had emptied from the streets and seemingly gone back to their responsible, desk-jockey lives. So tonight, he walked a largely uninhabited route to his destination, his breaths forming white puffs in the unusual chill.
After nearly another fucking month in this shithole, tonight was hopefully the night Montilla would die.
One-Mile gave the son of a bitch credit. While he’d gone back to the States and weaponed up, thinking he’d have to declare open war to snuff Montilla, the weasel had gone deep into hiding. He’d changed locations, doubled security, increased surveillance, restricted those coming in and out to a few trusted lackeys, varied his schedule, and generally made this mission fucking impossible—except for one appointment he never missed.
One-Mile didn’t intend to miss, either. He only had one shot.
Finally, he made his way from the dark, dirty street into the mostly empty hotel. It was a terrible dive in the middle of an even worse slum, but if Montilla died from a kill shot he fired here, this place would rate five fucking stars in his book.
The stucco walls had probably been white decades ago and a row of scarred windows faced a street known for violence. He’d slept in worse, and the idea of unguarded slumber in a real bed after weeks of catnaps on the cold ground was damn appealing. But if all went well, he would only be here a handful of hours. Then he’d be on a plane back to the States. Back to Brea and their baby. And on to his future.
If it didn’t go well, he’d be captured, tortured, and killed.
One-Mile glanced at his watch. Just after seven p.m. Time to set up was running out.
He checked in, bribing the front desk clerk with extra cash to forego the ID requirement. Within two minutes, he walked up the darkened stairs to the third floor, key in hand, and entered the room he’d requested.
Last week when he’d followed Montilla into this slum, he’d scoped out this motel, walked it inside and out, figuring out exactly which room he needed to finish this job—and this asshole. The unit he’d chosen had a big window with unfettered views inside the building across the street. It also had direct access to the interior stairwell that led either down to the multiple exits in the lobby or up to the roof. And bonus, if he had to go up to avoid detection, he could climb to the adjacent parking garage from the top of the hotel, disappear into the alley behind, and be gone in under a minute.
Escape routes weren’t a problem…unless he fucked up.
Glad for his water-repellant backpack and the plastic tarp he’d wrapped his gun case in before he’d tucked it inside, he set up his MK on its tripod at the window, attached the scope, and focused on the front of the run-down gray-brick business across the street, pinpointing a second-story opening. This week, a redhead half Montilla’s age waited for him, pacing.
After double-checking his equipment and perfecting his angle, One-Mile opened the old-fashioned window, heedless of the damp chill. The downpour had dried up to an occasional spit. Even better, the hotel’s external light above seemed to have burned out, leaving him in charcoal shadows.
Breathing through an adrenaline rush and his pounding heartbeat, he hunkered behind his scope and set in to wait.
He was ready.
At precisely nine p.m., the girl
