Wicked Ever After (Wicked & Devoted #2) - Shayla Black Page 0,75

Nine

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 across the street suddenly jerked and reluctantly opened her door. And what do you know? Montilla walked inside, right on time, as he had every other week, sporting a lascivious leer and a boner.

Only a lowlife drug lord worth millions would come to a slum for a ten-dollar teenage prostitute. Depraved fuck.

Montilla didn’t say anything before pulling off her T-shirt. Since she wasn’t wearing a bra, her small breasts popped free. Then he pushed her down to the bed, lifted her skirt, and spread her legs before shrugging out of