Genuine Fraud(5)

Jule had honestly believed he liked her. They had shared jokes and he’d given her free potato chips. “Wow,” she said quietly.

“Another three hundred,” he said.

Was he a small-time hustler jacking a girl who was carrying a lot of American dollars? Or was he a sleazeball who thought she’d rub up against him rather than give him the extra three hundred? Could Noa have paid him off?

Jule tucked her wallet back in her pocket. She shifted the strap so her bag went across her chest. “Donovan?” She stepped forward, close. She looked up at him with big eyes.

Then she brought her right forearm up hard, snapped his head back, and punched him in the groin. He doubled over. Jule grabbed his slick hair and yanked his head back. She twisted him around, forcing him off balance.

He jabbed with one elbow, slamming Jule in the chest. It hurt, but the second thrust of the elbow missed as she sidestepped, grabbed that elbow, and twisted it behind Donovan’s back. His arm was soft, repulsive. She held on tight and with her free hand snatched her money out of his greedy fingers.

She shoved the cash into her jeans pocket and jerked Donovan’s elbow hard while she tapped his hip pockets, looking for his phone.

Not there. Back pocket, then.

She found it and shoved the phone down her bra for lack of anywhere else. Now he couldn’t call Noa with her location, but he still had the car keys in his left hand.

Donovan kicked out, hitting her in the shin. Jule punched him in the side of the neck and he crumpled forward. One hard shove and Donovan hit the ground. He started to push himself up, but Jule grabbed a metal lid from one of the nearby trash cans and banged it on his head twice and he collapsed on a pile of garbage bags, bleeding from the forehead and one eye.

Jule backed out of his reach. She still held the lid. “Drop your keys.”

Moaning, Donovan extended his left hand and tossed them so they landed a couple of inches from his body.

Jule grabbed the keys and popped the trunk. Then she took her rolling suitcase and sprinted down the street before Donovan could stand up.





She slowed to a walk as soon as she hit the main road in San José del Cabo and checked her shirt. It looked clean enough. She wiped her hand slowly and calmly over her face, in case there was anything on it—dirt, spit, or blood. She pulled a compact out of her bag and checked herself as she moved, using the mirror to look over her shoulder.

There was no one behind her.

She put on matte pink lipstick, snapped her compact shut, and slowed her pace even more.

She couldn’t look like she was running from anything.

The air was warm, and music thumped from inside the bars. Tourists milled around in front of many of them—white, black, and Mexican, all drunk and loud. Cheap vacation crowds. Jule tossed Donovan’s keys and phone in a trash can. She looked for a cab or a supercabos bus but didn’t see either.

Okay, then.

She needed to hide and change, in case Donovan came after her. He would pursue her if he was working for Noa. Or if he wanted revenge.

Picture yourself, now, on film. Shadows flit across your smooth skin as you walk. There are bruises forming underneath your clothes, but your hair looks excellent. You’re armed with gadgets, thin shards of metal that perform outrageous feats of technology and assault. You carry poisons and antidotes.

You are the center of the story. You and no one else. You’ve got that interesting origin tale, that unusual education. Now you’re ruthless, you’re brilliant, you’re practically fearless. There’s a body count behind you, because you do whatever’s required to stay alive—but it’s a day’s work, that’s all.

You look superb in the light from the Mexican bar windows. After a fight, your cheeks are flushed. And oh, your clothes are so very flattering.

Yes, it’s true that you are criminally violent. Brutal, even. But that’s your job and you’re uniquely qualified, so it’s sexy.

Jule watched a shit-ton of movies. She knew that women were rarely the centers of such stories. Instead, they were eye candy, arm candy, victims, or love interests. Mostly, they existed to help the great white hetero hero on his fucking epic journey. When there was a heroine, she weighed very little, wore very little, and had had her teeth fixed.

Jule knew she didn’t look like those women. She would never look like those women. But she was everything those heroes were, and in some ways, she was more.

She knew that, too.

She reached the third Cabo bar and ducked inside. It was furnished with picnic tables and had taxidermied fish on the walls. The customers were mainly Americans, getting sloshed after a day of sport fishing. Jule pushed quickly to the back, glanced over her shoulder, and went into the men’s room.

It was empty. She ducked into a stall. Donovan would never look for her here.

The toilet seat was wet and coated yellow. Jule dug in her suitcase until she found a black wig—a sleek bob with bangs. She put it on, wiped off her lipstick, applied a dark gloss, and powdered her nose. She buttoned a black cotton cardigan over her white T-shirt.

A guy came in and used the urinal. Jule stood still, glad she was wearing jeans and heavy black boots. Only her feet and the bottom of her suitcase would be visible at the low edge of the stall.

A second guy came in and used the stall next to hers. She looked at his shoes.

It was Donovan.

Those were his dirty white Crocs. Those were his nurselike Playa Grande trousers. Jule’s blood pounded in her ears.