Shelter From The Storm (The Bare Bones MC Book 6)(2)

It was a basic mistake that had almost cost me my life. Ortelio Jones, my boss, was going to be unbelievably tweaked, especially if it came out that that nancy-boy Santiago Slayer had done the deed. And why had I never heard of Slayer? Because he’d been acting in a Mexican telenovela the whole time? And I’d only managed to put down that kid and probably a couple more enforcers inside the warehouse. I hadn’t even seen El Ba?o.

Regardless, word of my failure was probably already winging its way to Ortelio Jones, just as surely as Santiago Slayer’s bullets were winging their way toward El Ba?o’s head. It was only a matter of time before Jones ordered me back inside the borders of New Mexico, my danger zone. Jones knew I couldn’t go back inside those borders. He’d been hinting that he was holding it over my head, too. Just little things, you know the unfunny jokes cartel kingpins make.

Things like, “Ha ha, abogado. Maybe you’d enjoy vacationing in the Land of Enchantment.” “Very good one, abogado. Too bad you’ll never be able to see the Carlsbad Caverns again.” And “next time you screw up, you’re getting a one-way ticket to the Billy the Kid Museum.”

Regardless of my desire never to set foot in the Billy the Kid Museum in the first f*cking place, I knew that Jones was good for his word. He’d just followed a diligent reporter who posted updates on him, tracked her like a hound. She knew Jones was getting close to her hideout, and kept tweeting her reports just the same. He shot her in the face, then used her phone to tweet the photos as a warning to her followers.

Maybe I wasn’t the best sicario in the world! After all, it wasn’t what I’d trained for, what I had degrees in. It wasn’t my dream job when I was a kid. I was a white guy—very white, according to the SPF level of my sunscreen, the bright ginger shade of my hair—operating in the dark underbelly of the Sinaloa cartel’s world. I thought I did pretty well for Jones. I’d racked up eleven high-profile kills since coming to work for him over a year ago. Not bad for someone whose hair blared out like a searchlight from a mile away, one reason I usually wore a slouch beanie in public.

I had a rental house off North Royal in Nogales, but I didn’t feel like going home. Someone was probably already waiting there for me. Jones wouldn’t see the finer points of how I’d buried the kid and those other brutes. He’d only see the fact that El Ba?o had gotten away—or, perhaps, been put down by a guy who looked like he should be singing “Tie A Yellow Ribbon” in South Lake Tahoe. I didn’t know which option was more humiliating.

I found myself hanging a north on the frontage road toward Tucson. Maybe I was going to my favorite watering hole, I don’t know. It wasn’t until I was almost to the bar that I realized I didn’t want to go in there, either. In case word had already spread—and it spread fast in these circles—I’d be the laughingstock of my favorite comfort place.

I kept going, eventually pulling over in the parking lot of Margie’s Corner Café, dark like a church at two in the morning. I wanted to look at my arm wound. I had no mirror, but I did have a flashlight. I took off my leather jacket and went under Margie’s security light to look at it. It was my first stroke of luck that the bullet had grazed the arm, cut a channel through the leather and flesh before continuing on its way.

But it was bleeding like a sonofabitch. It was a sign of my occupation that I kept a box of adhesive pads in my saddlebags. Tearing what remained of my T-shirt’s arm off, I stanched the flow of blood. I could barely keep up with it before I could slap the bandage down, ineffectively. Clusterf*ck. I had to go home sooner or later and face the music. I just wished I could have a good snooze first.

This was really the first time I’d f*cked up. All of the rest had been good, clean hits. The only other time I’d even remotely screwed up was when Ortelio Jones wanted the mark alive. That motherf*cker had punched and kicked like he was being raped as I tried to cram him into the trunk of my Cadillac. I finally remembered they’d given me a stun gun, and I’d stunned the shit out of the guy before he went limp.

You have to understand, this wasn’t a job I willingly chose. It wasn’t like an eager-eyed, idealistic younger me ran around studying to be a sicario. I wasn’t in awe of the glamor, the fringe benefits, the sex on the side. In fact, quite the opposite. I’d been bound to defy my father, an Irishman who traded illegal arms for profit, and uphold the letter of the law. But if everyone waged war according to his own beliefs, there would be no war. So I was destined to wind up with Jones.

A Fiat was pulling into Margie’s parking lot. Santiago Slayer got out, buttoning his blazer and smoothing it down. As though he didn’t still have terra cotta dust on his shoulders. I was surprised he hadn’t brushed that away with a lint roller.

He nodded primly at me. “Se?or.”

I nodded back. “Santiago Slayer,” I acknowledged. Then I realized I was being kind of an *, so I shook his hand. “Fox Isherwood.”

He warmly grasped my hand like we were just meeting at a cocktail party. This guy was a smooth operator, I had to hand him that. “I know. Your fame has traveled far and wide.”

“Then why have I never crossed paths with you?”

Slayer became serious. “I know how to stay off the grid. I am only called in for jobs that require the most stealthy, the most sneaky, the most crafty and catlike of skills. Oh, excuse me.” His features became mild and friendly again when he checked his phone. He chuckled at what he saw on the screen. “Oh, yes, yes,” he said to himself, as if recalling fond memories. He turned the phone to me briefly. “This girl that I met at a party last night has tagged me in this most awesome party photo.”