Chapter 15 #3
Beside him, Darrow tensed. “What’s going on? Are we being followed?” He started to twist around, but Ricardo snapped, “Don’t look.”
Darrow remained stock still in his seat. “Does someone know you’re here?”
“Does someone know you’re here?”
“N-no.”
Ricardo gritted his teeth. At the next roundabout, he headed back the way they’d come, keeping track of the gray car in his peripheral vision but mostly focusing on the road.
Getting back on the expressway, he floored the gas.
The engine whined. Horns blared as he bullied his way into a lane.
They would be in the metropolitan area soon, which meant heavier traffic.
Sometimes traffic that was a lot more stop than go. Way too easy to get boxed in.
He couldn’t take the risk. Not with that asshole still tailing him.
And if that’s NightRaven, then where’s August?
He tamped that thought down. If this was NightRaven, and August hadn’t seen him, it was possible he’d come in on a commercial flight. Or he’d already been here, waiting like Ricardo for Darrow to land. The how and the why didn’t matter now, though, and Ricardo hoped like hell that August was safe.
For now, he had to shake this asshole before they wound up in downtown Panama City traffic.
He took an exit and gunned the engine again.
Beside him, Darrow braced again. “Isn’t—doesn’t this road go to San Miguelito?”
“It does.”
“That’s… Christ. Don’t you know how dangerous that place is? Even cabs won’t go there!”
Ricardo fought the urge to roll his eyes. “Yes, it’s got a reputation for crime. I don’t know how true it is, but I’ll take my chances over getting stuck in traffic with him behind us.”
Darrow shut up.
Heart pounding, Ricardo burned rubber out of a roundabout and hauled ass down a narrow side street.
These were nerve-racking even at slow speeds, since people would cross intersections with little regard for right of way, but he just honked his horn every time he came close to a cross street and hoped for the best. A large truck nearly T-boned them.
A crumbling sedan swerved, horn blaring as middle fingers flew.
Ricardo kept driving, praying no kids or animals wandered out in front of him.
Beside him, Darrow mumbled something that sounded like a prayer. Whatever it was, Ricardo probably concurred.
In his pocket, his phone vibrated, and over the rain, the engine, and the road noise, he thought he heard a text ping. Hopefully a sign of life from August.
Hopefully not a distress signal.
Gripping the wheel tighter, he whipped around a corner, nearly hit a car head-on, swerved, and then took another three turns in random directions.
The gray car was gone. Probably not far away, but not on their asses at the moment.
He turned again, and as soon as he was on a straightaway, he slammed on the gas.
Another turn sent them into a neighborhood full of crumbling houses and barely-paved streets.
A pang of guilt needled at him—one he recognized from his time in warzones.
He hated bringing the fight to the doorsteps of innocent people, especially those already struggling to survive, and he hoped and prayed they could avoid collateral damage.
Sometimes the battle meant finding whatever cover was available, though, even if there were people nearby.
Up ahead, there was what looked like a mechanic’s garage, though it was half-collapsed and didn’t look occupied or used. Perfect. Ricardo glanced in the rearview and confirmed the gray car was nowhere in sight. Then he whipped the Mercedes to the right and into the open garage.
“We have to cover it up,” he told Darrow, and got out of the car.
There were some ancient tarps and pieces of wood.
They’d have to do. He grabbed them, and a sharp pain in the side of his wrist registered briefly, but he ignored it.
Instead, he hauled the debris to the Mercedes, and with Darrow’s help they covered the car enough that it wouldn’t be recognized from outside.
The rain was still coming down, and any tracks they’d left outside were quickly obscured.
“Now what do we do?” Darrow asked.
Ricardo stared out at the rain, listening for engines. Then he realized the side of his right wrist still hurt, and he peered at it. There was a small spot that looked like a mosquito bite, but it sure as fuck didn’t feel like a mosquito bite. What the hell?
That was when he saw some movement by the debris he’d tossed onto the car, and a small shape resolved itself: a brownish-orange scorpion.
“For fuck’s sake,” he muttered.
“What? What’s wrong?”
“Scorpion stung me.” Ricardo took out his phone and snapped a photo of the creature before it scuttled away. “Hopefully it’s not one of the dangerous ones.”
“Hopefully? You don’t know?”
Ricardo glared at Darrow. “Do I look like a scorpion expert to you?”
He could almost hear whatever snarky retort August would have, which reminded him, he hadn’t looked at the texts on his screen. He opened his phone again.
August
NightRaven is here. I just saw him leaving right behind you.
Ricardo, where the fuck are you?
I’ve got a car, but I don’t know where to go. Where are you?
Ricardo?
Ricardo swallowed. He glanced at the mark on his arm. Then at the mark standing next to him and waiting for some kind of solution.
Well, one of those could be resolved faster than the other.
He didn’t make a big show of it. No catch phrases like the movies always had. No moment of the mark begging for his life or trying to fight back.
Ricardo took the pistol from his waistband and got the job done. Two to the chest. One to the head. Darrow probably didn’t even have time to register what was happening.
One photo sent to Heidi, and the job was done. Good. One less greedy fucker getting rich supplying weapons to warlords and cartels who terrorized people who were just trying to live their lives.
Then he followed it with a photo of the scorpion and Are these dangerous?
One last text went to August:
I’m San Miguelito. Sending my location, but I’m going to move on foot. I think I lost NightRaven for now. Mark is dead. Where are you?
And while he waited for a response, he holstered his gun and slipped out the back of the garage to find someplace safe.