“What signal?”
Draco shrugged. “I don’t know, man, I can’t come up with everything.”
“Sounds good, brother.” Hawk huffed a laugh, thankful for the minor relief in tension. “I’ll figure something out.”
He expelled a huge exhale before exiting the car and leaving it running for his friend.
Loud music set him on edge as the beat gave off a sharp report, like arrhythmic fireworks. The noise had him reaching for his own gun, but no one else around him seemed worried in the slightest, instead singing along with the music and laughing.
Fuck, I need to get my head on straight.
He took in another deep breath, this time soaking in the mouthwatering scents of rich spices and smoked meats flooding from the houses and street fare down the road. It took him a moment to ground himself, but he focused on his other senses to quell his adrenaline so he could focus on the task at hand and not slide into some inopportune flashback.
As he rounded the hood, sweltering heat and humidity boiled him from the inside out thanks to the weather and the uncertainty warming underneath his skin. He walked across the street to enter the pink house’s wrought iron fencing. Tiled sidewalk led to the door. It was cracked, but shone brilliantly under the sun in gorgeous orange, red, and green designs. Hawk couldn’t help but smile at the thought of Hannah painting them herself. When he made it to the door, he stood there for a second, gathering his courage.
Without even looking, he knew Draco was watching his back, maybe even literally. Knowing he had someone on his team there, having his six, encouraged him to raise his fist to knock on the blue door. Heat radiated from the bright paint underneath his knuckles. Just as he was about to rap against the wood, a rustling inside made him pause.
He leaned closer to hear better. Sweat prickled his brow from the scorching sun’s reflection on the door. When his cheek brushed against the sticky paint, he almost jerked back. The door cracking open had him pushing it wider instead.
The rustling inside stopped, but a grunt made his pulse quicken. A loud shout of painhad him springing into action. He snatched his gun from his holster as he burst the rest of the way inside.
CHAPTERFIVE
Hannah’s sneakers slapped the pavement as she sprinted down the sidewalk. She’d taken the street leading to her back door from thelavanderíarather than face the bustling party that always seemed to be going on in front of her house. Her laundry bag bounced heavily against her back from the awkward way she held it. She should’ve just left it behind, but the two women had yelled at her through the doorway and openly judged her for beinglocaso she’d had to go back and pick it up.
They might be right.
Hopefully, this was all a big overreaction and she’d be returning to her perfectly safe house where she could then promptly forget her moment of panic ever happened. Even as she wished it, her mind quickly filed through all her options, just in case.
She hadn’t tried to live in Tulum yet. It was a gorgeous town on the coast that had been perfect as the backdrop for one of her paintings. The scenery was beautiful, although the number of tourists could be both a blessing and a curse.
She’d learned hiding in plain sight among other expats from the United States could provide her with the cover she needed, but damn, American tourists were a train wreck when they came to Mexico. There were only two groups who visited: the respectful sightseers and the ones who got wasted. No in-between.
Over the past two years, Mérida had been the first place she’d felt truly at home. It was herabuela’shometown, and reminded Hannah of the few memories she still had of hermamá, the only person who ever loved her unconditionally and stayed. Until her heart attack, at least.
Focus, Hannah. Get home. Get your duffel bag. And get going.
She nodded to herself and increased her speed, pumping her free arm to help her go faster. Her calves began to sting, but as soon as her little pink house came into view, the blue back door with the two windows on either side—a mirror image of the front door—still intact, the tension in her leg muscles loosened and she slowed down.
“Okay, everything looks fine,” she reassured herself out loud. “Maybe I was overreacting. I just need to check inside where everything will be perfect. Hopefully thoseviejitasdon’t gossip across thecentro históricoabout thelocadown the street and I can stay here.”
You’re talking to yourself again.
“Mierda,” she murmured to herself and groaned when she realized she’d said that out loud too.
It’d been a bad habit ever since she’d started painting. Art was a lonely passion, and for a while there, hearing the sound of her own voice was the only human interaction she had some days.
Once she got to the door, she fished her key out from her blue jeans pocket and unlocked it. She opened it slowly, holding her breath.
Nothing but the air conditioning’s heavenly breeze greeted her.
“Menos mal… thank goodness,” she whispered to herself before clamping her hand over her mouth. The main female character in every horror movie she’d ever watched had died seconds after thinking the very same thing. Her heart thumped in her chest again as she strained to listen past the whooshing in her ears.
But still… nothing.
“Okay…really, thank God.” She made the Sign of the Cross, like her mother taught her when she was a little girl and took a deep, steadying breath.
The delicious aroma from the citrus she’d used to prepare food that morning wafted toward her. There was no movement in sight as she entered the living room and plopped her laundry bag onto the blue-and-white tiled floor. Afraid to take her eyes off her surroundings, she closed and locked the door behind her without turning around.
