Resurrecting Midnight (19 page)

Medianoche followed The Beast and did the same, each shot a kill shot.

Medianoche said, “If Señorita Raven wasn’t so busy yakking about the goddamn Internet and Facebook . . . She’s a distraction. This proves my point. She no doubt distracted Rodríguez.”

“If you want something done right . . .”

“Could pop her, strip her down, leave her body with this crew. You could drive your car and I’d take her motorcycle. We could be done with her and gone in two minutes or less.”

The Beast paused, thinking. He shook his head. “Now is not the time.”

“She’s 51-50.”

“She’s good at what she does.”

“With 10-56A tendencies.”

“She’s good.”

“Good but not irreplaceable.”

The Beast put his gun away, pulled out the devices.

One blinked amber. Something was close. Medianoche knew that was the part of the package they had. One blinked red. Something was out of range. The second part.

The Beast said, “We need her to decipher whatever is on those computers.”

“Unfortunately, Rodríguez is not as computer savvy.”

The Beast marched on, headed out of the building.

Medianoche stayed behind.

He reloaded his weapon, double-checked the area, tried to track the blood trail. He ended up at a door that led out toward the colorful buildings in Caminito, those buildings just beyond the corner café, the last safe tourist spot in the area. But there were side streets that led deeper into the barrio. Deeper into the heart of La Boca, where living was substandard and reminded him of Jamaica, downtown Kingston, another war zone populated by the poor and undereducated.

He took a breath, the inside of the warehouse reeking like piss.

He stared toward Caminito, in the direction of the busloads of naïve tourists.

No police. No sirens.

No one screaming they had seen a bloodied, half-dead kid staggering their way.

Someone had risen from the dead. Like he had done in North Carolina.

Medianoche turned around. The dead remained limp and scattered at his feet.

He counted the bodies in the piss-smelling, charred room. The number hadn’t changed.

This was their mausoleum, their Cementerio de la Boca
.

Medianoche put away his weapon, walked to the smutty wall.

And with his gloved finger he scribbled three words:
Requiescant in pace
.

Chapter 17

A red Ferrari 612 Scaglietti was about to pull out of the darkened parking lot at Rumba Bar. A three-hundred-thousand-dollar chick magnet that could do zero to sixty in a little over four seconds.

Two black motorcycles slowed down.

Hawks was on one. I was on the other. Both of us were out riding on a balmy night. We paused and checked out the swank ride. Hawks nodded. I did the same. She was a car person, loved fancy cars that cost more than a house. I sped up, kept going for about thirty yards, paused at the next intersection. Hawks revved her engine, pulled into the parking lot, and stopped next to the Ferrari. She wore a black helmet, matching jacket. Tight jeans and biker boots that had high heels. She gave the driver of the Ferrari a hearty thumbs-up.

The driver in the Ferrari smiled at her. She motioned for him to roll down his window.

She flipped up her face mask and asked, “
Qué tal?”

“
Bien. Todo bien.
Do you speak English?”

“Yeah. I speak English.”

“Cool. Because my Spanish is horrible. That is one beautiful car.
Que lindo coche.
”

“Whoa, slow your roll. I have no idea what you just said.”

“I said you are one beautiful woman, from what I can see.”

She motioned toward the club. “How is the music in there?”

“Great. Latin band playing salsa.”

“Yeah?”

“You look good on that crotch rocket. Your ass up in the air like that.”

She paused, tilted her head, pointed at him. “You look familiar.”

She asked him his name. He told her. She asked if he was a hockey player.

He said he was.

She told him she was a big fan, asked if she could have his autograph.

The hockey man told her it was a hot night, said she should take her leather jacket and helmet off so he could see if her face was as pretty as the parts of her he could see.

She asked him for his autograph again.

He asked her if she had ever fucked a hockey player.

She laughed and asked him if it was the liquor or if he was always that rude to women.

He asked her, again, if she had ever fucked a hockey player.

She pulled a small circular object out of her jacket. It was a throw-back to the old days. When people used to conceal guns. The hockey player probably thought he was looking at a circular cell phone. Or a compact for a woman’s makeup. It was a palm pistol from the 1800s, made in France. An assassin’s pistol. Made to be hidden in plain sight.

She raised the circular pistol and put a bullet between his eyes.

Then she put the assassin’s pistol back inside her pocket.

The pop from that palm-sized gun had been covered by the music in the air.

Face shield up, Hawks eased out of the lot, zoomed by me, not breaking the speed limit.

Hawks said, “He was an asshole.”

“I heard.”

“That fucker won’t be abusing any more women.”

“Slow down.”

“These earpieces are clear. Sounds like you’re inside my helmet.”

I followed Hawks, caught up with her, then we coasted side by side.

Before we had made this run, the satellite phone from Scamz had rung a dozen times.

They had an emergency in South America. Their emergency wasn’t my problem.

 

We walked out of El Centro Médico de Rio Piedras less than two minutes after we had slipped inside. We hopped on the CBRs we’d parked near the emergency room, sped away.

We’d left four bodyguards and one Colombian drug lord in need of burial.

We dumped Hawks’s motorcycle a few blocks away. Hawks parked it and climbed on my CBR, the heat between her legs warming my back as we took to the darkened streets. We dumped my motorcycle a few blocks away from the resort, left it on a side street by Starbucks, made our way back to the La Concha Resort. We showered, changed, and headed back downstairs to a lobby that looked like the W on steroids; colorful lights, open space decorated with white leather and rattan furniture, customers crowded at a circular bar, international men in linen and women in minimalist dresses. A salsa band played. Everyone danced. We’d squeezed in some shopping earlier. We were in an area that was the cousin to Rodeo Drive. I dressed the way
he
dressed. Dressed like Scamz. Expensive suit and Italian shoes.

I’d bought a Rolex. Spent twenty thousand on a watch.

I’d bought Hawks a few gold bracelets and a minidress. The dress had one sleeve that was wide and had hints of retro to the design, the other side of the dress was sleeveless. The dress fit like a coat of paint, showed how slim her waist was, and gave the kind of cleavage that made a man dream of being breast-fed three times a day. The dress hugged the curve of her taut ass and showed miles of legs to die for. Her thighs were powerful without losing her femininity. Her calves were perfect. She was two yards of fabric from being naked. That dress showed what Hawks kept hidden in jeans and T-shirts. I’d taken her out of her cowboy boots and turned her into a fashionista
.
To go with her dress was a new pair of high heels, swank heels that were twelve centimeters high and had the signature red sole. It took her an hour to do her hair. She wanted it down, and she wanted it curled like she was going to the Oscars.

When she was done, I was in awe.

Hawks looked like she was ready for the cover of
Vogue.

I looked at her and said, “Fuck.”

She said, “Is that a noun or a verb?”

“Which do you want it to be?”

“A verb later.”

As we walked out the door, the satellite phone rang. It had rung a half dozen times.

The Lebanese was on my mind, along with a cast of others. Scamz. Arizona.

Catherine and the DNA issues, X.Y.Z.

But Hawks was sexy enough to make me forget my name.

After three drinks and a handful of salsa dances and enough soft kisses to make my blood flow in a dangerous direction, Hawks was ready to strip down to her birthday suit. But I wouldn’t let her go. We sat outside by the pool. They had a sexy lounge area, little cabanas not too far away from the throbbing music and the crowd in tight dresses and linen suits.

It looked like it was mating season in Puerto Rico.

We shared slow kisses. The dance of spirited tongues. Tongue chasing tongue. Then slow tasting. Tasting was more intimate than anything else. Slow kisses caused a fire to grow. And spread. Moans that started off soft became desperate. Gradual loss of control. The heat that gripped us in its sweet claws. Then the moans came from a place deep inside.

We were normal. With every ragged breath we became more normal.

Not killers. Each kiss pulled us away from that gritty world. Made us squares. Made us red-hot lovers. Teenagers on prom night. Made me want all the normal things I’d never have.

I kissed Hawks and felt her up. Sucked on her ear. Rubbed between her legs.

She moaned and laughed a sweet laugh. “Oh, my God, Gideon.”

“What’s the problem, Hawks?”

“You’re getting me so hot.”

I kissed her, then sucked her neck and rubbed her breasts. The sounds of the party were in the air. Other couples were in poolside cabanas and sitting on recliners.

Her hand went inside my linen pants. Hawks scooted down, took me inside her mouth, suckled me. I ran my fingers though her hair. Let her have her way. Closed my eyes and breathed in the salty ocean. The sounds of the waves crashing into the shore.

Every problem vanished.

When Hawks was done, I pulled her to me, kissed her again.

Hawks led me back to the suite, lights dimmed, windows open to the ocean, made me sit in the white leather chair while she danced like a señorita and sashayed toward me, sexy and classy, playful and giggling, taking off her jewelry, undressing and moving her body with the same confidence and rhythm Charlize Theron had in that J’adore Dior commercial.

Hawks leaned in, rubbed her breasts against my face, made my tongue chase her nipples. She did that over and over until I grabbed her waist and pulled her to me.

The satellite phone rang again.

Hawks paused, but I told her to not stop. I was more concerned with the other phone.

Hawks took to her knees, laughed and smiled and made naughty and playful noises as she took me inside her mouth. Then she made me feel so good I had to close my eyes.

She said, “My face is going to hurt tomorrow.”

I touched her hair. “Why?”

“Blow jobs make a face hurt.”

“Didn’t know that.”

“Glad you didn’t. Really glad you didn’t.”

“Irrumatio makes a face hurt.”

“Especially when a woman is sucking on an exorbitant chunk of meat.”

“Exorbitant.”

“What you have exceeds the customary limits in intensity, quality, amount, and size. You are one blessed man. A nice-looking, exorbitant mesomorph with a devil of a sin stick.”

“You’re tipsy.”

“No, I’m drunk. And I’d advise you to take advantage of this moment. You might get a chance to do some things to me that many perverts have asked to do, and all have been denied.”

I put Hawks against the wall, near the window, the ocean roaring seven stories down.

That satellite phone intruded once again.

I stayed behind her, dipped to get a good angle, had her breasts flat against the wall, my thrusting deep and steady. Hawks took her right foot, wrapped it back around me, then did the same with her left. I held her up. She craned her neck, reached for my face, kissed me. We lost the connection and I turned her around. Pushed her back against the wall and she hurried me back inside her as fast she could. I went in with power. Made her gasp. I put my hands under her ass, lifted her up, and she wrapped her legs around me again.

I was on fire.

Hawks was blazing.

I pulled her knees up, put her legs on my shoulders. Hawks wrapped her arms around my neck and held on, all she could do was hold on while I bounced her up and down as hard as I could. Skin slapped against skin. It felt good. Damn good. Didn’t care about a phone or two million dollars or South America or Scamz or Arizona or Catherine. I just cared about this orgasm that had a grip on me, a stubborn orgasm had put its claws in me, had filled me with fire.

I moved Hawks into different positions, pleased her from different angles, desperate angles, skin slapping hard, each time like a brand-new massage.

She held my neck tight and buried her head in my shoulder, sucked my neck, bit my neck to muffle her moans. Hawks lost her breath and took what I gave, then exhaled hard and loud, made sounds like she was in pain. I moaned and carried her like that. Walked her to the bed. Put her down. The ball of fire inside me had taken control. It led me, made me wild, dragged me toward urgency, moved me hard and fast. Hawks’s nails sank into my back.

The satellite phone rang.

I picked Hawks up, flipped her upside down, put her legs around my neck, held her by her waist, brought her dampness to my tongue, gripped her while her moans rose and her hair dropped and covered my toes. One by one, her high heels dropped from her feet. She masturbated me, took me deep inside her mouth, did that while I put my tongue inside her as deep as I could.