harming any more kids. Not blind and with his junk blown off.
Hammett scooped up his gun, and the weapons dropped by his henchmen. She also took their shoulder holsters, pleased that one was left-handed and one right-handed.
There were still no police sirens.
Too bad for the residents. Criminals were free to do what they wanted.
“Shitty neighborhood,” Hammett said.
In the trunk of the rental she had a box of baby wipes. Hammett got the blood off her hands, discarded the wipes in the parking lot, and then got in the car and headed south.
“When operatives go rogue,” The Instructor said, “they become a threat to the organization. All threats shall be dealt with. Lethally.”
Getting into Mexico was cake. It was getting out that would be a problem.
Hammett buzzed down the San Diego Freeway through the border checkpoint in a briskly moving line of cars. She’d been driving for three hours, stopping once to refuel and pee, and the long period of inactivity had made her antsy.
She exited in Tijuana, on Benito Juárez y/o Segunda, and was looking around for a hotel when she stumbled across Jack’s Taberna on the corner of Avenida Miguel F. Martinez. Hammett passed the bar—it was only ten in the evening—and wove her way through Baja streets until she found El Motel Del Sol. She parked and checked in, the proprietor happy to accept American dollars, and found her room to closely resemble the one she had in L.A.’s Chinatown, from the bare carpet to the same model pressboard nightstand. The only difference, Hammett surmised, was the roaches here spoke Spanish instead of Cantonese.
She killed some time by field stripping and cleaning all the weapons she’d acquired. Tex might have been a scumbag, but he knew enough to equip his men with quality firearms. His guards had been carrying Ed Brown Special Forces 1911s—around $3k each. Tex himself had chosen a S&W M&P 340 for his carry. Double action, concealed hammer, Tritium sights, five .357 Mag rounds in the cylinder. Nice.
Hammett made a boresnake out of some paracord she used as shoelaces, and was running it through the 340, cleaning out residue, when the phone rang. While this didn’t surprise her—she was always tuned in to her surroundings, even when asleep—she was curious who it could be. The motel manager? Wrong number?
Or someone who knew her?
She picked up the receiver, staying silent.
“Why are you in Tijuana?”
asked the robot.
Her handler, Isaac, using his electronic modulator to disguise his voice.
Shit.
“After the mission I thought I’d get a little R&R.” Hammett bit back her nervousness. “Spend a few days south of the border. Unwind.”
“Does unwind involve you dispatching four men in Los Angeles?”
“Yes,” she said, matter-of-factly. “That helped me shake off a lot of tension.”
“Protocol is for you to go home after an op. Await further instructions.”
“Protocol also says we shouldn’t discuss business on public phone lines.”
“You didn’t leave me a choice.”
“There are always choices,” Hammett said, determined not to show fear. “And I’m choosing to hang up on you.”
“Go home. I won’t tell you again.”
“Is that a threat, Isaac?”
“It’s an order.”
“I have some business here. I’ll go home when I’m finished.”
“Fernando Guterez is not your target, Hammett.”
Goddamn. Nothing got past Isaac. It was eerie.
“He is now. I took out Hot Rod. This guy is even worse. Or do we rank baby rapers on some sort of sliding scale?”
“I’ll be watching. If you’re not back across the border in an hour, I’ll consider that going rogue.”
“I’ll go home after I kill Guterez. And if you send someone after me, they’ll join him in hell.”
Hammett hung up. She’d been able to control her emotions, but her hands still shook. Making an enemy of the organization she worked for was damn near the stupidest thing she could do. But she also knew she was the best they had,