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“That was close.” Rip was breathing as hard as Lela was.
“Is he following? What now?”
Rip took her hand. “I vote for finding a cab and getting the hell out of here.”
“What about the motorcycle?”
“It was due to be returned. I didn’t want to keep it for an extended period. I’ll tell my buddy to have it picked up.”
Along a main street, Rip flagged a cab and ushered Lela into the back seat. “Take us to the Hilton,” he said to the driver.
The radio was on, tuned to a country music station. The noise provided privacy. “So what went wrong?” Lela said.
“My guess is that the photographer recognized you. Wannabes are all over the city. A guy who wants to get in good with the gangs to prove himself. The cartel has ID made routinely, so has a list of contacts in their pocket. My guess is that word got out in the cartel grapevine, and the courier was compromised.”
Lela’s belly tightened with anxiety. No place was safe.
“I spotted more than one guy, so it’s good we weren’t forced to engage with them. We’ll get out of sight then figure out the next step.”
“I’m low on cash,” Lela said. “The Hilton is pricey.”
“I’ve got it covered. I have a company card that is secure. A high-class hotel is safer; less likely we’ll be found there.”
Lela smiled, despite her roiling stomach. “We think alike.”
Rip nodded. “In many ways.”
“Unless you have a trick up your sleeve, and can magically get that new ID out of the locker, I guess we’ll have to hold off on being a couple for a while,” Lela said.
Rip chuckled. “Guess so.” Then his expression turned serious. “There is one other thing, though. That guy will report back to his cartel contact that you weren’t alone, that some military-looking guy was with you. I’d hoped to avoid that for a bit longer. Now they’ll know you have help.”
