Massive Attack (A Guy Niava Thriller Book 1) by Dana Arama (e reader for manga .txt) 📗

up to our rooms Silvia asked if we would like to join her and her two sons for breakfast. Without hesitating we both answered, “Yes.” Laura added, “Gladly.”

The top floor had been turned into the visitor’s floor and it had three bedrooms, a toilet and shower. A wooden staircase of fifteen steps led us to this floor. I noted that two of them creaked: the second step from the bottom and the third-to-last step. Creaking stairs were always an excellent warning sign. Between my room and Laura’s was a bathroom that served the whole floor, and maybe also Silvia and her two sons. My room was basic. A low metal bed, slightly wider than a twin bed. A wooden dresser painted red. A wooden floor which had seen better days and was now warped here and there, and especially under the window.

I closed the door behind me. Surprisingly, it didn’t creak. I put my bag on the dresser and approached the bed. If the springs creaked, I was in for an annoying night. On the other hand, who had promised I would get any sleep this evening? The floor creaked about a foot away from the bed. I moved the colorful carpet and found the floor warped there as well, a light stain covering the wood. Someone had tried to clean with too much water. My imagination told me it was an attempt to clean a blood stain, but to validate a theory like that, one needs more than just a stain, a creaky floor, and a run-down location in the dark side of the city.

Speaking of locations, I approached the window and pressed myself against the wall so that I could peek outside without being seen. On the other side of the street a taxi was waiting with the engine running. That was unusual. Here, taxi drivers tried to conserve every last drop of gas. The street became lighter as the sun started to rise, and the driver switched off his lights. After a moment he seemed to regret doing so and switched them on again. Was he signaling someone or was the pale morning sun not strong enough to drive without lights?

I surveyed the area surrounding him in widening concentric circles. I saw nothing suspicious. When a young girl in a light dress came out of the opposite building dragging her suitcase after her, the driver got out of the taxi and helped her put it in the trunk. The driver returned to his seat and the girl sat in the back behind him. The taxi reversed off the pavement, and then I saw him. He was standing at an angle between the building and an advertising post, almost completely hidden. If the taxi’s headlights hadn’t caught him for a second, I wouldn’t have seen him at all. A pro. So professional that I immediately thought it must be a foreign tail. Such finesse does not exist within the Mexican security or the cartels, no matter how big and strong it was. I wondered who it could be. I saw the man only for a second, but I was able to make out that he was tall and thin, much taller than the average Mexican man.

I assessed the options. If he was someone from the American security services, was he here to protect us? Did he follow Laura’s location on her cellphone? Mine? Did she have a bug on her?

The second option seemed more viable, that he was a former KGB operative who now worked for the mafia. If he was on our tail, had he been following us since the airport? If that was the case, it was bad. It meant that I was very tired. It was true that since yesterday, when the troublemaking file was found I’d spoken with my boss, I hadn’t slept for more than two hours consecutively, but that wasn’t a justifiable reason not to be alert to the fact that we were being trailed. It might be a good excuse, but I had known many people with good excuses who now lay under a tombstone.

Nothing untoward was happening the other side of the street. We had chosen wisely when we picked this place. I looked at my watch and assumed that, very shortly, I would hear a knock on the door. She arrived even before I had finished thinking my thoughts. I opened the door and Laura stood there in a floral dress, her hair spread around her shoulders. She looked ten years younger than the secret agent I had met the day before.

I smiled. “Mexico suits you, ma’am.”

“Thank you, sir, very nice of you to say so.” She put her arm through mine and announced, “Let’s go and eat breakfast and then find Zorro’s place.” I locked the door with the key Silvia had given me and followed in her footsteps.

“Are you aware that we are being followed?” I inquired as we went down the stairs.

She sighed. “I was afraid of that.” She glanced at me. “Are you concerned enough to change our plans?”

“No,” I answered decisively. “But I am intrigued as to who is following us and if we need to do something about it.”

“Let’s sit and eat peacefully. We will draw out the time as much as we can. We really aren’t in any rush. If he is still there when we finish eating, we will think about what to do with him.”

I was convinced by her argument, but more convinced once I caught sight of the lavish table, and smelled all the aromas that had filled the kitchen.

We sat next to each other, opposite Silvia’s two silent boys. I focused on the table before me. There was black coffee in a carafe, a plate with red ripe tomatoes and buttery green avocado, on top of which laid two fried eggs, the yolks almost orange. The plate looked like a picture and I thought it would be a shame to ruin it. Yet when the bowls filled with