Page 12 of Fixed Asset

Pete made a sharp left, narrowly missing an oncoming car, taking us closer to the end of Lopez’s territory.

One of the unusual things about Tegucigalpa was the pockets of gang presence. Some of these pockets were only separated by a street. You could cross over into a rival gang’s area simply by crossing the intersection. The city was a maze of violence, some areas worse than others, some relatively safe if you stayed in the center city by the malls. Relatively safe, meaning it was relative to the daily murder count that happened in the barrios. Safety also depended on if you were a man or a woman.

Women were never safe in the Northern Triangle of Central America.

“One block until we’re clear.”

As soon as the words left Pete’s mouth, bullets peppered the back of the van.

“Motherfucker,” Mason groused. “You had to say it.”

More bullets peppered the side of the van.

“Hit the floor, Kitty. The van’s not bulletproof,” Fallon informed Cat.

Jesus fuck, I was totally punching my friend in the mouth when we got out of the van.

“Should we be shooting back?” Cat asked.

“This is just the Calaveras boys’ way of asking us nicely to leave,” Mason informed her.

More rounds popped off.

I heard the familiar whiz-crack of a projectile snap past my head right before the windshield spiderwebbed.

The high-pitched ringing started immediately. I heard loud but muffled sounds and couldn’t make out words over the painful buzzing. I reached up to touch the side of my head, ear, neck. Nothing felt sticky.

More loud pops, these coming from inside the van. I turned to look into the back and died another thousand deaths, courtesy of Catarina. She was on her knees at the back of the van, and I could tell by the jerk of her shoulders she was returning fire, along with Mason.

“Pull her the fuck back,” I shouted.

Either no one could hear me over the ringing in their ears, the gunfire, or both, or they were ignoring me.

I was getting ready to crawl into the back and remove Cat from the direct line of fire myself when Pete made another turn, and the shooting stopped.

“Driver’s out,” Mason yelled, or at least that’s the best I could interpret.

The silence that ensued only exacerbated the incessant ringing that I knew from experience we’d be suffering for at least the next hour, if not two.

There was a tap on my shoulder. I glanced over to find Fallon shoving his phone at me. I grabbed the device, looked at the screen, and read the message on the opened Notes app.

Texted Shep. Waiting to here back.

If it hadn’t felt like an ice pick had punctured my eardrum, I would’ve made fun of him for his typo. I’d file that away for later. I kept reading.

Your woman’s a badass. I think we should keep her.

I was going to need dental work when I got back to San Diego, or I was going to give myself TMJ from the jaw clenching.

I shoved the phone into Fallon’s waiting hand and looked for a landmark.

Mas X Menos supermarket, next to a sketchy-looking auto repair station. We were officially in a gang-free zone. Or, an area that wasn’t fully controlled by a gang. The US Embassy was two blocks down. The politicians weren’t the only ones who played politics in Honduras. Just because the gang leaders were ruthless criminals didn’t mean they weren’t smart. They’d agree to keep the area around the embassy neutral for a payoff.

Fallon shoved his phone back through the space between the seats. I glanced at it and felt a headache blooming.

Three words that had me wanting to scrap the mission until I could safely escort Cat home.

San Pedro Sula—the hub of drug trafficking.