“Because,” I said, “She tried to kill me first.”
The quickest way to Rosarito was through San Diego. We touched down and Valentina led the way out the airplane.
A black Jeep was waiting on the tarmac. I hopped into the back seat. Valentina ignored my hand and climbed in herself. She hadn’t said much to me after I’d told her about Jen.
“Where are we going?” I asked, once it was clear we were headed the wrong direction. The driver was silent. “The highway to Mexico is back that way.”
“There are cameras all along the border,” Valentina explained.
“Yeah? So how the hell are we getting across?”
Valentina only smiled as the Jeep pulled through a gated entrance and parked.
“Oh,” I said. I looked at the murky water and shivered. There was something about the ocean that always got my nerves up. “Are you serious?”
“Easier than a passport,” Valentina said. She strutted down the pier to the end, where a white motorboat was waiting. A man in sunglasses stood at the front of the boat. The helm, or whatever the hell it’s called.
“Come on!” Valentina said, waving at me. I sighed.
“A fucking boat,” I said. “Of all things, a fucking boat.”
I clambered down onto the deck and sat down on the side of the boat Valentina was on. I looked around.
“Isn’t there a seatbelt on this thing?” I asked.
Valentina laughed. The man in sunglasses revved the motor, and I fell sideways as the boat lifted half out of the water with the force of the engine propelling us.
“Shit!” I cried, hanging onto the edge of the seat. We sped through the water, passing a dozen small sailboats and a couple of jetskiers. One of them waved, and the man in sunglasses waved back.
“You’re fine,” Valentina said. She shook her dark hair, obviously enjoying the wind streaming across her face. “Don’t worry, I’ll throw you a life jacket if you fall in.”
The boat lifted and fell in a gentle rhythm as it motored over the choppy water. I tried not to show my worry. Working for the Feds? Fine. Assassinating a guy? No problem. But Ten hadn’t said anything about having to get on a fucking boat.
“Is that the inside?” I asked, pointing at the door. “Can I go inside for this trip?”
“You don’t want to be inside the cabin,” Valentina said. “You’ll be seasick.”
“I’m already seasick,” I grumbled, holding onto the wooden railing. I shouldn’t have had another whiskey. I shouldn’t have had the first whiskey.
The boat sped out of the harbor. As we reached the open ocean, I saw something in the water.
“What’s that?” I said, pointing. It was a dark form emerging from the water. I swear to God it looked like the Loch Ness monster for a moment.
“Submarine,” Valentina said, completely unimpressed. We steered to the side as the dark shape rose up from the water, sending waves ripping through the ocean behind it.
Jesus. A submarine. It was huge. Sheets of water ran down the sides, and as we got closer, the waves from its wake made our boat bob up and down even worse. I held my stomach and tried to think of anything except what would happen if another sub came up right underneath us.
“Fuck,” I said, staring at the sunlight glinting off the dark waves. The boat swung out to the open sea. I guessed he was taking us in an arc to avoid any Coast Guard boats, but it looked like we were heading out into fucking nowhere. “Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.”
I was still swearing by the time we reached Rosarito. I stumbled off of the boat gratefully onto the pier. Even though I knew better, it felt like the ground was moving under my feet.
“Where are we?” I asked.
“Almost there,” Valentina said.
I looked around. This sure didn’t look like a billionaire’s mansion. Shacks with tin roofs and dingy stucco walls lined the beachside, and the people moving along the pier were dressed in rags, carrying buckets and nets. The smell of fish mixed with the smell of rotting seaweed.
We walked down to the edge of the road, where two men were taking fish out of their nets and another man was cleaning them. I stepped carefully around the fish guts, trying hard not to slip on the slick concrete. There was a dead dolphin washed up on the rocks near the pier, and a mangy dog was gnawing on the end of its flipper.
“This is not El Alfa’s place,” I said, bile rising in my throat.
Valentina, cool as a cucumber, raised a finger.
“Wait,” she said. As though on command, a limo appeared from around the corner. None of the fishermen even looked up from their nets.
We stepped into the limo and it pulled away. Behind me in the mirror, I could see the stray dog still pulling at the dolphin’s carcass.