Page 63 of The Perfect Stranger

Chapter Twenty-Two

For the rest of the night, I watched. Nina too tired to move or to even turn the light off, simply rolled on her side and went to sleep, remaining in the same position until morning. I wanted to be there next to her when she woke. I wanted to feel her naked body against mine and indulge in more of what the night offered hours earlier.

Instead, I had to be content. Content that the seeds had been planted and anything that happened from now would be done with ease.

The street was beginning to gain its regular flow of traffic when she emerged the next day. Sitting in the ground floor café at the bottom of the hotel across the road, I watched as she hailed a cab. She was dressed casually in jeans and a top, hair tied in a ponytail. She wasn’t going to work.

Forgetting my half-drunk cup of coffee, I waved at an oncoming taxi, and once inside, ordered him to follow. We weaved in out of traffic until we hit the quieter streets of Hell’s Kitchen.

“Hang back,” I ordered the driver who asked no questions. I watched as Nina’s cab put on the brake lights down a street that seemed void of people. “Pull over, please.” My driver did as I asked pulling in behind a parked car. We were out of sight enough to not raise suspicion.

I sat back in my seat and watched. Outside of an apartment building she pressed the intercom until finally the door opened and she disappeared inside. The cab driver fiddled with his radio unable to decide on the music he wanted to listen to. After a full minute of mashed static before he opted to switch it off.

“How long, sir?” he asked, now bored.

“When I say.” He was getting paid after all.

Nina resurfaced twenty minutes later looking stressed and a little rattled. I had no idea who she was seeing or why, but whatever the circumstances it wasn’t good. She looked around, worried as if someone was watching. She wasn’t looking for me. Instead, her eyes scanned the surrounding buildings searching for something that would confirm her gut feelings. I was sharing her unease. She was exposed to the elements, a sitting duck.

Nina pulled her phone free and held it to her ear, briefly speaking before ending the call. She backed up against the wall of the building, her nervous energy causing her hand to tap the handbag hugged tightly against her chest.

Less than five minutes passed, and she was entering a cab and driving off in the opposite direction.

“Follow,” I said, and without hesitation the driver pulled out of the park. We circled the city back to Nina’s apartment where she practically sprinted inside. I needed in her head. I needed to know what was transpiring. From my own apartment, I watched through binoculars as Nina moved through each room with caution. She was no longer in a hurry. Instead, she now seemed frightened and unsure of her surroundings. And then I saw it. Her home had been invaded. A warning spray-painted in red on the wall above her bed.

Look behind you. The saints are watching.

In the time we were in Hell’s Kitchen, they had made their move.

Not the Baja cartel.

Los Santos.

She stood, motionless, lost in thought about what this meant for her future. Confused as to how she had landed in the thick of it all and became the number one target.

This wasn’t her fight.

Los Santos foot soldiers were closing in. They were making this a game. A game both Nina and I didn’t expect.

When she indiscriminately tossed clothes and toiletries into a bag, I packed my own before making my way down to street level. She was leaving and I couldn’t be on the back foot. A blue sedan, covered in scuffs and dents sat parked on my side of the road. All seats were occupied by men with shaved heads and visible tattoos. They all shared a particular interest in Nina’s building, and I had no doubt they were responsible for the break-in, basking in the fear they were causing.

My phone buzzed with an incoming message.

Gabriel.

A man named Jair Ruiz is on the hunt for our target. He’s Baja.

He seemed to know what was happening in the background and I was certain he knew more than what he was saying in a simple text message. It was time for answers. Dialing his cell, I waited while retreating behind a pillar near the hotel entry.

“Brother,” Gabriel answered.

“Who’s this Jair Ruiz?”

“Do you remember the name Evan Jacobs?”

I did. He was Garcia’s former partner accused of “too close” associations with Baja.

“Yes.”

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