"So you waited," Bea concluded. "And wondered who he was profiting off – like my sister – while you sat with your hands tied."
He nodded, then cleared his throat and held out his hand. "Jesse," he offered.
Bea looked him over carefully, shifting her head to watch him with genuine interest. Her internal verdict was absolute: she'd fuck him in a heartbeat if she wasn't a wanted criminal and still in shock. "Bea," she finally acknowledged, wondering if Jesse was truly his name.
"The locals who know me call me Angel," he admitted, crooking the corner of his thin lips.
"Are you going to give my gun back?"
"No," he raised a brow and scowled. "I'm not. If we're caught, it's going to be in my holster, not in your backpack. You're not ending up in a fucking Mexican prison."
Bea studied his scruffy face, his cultivated low-life image and knew that whoever Jesse was in the other world of the United States, he expected to spend his life as an imprisoned murderer. He understood the consequences.
"We?" she finally asked.
"How the hell else did you expect to get out of this country?" Jesse mocked, and Bea sighed, turning her head toward the futon. If she wasn't so damn grateful already, she'd consider kicking him. If she could be a little less grateful, she kiss him.
"I'm thinking the airport," she returned.
"No fucking way, princess," he laughed. "Even if the authorities aren't looking for you, you can be sure Manuel's best customers are."
"Damn it," she sighed. "I can't shoot them. At least not in the airport."
"Precisely," he drawled.
The Don's Enforcer Page 8
