Ten
Daniel
REGAN STILL LOOKS ON THE verge of tears. I miss the army because there’s only a short range of emotions that are acceptable in there, particularly within Delta Force. Mostly it’s cocksure bravado and weary acceptance. Regan’s feelings are hard for me to process because introspection is not encouraged in the army. I spent eight years suffocating my feelings so I could become an efficient killing machine. It was great training for being a hired assassin outside the military but had shit-all to do with helping wounded girls.
There’s no question in my mind that her sticking to me is going to mess her up more, but I didn’t bust my ass finding this girl to let her be stolen again. Taking a stab in the dark at what’s really got her worked up— and not in a good way—I tell her, “They would’ve come and searched for you, but Nick’s supposed to be dead. He can’t be running around down here in Rio because if his name leaks then he’s on the run again, along with Daisy. Plus Nick’s a shitty people person. He’d never have been able to get you out of Gomes’ place without a huge gunfight.”
I don’t know why I’m explaining this to her. Nick’s not a friend at all. He’s an acquaintance. If pressed, I’d say he was a colleague. Part of the fraternal order of the Fucked-Up Guys Who Can’t Function Without a Gun. I’d watched him for a while because I was always looking for connections—anyone I could find that might lead me to my sister. And Nick had worked with scum since he was a kid. He’d been a paid hit man working on his own since the age of fifteen. He looked his age of twenty-five, but his eyes told you he’d seen and done hellacious things that men the age of eighty wouldn’t come close to dreaming up in their worst nightmares. And I wasn’t wrong to hook my wagon to Nick because helping him off a Russian mafia boss gave me my first good lead in a long time. A blonde taken from Cancun turned up in an auction in Rio eighteen months ago and then disappeared, sold through the same channels that Regan had been funneled through. Boom. Two birds. One fucking heavy stone from me.
I’ve got Regan, and now I need to find my sister. As Regan’s face loses its pinched, hurt look, the tension knot at the back of my neck releases. She’s not going to cry. I pour her another drink because the worst feeling after being drunk is the cessation of liquor. And if there’s anyone who needs the little peace that the brown bottle can bring, it’s Regan.
“So they didn’t leave me?” she asks in a stronger voice, the tremors all but gone.
“Nah, they sent me. Trust me. I’m far better-looking and a better shot. Not to mention a helluva lot funnier. You’d rather have me, wouldn’t you?” I flex for her, and she chuckles like I intend.
“I guess so. I mean, I like Daisy, and it sounds stupid after all that I’ve been through that being abandoned by her hurts worse.”
“Sugar, you’re allowed to feel any damn way you want.” Just don’t cry because your tears hurt worse than a knife wound to the gut.
She nods slowly, as if she’s trying to rearrange her internal feelings toward Daisy. I guess betrayal by someone close is worse than constant abuse from strangers?
Her head is starting to bob now. Lightweight. I could drink the whole bottle and feel nothing. It’s my party trick. I can drink nearly anyone under the table. Vasily Petrovich—the newly installed head of the Petrovich mob family—and I had a contest when we were waiting for Nick to show up so we could go kill Vasily’s uncle. He swore no Westerner could drink as much as a Russian. I kept up and Petrovich deemed me suitable to retrieve his hacker. Shit, why is everyone in Rio? I shake my head.
So helping Regan fell to me because Nick Anders is not a hit man. He’s an art student. It’s hard to kill the head of the Bratva and come out alive, which is why Nikolai Andrushko is dead, killed by Vasily in retribution for his uncle’s death. From the ashes rose Nick Anders, a quiet, brooding American. So no, Nick can’t be running around the slums looking for blonde girls from the U.S. when he’s supposed to be dead, and Daisy…well, there isn’t anyone less suited for doing the rescue of her best friend.
“You sleepy?” I ask gently. She nods. “I’m going to pick you up and carry you to the bedroom.” The up-and-down motion of her head could be consent or it could be that she’s too drunk to hold her head up. I pick her up, and she doesn’t protest. Instead, she snuggles into me, her soft cheek pressing against the skin exposed by my unbuttoned shirt and beater tank. “We’re going to need to take you to a doctor and make sure you’re okay on the inside.”
She ignores this and instead proceeds to rub the tip of her nose into the hollow of my neck, and I tremble like a goddamn preteen. I need to rub one out. It’s just a desperate backlog of sperm. “You smell good,” she murmurs. Man, I had no idea that spot on my neck is such a sensitive place on my body. Picking up the pace, I stride over and drop her onto the bed. She bounces a little and the mattress squeaks, but she doesn’t appear fazed.
The shopping bags are not completely unpacked, so I dump everything out on the table and start rolling up the items into the new bag I bought her. But as my hand brushes over the lace and satin of the bras and panties the sales associate had picked out, I pause. It’s sexy stuff, but I didn't understand the leap in logic from the nice fabric to I better fuck Daniel before he leaves me. We don’t have time to stop and get new stuff. Hopefully, Regan will put this out of her mind or we are both in for a bad time.
I stuff the rest of the purchases into the bag and set it on top of the table. Shrugging into the tactical vest, I gather up all my shit and set my packed bag next to Regan’s. Two guns are shoved into my vest along with a full case of ammo.
Taking one of the chairs, I stick it under the handle of the apartment door. After rechecking all the windows to make sure they’re locked, I lay down beside Regan. It’s hot inside the apartment with all the windows and doors closed, but better to be hot and safe than cool and open for anyone to climb in.
My phone buzzes and I pull it out. It’s a text from Pereya, a contact I made who supplies bad people—and good ones too, I suppose—with everything from medical supplies to guns. He does a booming repeat business.
Informant in Morro Dos Macacos. Futbol field. Dawn.
Isn’t that fucking great? I will have to take Regan into one of the most dangerous favelas in order to gather some intel. I’m betting if I take her over to the Palace she’d run away, no matter that it’s the nicest hotel in all of Rio. And the soccer field? Last I heard there were circular burn marks all over those fields because the drug gangs liked to place their torture victims inside a ring of tires, douse them with gasoline, and burn them alive.
But if what Regan says about the embassy is true, I can’t take her back there. The revelation that one of the embassy guards is working for some human trafficker shouldn’t surprise me but it does. I doubt he’s a Marine though. A lot of embassies hire contractors—most of them former military—and they’re supposed to pass a deep background investigation, but the government often cheaps out on the firms running the background check; and, hell, fake backgrounds are easy to concoct if you’ve got enough money, and one thing traffickers don’t seem to lack is a ton of coin.
My phone beeps again, this time with a message from Vasily.
All roads lead to Rio. I’m coming. Find him. -V
Even better. I force myself to loosen my grip so I don’t crack the plastic clamshell. A new Russian mafia boss in search of a computer hacking genius is coming to Rio. We should hole up in one of the favelas and have a shootout until the last man—I look over at Regan—or woman is standing. Keeping her with me wasn’t the plan. I was going to locate her, drop her at the embassy, and then find my sister. But now our destinies are bound. Fate, karma, whatever shitty fucking overlord above who shines his paltry light down on us has put us together. So be it. We’re going to go in together and get out together.
I text my contact at Morro Dos Macacos.
Thanks. Will need some supplies. USD cash?
USD OK.
And then because she n
eeds it, I text back.
Need female doc to run some tests. Blood work.
No problem.
Nothing is a problem for Pereya.
Tomorrow I’ll get more ammunition, have Regan checked out, go see an informant, find Vasily’s hacker, save my sister, and get the hell out of South America. Right now though, I need some fucking shut-eye or I’ll be completely worthless. I allow myself to doze off, one hand on the grip of my Ruger. Anyone comes in and I’ll blow their head off. At this point, I wouldn’t even care if it is Vasily.
SCRATCHING SOUNDS IN THE EXTERIOR room wake me up. In her sleep, Regan has cuddled up close to me. Her long, naked leg is thrown over mine. I’m amazed I didn’t wake up when she got close. My body responds to the closeness of hers, and I grow semi-hard in an instant. Fuck. Ain’t got time for that now.
I disentangle from her and roll off the bed, pulling Regan with me to the edge. With one hand over her mouth, I shake her a bit with my other and then slide my palm down her side to press her legs into the bed. Predictably, when she wakes, she’s violently furious at being held down.
“Regan, it’s Daniel,” I hiss. “There’s someone outside. I’ll let you go, but you have to be silent. Nod if you understand.”
It takes her a few seconds, but then she nods. The minute I release her, she curls into a fetal ball. “No worries,” I tell her. “But crawl into the bathtub.”
She shakes her head, slides off the bed and hunkers down behind me. Her fingers tuck into a strap on the back of my vest. I’m guessing my promises to return aren’t something she puts a lot of faith in. “I’ll let you stay, but you can’t hold on to me.” I’ll be hampered in hand-to-hand combat if she’s holding on to me.
Crouched low to the floor, I creep to the entry. Once I’m situated with Regan behind me, I reach for the knob and release it. The door swings open and the scuffling in the outside room ceases. A second later, the drywall above our heads explodes. Plaster debris rains down as shots are peppered along the wall.
“Bathroom. Now,” I command. This time Regan doesn’t hesitate. She jumps up and races to the bathroom as I shoot twice to the right and roll across the open doorway. Then I hear a crash as the intruder stumbles into a table. I smile maliciously to myself. Shoot first and you give away your location, asshole. Creeping out on my belly, with a Ruger in one hand and knife in the other, I see a black shoe. I aim my Ruger two feet higher and when a loud, high-pitched squeal is released, I know I’ve hit a kneecap. I follow it with another shot, this time slightly to the right. When a thud reverberates, I know I’ve hit my mark on the shoulder. People are predictable. You shoot the leg and they bend over to grab their wound. It’d be easy to have made a head shot kill, but I wanted this asswipe alive.
Still crouching, I move farther into the room and switch on my laser sight. The little red dot never fails to scare the piss out of people and, if the pain is too much, he has something to focus on. I’m a giver. My target is on the ground, writhing and moving his hands from his shoulder to his knee as if unsure which wound he should try to compress first. It won’t matter. Once he answers a few questions, I’ll make sure he doesn’t have to worry about either injury. A quick glance around the interior shows that the room is empty. The window near the sofa is open, and a rope is dangling down. He must’ve come alone because anyone else would have rappelled down to save this guy once the gunshots went off. Despite the suppressor, there’s no good disguise for the supersonic boom that a bullet makes when fired, not to mention the screaming he made when I popped his kneecap. That’s a painful injury.
I walk over and pick up his gun, tucking it into my vest. As I walk to the window, I step on his wounded shoulder, which makes him sob out in pain. Reaching out, I tug at the rope. There’s no return resistance which means it’s passively secured. The rope comes tumbling down with a few flicks of my wrist, and I haul it inside. No sense in advertising a break-in.
“Senhor Gomes really likes this girl, huh?” I say, winding the rope into a loop and then tucking it into a bag. “Regan,” I call, “need an ID, please.” Maybe she’ll recognize him. I sure as hell don’t.
Regan comes tiptoeing out.
“Just as far as the doorway.” This asshole isn’t in any shape to attack a kitten, but I want to be extra sure that Regan’s out of harm’s way. Kneeling behind the intruder, I lift up his head by the hair and jerk him into a sitting position. “You know this guy?”
A cry of anger flies out of her and she rushes toward the both of us. His hands are outstretched as if to repel her attack, but rage powers her straight through and she kicks him in the gut, causing him to crumple over. Another kick hits his knee, and he starts babbling in Portuguese for me to make the devil woman stop. I guess she does know this guy.
Reluctantly I put a stop to the action, although it was kind of amusing in a dark way.
“Okay, Regan, I need to ask this asshole some questions, so you need to dial it back.”
She restrains herself, huffing and puffing. There’s blood on her leg, probably from her inadvertent kick to the gun wound on the intruder’s knee.
“Better go wash that off. No telling what he’s got in his body.”
She looks down at her body and then shudders. With a short nod, she spins and heads into the bathroom. When I hear the water running, I pull the guy into the remaining chair, forcing his legs into a bent position, and zip tie his hands to each side.
“Ai meu Deus do Céu!,” he pleads. I can’t work up any sympathy for this rapist.
“Nope. No god is helping you today.” I tap his knee again, and he starts blubbering. While he cries, I examine his gun.
“What is it?” Regan is back. In the moonlight, her legs are exposed and shiny from the water, and if I’m staring at them no doubt our intruder is.
“It’s an African Vektor SP-1. A nice piece not usually carried by someone from the slums. Most of those guys either have their AR47s or armas hechizas, makeshift weapons with pipe and a firing pin.” I heft the gun. “This one, though, shows he’s part of a well-funded, well-armed gang.” I turn to her. “Go put some pants on.”
She flushes but hurries over to the bag and pulls out a pair of linen pants. I realize as she’s tugging them on, right in front of both of us, that she’s scared shitless. She’s not letting me out of her sight. Running to the bathroom was an extreme act of bravery and trust on her part. She needs a reward and a security blanket.
I flip the Vektor around and offer her the grip. “Here, have a souvenir of your time in Rio. It’s a .9mm with a short recoil. Not a bad gun for you. Chambers thirteen, but I think he’s wasted about seven of those.”
Turning back to our captive, I spin the chair around. “Here’s how it’s going to go. You’re going to tell us what your objective was, and then I’m going to make all the pain go away. Okay?”
He nods.
“I know that Gomes wants my girl back, but that’s not happening, so start talking. Oh, and in English for the lady, por favor.”
“Gomes sends me to retrieve girl. Kill you.”
“Then what?”
He shrugs a little and then winces when it pains his shoulder. “Nothing.”
“You on staff or for hire?”
“For hire,” he says, and a glint appears in his eyes. Maybe he thinks he’s going to be able to bargain his way out of here.
“Got any questions for him, Regan?”
“Does he like eating his own dick? Because that’s what should happen to him.”
“Do you?” I ask him.
“She’s a whore. I can get you dozens more, better than her,” the man says to me in Portuguese.
“He’s trying to sell me on the idea that there are other girls I can get if I give you up,” I translate for Regan. Then I say, “In English, dickwad.” I kick him in the shin, and he cries out and shakes the chair trying to escape the pain. “Want to kick him?” I ask Regan.
“Yes,” she says emphatically. She wants to do more than k
ick him.
“Hold on.” I pull out the chair that I’d used to secure the front door and break off the leg. “Use this. Don’t want you to have to shower again.”
She holds the chair leg like a bat and hits him, not across the knee like I thought she would, but across the face. Once, twice. I catch her on the next downswing and she fights me for a minute, panting like a wild dog until, I guess, reason finally dawns on her. “Yeah, we want to keep him conscious enough to answer a few more questions,” I say.
Turning back to our intruder, I see he’s nearly passed out. “Sugar, run to the kitchen and get me a pan full of water and toss it in his face. He needs to wake up.” I figure these tasks will help her stay focused. When she returns from the kitchen, her breathing is under control and she doesn’t even hit him with the pan. He sputters awake.
“She doesn’t like you much, and I don’t want anyone else but her. I mean, come on, where am I gonna find someone who swings a chair leg like Babe Ruth?”
He doesn’t get the reference or he’s out of it because he stares at me blankly. “The fact that you’re a hired guy kind of bothers me because Gomes isn’t the type to hire out. He’s stingy. And even if he wasn’t, he doesn’t have the kind of coin to maintain a little army full of mercenaries like you. Who hired you?”
The intruder doesn’t respond, simply looks away. He’s obviously had some training, and it’s kicking in now because he decides that’s all the information I’m getting.
“Should I hit him again?” Regan asks eagerly.
“Nah. I think he’s too scared of your Mr. Freeze to give any more information, and we gotta get going.”
She looks disappointed.
“You got anything in the bedroom? Why don’t you do a sweep and make sure we’re not leaving anything behind?”
She sets down the pan and the wooden stick with some reluctance but heads into the bedroom.
Once I see she’s out of eyesight, I turn and shoot the motherfucker in the head. Twice. The sound of the gunshots brings Regan racing into the living room. “What did you do?”
Last Breath Page 9
