“Voice,” I say impatiently. “Plus, your hips.” I gesture toward her waist. With a nod at Regan, I repeat my command. “Read it.”
After a moment Regan begins reading.
Blonde haired, brown eyed female.
Age 20 per admission.
Acquisition location: Cancun.
Date: 16 March.
Condition: Good health. Strange affect. Refuses to look people in the eye. Has strange convulsions. Possibility of self harm. Claims extensive knowledge of computers and internet systems. Offered to hack into Butterfield Bank, Caymans and obtain rival bank account numbers. Challenge was accepted. Succeeded. Refused to do other work unless received own room and promise of no touching. Requests were granted. Suggested partnership with AB organization.
“And there’s a couple of email exchanges. ‘AB?’”
“Aryan Brotherhood,” I explain. “They work with the cartels to move a lot of drugs. The U.S. has one of the highest consumption rates of illegal drugs in the world.”
“Enough?” says the snitch.
It is. I can’t explain the relief that surged through me when Regan read that. It’s her. My high-functioning autistic sister. So brilliant. “Enough.”
I pull out the velvet bag. Inside is a two carat musgravite, a stone that Petrovich had given me in payment for taking down his uncle. It’s worth close to one hundred grand. I’d pay twice as much for this intel. The informant can barely pick it up with her gloved fingers. As she is looking down, I put the Ruger against her temple.
“Daniel,” I hear Regan say in shocked tones, but I ignore her. I don’t understand how she can be surprised by human behavior, but it’s another sign of how she didn’t let her imprisonment ruin her. She still cares enough not to want to see anyone else injured. Like I said, Regan’s real danger is to that lump under my left breastbone. It’s starting to beat again. I’ll figure out if that’s good or really fucking bad later.
“Here’s how this is going to work. You’re going to take your package and go back to your base. You can say you killed us. You can say you tortured us. Neither her or I will be around to tell a different story. But you try anything, and I’ll blow your brains out right here. I give two shits that you’re a woman. Understand?”
She nods and my gun follows every movement, which she registers with widened eyes. “That’s right. I’ve used this gun before many times. I’m not going to ask for your piece because I suspect you’re going to need it, but you’ll be on the floor with a bullet through you before you can even get the weapon out of your front pocket. So be smart and you’ll live at least ten more minutes.”
“That’s what you think,” she sneers, and then I see a faint red dot on her forehead before everything goes to hell.
Regan
IT TAKES TWO SECONDS. ONE second, I’m watching the pretty woman’s face, wondering why there’s a dot from a red laser on her forehead. The next, there’s a weird ripple effect, and her forehead explodes into a red tidal wave of shredded flesh, and my face is splattered with something wet and hot.
“Down!” Daniel shouts, his hand swatting my shoulders almost before I can even process that I’m wearing that girl’s brains on my face.
I slam to the dirty, stained concrete floor, the air smacking out of my lungs. The guns and knives tucked into my vest jab my ribs, and I’m pretty sure I’ll be bruised to hell, but I’m alive. For now. The girl’s body has tumbled to the ground nearby, and blood is pooling close to my leg. Daniel’s not pausing for a moment, though—he’s snaking his body along the ground, heading for the wall. Once my initial shock wears off, I follow him. Close as paper, he told me.
We make it to the side of the building, and Daniel crouches behind a refrigerator that predates Nixon. Another shot rings out as I worm my way to Daniel’s side and something chips off of the nearby wall.
I give a frightened whimper even as Daniel takes my hand and hauls me up next to him. I plaster my body against his, trying to stay under cover as much as possible. He turns away from me, though, and I’m forced to cling to his back as he pushes the refrigerator door open to give us more cover.
Another shot rings out, and the refrigerator door bounces wildly. Daniel shoves it open again, and this time it stays open.
They know we’re behind it, and they’re watching for us.
“What . . . what . . .” I try to form a question that will encompass everything that’s going on, but I’m failing.
Daniel shakes his head, gun in hand, his gaze scanning the front of the old grocery store like he’ll be able to see something. “Don’t know why anyone ever decides to snitch. Snitches always get plugged.”
I turn and stare at the dead body of the girl then touch my fingers to my face. Still wet. I want to puke, but now’s not the time. I swallow hard and mentally will the saliva pooling in my mouth to wait for a more appropriate moment. “She’s a snitch?”
“Was,” Daniel corrects.
I look at him and pull my own gun out of its holster. “You knew this would happen.”
“Had an idea. Like I said, snitches get plugged. It’s a dangerous job.”
“I hope the information was worth her life,” I say, still appalled that the girl can be dead so quickly, so easily. Life is nothing here in the slums, and I’m reminded of how badly I want to go home.
“You have no idea,” Daniel says, and there’s a fervent note in his voice that makes me wonder. He’s practically giddy with the information that we’ve found on this new blonde, and I’m surprised at the surge of jealousy that flares inside me. Is this other woman who Daniel’s been looking for the entire time? Is that why he agreed to come find me—because he’s looking for another blonde? His girlfriend, maybe?
I’m a little ashamed at how jealous I am. Now’s not the time. It might not be the time, ever. I’m a package to Daniel. A broken, slightly torn-up package that won’t take itself back to the post office so it can be delivered.
All is quiet. No one’s shooting anymore, but we’re not moving, and at my side, Daniel is as tense and alert as ever.
“Is it safe to go?” I whisper.
“Hell no,” Daniel tells me, and a small laugh escapes his throat. “They have snipers. Someone expected her to snitch, and they’re pissed. We got a whole lot of valuable information in that phone, and when it goes up the food chain, they’re not going to be happy about it.” He still looks thrilled, though.
“So what do we do?” I ask.
“Haven’t figured that out yet.”
I think. “Can we wait them out?”
“Snipers can wait for a long fucking time,” Daniel says. “And they have all the advantage since we’re pinned down.”
“So what do we do?” I ask again.
“We wait for them to make a mistake,” he says and then glances back at me. A cocky grin flashes across his face, startling to see in such a grim situation. “And we calm the fuck down. Don’t move from here, don’t stick your head out to take a shot, and we’ll be good.”
Oh sure, easy for him to say. “You’ve been in shootouts before?”
He nods, and his attention goes back to scanning the rickety clapboard walls of the old grocery. Sunlight’s pouring in through the cracks, and it’s a beautiful day outside. Perfect day for a nice sniping, I suppose.
“Relax.” He casually sticks his gun over the fridge door, fires, and almost immediately, there’s return fire. “Yep, still out there.”
“Relax. Right.” I press my back against the wall, clutching my gun. Relax, the man says. Like people shooting guns and killing people in front of my face is nothing to worry about. But even so, I’m good at mentally “going away” in a bad situation. I’ve had lots of practice, and my thoughts turn to my favorite topic: horror movies. Guns are not uncommon, but most gunfights are one sided. Good guy shoots monster or cannibal of choice, film at eleven. Gunfights are things I associate with Westerns and action movies. “What’s your favorite movie?”
Daniel
brings his gun up, and immediately another bullet zips through the weathered boards. He lowers his gun as quickly, grimacing. It’s a good thing we have the old refrigerator to protect us, or we’d be splattered on the concrete like the snitch. He glances over at me. “Are you really asking me this now?”
“Hey, you’re the one that wanted us to become besties instead of screwing.”
He snorts. “Okay. Okay.” A moment passes, and then he glances back at me. “Die Hard.”
I should have known. “Could you be more clichéd?”
“Maybe it’s clichéd because it’s fucking awesome. Seriously. The guy invented ‘yippee ki-yay, motherfucker.’ We used to yell that in the army. Not too many movie lines making it into the army. Usually the other way around.” His eyes narrow and he cocks his head, listening, then experimentally lifts his gun and shoots.
No return fire.
“It’s quiet. Is that good?” I ask.
“Means they’re on the move. Don’t worry.”
Oh sure. Don’t worry, he says. I’ll never leave you, Regan, he says. When is Daniel going to realize he’s full of shit? “Riiiight.”
“Die Hard,” he says again, pulling his shoe off his foot as I watch him. “Defeated a platoon of bad guys in his bare feet. Even in the army, they let you wear boots.” He wiggles his eyebrows at me, like a mischievous boy, then tosses his shoe over the top of the refrigerator and out toward the entryway of the old grocery.
It brings on a fresh round of shooting, and bullets fly hard and heavy. I duck and cringe against Daniel, my fingers going to his waistband for comfort. It’s like if I’m holding on to him, I’m safer.
"Little more to the left, sweetheart. Though I have to say, your timing is terrible when it comes to foreplay."
Oh come on. Like I'd blow him in a gun fight. "My timing's the only thing that's saving you from getting a fist in the dick right now. Exactly what purpose did throwing your shoe serve?”
“It tells me we’ve still got shooters at the back of the building. Though I don’t think they’re sniping anymore.” He grunts. “Means they’re moving up. So what about you?”
I release his belt and fumble for my gun. “What about me?”
“What’s your favorite movie?”
Oh, are we still on that? I’d forgotten. Absently, I raise my gun and scan the room. I want to help if bad guys surge us. “The Thing, John Carpenter version, 1982.”
“That’s a weird ass favorite.”
“It’s brilliant. Or would you have rather I’d said The Princess Diaries because I’m a girl?” I want to roll my eyes at him. “You’re such a cliché, you know that? Your favorite color is camo, and you have a dozen sniper berets to match all the black turtlenecks in your closet.”
He snorts and glances over at my trembling gun. I’m aiming it at the walls, waiting for a shadow to pass through the sunbeams. "Trying to remember your shooting lessons?"
"Now's a great time, don't you think?"
"Jesus Hermione Christ. Just don't shoot me in my goddamn balls, okay? I need those for the ladies."
A dozen irritated retorts spring from my lips, but I cut them off. Instead, I raise the gun, aim it, pull the trigger, and nothing happens.
"Safety," he warns me, peering around the refrigerator.
Right. I fumble with the gun, my fingers weirdly shaky. I figure out the safety, unlock it, and raise the gun again. This time, it goes off when I pull on the trigger, and my entire hand vibrates from the recoil.
There’s no answering shot.
Daniel cocks his head and waits. He pulls off his other shoe and points at the far end of the room. “Shoot in that direction. I’m going to throw my other shoe in a moment and see if we get a response from either side.”
I look at the far end of the room. There’s a high window, and in the distance, I can see slums. What if I shoot and hit a passerby? “Can’t I shoot at the ceiling?”
“Yeah, because it looks so sturdy,” Daniel says sarcastically. “The perfect thing to end a gunfight is the ceiling collapsing on top of you.”
“All right, all right,” I mutter. When he waves a hand for me to hurry it up, I shoot at the far wall. Daniel listens and a moment later tosses his other shoe at the door.
There’s nothing but silence. It’s so quiet I can practically hear the dead girl bleeding on the ground a short distance away.
“Sounds like they’re gone,” he tells me, but he doesn’t move a muscle, so I don’t, either. We listen to the eerie silence and hear nothing. Daniel looks over at me, then nods at the open warehouse floor. "Either that, or they're trying to flank us. You stay here, and I'll check things out."
"No!"
"It's not a debate."
"I'm coming with you—"
"No, you're not," Daniel says, glaring at me. "It's not safe. Now stay here or I'm going to tear you a new fucking asshole when I get back, understand?"
I return his glare, equally furious. I watch as he slides around the side of the refrigerator and then slinks his way to the side of the building. He's entirely hidden in shadow, and if I blinked, I'd lose him entirely.
A low tremble starts through my body. I wonder if it's a trick. If he's going to turn and walk away and leave me behind for good. If he's ditching me, like everyone else has. A knot of anxiety locks my throat.
Fuck this. I'm going with him. I come out of cover and run after him.
The sigh of irritation he sends in my direction goes right over my head. I'm not being left behind ever again.
I watch him flatten his body and move along the wall, gun cocked and ready to shoot. Then, I follow his lead, moving to the other side of the door so we’re both on a side, ready to shoot if anyone shoots back.
“So what’s The Thing about?” he asks me casually. His gaze isn’t on me, though. He’s constantly scanning our surroundings, and I wonder if he’s asking me to distract me.
“It’s about Kurt Russell being a badass.” I keep my answer short. I’m nervous, and my voice sounds too loud in the silence. It’s making me anxious. “Doing what badasses do.”
“Sounds like a great plot. How did I ever miss seeing it before?” Again, Daniel’s all sarcasm and wit. It’s like the more dangerous things get, the punchier his humor gets. He ducks low, which surprises me, and quietly gestures for me to do the same.
I nod, and it occurs to me that our conversation might be a cover to distract our shooters . . . which means they’re closer than ever. Which makes me even more nervous. “It’s full of blowjobs, too.” I lie to see if he’s paying attention. “Lots and lots of blowjobs.”
“Sounds like my kind of movie now,” he says idly. Then, whip fast, he rushes out the front door and confronts the men trying to kill us.
I hear a gunshot go off, something cracks like pottery smashing, and then I see Daniel turn and fire his gun at something out of my line of vision.
Once.
Twice.
A body slumps to the ground.
It’s a blur of motion, it happens so fast. I stare at the dead man at Daniel’s feet, his neck at an odd angle. Daniel fires one more shot, puts a hand to his side, and fires one more time. There’s a thump nearby, and Daniel grunts, then holsters his gun. “We’re good. You can come out now.”
Come out? I haven’t even had time to think about firing my gun. In a daze, I get to my feet, noticing that one of the bullets struck inches above my head. If I’d been standing, I’d be dead.
“Come on,” Daniel says. “We don’t want to be here in case their buddies come back.”
He doesn’t have to tell me twice. I rush to his side, stepping over the dead man at his feet as Daniel casually picks up one of his shoes and frowns at the bullet-hole in the toe. He shoves them on as I look around for the other dead man. There, a short distance away, with a perfect bullet hole in the center of his forehead.
Jesus. Daniel moved so fast.
He takes me by the arm since I’m not moving fast enough, and we leave the g
rocery behind, heading back into the slums. Daniel looks over at me. “You okay?”
“Yeah.” I’m still dazed, at his speed more than anything. I wanted to help, and I was useless. Less than useless. For the first time, I’m starting to realize what Daniel has been saying. Not only is my life in danger when I go with him, but I’m putting him in danger, too, because he has to watch for me. It’s not a good feeling.
“You still got that grenade?” He reaches into one of the side pockets of my flak jacket and pulls it out, and my eyes widen. That explains what hurt my ribs, though I wouldn’t have belly flopped if I’d have known I was belly flopping on top of a live grenade. Maybe that was why he didn’t tell me.
“What’s it for?” I ask him and glance around. “Are there more guys?”
“Nah. We’re going to send a message to our buddies.” He pulls the pin and pitches the grenade like a baseball into one of the windows of the old grocery.
“What’s the message?” I ask as Daniel grabs my arm and we start walking away again.
Two seconds later, there’s a loud boom and debris rains down. He looks over at me, boyish with glee. “Our message is ‘Yippee ki-yay, motherfuckers.’”
“Predictable,” I tell him, but I grin until he winces and clutches his ribs again. Then I realize . . .
Daniel’s been shot.
Fifteen
Daniel
"ARE YOU HURT?" SHE ASKS.
“You offering to play nurse?” I wiggle my eyebrows lasciviously. “I love that uniform. I think it’s the white shoes.”
"Would you be serious for one minute?” She tugs at my shirt, and I turn my head to hide a wince. So I got shot; since I’m upright and able to walk, it must’ve winged me. I’ll need a little alcohol and superglue, and it’ll be fine. The most urgent thing is to get Regan to a safe house.
"Come on, let's find a nice place where you can feel me up later. When we have more privacy. I'm not into public shows.” Adrenaline’s pumping hard throughout my body. If she’d been willing, I’d have taken her on the floor of the grocery.
She rolls her eyes but follows. "I don't think you're being funny right now.”
Last Breath Page 13
