by Dana Marton
“You go back to Rosa over my dead body,” he said through gritted teeth.
But she only stood still with her head down, nothing but hopelessness and misery in the set of her slim shoulders. Maybe she didn’t believe him.
Why the hell would she believe him? When the hell had anyone done right by her before, dammit?
He worked to tamp down his rising fury so it wouldn’t come through his voice. “Where would you like to go?”
“Please let me stay with you.” She folded herself smaller. “I won’t be any trouble. You won’t even notice me.”
Christ, he couldn’t stand to see anyone like this.
“All right. If you want to stay, you can stay.”
She was the only one who could positively identify Goat Man, anyway. “But I don’t want you begging in front of me, or anyone else. Do you understand? This is where it ends, Daniela. You’re starting over.”
Her head snapped up, an equal measure of confusion and relief on her beautiful face. “I can stay with you?”
“You can. In your room,” he added.
Relief won, and the next second, she was kissing his hand, grabbing it so tightly, he could barely get away from her.
“None of that either.”
She dropped his hand immediately. “Yes, Senhor Ian.”
“Call me just Ian.”
She flashed a cautious smile, the first he’d seen on her. “Yes, Senhor Ian.”
He sighed. What the hell, they could work on that.
“We’re going to take a walk around town, see if you can spot this Goat Man,” he said.
“I will.” She couldn’t promise fast enough.
The top of her head didn’t quite reach his shoulder. Her straight black hair hung down to her waist. She had large eyes and a small nose, a mouth that someday might grow into generous. Small hips, small breasts.
“Before we go…” He cleared his throat. “Can you do something to make yourself look older? Put your hair in a bun or something.”
She looked puzzled. “Like Rosa?”
He nodded.
And while she disappeared into her room, he searched the cupboard for tequila again, just in case he’d missed something the day before, all the while wondering what in hell he was doing here. Anyone seeing the two of them together would think she was his fricking concubine or some such shit.
But the only alternative to keeping her with him was sending her back to Rosa, or setting her loose so some other fucker could take control of her. So when she came out in a longer dress and her hair in a bun, still not looking a day over seventeen, he bit back a curse and decided he didn’t care.
But shit, he couldn’t even remember being this young. At thirty, he felt ancient next to her.
He moved toward the door, but then something popped into his head, and he looked back at her again.
In the army, he’d known recruits as young as eighteen, some almost as petite as her. They’d fought fine. So why not Daniela?
He cleared his throat. “We’re going to look for this Goat Man. Then we’ll come back here and eat lunch. And then I’m going to teach you how to fight.”
And when she learned that, he was going to teach her how to shoot a gun. She was done being anybody’s victim.
Daniela looked at him, bewildered. But she said, “Yes, Senhor Ian.”
He stifled a groan. They were also going to work on that senhor bit. But first, he wanted to find the man in white and see what the guy had to do with Finch’s death.
* * *
From the shadows between the two houses across the road, the very spot where Ian had spent the night before last, a boy watched as the newly arrived foreigner and the girl left the house.
The boy grinned. Good thing he’d come today. The man who paid him for watching had given him the job a month back, but after the first week, when nobody showed up, the boy didn’t watch all day, every day.
Luckily, he did today, which meant he would get the promised bonus.
He followed the foreigner and the girl from a safe distance. They walked around Santana, sat outside a café across the road from the police station and drank coffee, watched the policemen come and go for hours. Then they walked around some more. Nothing interesting.
The boy kept track of them until they returned to the house. Then he ran off to find someone with a phone he could borrow to call in the news. He had the number on a piece of paper in his pocket.
Chapter Five
Eduardo
Eduardo Morais listened to the kid over the phone as he looked out his living room window from his tenth-floor apartment at the rushing city traffic of Rio de Janeiro below him. Only two bedrooms, and five whole blocks from the beach, his home was nothing like his father’s mansion. But Eduardo was on his way back up in the world. He envisioned a penthouse apartment overlooking Sugarloaf Mountain and Guanabara Bay in the very near future.
On the other end of the line, the kid jabbered on about how hard he’d worked, watching the house day and night, never sleeping. Eduardo hung up on him. The little maggot would get his bonus; no need to squeal about it.
Eduardo turned from the window, the kid already forgotten. The news was what mattered.
Another foreigner had come.
Meu Deus, that had been a long shot.
Eduardo walked through the air-conditioned flat and into the kitchen, and, as he grabbed a bottle of cachaça and poured a glass, he silently congratulated himself for leaving the little whore alone. He’d made a strategic decision at the time, and he didn’t regret it.
The men he’d sent to make Finch talk had panicked when Finch had fought back harder than they’d expected. One of the idiots shot the American. Eduardo had decided not to interrogate the girl living with the bastard. If Finch could keep a secret so well that he didn’t reveal it under torture, he wouldn’t have blabbed it out to his whore.
So Eduardo had left the girl in place and waited. Finch had made a call to an unlisted number in the USA the night he left Rio. He had a buddy. And Eduardo had bet big on the buddy showing up sooner or later to find out what had happened to Finch.
The American would come if he was a close friend. And if he was a close friend, Finch might have told him where he’d put what he’d stolen. And if the friend knew, he’d definitely come down to grab the package.
Looked like the friend was finally here.
And this time, Eduardo wasn’t going to settle for some stupid local muscle. This time, he would take his own best men with him.
He drank his celebratory drink. Then picked up his phone from the counter, ready to call and reserve a seat on the first flight from Rio to Manaus, the city of his birth, but his phone rang before he could dial.
As he looked at the display, he rubbed his thumb across the patch of beard on the top of his chin and smiled. Marcos. And, at long last, Eduardo had good news for his older brother. This time, Eduardo was riding to the rescue. This time, Eduardo had the answers. This time, Eduardo would be the hero of the story.
He answered the call with “I think I finally—”
“Doesn’t matter,” Marcos snapped on the other end. “The old hyena had a stroke. He might be dead by morning. Get over here. We’re going to contest the will.”
* * *
Ian
A light rain fell outside, which meant no evening bugs, thank God. The lack of flying and biting insects was the only thing going well. Technicolor pain pounded through Ian’s brain as he sat on the couch. The headache was back in full force and then some. Nausea swirled in his stomach.
As the rain pitter-pattered on the metal roof, he felt as if each drop was pinging off his brain. He regretted not buying booze while they’d been out earlier. But with things as they were, he couldn’t afford to get plastered. He couldn’t afford the oblivion he craved.
He needed to find the man in the white suit. And then he needed to beat the life out of the bastard. After the man answered some questions. Like who was he, and why did
he kill Finch. What had the bastard been after?
Finch had been tortured before he’d been killed. To give up something. Which he didn’t give up, because, according to Daniela, the house had been tossed.
Two possibilities existed: either the killers had found what they were looking for, or they hadn’t.
Ian was betting on the latter.
When he’d headed out earlier with Daniela, he noticed a boy—about ten years old—following them around. He’d seen the same boy across the road when he’d looked out the window that morning.
The boy was gone now. If he came back, Ian planned on walking across the road and having a talk with him.
“Food is ready, Senhor Ian,” came from the kitchen.
Daniela was fast and competent. They hadn’t been home ten minutes. She wanted to prove her worth to him.
And he needed to show approval so she could stop worrying that he’d send her back to Rosa, but dinner was the last thing he wanted. Just thinking about eating hurt.
Even so, he got up, closing his eyes for a second as his head threatened to blow. She had cooked for him. The least he could do was try, so he shuffled over to the table.
The sight of the food didn’t fill him with confidence. The two plates held nothing but razor-thin slices of fresh, raw fish wrapped around chunks of fruit.
She looked at him with hopeful expectation.
“It’s the most appallingly healthy meal I’ve ever seen,” he muttered as he sat.
And she smiled at him across the table with relief, obviously having no idea what appalling meant in English.
She picked up a piece with her fingers and shoved it into her mouth.
He did the same. What the hell.
His stomach didn’t roil. Actually, it settled. Food gave the acid something to do.
He ate in silence. Maybe she sensed that he needed that, because she didn’t say a word either as Ian cleared off his plate piece by slimy piece.
And he was glad he did, because the empty plate seemed to fill Daniela with joy and satisfaction. She smiled from ear to ear as she cleared off the table.
Next, she brought him some bitter-smelling tea from the stove. “You drink this, Senhor Ian.”
The brew had the color and consistency of swamp water and smelled like an overused outhouse at high noon in hundred-degree weather.
Maybe she had killed Finch, and now she wanted to kill Ian.
Ian backed up. “No way.”
Undeterred, she pointed at his temple. “Jungle tea for the head pain.”
The food had helped a little, but his brain was still pounding so hard, just talking with her hurt. Either he went back out for some hard liquor or drank this swamp water. Since he didn’t want to be impaired tonight, he drank the brew.
Jesus, Mary, and Joseph!
His stomach rolled.
He held still as if that could hold back an eruption.
And maybe it did, because as seconds passed, the nausea settled. And then, little by little, his headache began to fade.
“I think I’m keeping you forever,” he said on a sigh, without thought, focused on the bliss of dimming pain.
She stood frozen to the spot, eyes glistening, and she blinked hard. The amount of innocent hope on her face was truly heartbreaking. And the admiration completely undeserved.
Ian pushed back his chair and stood. “You’ll never go back to the Rosa bitch. I meant that.” He filled his lungs with air that smelled of fish and rain, then cleared his throat. “We’ll see about the rest. Now, let’s get to work.”
He sounded gruff, even to his own ears.
She sprang into action, happy as a stray at the offer of leftovers. “I’ll clean, Senhor Ian.”
“Forget that for now. We’ll clean up together later. Right now, you’re going to learn how to defend yourself.” He moved to the living room, pushing the furniture out of the way.
Every piece was made of bamboo, except the couch pillows. He could see where things had been broken when the house had been ransacked, saw how she’d fixed things with rope and glue. She was industrious, he had to give her that.
He stood in the middle of the room and turned to her. “Attack me.”
She paled. Stepped back. “Oh no, Senhor Ian.”
He sighed. “Just Ian.”
“Yes, Senhor Ian.”
He shook his head. “You said if I let you stay, you’d do anything I tell you.”
Her gaze dropped to his crotch. She hung her head, her enthusiasm leaking away. Her voice dropped to a whisper. “Yes, Senhor Ian.”
Not that!
“Attack me,” he snapped.
She looked up, her gaze unsure.
“We are never going to have sex.” He was embarrassed just having to say that. And when was the last time he’d felt embarrassed, for fuck’s sake? “We’re not even going to see each other naked. Ever.”
She was watching him, uncertain, disbelieving.
“Attack me,” he ordered again.
No was written all over her. But here she had a dilemma, because she also wanted to please and obey him. After a moment of struggle, she carefully stepped up to him and kicked him gently in the shin with the tip of her toes.
Christ, they had a long evening ahead of them.
* * *
Daniela
Senhor Ian was a scary man. He was also a nice man. He confused Daniela to frustration.
He spent the evening ordering her to beat him up, until she had no choice but to fight him, as honestly as she’d fought the boys back in her village when they’d taken her coconuts. She hit him, hard. And he didn’t hit her back. He patiently showed her how he was deflecting each punch.
Then he sent her to bed. In her own room. He did not tie her up again.
He’d told her they would not have sex. He’d also told her that he wouldn’t send her back to Rosa.
So what did he want with her, then? He bought her food, let her stay at the house, and didn’t want anything from her. She didn’t understand him.
He must want something. But what is it? She had trouble falling asleep, trying half the night to answer that question.
She didn’t consider running away. Where would she run? To do what? Even if she slept in the streets, she’d need money to eat. And if she slept in the streets, she’d be at the mercy of everyone who was stronger than she.
With what Senhor Ian had taught her, she could maybe fight off the village boys back home, but if a couple of loggers grabbed her, she wouldn’t stand a chance.
She wished she could stay here, in this house, with Senhor Ian forever.
Not only did he not make her do things she didn’t want to do, but he had said he would protect her. With Senhor Finch, she’d lived in the constant fear that Senhora Rosa would come for her. After Senhor Finch, the first man who realized that she was on her own could have taken control of her.
But now… Was she safe? The idea took time getting used to. She hadn’t felt safe since she’d been a small child. She tried to relax into the thought, into the night, little by little. She couldn’t.
Her thoughts kept returning to Senhor Ian.
He had pain deep in his eyes that had nothing to do with the pain of his headaches. Hidden pain. The pain of things he tried not to think about. Daniela recognized the look from the mirror.
Senhor Ian…
Senhor Ian acted friendly toward her, but Pedro too had been her friend once, then he’d given her to Senhora Rosa.
So maybe Senhor Ian was telling the truth about wanting to help her, and maybe he wasn’t. But if he was…
Even if he was, he would leave someday. He’d only come to find his friend. And only stayed to find his friend’s killers. When he did, he’d leave.
Daniela thought about that, and whether it’d be best not to help him.
* * *
Ian
Ian hated the bugs and the humidity and the heat, and the way Daniela would shrink from him if he spoke too loudly or mov
ed too fast, as if she expected him to start beating on her any second. He wanted to find out who killed Finch and why, have his reckoning with the bastard, then go the hell home. After he made some sort of safe arrangements for Daniela.
He spent his second full day in Santana going around town asking about Finch. Other than Daniela, nobody knew that Finch had been killed, so Ian was playing it as if his best friend had simply disappeared, and Ian had come to find him.
That might bring the bad guys out.
His head hurt like a sonuvabitch. His insides felt jiggly. His hands trembled. He wanted a drink more than he wanted the rain to halt, the bugs to quit biting, and pickpockets to stop targeting him. Only Daniela’s jungle tea, when they finally returned to the house that night, made life bearable. Without the nasty brew, he was pretty sure he would have caved.
But the next day, he went back out and kept asking his questions. Then the next day, and the day after that.
Wherever he went, he took Daniela with him. He didn’t want to leave her behind alone, not when he wasn’t sure what the boy he’d seen watching the house was about.
Ian kept an eye out for the kid. If someone had paid the kid to watch the house and report, maybe Ian could pay more and the kid would talk to him, tell him where he’d gone to give his report. Unfortunately, the boy disappeared.
A full week passed like that, nothing but an exercise in futility. Sunday night, after spending hours in town yet again, spreading the word about who he was and what he wanted, Ian finally returned home with Daniela just as empty-handed as he’d begun the week.
She cooked, something coconuty this time, and the meal went down nice and easy. Sure beat the fast-food burgers he would have had back home. After a week of her cooking, he barely even had acid.
She also made more jungle tea, for which he didn’t know whether to bless her or curse her.
He watched her as he sipped his tea, trying to hold his nose. She was drying dishes. She kept the house in meticulous order. He usually fried some eggs for breakfast, and they grabbed lunch from a street vendor while they were out, but she cooked dinner every single day.
