Текст книги "Last Breath"

Автор книги: Jessica Clare

Соавторы: Jen Frederick
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Текущая страница: 6 (всего у книги 20 страниц)

Nine

Regan

“OH MY GOD, REGAN. IT’S SO good to hear your voice.”

I’m startled to hear her on the other end. “D-Daisy?” She’s the last person I expected. My mind is still back on the sofa, where I more or less tried to rape Daniel.

Oh my god. I’ve become just like those assholes that used me. I feel so revolting, so unclean. I swallow back bile and try to concentrate on the phone.

“It’s me.” Daisy’s sweet, tearful voice makes me feel worse. My roomie, innocent Daisy, is the one that sent Daniel? I don’t understand. Daisy wouldn’t know someone that ran red lights, much less a man that kills people and frequents brothels.

I look over at Daniel, confused. His tired face is lined with anger and hard as he crosses his arms and watches me talk on the phone. He’s pissed. No, he’s beyond pissed. Trying to fuck him was a bad call, and now he’s going to ditch me and that Mr. Freeze guy will be there to scoop me up.

“Thank God,” Daisy is babbling in my ear. “Are you okay? Are you hurt? Talk to me.”

I don’t know what to say. “I’m okay.” All my war wounds are on the inside. Physically? I’m dandy. “I’m just . . . confused.”

Daniel grunts and pulls another phone out of his pocket, another burner. How many does this man have? He starts texting, and his gaze flicks to me. “Tell her to start at the beginning.”

I lick my lips—they still taste like bile—and speak, “Daniel says to start at the beginning.”

“Okay.” She exhales loudly, as if steeling herself. “You know Nick? The Ukrainian guy I’ve been dating?”

“Yes.” I haven’t met him personally but I’ve seen him a few times in the hallway of the apartment building, and innocent Daisy is head over heels for the guy.

“He’s a hit man. Or he was. He’s giving it up for me.”

I’m not entirely sure I heard her right. “He’s what?”

“A hit man. An assassin. He used to kill people for a living.” It’s so strange to hear those words come from innocent Daisy’s voice, but she’s not apologetic about it. She accepts it. “Someone killed his mentor, and Nick was hunting him down. That’s why he was in Minneapolis. Well, that and another job. It’s a little complicated.” She’s rushing through the words as if they’re not important. “Nick was being chased by the Russian Mafia—the Bratva. And . . . remember when you had my cellphone? They thought you were me. They were going to take me to force Nick to do their bidding. And I think they kept you because. . .” she hesitated, “you’re pretty.”

I swallow hard, memories flashing forward. Of a scary, hulking blond man showing up at the apartment with the ugly Yury. Yury pushing a needle into my arm, drugging me. Yury ripping my clothing off—

I shake my head to clear it of the horrible memories, but they lurk at the edges of my mind, waiting for a weak moment. They kept you because you’re pretty.

“I . . .” I try to think of what to ask. I’m revolted, and yet I have questions. “How did you get away?”

“Nick saved me,” she says, and I can hear the love in her voice, and the affectionate murmur of a man’s response nearby. “We tried to find you, but . . .” her voice wobbles.

Resentment flares in my gut. I try to bury it, but it’s difficult. I keep silent, lest I say something I regret.

“They sold you off to someone,” Daisy continues. “And then people kept coming after Nick, so we had to go into hiding. We sent Daniel to find you.”

Daniel, who I’ve treated like shit. Who I’ve used, who I’ve done nothing but cry around. I give him another wary look. “He’s a hit man, too?”

“Yes. He’s one of Nick’s friends.”

“Okay.”

“O-okay? Don’t you have more questions?” She sounds confused, like she’s pictured this conversation in her mind a million times and it’s not going the way she wants it to.

“No,” I say flatly. “I’m good.” And I hand the phone back to Daniel.

He cocks an eyebrow, giving me an odd look. Then he takes the phone back, gets to his feet, and stands again. His voice is low. “Daisy, sweetheart, why don’t you put Nikolai back on the phone?” A moment later, he switches to a foreign language and begins to spit words out. I don’t catch most of it but I hear Gomes and Regan intermixed with what must be Russian. Or Ukrainian. I don’t know either one. He’s talking about me, and in another language deliberately so I can’t pick up what they’re saying.

I clasp my hands together and stare down at them in my lap. I’m trying not to, but the truth is I’m burning with bitterness at my conversation with Daisy. It sounds like while I was sold into a brothel, she was running back to the United States with her boyfriend in tow, the very same boyfriend that got us into this mess.

And because they couldn’t be bothered, I was left behind for someone else to find.

I’m sure that’s not the full story, of course. If I were rational, it’d make sense to me. But I’m not rational anymore. I’m a freakshow who tries to fuck men—even when they don’t want it—and who cries at the drop of the hat.

They kept you because you’re pretty.

My fingers curl, and I fight the urge to claw my own eyes out, to mark myself up until I’m no longer “pretty” enough to be a whore. Although the way that Daniel looks at me after I tried…well, after what happened maybe no one will want me anyway.

I bet if Daisy had been sold into a brothel, she’d have been retrieved right away. Her dangerous Ukrainian boyfriend would have seen to that. But my boyfriend is Mike. Mike didn’t come for me. No one did.

Until Daniel. And I’ve been awful to him.

As if he knows my thoughts have veered in his direction again, Daniel turns around, barks a quick word into the phone, and then closes it with a snap. It’s clear he’s still seething, but he doesn’t want to lash out at me.

“Sorry,” I murmur, my voice thick. “I know I’m a head case.”

He gives me an exasperated look and then heads for the kitchen. As I watch, he grabs a bottle of some sort of liquor and two glasses. He heads back to the living room, sits on the other end of the sofa, puts the glasses on the end table, and begins to pour two drinks. “Regan, you’ve been through hell in ways I can’t even imagine. No one’s expecting you to be shitting daisies right now. But you and I have to work together to get you out of here, okay? I need to know what’s going on so I can save both of our asses.”

I watch him for a moment and then offer something that’s not quite an apology. “I panicked earlier. That’s why I . . . tried to seduce you. I thought you were going to send me away. I thought you’d like it. I’ve seen you looking at me. And I saw the panties you bought me.” Tears pool in my eyes, and I swipe them away. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I wasn’t thinking. I was just . . . desperate. I didn’t know what to do. So I just . . . acted. Now I’m as bad as the men at the brothel.” Snot’s running out of my nose and I’m a mess, but I don’t know what to do to make things better. I tried to fix things and I just made them so much worse.

Daniel leaves the room and comes back a moment later with a roll of toilet paper, which he hands to me. I blow my nose and wipe my eyes obediently.

“Yeah.” He shakes his head. “You fucked up. Not gonna lie, I’m more than a little pissed about the situation. Listen,” he hands me a glass of the clear alcohol, “truth is I think you’re gorgeous, okay? But I’m not that big of a dick. I wouldn’t touch you because I know what you’ve been through. You’re safe with me. I bought you girly panties because that was what they were selling at the store I was at and I didn’t want to leave you alone for any longer than necessary. I’m sorry if I sent you the wrong signal. I’m not here to fuck you, okay? I’m here to save your ass.” He downs his drink and lifts the glass in a toast. “However fine it might be.”

A reluctant half-smile touches my mouth. I glance down at my drink and sniff it. It smells . . . strange. “What is this?”

“Local drink of choice. Cachaça,”—he says it like ka-shah-sah—“kinda like rum, kinda not.”

“So why are we drinking?”

“Because I sure as shit need a drink after this morning,” he says, pouring himself another one. “And you need to relax. Now, bottoms up.”

I shrug. He’s right. I do need to relax. I feel like I’ve been in panic mode for the last twenty-four hours. I tilt the glass back and down its contents. At first it tastes a bit like rum, then it explodes into something totally different, and I cough. My throat is raw from all the puking I’ve been doing. “Whoa.”

“Yeah, it’s something else.” He refills my glass with another shot of the cachaça. “Now, drink that and then we’ll talk.”

I suck down the next shot of the cachaça and the alcoholic burn begins to float through my limbs. Normally it would take more than two shots to get me plastered, but I’ve got an empty stomach and the alcohol is strong. I hold my glass out for another shot, and Daniel obliges.

“So,” he asks, “we feeling better now?”

“Better,” I agree. And I am a little better. “Thank you.”

“How come you didn’t want to talk to Daisy?”

I give him a skeptical look. “So the plan is to get me drunk and quiz me?”

“Bingo,” he says, filling my glass again.

I down the newest shot and I’m definitely feeling floaty and relaxed. I notice Daniel has been holding the same full glass while I’ve been pounding them away. Sneaky man. A thought occurs to me and I stiffen. “You’re not getting me drunk so—”

Daniel’s eyes widen. “Christ, no. That fantasy’s a little ruined for me at the moment with that whole you-jumping-me-and-then-puking thing.”

I wince. “Bad call.”

“Yep,” he says flatly.

“Ugh. That was rapey of me.”

“Eh. It makes sense, in a fucked up sort of way. You’re desperate.” He refills my glass before I can ask. “When you’re desperate, you do crazy shit. Been there.”

I muse on his words, languid now that the alcohol is doing its magic. So sex with me was a fantasy, huh? If only he knew. “Probably for the best that the sex fantasy is ruined,” I confide to him. “I don’t know if you noticed, but I have a few issues.”

He snorts. “Darlin’, you are the poster child for issues.”

I giggle at that, unable to help myself. I should be insulted, but he’s right. I’m all fucked up in the head, and I acknowledge it. Then I sigh, looking down at my glass. “At least it’s just sex I’m messed up about. It’s not like I’m missing out.”

“Do tell.”

I peer over at him and am reminded he’s rather good-looking. He’s got that all-American boy thing going for him. I’d have totally crushed on him if I’d had a class with him back at college. “It’s not like it was great before, you know? Never had an orgasm with a guy. Pretty sure it’s bullshit.”

Daniel groans. “You are positively killing me here, Regan.”

“Why?”

He shakes his head. “Change of subject. Why were you short with Daisy?”

I lick the rim of my glass since he’s not refilling it. Maybe I should stay drunk for the next month. “Because I didn’t want to be mean to her.”

“Why would you be mean to her?”

“Because she got away,” I whisper. “She got away and left me. Everyone left me.” I swallow hard and put my glass down. Then I look at Daniel. “You’re not going to leave me, are you?”

“I’m not, sweetheart. You have my word on that.” He looks at me thoughtfully and then downs his drink. “But you need to tell me why you won’t go to the embassy. What’s there that scares you?”

“I saw a man,” I whisper. “Mr. Freeze’s bodyguard.”

“Mr. Freeze? Arnold Schwarzenegger? Like . . . from the shitty Batman movies?”

I shake my head and rub my arms, as if chilled. I’m not warm and toasty from the alcohol anymore. “The blond guy. The scary one. He buys girls. He bought me. He sent me to Rio to be ‘broken in.’ They can be as rough with me as they want, as long as they don’t mess up my face, wear condoms, and make sure I brush my teeth.”

“Your . . . teeth? Wear condoms?”

I rub a finger over my front teeth thoughtfully. “I think he has a hygiene fetish. He’d come and visit me at the brothel. Wouldn’t fuck me. Just put on plastic gloves before he touched me and looked me over. Asked them if they shaved me. Everything.” I shiver. “He scares me.”

“Maybe he’s a germophobe.”

I shake my head, remembering the bodyguard that was with him. “Everyone’s scared of him. Even Senhor Gomes.”

“So some rich guy has a fixation on you. Sends you to Gomes for what? Training? I guess that explains the use of condoms and good hygiene and why Gomes wants you back.” He doesn’t look happy with this news. “And you said you saw him at the embassy?”

“His bodyguard.” I shiver again, unable to help myself, and I realize for the first time that I’m sitting on the couch in nothing but my bra. Whoops.

Daniel notices my shivering and pulls the blanket around me, tucking it around me like he would a child. “Good to know. I’ll make a few calls and see if I can find out what’s going on. And then we’re going to have to move.”

“Move?” I blink at him, still drunk from the cachaça. “Why?”

“Because they’re going to know we’re in the area once they find out I killed Gomes’ little scout.” He says it so casually, like someone would comment on the weather. “We’re safe for now, but tonight we need to move on.”

I hug the blanket closer. “And you’ll take me with you?”

“I’m afraid you’re all mine until we figure out what the deal is.” He rubs his neck and looks agitated, but not at me. “It’s a goddamn mess, isn’t it?”

“Can I get a gun?”

He gives me a speculative look. “Do you promise to stop crying?”

“I will, if you get me a gun. Then I’ll shoot you if I get upset.”

For some reason, this makes him laugh. “I think we can manage that.”

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 needs 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 kick 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.