Last Breath

Twenty-four

Daniel

LETTING REGAN GO BACK TO Hudson is about the worst thing I have ever done. Petrovich and Mendoza literally sit on me to keep me from dragging Gomes out and punching him until his face is raw, tenderized meat. Kind of like what’s between his pants right now.

“It’s time.” Petrovich hands me a cheap pair of black pants, a white shirt, and a vest. These are our uniforms. The GPS Regan has will alert us to her location and hopefully that will reveal my sister. Petrovich is still working out where his hacker will be. He thinks basement. I don’t really give two shits.

“Do I tape my gun to the bottom of the tray?”

“No weapons,” Mendoza reminds me. Only Hudson’s carefully vetted guards are allowed weapons. Even those in the kitchen are screened due to their placement near knives and heavy objects, but I guess the wait staff is not. At some point, Petrovich and I will have to disarm two guards, take their weapons, and find Regan.

Getting inside Hudson’s compound is ridiculously easy if you have no weapons and are dressed like staff. Mendoza has done it before; at the time he was unwilling to level the place to find his lost girl. But I guess it ate at him, and now we’ve tipped him over the edge. That and we’re the ones taking all the risks.

“You eat this shit?” Petrovich asks, sniffing at the squares of raw tuna speared by a toothpick.

“We can’t all live on borscht,” I mock, picking up my own tray. “Let’s do one circle, meet back here and then decide on our targets.”

He nods and—with one more disgusted sniff—walks out.

Petrovich and I as waiters is a foolish disguise. I can already see the Hudson men eyeing us with suspicion. If it were just me, perhaps it wouldn’t be an issue, but Petrovich is a bear of a man with a dour expression—like Nick. Humorless.

Inside, I count eight Hudson men stationed at the corners of the room and two at each entrance. Their weapons aren’t visible, but their watchful eyes and careful poses set them apart from the party guests. The guards at the back of the room are being the least attentive; their eyes are wandering all over the barely-clad bodies of the female party favors. Hudson’s idea of party is a two-to-one ratio of prostitutes to men. My guess is that several of the “guests” are actually businessmen, although I see the familiar haircuts of military folk as well. Money, booze, and lack of control over one’s dick are the downfall of many careers.

“The men at the back,” I inform Petrovich when we meet in the expediting room where all the trays of food are delivered from the kitchen.

He nods. “There are four outside. First take out the two by the French doors. I will provide the distraction.”

I pick up my tray and head toward the back of the main party room. The French doors are open, and there is a near-constant stream of people moving toward the back where the pool is. Women are getting naked and drawing the crowd out. It’s easy enough to come up behind the guard on the right. Even easier to jab the discarded cocktail fork I’ve appropriated from a nearby table into his neck. He falls backward, but his descent goes unnoticed when Petrovich’s loud voice yells, “Bomb. There’s a pipe bomb.”

The guests start screaming and running in different directions as no one is sure where the bomb is located. I twist the neck of the guard and let him collapse on the floor. Moments later, his jacket is around my shoulders and the familiar weight of a semi-automatic is in my hand.” I take out the guard in the corner with an elbow to the nose. Two down, a million more to go. Over the melee, I see Petrovich disabling the guard across the way. I’ve got the ammunition and weapons of two. That’s enough. With a jerk of my head, I indicate I’m headed into the private rooms of the Hudson compound. I pull out the phone from my pocket and engage the GPS tracker. It’s good within five feet, Mendoza informed me.

The signal indicates that it’s northwest of my position, but as I look to the northwest, I see only a well-manicured lawn. The house doesn’t extend to the northwest from my position near the terrace and the French doors leading to the pool. Basement then. Dammit. I wish I had a blueprint of this fucking place. The tracker doesn’t map depth, only location. Regan was led north and then backtracked, but the private area of the house is too closed off. I’m going to have to find another way in. In the kitchen I find chaos. People are screaming and running several directions. I grab a worker by the collar as he sprints past me.

“Onde fica a adega?”

He shrugs and wiggles like a worm on a hook. Worthless. “Where’s the fucking basement?” I scream but no one answers the crazy Texan.

Methodically, I start throwing open doors. Closet, pantry, stairs to a cellar. Bingo. I run down the stairs, past wooden boxes and shelves of cheese and casks of wine. It smells cool and fresh, as if there is regular circulation of air down here. The thick brick walls mask the upstairs disarray, and I can hear the trickle of water and the hum of electricity and not much more.

I move through the cellar as soundlessly as possible, noting that its size outpaces the house that sits atop of it. About thirty feet in, the room stops and there is nothing but stacks of food stuffs and wine bottles against the wall.

But the freshness of the air quality down here doesn’t fit with the room ending at thirty feet. Above me I see the air ducts and electrical conduit which don’t terminate at the brick wall but actually continue beyond. I start tapping to find the opening. Between two barrels of wine and crates of something, I find a vertical seam in the brick. To the left, on the floor is a depression. I fit my foot into the depression and press downward. Holding my breath, I lean against the bricks and am rewarded with the sound of a lock mechanism disengaging. A slight push and the hidden door swings inward on well-oiled hinges. The hum of electricity is louder now, and I wonder if the hacker lair is positioned down here. It would explain the conduit, the well-circulated air, and the noise.

I have a gun in either hand as I creep down the hall, my one shoulder glued to the brick wall on my right.

“I’m hungry,” I hear a female say. The voice is muffled, but it doesn’t sound like Regan.

“What do you want?”

“Root beer float. For me and my new friend. I think she looks like she needs a root beer float.”

“Hudson isn’t going to like that you brought her in here.”

“The crying was bothering me. Wasn’t it bothering you? How am I supposed to work if there’s all this crying?”

God, that voice. I know that voice.

“You’ll be the one crying if he puts you in the locker. Last time he did that you wouldn’t stop sniveling for days,” the male voice sneers back.

“And he lost several hundreds of millions of dollars, so I think that I won’t be going back into the locker anytime soon. That wouldn’t make sense.” Oh Jesus. I slide down onto my butt. It’s Naomi. The relief I feel at hearing her voice is sapping all my energy. I want to lie down on the concrete and cry like a baby.

“Saying that Hudson makes rational decisions is your first mistake. Eh, your problem.” There’s a pause, then I hear him speak. “The Emperor wants a root beer float. Make that two.” Another pause. “What the fuck is going on up there?” I creep closer until I’m right outside the door. The voices are crystal clear now. I place the guns back in my pocket. My sister is in that room. Maybe even Regan. I can’t take the risk that I’m going to shoot either of them. “All right,” he sounds annoyed. “I’m coming right up.” There’s a rustling sound. “Something is going on upstairs. Stay put.”

“Where am I supposed to go?” There’s no sarcasm in the question. No, Naomi truly doesn’t know.

“Don’t go wandering around again, no matter who’s crying.” The voice is coming closer to me and so are the footsteps. I don’t know who else is in the room, so I stay crouched down. The door opens, and the feet exit. Exploding upward, I drive the heel of my palm into the man’s nose. The sound of the cartilage crunching into his skull is extremely satisfying. He stumbles back, and I push him down, crouching on top of him with one hand on his windpipe and my left knee in his balls. My gun is out now, and I take a quick look about the room. In a chair, trussed at the mouth and feet and wrists is Regan, looking wide-eyed, scared, and a little pissed off. Make that a lot pissed off. Behind a bank of computers is my sister Naomi, looking only slightly older than she was eighteen months ago, pale-eyed and pale-skinned like she never ever sees the light of day.

There’s no one else in here.

“Look away,” I order the girls but neither do. “Fuck it,” I say. I drive my elbow into the windpipe of the downed guard twice, and he passes out from lack of oxygen. But I’m not leaving this to chance. I drag him out into the hallway and shoot him once in the head and then another time in the chest.

“He was from Massachusetts,” my sister says behind me.

“I don’t even know why that’s important.” I don’t wait for her to answer but drag her into my arms. “And I don’t want to hear how you don’t like to be touched. That’s not going to fly with me today.”

She stands stiffly in my arms, but I don’t care. Relief, grief, joy all wash over me in an uncomfortable shower of emotions but I endure it and make her suffer it as well because I’m so grateful to see her alive. I squeeze her tight and then head over to Regan. Her eyes are gleaming, and maybe if my sister wasn’t there and a dead body wasn’t lying ten feet away, I’d do something more than bury my head in the crook of her neck, thanking all the deities above for showing me some fucking mercy.

“Will this work?” There’s a tap on my shoulder, and I turn to see Naomi holding a long knife. I presume she’s taken this from the dead man. With a short nod, I get to work on Regan’s bonds. The minute that she’s free, she’s back in my arms and the tears are falling. I’m pretty sure some of them are mine.

Regan

IT WAS NAOMI ’S IDEA TO TIE me up but keep me at her side. I guess the guards were used to her weird behaviors. She simply waltzed into her workroom with me, sat me down, and began to tie me up in a complex set of knots, checking each one over and over again and muttering to herself. But she didn’t tie me up tightly, and the looks she kept sending my way told me that this was all an act.

But then the door busts open, and Daniel is there. I barely notice that he effortlessly executes a man in seconds. All I care is that he’s here, and he’s come to get me. To my shame, I start crying again. I told myself I’d be strong, that I could do this and be the fighter Daniel thinks I am.

But I keep weeping. I’ve been so utterly terrified and seeing him brings it all to the forefront again.

I twist in my bonds, anxious as Daniel hugs his sister, and I see the relief and happiness in his face as he pulls her close. I know that look—he’s accomplished his goal now. He’s found his long-missing sister. He can go home now.

Strange how that scares me. If Daniel’s done here, what does it mean for me? Is he going to send me home with a pat on the back and a few memories?

Now’s not the time to think about it, though. Just as quickly as he hugged his sister, he heads over to me, and his knife rips apart Naomi’s careful knots in a matter of seconds. Then he drags me into his arms and buries his face in my neck. I feel a tremble rush through him, and I realize with wonder that he was as scared for me as he was for his sister.

And my tears start all over again.

“I’m sorry,” I say, huddling against Daniel. “I was trying to be a fighter, but they took my clothes and chained me in that room, and I-I couldn’t—” A broken sob escapes my throat.

“Shhh.” He strokes my hair. “You’re the bravest girl I know. There’s nothing to apologize for.”

I cling to him and then begin to press frantic kisses to his face, his throat, anywhere I can find skin. I’m so relieved to see him. I knew he’d come back for me, but knowing and seeing are two different things—and in the long minutes when I was trapped, naked, in Hudson’s sex prison, I worried that my luck had run out. That there would be no happy ever after for me.

Naomi makes a disgruntled noise at our hugging, so Daniel reluctantly pulls away, dragging me to my feet after him. His hand clutches mine tight, and I’m so glad. Then he releases it and offers me a gun, which makes me almost as happy.

He goes back to Naomi and looks his sister over. She cringes, wrinkling her nose as he hugs her close again and touches her, looking for bruises. “You’re okay, Naomi? You’re not hurt?”

She holds up a finger. “I have a paper cut.”

He laughs, and for a moment he looks so relieved that I want to laugh, too. “No, I mean, did these assholes hurt you? Did they touch you?”

“I don’t know why you’re discounting my paper cut,” Naomi says, disgruntled. “It’s quite deep.”

Daniel leans in and gives her a rough kiss on the cheek. “I love you, you nut. You know that, right?”

“I’m fine,” she says in a softer voice. “If that’s what you’re asking. No one has hurt me.” She puts her hands out and begins to straighten Daniel’s clothing, adjusting his collar and smoothing a wrinkle out of his sleeve.

“Thank God.” He seems to visibly deflate for a moment, and then he looks over at me. “Come on,” he says. “We need to get out of here. We’ve got one more guy to find, and then we’re busting out of this turkey farm.”

“This is not a turkey farm,” Naomi says, a furrow of concern on her brow. Her fingers dance along the brim of her cap again, apparently a nervous reaction. “This is an extremist compound. And if they find out I’ve escaped, they will kill Mom and Dad. I can’t leave.”

“They’re not going to kill anyone, Naomi. I promise.” Daniel’s words are so confident, even I believe them. “Now, come on. We have to get out of here.”

But Naomi hesitates, then shakes her head. She turns back to her desk and begins to straighten things, as if a tidy room will stop the anxiety she’s feeling. “I can’t leave. I can’t. Everyone gets hurt if I leave.”

Daniel casts his sister an exasperated look when she sits back down again and then moves to my side. “You okay, fighter?”

I nod, unable to do much more than that.

“Good. Okay. Stay here and shoot anyone that comes through that door unless it’s me or Petrovich. Hell, shoot Petrovich. I don’t give a damn. Keep yourself and Naomi safe and don’t worry about Petrovich. All he cares about is finding the hacker.”

“Here,” Naomi calls from her desk. She raises her hand as if we’re in class.

Before Daniel can say anything in response, a massive form fills the doorway, and we all turn, pointing our guns there.

It’s Petrovich, and for a moment, my finger itches on the trigger. He’s got blood splattered on his face, and he’s wearing the same ridiculous waiter uniform that Daniel is. Except on his enormous body, it’s tight over the arms and looks as if he’s been stuffed into it. Not much of a disguise. He’s got a gun held aloft, and there’s a wild look in his eyes.

“We need to leave right now,” he says in that ominous, deep voice.

“Goodbye,” Naomi says from her workstation, and her voice is sad.

“Did you find the hacker?” Vasily asks.

“Here,” Naomi says again and raises her hand. She doesn’t look at either man, just goes back to typing.

“Naomi’s the Emperor,” I whisper to Daniel, moving closer to him as Petrovich pushes his way into the room. “She’s the hacker. They’re the same person.”

“I know.” He sighs.

“Then she is mine,” Vasily says in a satisfied voice. To Naomi, he says, “You come with me.”

“Now wait a goddamn minute,” Daniel begins.

Naomi stands up, eyes Petrovich in that weird, not-quite-looking-into-your-face way of hers, then reaches out and straightens his collar. “I’m not going with you.”

Daniel

“CAN WE FUCKING TALK ABOUT this later?” There’s no way my little sister is going with that fuckhead Petrovich. I’ll kill him myself if I have to, but I need his muscle to get out.

“There is a caterer’s truck that is stalled, and they have abandoned it. Come now.” Petrovich orders.

“Go.” I gesture toward the women who, after a stalled pause, scamper after Petrovich as he barrels down the hall. We race toward the cellar space beneath the kitchen. Petrovich is first up the stairs. He fires two shots and then curses. When his magazine tumbles down the steps, I realize he’s out of bullets.

“Give him your gun,” I order Regan.

“What?” she clutches the black stock tighter between both hands. “No!”

“Give me the fucking gun, you stupid woman,” Petrovich grabs for the gun, but Regan resists.

“Don’t call her stupid, you asswipe.” I barrel up the stairs past Naomi and pull Regan away. “Here, take my gun. You’re the stupid fuck who ran out of bullets.” Regan scrunches her nose and reluctantly hands me the Ruger. “Thanks, fighter.” I give her quick kiss on her lips and push Petrovich in front of us, using him as a shield. What do I care if his bear of a body gets riddled with bullets? I only want to get my girls out of this fucked-up place.

Two of Hudson’s men are barricaded behind the center kitchen island and fire off a series of rounds when Petrovich’s head peeks out.

“Ebanatyi pidaraz,” he roars and then dives out, shooting five bullets quickly. I hear return fire and hold Regan back. Behind me I hear the harsh breaths of Naomi as her anxiety ratchets up.

“Fucking motherfucker,” she translates unnecessarily or maybe for Regan’s benefit, and then she begins rocking on her heels. “Too loud,” she’s saying repeatedly, her hands over her ears. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

I yell the last profanity out loud. I have to get them out. Regan’s crying but places a comforting arm around Naomi’s shoulders. I don’t have time to tell Regan that Naomi isn’t a fan of touching before Naomi lets out a piercing scream.

“Oh shit. I’m sorry, Naomi,” Regan says, releasing Naomi immediately. My sister is rocking back and forth on her feet, her hands over her ears.

Petrovich is looking at us like we are a circus troupe. A really bad one that he’d like to shoot to put out of our misery.

Fuck this shit.

“Stay here,” I order, and then I dive out toward Petrovich. More rounds are fired off, and I feel a fire in my side. Fuck. I’ve torn open the glued wound. Army crawling toward the back of the island, I can feel tile chunks and plaster pieces raining down on us. “What I wouldn’t give for some C4 right now,” I joke to Petrovich, who merely grunts. “You got a plan?” I ask.

“Shoot. Kill. Leave,” Petrovich answers.

“Nice plan. On two?” I point upward.

He nods in understanding.

“One. Two.” We both spring upward and over the counter. Hudson’s men are still looking to the sides, and it is too late for them because by the time I’m over the counter, I’ve shot both in the head. Petrovich shoots another man at the entrance. For a moment, there is silence. Only the echoes of the bullets remain.

“Now,” I gesture toward the girls with my gun, but Naomi isn’t moving and Regan seems uncertain about following my command and leaving Naomi behind. If I didn’t love her before, my heart about seizes now as I see the care that Regan’s showing toward Naomi. Yeah, Regan’s never getting rid of me.

My side is aching like crazy, but I run toward Naomi—only Petrovich beats me there. He picks her up and slings her over his shoulder as if she’s a sack of rice. “Let’s go.”

I don’t wait for another invitation. Grabbing Regan’s hand, we run outside. The caterer’s van is still there, doors completely open and the metal siding riddled with bullets. I throw Regan inside and Petrovich does the same with Naomi. We slap the doors shut, and then Petrovich heads for the hood. He fiddles with something before coming around the driver’s side.

“Distributor cap?” I ask.

He nods, puts the van in reverse, and floors it. The girls fly backward against their seats. “Get down,” I bark. Regan pulls Naomi down as I lean out the door to shoot at the guards by the front gate that is closing. “Don’t fucking stop this vehicle.”

Petrovich grunts but doesn’t slow. I have six bullets left. There are three guards. The van is swaying like a drunk trying to walk on the train tracks. Lifting the gun, I sight the first guard, the one almost squatting. I shoot his kneecap off, and he topples over. The van lists to the side as Petrovich runs him over.

The guard by the gate is next. He gets two shots. One in the forehead. Poof. One in the chest. For surety. The third guard is on Petrovich’s side, which requires me to haul my ass out of the van and sit in the window so I can shoot him over the top of the van. A lucky return shot wings me in the shoulder and makes my first shot go wide, but I correct and the next two take him down as Petrovich slams into the now-closed gates. The force wrenches me forward, and I would have fallen out of the van window if not for Petrovich and Regan dragging me back inside.

“Thanks, fighter.”

Regan gives me a wan smile. Turning around, I see Naomi curled in a ball on the floor. The only thing that matters is she’s alive. Holy hell. We’re all okay. Petrovich drives like a madman for Tears of God favela and it still seems like it takes too long. “I think I ripped the glue on my side,” I tell Regan.

She looks worriedly at me. “Let me see.”

“Nah, it’s nothing.” Although I do feel light-headed. It’s the result of being whipped around outside of the van. Maybe I knocked my head and can’t remember it. “I want you to know that you were fucking amazing back there.”

“Rrrright,” she snorts. “I ran. I screamed. I wouldn’t give the gun to Petrovich.”

“You were trying to take care of my sister in all that bullshit. Thank you,” I tell her. “Now come over here and kiss me like the hero I am.”

This puts a smile on her face, and she clambers onto my lap. I ignore the fierce burn on my side and the one in my shoulder, because who cares about that? I’ve got a warm armful of Regan Porter in my lap. Fighter. Survivor. Kickass human being. “I tell you I love you?”

“Not yet.”

“Love you, babe,” I croak out. Pulling her down, I part her lips with my own, and her tongue slides along mine, sending happy bolts of electricity down to my groin. She arches against me, and I revel in the feel of her slight breasts rubbing against my chest. The memories of our heated night together run in a loop behind my closed eyes. My hands drop down to cup her ass cheeks and pull her closer to me.

“Ow,” I grunt when her hand presses against my shoulder. She starts to move away, but I draw her back down. I can’t get enough of her. I want to lift her shirt and cover the tip of her breast with my tongue, suck her whole tit inside my mouth until I’m stuffed full of her. “Uhh,” I grunt again, the pain in my shoulder more acute. Shifting her to the side, I manage to dislodge her hand, and the relief is immediate. But I can’t stop kissing her. I don’t care that Petrovich is two feet away from me. My only thought is getting her closer to me. Her soft hands are cupping my face, and I’ve got sweet ass in my palms. I try to open my eyes to stare at her, to watch her lust-filled gaze as she grinds down on me, but there’s a fog that’s obscuring my vision. The pressure of her lips is decreasing, and she’s calling my name. I struggle to respond. My mouth is open, but there’s no sound coming out of it. Regan. I call to her. Regan. Regan. Regan. But there’s no response. No sound. Only a roaring in my ears and then . . . nothing.