Last Breath

Three

Regan

I CAN’T TELL IF I’M happy or numb with panic. For the first time in almost two months, the horrible, horrible chain is off my ankle. I’ve been given a coat to wear. It’s not warm, but it covers the ridiculous bikini and makes me feel almost human. We’re heading outside. I should be ecstatic.

But I can’t quite shake the feeling that I’m in bigger trouble than before. They never let me out of my room. Never. The fact that they’ve unchained me and are letting me walk out with this smooth-talking American who sticks out like a sore thumb can mean only one thing:

He’s bought me.

And that could be very, very bad. No one wants a whore for longer than a night. I glance over my shoulder at Augustina, the housemother, and Senhor Gomes, but they look mildly unhappy. I see fear flickering on Augustina’s face, and that panicky tightness returns to my stomach.

This man is worse than the place I have just left. I know this. I am starting to suspect, that from the look Augustina’s wearing, I am a dead woman walking. I swallow hard. I’ve longed for freedom, but never to the point that I wanted to die. I want to live. Always.

The American continues to spit rapid-fire Portuguese at Senhor Gomes, and they argue over something as we go down the stairs. I walk, ignoring the fact that the floor is cold on my bare feet and I’m barely dressed. What is going to happen to me now that I have been sold again?

Nothing good, I am sure.

If I want to live, I need to escape this man. I need to get away from everyone—Gomes, Augustina, this new American in the suit. Somehow I need to get away and run. Run until I find someone that will take me to the closest American embassy.

Gomes says something else, and Ricardo steps forward, a big bruiser who works at the brothel. I’ve had to service him before, and I hate his guts. He isn’t coming with us, is he? But it appears like exactly that; he follows us closely. The American asshole doesn’t look pleased, either. He slams the front door of the brothel open and smacks Ricardo right in the nose.

I can’t help it. I snort with a stifled laugh. I like seeing these jerks get hurt. It soothes my soul. I’d scratch all their eyes out if I could.

The American turns to me and raises an eyebrow, and I give him a challenging look. “Are you going to kill me?”

He glances at the others standing close nearby. They are listening to every word he says to me. “Not today,” he says.

That’s not reassuring.

I cross my arms tighter across my chest. “Where are we going?” I don’t step through the front door even though I can see the dirty street outside, and every instinct screams for me to bolt out there and make a break for it.

“It’s a great little place I like to call Shut the Hell Up and Quit Asking Questions. Now, come on.” He gestures at the wide-open door. There’s a hard tone in his voice. “Stay close to me. You won’t like it if I have to chase you.”

Ominous words, but I’m not scared of him. What’s the worst that could happen? I get stuck here sucking the dicks of strangers? End up in a shallow grave? I feel as if I’m out of choices as it is. You can’t really threaten someone with nothing to lose. An hour ago, I would have feared for my life, but if I go with this man, I’ve lost it anyhow. The scared looks Augustina shoots in my direction are real. She thinks I am already dead.

I need to do something. The open door, so close, is a challenge I can’t resist. I take a few steps out, following the man in the suit. He’s tall and clean cut. I’d find him handsome enough if he wasn’t here in a Brazilian brothel purchasing me. Since he is, he’s clearly a deviant.

As soon as I step outside of the front door, a barrage of sensations hit me. The streets are narrow, a tight cluster of haphazard slums. The night air is cool and crisp and carries a hint of garbage. But I feel a breeze ruffling my hair and nearly choke on tears. I am outside. Escape and freedom are so close that I can feel them in my grasp. I tremble all over, my toes curling on the dirty, cracked pavement lined with trash.

“You cold, sweetheart?” The American puts a big hand on my shoulders, urging me on. At the end of the street, I see a taxi waiting, and he gives me a little push toward it.

I stumble forward, my legs stiff, and jerk away from his hand, whirling around. “Don’t touch me.”

As I turn, I see that Ricardo is moving ahead, too, and his hand is in his jacket. But the American has obviously used me as a distraction. Before I fully realize what is happening, the American’s hand is already on his gun and it’s pointed at Ricardo’s forehead.

“Nope,” says the American quietly, his intense focus on Ricardo’s face. “Don’t even think about it unless you want your brains on the pavement. Drop it on the ground.”

I freeze in place, watching the men. The first thought that flashes through my mind is that if I had a gun, I’d have all the power. A gun can make a person do anything, by waving it around. And I’m so tired of being on the other end of the gun. One day, I’m going to be the one holding the weapon, and someone else is going to weep and beg for me not to hurt them. And I’ll think about it.

I’ll have to be quicker to get the drop, though. The American man is so speedy with that gun, so deadly. He moved faster than I could imagine.

I’m so dead if I go with him.

Ricardo slowly reaches into his pocket and lets his gun fall to the ground, gaze on the gun barrel pointed between his eyes. As I watch, the American stoops to grab it, does something with the gun, and the entire magazine of bullets drops to the ground. Two more swift motions and the barrel is separated so the entire thing looks like a dissected animal in pieces on the pavement. Just like that, Ricardo has been disabled.

I stare for a moment, and then I run. I bolt like all the devils in the world are at my feet. Not toward the taxi and where the American wants me to go—down the street, into the slums themselves. The houses here are narrow and tight, and the streets equally so. I will lose myself in the maze, get away from both brothel and American psycho. When it’s safe, I’ll emerge.

I dart down an alley, my bare feet slapping on the broken concrete of the street. “Hey!” the American calls after me. “Wait!”

I don’t wait. I’m not stupid. I turn down a trash-strewn alley and slam away, running like I never have before. I’m free, my brain calls with every beat of my feet on the pavement. I’m free. I’m free.

Rough arms grab me at the waist, hauling me aside so roughly that my entire body flails and a man’s arm slams the breath out of my lungs. I choke and gasp as a big, sweaty-smelling man presses my body against his, his hand moving to my neck and pinning me against him. I start to fight. A moment later, there is a gun pressed to my forehead.

It’s not the American. It’s someone new.

Two guns to my head in one night. If I was in a horror movie, I’d be screaming at the screen at how stupid the heroine is. A laugh chokes from my throat and ends up as a sob.

The man holding me strokes a hand down my throat in a way that makes my stomach revolt. He murmurs something in Portuguese, and then says something to a friend that emerges from the nearby shadows. I catch the word “Gomes” in their foreign chatter. These men work for the brothel. They are retrieving me.

I’m not free after all.

A loud pop sounds in my ears. Behind me, the man slumps and falls to the ground. A second pop, and I turn. His friend falls to the ground, too. I blink in shock, chest heaving as I try to pull air back into my lungs.

The American strides forward from the far end of the alley and gives me an irritated look as he reloads his gun, a long, skinny barrel-looking thing on the end of it. A silencer, perhaps. “I guess I should thank you for flushing them out, but all I really want to do is choke that skinny neck of yours. Can we quit with the bullshit and get out of here, already? As much as I love the atmosphere of the favelas and all, I’m tired, dirty, and hungry, and I’d really like to call it a night. So can we do that, please?” His voice is laden with sarcasm. “Or did you have any other blind alleys you wanted to charge down, half-naked and barefoot?”

I stare blankly at him for a moment, and then I shake my head. “I-I’m good, thanks.”

“Any other genius plans for escape?” he asks, pulling the silencer off his gun and tucking it back into his jacket. “Because I’d really prefer not to spend all night chasing your ass, Regan.”

A bitchy retort rises to my lips, and then I snap it back as I realize—“How . . . how did you know my name?”

“I know a lot about you. What, you think I like trolling the slums of Rio de Janeiro for blondes because I can’t get laid?” He gestures back where I came from. “Come on. The meter’s running.” The man reaches for me again.

I sidle away so he can’t touch me, tugging the coat closer. I look at the two dead men at my feet. I should feel something for them, right? Some sort of horror that they died right in front of me? That this man shot at them while I stood here? But all I can think is that they were this close to dragging me back to the brothel.

And this man knows my name. He was looking for me. My heart thuds in my chest. Once. Twice.

Maybe I’m not forgotten after all.

“Who are you?” I ask as I step over the lifeless body of one man.

“Call me Daniel.”

Daniel

REGAN IS LOOKING AT ME like I’m going to kill her or, worse, take her to someplace that will make Gomes’ brothel look like Disneyland. Not that I blame her. If I was in her shoes I’d be running in the other direction too. She doesn’t know jack about me other than the shit I spouted off in front of Gomes, which was essentially that I was taking her to my hotel room where I’d pound her so hard that there wouldn’t be anything left but a corpse. She’s unlikely to believe that the only place I’m taking her is to the U.S. Embassy, so rather than waste time arguing with her, I start walking. Actions over words and all that.

The taxi is likely long gone and even if it wasn’t, bringing Regan back into Gomes’ reach isn’t an option. He’s too interested in her return. Why he’s having second thoughts about selling her for the night doesn’t add up for me. It’s not like Regan’s the only blonde in a hundred-mile radius. I’m not even convinced she’s the only star spangled pussy around. She’s damn pretty though, and maybe if I were a half-rate, back alley brothel owner I’d think a girl like this could elevate my reputation amongst the expats who like a taste of home. But I’m not paid to think about why. I’m paid to do.

I’ve located Regan after running around Russia like a fool, freezing my nuts off until the head of the Petrovich Bratva, a powerful Russian criminal family, learned that she had been shipped down here. By accident, Vasily Petrovich told me. That’s some kind of accident. Vasily had stashed her in a Petrovich house, only someone stole her from there and sold her to some rich dude in Rio. Then when I arrived in Rio, she wasn’t with the rich dude but was in Gomes’ place. Another week wasted. I just need to get her to the Embassy, and then I am on to the important part of my task: Finding my sister. Vasily gave me a tip in exchange for retrieving Regan that there was a stream of blonde girls from the United States being funneled down to some guy in Rio. One of those blondes might be my sister.

Petrovich should’ve known I’d come for Regan anyway since Nick was kind of a friend and Regan was his girl’s best friend but instead he gave me two pieces of information. I’m supposed to be looking for some hacker that Vasily wants called the Emperor, but his little task will be put on the back burner until I find my sister.

Wary of me, Regan walks a half step behind. Or rather, I let that distance between us exist. She’s more afraid of bogeymen jumping out of the houses or back alleys than she is of me right now, but that could change at any moment. Fear is a good thing. It makes you sharp and aware. Complacency makes you dead.

“How do you know my name?” she repeats.

“Ask me no questions and I’ll tell you no lies,” I quip.

She curls her lip at me, telegraphing disdain for my humor. But I’m not telling her anything. Who knows what she will tell the folks at the U.S. Consulate? If she’s smart, she’ll tell them everything—including how a tall guy with a black suit and big black guns killed two Brazilians in the slums—and then I can add U.S. military to the number of people who want to see me captured or dead. The list is long and varied, but I’m still alive and most who’ve encountered me are not.

Fighting the urge to stare at her is more challenging than I expected. As we walk down the hill, several boys make hooting calls that cause her to flinch and drive her closer to me. I take her in surreptitiously. Only the lights from the homes and the occasional street light illuminate our path. The dirt and poverty looks more like quaintness than squalor. And Regan Porter looks like the shiniest rock in the diamond mine. I can’t fucking take my eyes off her.

Maybe she’s been sent to me as karmic punishment. You can look but don’t touch. Or worse, you shouldn’t even be looking.

Despite all that she’s gone through, Regan is magnetic. Her blonde hair has dried in a cloud around her face, and neither the dirt nor the trauma can disguise the oval perfection, high cheekbones and full lips. My hand rises of its own volition to tuck a few strands of hair behind her pretty pale little ear. She jerks back from me, wide eyed, nostrils flaring like a scared wild Mustang I’ve brought in to tame.

And then my dick takes over and my thoughts go on an inappropriate detour thinking about all that pale pinkness riding me and that long blonde hair brushing my bare chest. And those plump lips making a perfect circle for my—oh fuck. I am such a fucking asshole. Clenching my hand, I force myself to back off. Time and place, Daniel, time and fucking place.

“Hurry the fuck up,” I bark out. She flinches, and that helps to suppress my ill-conceived desires. I’m not into chicks who don’t want me and particularly not those who are scared of me.

But I’m not the only one drawn to her. I should’ve asked for a paper bag to place over her head, but you’d still see those long legs, the sexy indent of her waist and the thrust of her tits against the tissue thin coat. It’s a good thing the night air is warm because between the swimsuit and the napkin that we’re calling a coat, she doesn’t have much protection from the elements. I can’t even take off my suit coat because I have a brace of guns underneath, but I can do something about her lack of shoes.

Her feet are dirty from both Gomes’ place and the unpaved roads. I hadn’t expected her to run through the favela. I figured I’d hustle her into the taxi, drop her off at the Embassy, and be done with it.

But now we’re walking in the back alleys, drawing all kind of unwanted attention, and I can’t stop thinking about those tender feet being eaten up by the dirt and stones. Stopping abruptly, I swing around to face her. She makes a small sound, like wounded animal. I wonder what she thinks I’m going to do out here, throw her down and mount her? Heaving a frustrated sigh, I kneel down to unlace one shoe and pull off my silk dress sock. Shoving my foot back into the rich leather of my shoes, I repeat the action on the other side. Raising one knee, I gesture for her to lift her foot up. “I’m going to brush the bottom of your foot off, okay?” I ask, patting my knee so she knows to rest her foot against my leg. Peering up at her, I can see her big green eyes wide with wonder. Or suspicion. “Look, doll face, I don’t have some weird sock fetish."

Her lips are trembling and her eyes are beginning to water. Oh shit. She’s going to start crying, and I don’t need that. Holy fuck do I not need that. So I pull out the asshole because I sense that she’ll snarl back at the asshole but weep at a nice guy. “I’m tired of hearing you snivel while we walk, but if you’re going to sit there and cry, I can put it back on.”

Just as I suspect, the steel rod returns and she’s rigid again. She lifts her foot, pressing two fingers against my suited shoulder. And despite the suit coat, dress shirt and beater underneath I can still feel the heat and it’s burning a path from the shoulder right down to my groin. I hate myself. I really fucking hate myself.

It gets worse when she lifts her high arched foot to place it gently on the edge of my knee. My finger itches to trace the curve and fondle the delicate skin behind her ankle bone. My whole body feels on fire. I deserve her disgust because her back isn’t the only thing that is turning stiff as a steel rod. There are so many things I like doing on my knees between a pretty girl’s thighs. Things I haven’t done in a long, long time.

Carefully I brush off the dirt and pebbles from her foot. I take the time to run a finger, a quick one, between each toe. This ankle has no marks around it but I do a quick once over around her lower legs before pulling the socks on. From my pocket I pull out a zip tie that I normally would use for restraints and pull it around her calf to hold the sock up. Above me I hear a gasp of breath, and her fingers press into my shoulder. For a moment, I think she’s going to take flight, but I don’t look up. Not once. Because if I do, I’ll have to look at her soft thighs, the hidden vee between her legs, her breasts, and by the time I get to her face she’ll see the lust in my gaze and have a good reason to run away. So I keep my gaze on her feet.

“Just a way to tighten the socks around your ankles,” I explain. When she doesn’t move I take this as assent and tighten the zip tie.

She switches feet without me prompting her. This ankle has the scab marks. I inspect the wound. It looks old, sore but not infected. Regan’s pretty lucky. From my position I notice handprints on her thighs and any arousal I once felt dies off quick. This girl’s been so abused, and what little humanity I have left aches for her. I’m going to kill the man who put those marks on her. Before I leave Rio, I’m hunting him down and cutting off his dick and feeding it to him, one inch at a time. I’ll take pictures and send them to Regan.

I hurry up with my cleaning of her foot and slip on the sock, securing it with another zip tie. I sneak a look at her and she’s looking half pissed off and half ashamed. I want it to be all pissed. She’s got nothing to be ashamed of. “You’ve got a pretty rocking body, Regan.”

“Fuck you,” she says. “I’ll kill you with your own gun before you get to lay a finger on me.”

We both know that she’d never be able to disarm me, but I nod as if her threat has real teeth. “I’ll never touch you unless you give me the okay.” It’s not something I’m making up for her sake. Eighteen months in and out of brothels like Gomes’ have made me never want to have sex outside of a relationship where I could be certain that the person I’m having sex with wants it a hundred percent. And given that the last eighteen months has been spent hunting and rescuing and killing people…well, the only relief my dick has seen is Rosie Palm. Maybe that’s why I’ve got hard dick disease around Regan.

“Likely story,” she scoffs, and the ease at which she insults me tells me that she’s more comfortable with me than she knows or may be willing to acknowledge. It tells me she’ll follow me without much hesitation so we head off, me in my shoes and Regan wearing my socks. It’s not ideal, but my shoes would be boats on her and I don’t think she’s ready to be carried.

“You ever been to Rio before?” I ask as we wend our way down the hill. I figure from the increasing noise that we can find a taxi soon.

“No.” Then after a short pause she asks with incredulity, “Are you trying to make small talk with me?”

“Would you rather tell me how long you were with Gomes?”

She’s silent, so I take that as a no. When we arrive on a main drag, I’m able to hail a taxi and hold the door open for Regan. She hesitates and looks around, weighing her chances of survival in the favela. I shift slightly and pull back my jacket so she can see the butt of one of my guns. She closes her eyes in resignation and climbs in. Smart girl. She’s going to be one of those who make it. Many don’t. Their time in captivity fucks them up so bad that they fall back into the trade either because their families won’t take them in, they need to fund their newly acquired drug habit, or they don’t have any other place to go. That’s another shitty lesson I learned early on. I’m going to hold tight to this memory so that I can pull the gun away from my head the next time I see one of my failures.

“U.S. Embassy,” I bark at the driver and then settle back, resting one hand on the butt of my gun, scanning the streets for trouble as we take off. There isn’t anyone behind us, but the sense of wrongness is still dogging me.

A hand grabs at my arm and I twist around to look at Regan who’s only inches from my body. Oh shit. The closeness is generating some warm feelings in my lower body. I wish my conscience had more control over my goddamn body. I clear my throat. “What is it?”

“You’re taking me to the embassy?” Regan’s voice is high and tremulous, either on the verge of tears or laughter. I nod cautiously. Please don’t let it be tears.

She gasps and then covers her mouth. Water begins coursing down her face, and she throws herself at me. “Thank you. Thank you,” she repeats, and I feel her soft cheek rub against my stubble-filled one. Vaguely I wonder if I’m scratching her with my facial hair, but mostly I’m wondering where I should put my hands when her supermodel body is pressed against me. Her tits are burning a hole in my chest and over her shoulder I can see her fine ass waving in the air. I catch the cab driver looking in his rear view mirror and I push Regan aside. He doesn’t need to see her ass.

“Look at her again and you’re a dead man,” I bark at the cab driver. His eyes drop immediately to the road but I hear him muttering in Portuguese that if I didn’t want him to look at her ass then I should make sure she wears more clothes.

“Don’t like touching a dirty whore?” Regan says bitterly.

Her words don’t really register at first and then I realize she was offended that I pushed her away. I run one frustrated hand through my hair. “A guy like me would be pretty damn lucky to be permitted to touch you.”

She snorts. “Nice talk. Doesn’t really match your actions.”

I can’t believe this. She was afraid to wear my socks, but now she’s mad I’m not mauling her. I guess I should be happy she’s still fiery after all she went through. Gives me hope that she’ll go home and live a good life. Although from the sounds of it she needed a new boyfriend. Nick, formerly known as “feared hit man Nikolai Andrushko” and the guy who sent me to find Regan, told me that she had an asshole of a boyfriend. One who didn’t even know she stroked herself off while he snored beside her. Per Nick, Regan’s boyfriend couldn’t give his girl an orgasm if Dr. Ruth were in bed with them giving him step-by-step instructions. At least that was my interpretation of Nick’s dour statement that the boyfriend deserved a bullet in the head for failing to pleasure his woman.

To my way of thinking, men who can’t give orgasms to their women don’t need to be shot, but they don’t deserve goddesses like Regan in their beds either. They should be celibate, lest some cranky Russian hit man goes around putting them into eternal sleep. Fortunately for the dickless wonders of the world who don’t care about a woman’s pleasure, Nick’s too busy boning Regan’s best friend back home in Minneapolis to be concerned about killing men who are bad in bed.

“Neither of us is ready for any action.” I raise my arm and sniff. “Jesus, I’m ripe. I need a fucking shower.” I’m dead tired, and despite the completely wrong thoughts running around my head of Regan nude and spread out like a feast at Thanksgiving, I’m too tired to do anything but sleep. I’ve been up for about seventy-two hours straight and need some rest before I fall over.

“You’re quite the metrosexual, aren’t you?” She raises a foot toward me and wiggles her toes. The movement is provocative. My eyes arrow right down the black silk-clad foot toward her inner thigh and in the dim light of the taxi there are enticing shadows cast by the valley between her legs. The hide-and-seek nature of the shifting light begs me to reach down and explore...I force myself to turn away once again.

“I like nice things. Sue me.”

“Why didn’t you tell me you were taking me to the embassy?” She nudges me in the knee with her foot. Does she realize how flirtatious she is being? I mean, she’s fucking touching me with her foot. That’s intimate shit right there. It’s a good thing I’m wearing a suit coat. Jesus Hermione Christ.

“Would you have believed me?” I said evenly. Her foot drops away, and I swallow a groan with a heroic effort. Good job, Daniel. I give myself a little pat on the back. She has no idea what she’s doing because she’s thinking about freedom and escape and the good ol’ U.S. of A. I’m the dirt bag having dirty thoughts about a girl who I’ve just hauled away from a whorehouse where she was chained to the wall. And because I can’t be nice to her, I snap back, “You wouldn’t have fucking believed me.”

“Yeah, I guess.” Her attention is distracted and I see we’ve drawn up to the embassy.

“We’re here,” I say with relief, but she makes no effort to get out. “This is it.” I wave my hand out the window. “Consulado General dos Estados Unido.”