Last Breath

Fourteen

Daniel

RECALIBRATION OF PLANS THEN. IT is obvious that Regan wouldn’t stay with Pereya even if he were willing to keep her. Pereya finds some jeans and boots but no hat. Once outside the house, I take Regan’s hand. “Stick close to me,” I order unnecessarily. Her grip on my hand would have broken my fingers if I was any weaker or she was stronger. I make a mental note that we should eat before we get papers.

“There’s a protein bar in the front pocket,” I tell her. “Eat.” She definitely does not have enough food in her belly. After this, I need to take her to get a good meal.

“Are you ordering me around because you’re mad?” she asks but digs in and finds the protein bar. She breaks it in two and hands me half. While she nibbles on one end¸ I shove my entire part into my mouth and swallow before I respond. Regan’s a liability, but her fear is overcoming any good sense. And after what happened inside Pereya’s war room, I don’t have the heart to tell her she’s slowing me down. But I do want her to take some basic precautions. Tugging on her hand, I turn her so she can see I’m serious—but for a moment I’m lost looking down into those deep green eyes, more mysterious and beautiful than the waters of Rio. I’m so goddamn exhausted, mentally and emotionally and physically. I’d like to dive into those waters and not come up for days. It’s this endless, wearying hunt for my sister and the fear that one day I’m going to find her in a body bag. It’s knowing that scum out there like Freeze and Gomes and others seem to be winning.

But then there’s Regan. She’s evidence that things can go to hell and something good can still survive. It’s my job, then, to not fuck this up. I need—no, want—to keep her safe.

“I’m not mad at you. Don’t got time for that. What I am is worried. You need to follow my instructions at all times. If I say jump, you jump. If I tell you to eat, you eat something. If I say stick with me, that means there’s no more than a paper’s width between us. Our getting out of here depends on you listening. Got it?”

She nods, and a glimpse of the agreeable, sweet self that she referred to earlier peeks out. The whole situation is a clusterfuck, and I’m not even talking about taking Regan deeper into the slums. It’s my stupid attraction to her and her need to see if she can wrangle some response out of me. I’m torn between wanting to tell her that if I were any more attracted to her that I wouldn’t be able to get up and walk and not traumatizing her even more with my attention.

“Ouch,” I hear Regan say, and I realize that this time I’ve squeezed her fingers too tight.

“Sorry.” Letting her hand fall, I pick up the pace. The sooner we’re out of here, the better.

The streets are narrow and curved here on Monkey Hill. There was no city planner to lay out roadways in strict geometric patterns. Instead, the people of the favelas have built this neighborhood by placing red brick and rusted corrugated metal shacks on top of each other like a child stacking empty SPAM cans into a tower.

This high up you can see the Maracanã Stadium, where they are gearing up to host the World Cup and where Olympic Soccer will be played in two years, at the base of the hill. Its gleaming new walls shine like a great false white hope.

Rio has tried to clean out the slums, raining down a barrage of bullets like a shield. The drug lords retreat but don’t die. There’s still an acrid smell that lingers here in the streets, the smell of spent bullets, burnt flesh, and grief. Down in Ipanema or Leblon, everyone has a smile for you. Up here, walking out your door is an act of courage. Smiling at a stranger signals your willingness to be shot down for being stupid.

Three quarters of the way up, the community square becomes visible. At one time the large square compounds housed a daycare, swimming pool, and soccer field for the people on Monkey Hill. The drug lords won’t allow the pool to be filled for no good reason. I’d think they’d like to bring people here to drown. The soccer field is devoid of grass except around the edges. Instead, it’s one giant oval of dirt. This is where true footballers were once born. One thing that everyone up here agrees upon is that those that are Pelé-blessed shall pass through untouched. Drug lord or slum dweller, they all love their soccer gods. Edson Arantes do Nascimento and Manuel Francisco dos Santos, better known as Pelé and Garrincha, are more revered than the Virgin Mary.

A quick perusal of the field reveals no one. I lead Regan over to the brick half wall that’s been tagged and retagged by small time gangs trying to show their muscle to the ADA, the main gang that runs Monkey Hill. “Lean against the wall,” I tell her, but I don’t sit beside her. Instead I stay crouched, sweeping the grounds in a systemic pattern, ready for action. I’ve palmed my Ruger almost reflexively.

“Should I be holding my gun?” Regan asks.

“Your gun?” My attention is momentarily distracted as I swing toward her. Her blonde hair has lost its luster and her face has dirt on it, some on the forehead and some around the edges of her cheek. She’s dirty, kind of smelly, but I don’t think I’ve seen anyone more appealing my entire life. It’s then that I realize my desire to leave Regan behind had little to do with the danger she presents to my body. I wanted to leave her with Pereya not because I’m really concerned that I couldn’t protect her, but that the more time I spend with her, the less I want to let her go.

She pats the holster on the vest that holds the gun we took off our midnight visitor. “Yeah, I’ve decided this one is mine.”

“Not yet, Annie Oakley, let’s save that for when we’re in real trouble. Right now the most I’ve got to be worried about is missing my informant.” I return to my visual sweep.

“How will you know who it is? Are they wearing a red flower in their buttonhole?”

Smothering a laugh, I say, “I’ll know.” No one but snitches and patrols are up this early. “Pereya gave me the tip and described the informant. Five feet seven inches. Slim.” Probably going to try to shank us after delivering the tip. I don’t tell the last part to Regan.

“How come they don’t fill the pool?” she asks.

“A sign of control. Filling the pool would be an act of defiance and a mark that the ADAs are losing their hold over the people here.”

“ADAs?”

“Amigos de Amigos. Each favela has its own gang overlord. Monkey Hill is run by the ADA. They move guns and drugs, not really into women, though.”

Regan snorts. “Wow, so pious of them.”

“Everyone has their hard limits.” I shrug.

“Why don’t the people revolt? You said everyone was armed here.”

“The gangs provide structure and some sense of stability. The cops are crooked, so a gang with a lot of power and the right kind of leader can provide a better life for these people than the government. If your daughter is raped, the gang will enact justice on your behalf. Monkey Hill is one of the better places. The real danger to the people who live here is from the rival gangs who are pressing in on either side. Turf wars kill more people here than anything.”

“Sounds like you approve of the gangs,” she says.

“I was in the Army before this, and I can tell you I killed a lot more people under the blessing of the U.S. government than I have on my own. I guess there’s something about the ability to protect the people you care about without rules or regulations that I appreciate. On the other side, there’s a favela called Tears of God, and it’s been run for the last few years by a shadowy figure by the name of the Knife's Hand. There, the pools are filled and the soccer field is a deep green. They’re experimenting with local crops and shoring up the existing structures and tearing down dangerous ones. The residents of the favela wear a medallion hammered out of local granite. They say that if you harm a member of the TG favela, you and your family and everyone else will be killed in retribution."

“That's harsh.”

I think of what I'd like to do to the people who took my sister, the ones that have hurt Regan, and shake my head. Those fantasies might scare her off more than my sexual ones. "Maybe, but I’ve not heard of one turf war there, and the people don’t walk around armed to the teeth, and the police aren’t running through there with a tornado of bullets and hand grenades.”

A lone figure appears on the opposite end of the soccer field, and I’m up and moving before Regan can respond. She’s listened to me, though, because I can hear her footsteps close behind mine. And her hand rests lightly on the back of my shirt, not so tight that she’d hold me back or restrict my movements, but enough so that we aren’t separated. I suspect her other hand rests on the butt of her gun.

The informant spots me and turns to walk down toward what looks like an old, abandoned grocery. The letters are mostly rubbed out, but at least of one of the windows declare that there once were frutas e legumes inside. When we duck into the building, it’s empty of even the metal shelves. Those are probably in several of the homes nearby serving as storage. The tile floors are chipped and there are dark stains, blood.

My informant walks toward a doorway in the back, and I hug close to the exterior wall. We don’t trust each other, but we’re strangers forced to do business. The killing won’t start until after the transaction has taken place. The snitch is wearing a hoodie and baggy jeans, the universal attire of a teenage hoodlum, no matter the country. Except for maybe East Asia. Those guys tend toward skinnier jeans.

“Here.” The informant’s gloved hand holds out a micro SD card. The hand is shaking slightly, revealing the informant’s nervousness. Nervous people tend to shoot first and then wonder about the correct avenue of action later. Everything about the informant screams novice, and I wonder if Regan and I are supposed to be an initiation kill. The gloves on the hands are too big, which will prevent the smooth extraction of a gun. The baggy pants look perilously close to falling down and the hood is concealing his view. I move slightly to the left so that the fabric partially blocks his periphery.

Taking the SD card, I pull out an unactivated smartphone and slip in the card. Pulling up an app, I hand Regan the phone. “Read it. Out loud.”

The informant protests. “Give me the rock.”

“No.” I shake my head. I hate—fucking hate—working with amateurs. “Look, woman, we’re going to check your information, and then I’ll give you the exchange.”

Her head jerks up and the hood falls back, revealing a very beautiful Brazilian. High cheekbones, delicate nose, and dirty blonde hair frame it all. “How . . . ” she trails off.

“Voice,” I say impatiently. “Plus, your hips.” I gesture toward her waist. With a nod at Regan, I repeat my command. “Read it.”

After a moment Regan begins reading.

Blonde haired, brown eyed female.

Age 20 per admission.

Acquisition location: Cancun.

Date: 16 March.

Condition: Good health. Strange affect. Refuses to look people in the eye. Has strange convulsions. Possibility of self harm. Claims extensive knowledge of computers and internet systems. Offered to hack into Butterfield Bank, Caymans and obtain rival bank account numbers. Challenge was accepted. Succeeded. Refused to do other work unless received own room and promise of no touching. Requests were granted. Suggested partnership with AB organization.

“And there’s a couple of email exchanges. ‘AB?’”

“Aryan Brotherhood,” I explain. “They work with the cartels to move a lot of drugs. The U.S. has one of the highest consumption rates of illegal drugs in the world.”

“Enough?” says the snitch.

It is. I can’t explain the relief that surged through me when Regan read that. It’s her. My high-functioning autistic sister. So brilliant. “Enough.”

I pull out the velvet bag. Inside is a two carat musgravite, a stone that Petrovich had given me in payment for taking down his uncle. It’s worth close to one hundred grand. I’d pay twice as much for this intel. The informant can barely pick it up with her gloved fingers. As she is looking down, I put the Ruger against her temple.

“Daniel,” I hear Regan say in shocked tones, but I ignore her. I don’t understand how she can be surprised by human behavior, but it’s another sign of how she didn’t let her imprisonment ruin her. She still cares enough not to want to see anyone else injured. Like I said, Regan’s real danger is to that lump under my left breastbone. It’s starting to beat again. I’ll figure out if that’s good or really fucking bad later.

“Here’s how this is going to work. You’re going to take your package and go back to your base. You can say you killed us. You can say you tortured us. Neither her or I will be around to tell a different story. But you try anything, and I’ll blow your brains out right here. I give two shits that you’re a woman. Understand?”

She nods and my gun follows every movement, which she registers with widened eyes. “That’s right. I’ve used this gun before many times. I’m not going to ask for your piece because I suspect you’re going to need it, but you’ll be on the floor with a bullet through you before you can even get the weapon out of your front pocket. So be smart and you’ll live at least ten more minutes.”

“That’s what you think,” she sneers, and then I see a faint red dot on her forehead before everything goes to hell.

Regan

IT TAKES TWO SECONDS. ONE second, I’m watching the pretty woman’s face, wondering why there’s a dot from a red laser on her forehead. The next, there’s a weird ripple effect, and her forehead explodes into a red tidal wave of shredded flesh, and my face is splattered with something wet and hot.

“Down!” Daniel shouts, his hand swatting my shoulders almost before I can even process that I’m wearing that girl’s brains on my face.

I slam to the dirty, stained concrete floor, the air smacking out of my lungs. The guns and knives tucked into my vest jab my ribs, and I’m pretty sure I’ll be bruised to hell, but I’m alive. For now. The girl’s body has tumbled to the ground nearby, and blood is pooling close to my leg. Daniel’s not pausing for a moment, though—he’s snaking his body along the ground, heading for the wall. Once my initial shock wears off, I follow him. Close as paper, he told me.

We make it to the side of the building, and Daniel crouches behind a refrigerator that predates Nixon. Another shot rings out as I worm my way to Daniel’s side and something chips off of the nearby wall.

I give a frightened whimper even as Daniel takes my hand and hauls me up next to him. I plaster my body against his, trying to stay under cover as much as possible. He turns away from me, though, and I’m forced to cling to his back as he pushes the refrigerator door open to give us more cover.

Another shot rings out, and the refrigerator door bounces wildly. Daniel shoves it open again, and this time it stays open.

They know we’re behind it, and they’re watching for us.

“What . . . what . . .” I try to form a question that will encompass everything that’s going on, but I’m failing.

Daniel shakes his head, gun in hand, his gaze scanning the front of the old grocery store like he’ll be able to see something. “Don’t know why anyone ever decides to snitch. Snitches always get plugged.”

I turn and stare at the dead body of the girl then touch my fingers to my face. Still wet. I want to puke, but now’s not the time. I swallow hard and mentally will the saliva pooling in my mouth to wait for a more appropriate moment. “She’s a snitch?”

“Was,” Daniel corrects.

I look at him and pull my own gun out of its holster. “You knew this would happen.”

“Had an idea. Like I said, snitches get plugged. It’s a dangerous job.”

“I hope the information was worth her life,” I say, still appalled that the girl can be dead so quickly, so easily. Life is nothing here in the slums, and I’m reminded of how badly I want to go home.

“You have no idea,” Daniel says, and there’s a fervent note in his voice that makes me wonder. He’s practically giddy with the information that we’ve found on this new blonde, and I’m surprised at the surge of jealousy that flares inside me. Is this other woman who Daniel’s been looking for the entire time? Is that why he agreed to come find me—because he’s looking for another blonde? His girlfriend, maybe?

I’m a little ashamed at how jealous I am. Now’s not the time. It might not be the time, ever. I’m a package to Daniel. A broken, slightly torn-up package that won’t take itself back to the post office so it can be delivered.

All is quiet. No one’s shooting anymore, but we’re not moving, and at my side, Daniel is as tense and alert as ever.

“Is it safe to go?” I whisper.

“Hell no,” Daniel tells me, and a small laugh escapes his throat. “They have snipers. Someone expected her to snitch, and they’re pissed. We got a whole lot of valuable information in that phone, and when it goes up the food chain, they’re not going to be happy about it.” He still looks thrilled, though.

“So what do we do?” I ask.

“Haven’t figured that out yet.”

I think. “Can we wait them out?”

“Snipers can wait for a long fucking time,” Daniel says. “And they have all the advantage since we’re pinned down.”

“So what do we do?” I ask again.

“We wait for them to make a mistake,” he says and then glances back at me. A cocky grin flashes across his face, startling to see in such a grim situation. “And we calm the fuck down. Don’t move from here, don’t stick your head out to take a shot, and we’ll be good.”

Oh sure, easy for him to say. “You’ve been in shootouts before?”

He nods, and his attention goes back to scanning the rickety clapboard walls of the old grocery. Sunlight’s pouring in through the cracks, and it’s a beautiful day outside. Perfect day for a nice sniping, I suppose.

“Relax.” He casually sticks his gun over the fridge door, fires, and almost immediately, there’s return fire. “Yep, still out there.”

“Relax. Right.” I press my back against the wall, clutching my gun. Relax, the man says. Like people shooting guns and killing people in front of my face is nothing to worry about. But even so, I’m good at mentally “going away” in a bad situation. I’ve had lots of practice, and my thoughts turn to my favorite topic: horror movies. Guns are not uncommon, but most gunfights are one sided. Good guy shoots monster or cannibal of choice, film at eleven. Gunfights are things I associate with Westerns and action movies. “What’s your favorite movie?”

Daniel brings his gun up, and immediately another bullet zips through the weathered boards. He lowers his gun as quickly, grimacing. It’s a good thing we have the old refrigerator to protect us, or we’d be splattered on the concrete like the snitch. He glances over at me. “Are you really asking me this now?”

“Hey, you’re the one that wanted us to become besties instead of screwing.”

He snorts. “Okay. Okay.” A moment passes, and then he glances back at me. “Die Hard.”

I should have known. “Could you be more clichéd?”

“Maybe it’s clichéd because it’s fucking awesome. Seriously. The guy invented ‘yippee ki-yay, motherfucker.’ We used to yell that in the army. Not too many movie lines making it into the army. Usually the other way around.” His eyes narrow and he cocks his head, listening, then experimentally lifts his gun and shoots.

No return fire.

“It’s quiet. Is that good?” I ask.

“Means they’re on the move. Don’t worry.”

Oh sure. Don’t worry, he says. I’ll never leave you, Regan, he says. When is Daniel going to realize he’s full of shit? “Riiiight.”

“Die Hard,” he says again, pulling his shoe off his foot as I watch him. “Defeated a platoon of bad guys in his bare feet. Even in the army, they let you wear boots.” He wiggles his eyebrows at me, like a mischievous boy, then tosses his shoe over the top of the refrigerator and out toward the entryway of the old grocery.

It brings on a fresh round of shooting, and bullets fly hard and heavy. I duck and cringe against Daniel, my fingers going to his waistband for comfort. It’s like if I’m holding on to him, I’m safer.

"Little more to the left, sweetheart. Though I have to say, your timing is terrible when it comes to foreplay."

Oh come on. Like I'd blow him in a gun fight. "My timing's the only thing that's saving you from getting a fist in the dick right now. Exactly what purpose did throwing your shoe serve?”

“It tells me we’ve still got shooters at the back of the building. Though I don’t think they’re sniping anymore.” He grunts. “Means they’re moving up. So what about you?”

I release his belt and fumble for my gun. “What about me?”

“What’s your favorite movie?”

Oh, are we still on that? I’d forgotten. Absently, I raise my gun and scan the room. I want to help if bad guys surge us. “The Thing, John Carpenter version, 1982.”

“That’s a weird ass favorite.”

“It’s brilliant. Or would you have rather I’d said The Princess Diaries because I’m a girl?” I want to roll my eyes at him. “You’re such a cliché, you know that? Your favorite color is camo, and you have a dozen sniper berets to match all the black turtlenecks in your closet.”

He snorts and glances over at my trembling gun. I’m aiming it at the walls, waiting for a shadow to pass through the sunbeams. "Trying to remember your shooting lessons?"

"Now's a great time, don't you think?"

"Jesus Hermione Christ. Just don't shoot me in my goddamn balls, okay? I need those for the ladies."

A dozen irritated retorts spring from my lips, but I cut them off. Instead, I raise the gun, aim it, pull the trigger, and nothing happens.

"Safety," he warns me, peering around the refrigerator.

Right. I fumble with the gun, my fingers weirdly shaky. I figure out the safety, unlock it, and raise the gun again. This time, it goes off when I pull on the trigger, and my entire hand vibrates from the recoil.

There’s no answering shot.

Daniel cocks his head and waits. He pulls off his other shoe and points at the far end of the room. “Shoot in that direction. I’m going to throw my other shoe in a moment and see if we get a response from either side.”

I look at the far end of the room. There’s a high window, and in the distance, I can see slums. What if I shoot and hit a passerby? “Can’t I shoot at the ceiling?”

“Yeah, because it looks so sturdy,” Daniel says sarcastically. “The perfect thing to end a gunfight is the ceiling collapsing on top of you.”

“All right, all right,” I mutter. When he waves a hand for me to hurry it up, I shoot at the far wall. Daniel listens and a moment later tosses his other shoe at the door.

There’s nothing but silence. It’s so quiet I can practically hear the dead girl bleeding on the ground a short distance away.

“Sounds like they’re gone,” he tells me, but he doesn’t move a muscle, so I don’t, either. We listen to the eerie silence and hear nothing. Daniel looks over at me, then nods at the open warehouse floor. "Either that, or they're trying to flank us. You stay here, and I'll check things out."

"No!"

"It's not a debate."

"I'm coming with you—"

"No, you're not," Daniel says, glaring at me. "It's not safe. Now stay here or I'm going to tear you a new fucking asshole when I get back, understand?"

I return his glare, equally furious. I watch as he slides around the side of the refrigerator and then slinks his way to the side of the building. He's entirely hidden in shadow, and if I blinked, I'd lose him entirely.

A low tremble starts through my body. I wonder if it's a trick. If he's going to turn and walk away and leave me behind for good. If he's ditching me, like everyone else has. A knot of anxiety locks my throat.

Fuck this. I'm going with him. I come out of cover and run after him.

The sigh of irritation he sends in my direction goes right over my head. I'm not being left behind ever again.

I watch him flatten his body and move along the wall, gun cocked and ready to shoot. Then, I follow his lead, moving to the other side of the door so we’re both on a side, ready to shoot if anyone shoots back.

“So what’s The Thing about?” he asks me casually. His gaze isn’t on me, though. He’s constantly scanning our surroundings, and I wonder if he’s asking me to distract me.

“It’s about Kurt Russell being a badass.” I keep my answer short. I’m nervous, and my voice sounds too loud in the silence. It’s making me anxious. “Doing what badasses do.”

“Sounds like a great plot. How did I ever miss seeing it before?” Again, Daniel’s all sarcasm and wit. It’s like the more dangerous things get, the punchier his humor gets. He ducks low, which surprises me, and quietly gestures for me to do the same.

I nod, and it occurs to me that our conversation might be a cover to distract our shooters . . . which means they’re closer than ever. Which makes me even more nervous. “It’s full of blowjobs, too.” I lie to see if he’s paying attention. “Lots and lots of blowjobs.”

“Sounds like my kind of movie now,” he says idly. Then, whip fast, he rushes out the front door and confronts the men trying to kill us.

I hear a gunshot go off, something cracks like pottery smashing, and then I see Daniel turn and fire his gun at something out of my line of vision.

Once.

Twice.

A body slumps to the ground.

It’s a blur of motion, it happens so fast. I stare at the dead man at Daniel’s feet, his neck at an odd angle. Daniel fires one more shot, puts a hand to his side, and fires one more time. There’s a thump nearby, and Daniel grunts, then holsters his gun. “We’re good. You can come out now.”

Come out? I haven’t even had time to think about firing my gun. In a daze, I get to my feet, noticing that one of the bullets struck inches above my head. If I’d been standing, I’d be dead.

“Come on,” Daniel says. “We don’t want to be here in case their buddies come back.”

He doesn’t have to tell me twice. I rush to his side, stepping over the dead man at his feet as Daniel casually picks up one of his shoes and frowns at the bullet-hole in the toe. He shoves them on as I look around for the other dead man. There, a short distance away, with a perfect bullet hole in the center of his forehead.

Jesus. Daniel moved so fast.

He takes me by the arm since I’m not moving fast enough, and we leave the grocery behind, heading back into the slums. Daniel looks over at me. “You okay?”

“Yeah.” I’m still dazed, at his speed more than anything. I wanted to help, and I was useless. Less than useless. For the first time, I’m starting to realize what Daniel has been saying. Not only is my life in danger when I go with him, but I’m putting him in danger, too, because he has to watch for me. It’s not a good feeling.

“You still got that grenade?” He reaches into one of the side pockets of my flak jacket and pulls it out, and my eyes widen. That explains what hurt my ribs, though I wouldn’t have belly flopped if I’d have known I was belly flopping on top of a live grenade. Maybe that was why he didn’t tell me.

“What’s it for?” I ask him and glance around. “Are there more guys?”

“Nah. We’re going to send a message to our buddies.” He pulls the pin and pitches the grenade like a baseball into one of the windows of the old grocery.

“What’s the message?” I ask as Daniel grabs my arm and we start walking away again.

Two seconds later, there’s a loud boom and debris rains down. He looks over at me, boyish with glee. “Our message is ‘Yippee ki-yay, motherfuckers.’”

“Predictable,” I tell him, but I grin until he winces and clutches his ribs again. Then I realize . . .

Daniel’s been shot.