Last Breath

Twenty-one

Daniel

“THERE ’S NO WAY IN .” REGAN ’S dismay echoes my own internal frustration. It’s a sign. If you believed in signs, warnings, or symbols, the lack of an obvious entrance to Tears of God clearly said fuck off. I run my hand along the concrete walls and corrugated metal barriers that stand where the paved road indicates the entrance should be.

“What do you even know about this group?” I turn to Petrovich, who is standing slightly apart, hands on his hips, looking upward as if Touchdown Jesus will bend down from his place on the hill and part the metal seas for us.

“They are loyal, men of their word,” he answers and then points to the inscription written in Portuguese above the gate.

“What’s it say?” Regan asks.

“Revelation 21:4.” It’s a scripture. I read it out loud. “And God shall wipe away all tears from their eyes; and there shall be no more death, neither sorrow, nor crying, neither shall there be any more pain.”

“That sounds nice. Maybe it would be more comforting if there wasn’t a dagger punctuating the end,” Regan observes wryly. I flash her a quick grin. That’s my girl.

I pull out my gun and point it at the dagger. “What are you doing?” Regan hisses.

“Gotta get their attention somehow.”

Before I can squeeze off a shot, a door appears in the wall to my left, and a large hulking figure steps out. His heritage is indeterminate, which likely makes him a true Brazilian. Native Brazilians are almost a greater melting pot of heritages than the U.S. Afrikaan, Asian, and American mix in fantastic harmony. The only real important thing about this stranger is his size—extra large—and weaponry. He’s got machine gun belts draped over his chest like suspenders. On his arms are leather wrist guards that double as knife sheathes. He’s got an AK strapped on his back and an armory belt with guns, knives, and more ammunition.

Utopia is clearly enforced by martial law.

But all that show only means one thing: this guy must be a bad shot. I holster my gun, casually try to hide Regan behind me, and place my hands up in the air.

“We’re here to see the Knife’s Edge.”

“State your business.” He folds his massive arms across his chest, the movement pushing the hilts of the wrist knives out toward me. With a quick mental calculation, I figure I can pull out one of the knives and pin his hand to his chest in about ten seconds—that is, if the blade is long enough. Behind me I feel Regan’s slight form creep closer.

“We’re here to do a trade.”

“We don’t trade in flesh,” he growls.

Enlightenment dawns. He thinks we’re here to trade Regan for . . . something. I pull her to the side. “Nope, she’s with me. My Russian buddy is going to pull out some money so you can see that we’re interested in information and some services in exchange for cash.” I didn’t want the guard to get trigger happy when Petrovich reached inside his suit pocket.

Petrovich hands a wad of cash to the guard, who doesn’t even count it, just flips it in his hand as if he can measure us merely through the weight of the cash. Maybe we should have brought gold. Without a word, he disappears inside and closes the door.

“Nice friends you have, Petrovich,” I mock.

“I associate with you, do I not?” he retorts. Regan stifles a semi-hysterical giggle.

A minute passes. Maybe five. I cross the street and sit on the curb. We aren’t leaving until we speak to the person in charge. Petrovich stands by the door, like he’s a soldier awaiting orders.

“He’s super strange,” Regan observes.

“Yup.”

“Like, I think he really wanted me to beat him.”

“Yup.”

“Are all your friends that fucked-up?”

“Yup.”

She’s silent for a minute. “I guess I see why you like me.”

This brings a grin to my face. “Fighter, you’re the least fucked-up of all the people I know. You’re like the normal control in a sample full of crazy.”

“You weren’t always part of this world though.” She gestures toward the favela.

Leaning back on my elbows, I raise my face up to the sky. The sun is warmer here, more intense. Its rays touch you with a close hand. If not for the kidnapping, my missing sister, and the surly Russian standing five feet away, I could pretend I was lying on the beach sipping a fruity drink with an umbrella with Regan in a barely-there bikini, her body glistening with the oil I’d spread over every square inch of her. “You know why bad guys win?”

“No.” She sounds as despondent as I felt staring into Hudson’s compound.

“Because they live in these fucking compounds. When I’m done here, I’m going to buy my own fucking island and you and my sister and I are going to live there and drink fruity drinks with little umbrellas. I’ll grill some steaks, and after we’ve gorged ourselves, you and I will go inside and make sweet love while Marvin Gaye serenades us.”

“I like that you’ve put a lot of thought into that.”

Before I decide to get my gun out and start shooting holes into the walls in front of me, the guard comes out and gestures us inside. The door opens into a small room with one table. There are no windows here, and the space is dark and cool, lit only by a couple of bare bulbs. There are two other guards standing in front of the only exit. Nice. My gun hand twitches. The first guard hands the wad of cash back to Petrovich. “Strip.” I raise an eyebrow at Regan, and she gives me a wan smile.

When her hands fly to her blouse, the guard barks out, “Stop.” We freeze.

“Not you,” he waves a hand toward Regan. “Stand over there,” he orders, but Regan doesn’t move. Her fingers creep out and loop into the waistband of my pants.

“I’m not leaving Daniel,” she says.

“Sorry,” I shrug my shoulders. “We’re a package deal.”

He snaps his fingers, and one of the men standing in front of the rear exit leaves. A few minutes later a woman appears with a folded cloth in her hands. She approaches. “If you’ll come with me, you can change into this. I promise to return you.”

Regan looks reluctant but stripping down to nothing in front of these three seems like it would be more traumatic than being separated.

“I won’t leave without you. I promise.” I tell her, and she releases me with reluctance.

With Regan gone, Petrovich and I undress swiftly. The guard who left to get the woman comes over and pats us between our legs. I’m not sure how many people can hide a weapon up their asshole—and I don’t think I even want to know—but the guards here are more invasive than a TSA agent. I hope Regan isn’t suffering the same kind of inspection.

“Kind of overkill, don’t you think?” Petrovich is a good shot, and there are a lot of weapons in the room even if we are naked. The guy on his knees in front of me could have his windpipe crushed by my leg.

I hope it doesn’t come to that. We’re handed loose shifts made out of coarse cloth. It’s kind of like wearing the metaphorical burlap sack. With our hands secured behind our backs with modern zip ties that look suspiciously like the ones we used in the army, we’re escorted out of the little room and onto the street. I can see now that the main road into the favela has been blocked off with a row of three houses. They serve as guard gates. Whoever is in charge here is paranoid and kitting out this patch of land like it’s a fortress ready for an epically long siege. Regan is waiting for us, wearing a similar loose-fitting sack that extends down beyond her knees. The length of the sack is fairly ingenuous because it doesn’t allow for much movement. You’d have to lift the material to run or topple over from the restraint.

As we climb up the steep winding road, people peek out of windows and doorways. We’re a pale imitation of the Carnival parade. No floats, only nearly naked foreigners with armed guards in the front and to the rear. I resist the urge to wave. At the top of the hill, the houses fall away and there is a large gravel expanse interrupted by burn marks on the ground. A huge granite slab sits like a sacrificial altar in between burn marks. There is lumber to the right, stacked in precise piles of varying lengths. There were rumors about this favela—that they burned their enemies at the stake. Right now I’d like to drop kick Petrovich in the balls for bringing us up here and placing Regan in danger.

A man comes out, simply dressed in a cotton button-down camp shirt, the sleeves rolled up to show tattoos on both arms. He’s wearing loose-fitting cotton pants and is entirely weaponless. The sun’s rays blot out his face until he comes closer.

“Jesus Christ. Rafe Mendoza? What the fuck?” I’m stunned to see one of the members of my old Delta unit standing in front of me. Mendoza’s apparently just as dumbstruck because he says nothing for a moment and then reaches out to grab my hand. When he realizes that I’m trussed up like a Thanksgiving turkey, he awkwardly thumps me on the back.

“Hays, what the hell are you doing in my little fiefdom?”

I jerk a shoulder toward Petrovich, who is silently watching the whole exchange. “I’m with the freak show there. He says you owe him a favor.”

Mendoza studies the Russian. “Don’t know him.”

“Not you, a lieutenant. I rendered him aid during a melee over in Dubai six months ago,” Petrovich explains.

He nods and then turns to a boy, barely out of puberty based on his size. “Confirm with Fetler.” The young boy runs off, and Mendoza turns back to me.

“And the girl?” Mendoza asks.

“She’s with me,” I answer.

“Merry band, you have,” he jokes.

“Every gang needs at least one Russian and one hellcat.” I stretch to ease the tension in my back. We aren’t going to die today. There’s no need to make more small talk because the young boy returns and whispers something to Mendoza.

“Fetler vouches for you,” he says to Petrovich, “which means I castrate him if you do harm to anyone who belongs to me.”

Petrovich nods stiffly. “There will be no harm to your people from my hands.”

We follow Mendoza past the burn marks and an open field, up to the last building on the hill before a wild bramble of trees and jungle foliage takes over. From the exterior, it looks squat and but inside I see that it is much larger than I assumed. There are a dozen people in here. In one room it appears that they are folding and stuffing envelopes. In another is a bank of computers.

Mendoza leads us to a back room which appears to be some sort of office. There are several wooden chairs around a rectangular table and a desk at the very end. “Cut them loose,” he orders the guard who has followed us from the front gate all the way up. The ties around our wrists are sliced open, and Mendoza gestures for us to sit.

“What brings you to our beautiful city?” he asks. I tell him the entire story. When I get to the part where Regan is at the brothel of Gomes, Mendoza stops me.

“Silva, go and bring Gomes here.”

He waves for me to continue.

“There isn’t much more. Gomes works for Hudson, who must have sixty men guarding him at all times. Petrovich’s hacker is in there.” I don’t say what I know must be true, what I haven’t been willing to acknowledge since I stood on Monkey Hill hearing Regan read the email from the snitch’s phone. Naomi must be the Emperor—the hacker that Petrovich is desperate to get his hands on and she’s likely the same one controlled by Hudson. I don’t want Petrovich to know that his hacker is a woman and my sister. That fight will be for later. I just need her out of there.

“We do not have the manpower to have a shootout with a U.S. government contractor who provides security services to the Embassy,” Mendoza admits grimly. “I’ve lost one of my own to him. We’ve sent men in to find our lost dove, but they’ve come up empty. Where the girls are stored, I do not know. We’ve not acted because of his military ties but . . .”

“It’s time to take him down,” I declare, and Mendoza gives me a short nod. Mendoza’s power is in question here. Hudson must go.

“Perhaps we do not need the manpower,” Petrovich suggests. “We simply need to get inside, Daniel and I. From there, we can extricate one woman and one man.”

“Vasily is right. Finding Naomi in is our biggest challenge. We can fight our way out.”

“What do you know of Hudson, then?” Mendoza asks.

“He is a wealthy U.S. military contractor with a thing for North American blondes. Likely has control over the Emperor.”

At this Mendoza starts. “The Emperor? Of the Emperor’s Palace?”

Petrovich nods stiffly. “He is mine.”

I try not to hit him. Naomi belongs to herself. To the Hays family. Not to some Russian madman.

Mendoza whistles. “He must be making a fortune with all the illegal money he’s moving through that network.”

“I am not interested in the money,” Petrovich says. “I need the expertise.”

“We need more information,” I interject. I’m not a fan of hearing Naomi being referred to as a man, especially one that Petrovich wants. “We don’t have the time.”

Mendoza nods and then reaches for the phone on his desk. He is too far away for us to hear even though I’m straining. We all are.

“What’s he saying?” Regan asks. The Portuguese is too faint and rapid for me to make out.

“Not sure, but he mentioned the consulate.”

When Mendoza returns to us, he says, “I’m having someone come who may be able to provide some insight. Until then, let’s have something to eat.”

A spread of fresh fruits, meats and cheeses is set out buffet style in another room, one that faces the large gravel area and the burn marks.

“What have you got going on here?” I ask Mendoza as we stand in front of the large windows.

“Security, Daniel.”

“I’ve heard that you were doing freelance work after you separated from the army.”

“I’ve heard the same about you.”

“My sister was kidnapped. I had to find her. Making money killing bad guys while trying to gather information seemed like a bonus,” I reply.

“And for me, I need money to build my army here.” He taps the window. A throng of young kids have come to the top of the hill, and they move down the gravel expanse toward a grassy field I didn’t see initially. “These people are my family. Did you know that the Roman Empire was so powerful that the citizens could walk throughout the land unmolested? It was known that even the least of the citizens was so important to the empire that if even one was maimed, the entire beast would fall upon the violator’s head. I want that for my people. I want for them to walk through any street in Brazil or Africa or the United States and for people to know that if one of mine is hurt, the entire hand of God will rain vengeance upon them and their family. Hudson is a blot on our record, and this is a perfect opportunity for me to make a show of power. So I’ll help you, and then someday you can return the favor.”

“No problem.” Madmen and their compounds. I need to get me one of those.

A scuffle outside draws my attention to the front doors. The soccer game has stopped, and the children stand in a loose line as a man is brought to the field. He is strapped down onto the granite slab. Many of the children disperse but a few older ones remain.

“Regan,” Mendoza calls out. “We need an identification.”

We troop out into the sun toward the granite altar. When we reach it, the man is securely tied spread eagle on the slab. He is completely naked, and there is a leash around his dick, pulling it downward between his legs.

“It’s Gomes,” Regan says in a gasp.

Mendoza nods at one of his soldiers who holds a whip-like object in his hand. “Positive ID confirmed.” At the nod, the whip sails out and lands with a snap right between Gomes’ legs. Petrovich and I grimace while everyone else stands there like this is any other Saturday. Gomes’ screams ring out in the courtyard, scaring up birds and other small animals in the foliage. With a backward glance, I note that the five or so kids left on the soccer field are still motionless, as if they are in class learning exactly how to run a mercenary empire.

“Ask your questions,” Mendoza orders. Regan and Petrovich look to me. Scratching my head, I lean over—not too close because I don’t want the whip to accidentally strike me in the balls.

“Gomes, you look really uncomfortable.”

He’s sniveling; tears and snot are running down his face. It’s an ugly look for him. “Let me go,” he pleads. “I know nothing.”

“The thing is, we kind of know that’s a lie.” I give a nod to Mendoza, who relays the silent order to his whip man. The leather sails out, and now that I’m closer I see there is a granite ball at the end. It makes another thud as granite strikes granite, the small column of flesh doing little to cushion the impact. Even though I’m expecting the blow, I still cringe—but maybe that’s due to the high-pitched scream coming out of Gomes’ mouth.

As sadistic as this is, though, it’s the right punishment if you believe in the eye for an eye concept which Mendoza clearly ascribes to. Gomes is slobbering now. “Why Regan?” I ask.

He turns slightly, his eyes unfocused with pain. “Hudson likes blondes. They remind him of his wife. But this one, so mouthy. Hudson sends her to me for training.”

“Then what?”

He opens his mouth and then closes it.

“Bad choice,” I counsel and look up to Mendoza. The ball falls again and this time I’m prepared. I don’t think Gomes is though. We wait until the pain and screams subside, and I ask him again. “What happens when the girls are trained?”

“They go back into his compound. They serve as his companion until . . .” Gomes trails off, but we can all finish his sentence for him.

Mendoza waves his hand and the men disappear and the kids go back to kicking their soccer ball.

“There’s your way in,” he says with a pointed look toward Regan.

“No,” I shake my head. “Not happening. We’ll think of something else.”

“There is no other way,” Petrovich argues.

I look at Regan because right now she’s the only one who matters. I don’t want to leave my sister in the hands of Hudson, but I can’t send Regan back to be raped again. I won’t. There’s another way. I have to figure it out.