Jessica Clare - Last Breath

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I wince. “Bad call.”

“Yep,” he says flatly.

“Ugh. That was rapey of me.”

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

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

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

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

“Do tell.”

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

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

“Why?”

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

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

“Why would you be mean to her?”

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

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

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

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

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

“Your . . . teeth? Wear condoms?”

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

“Maybe he’s a germophobe.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Can I get a gun?”

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

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

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

Daniel

REGAN STILL LOOKS ON THE verge of tears. I miss the army because there’s only a short range of emotions that are acceptable in there, particularly within Delta Force. Mostly it’s cocksure bravado and weary acceptance. Regan’s feelings are hard for me to process because introspection is not encouraged in the army. I spent eight years suffocating my feelings so I could become an efficient killing machine. It was great training for being a hired assassin outside the military but had shit-all to do with helping wounded girls.

There’s no question in my mind that her sticking to me is going to mess her up more, but I didn’t bust my ass finding this girl to let her be stolen again. Taking a stab in the dark at what’s really got her worked up— and not in a good way—I tell her, “They would’ve come and searched for you, but Nick’s supposed to be dead. He can’t be running around down here in Rio because if his name leaks then he’s on the run again, along with Daisy. Plus Nick’s a shitty people person. He’d never have been able to get you out of Gomes’ place without a huge gunfight.”

I don’t know why I’m explaining this to her. Nick’s not a friend at all. He’s an acquaintance. If pressed, I’d say he was a colleague. Part of the fraternal order of the Fucked-Up Guys Who Can’t Function Without a Gun. I’d watched him for a while because I was always looking for connections—anyone I could find that might lead me to my sister. And Nick had worked with scum since he was a kid. He’d been a paid hit man working on his own since the age of fifteen. He looked his age of twenty-five, but his eyes told you he’d seen and done hellacious things that men the age of eighty wouldn’t come close to dreaming up in their worst nightmares. And I wasn’t wrong to hook my wagon to Nick because helping him off a Russian mafia boss gave me my first good lead in a long time. A blonde taken from Cancun turned up in an auction in Rio eighteen months ago and then disappeared, sold through the same channels that Regan had been funneled through. Boom. Two birds. One fucking heavy stone from me.

I’ve got Regan, and now I need to find my sister. As Regan’s face loses its pinched, hurt look, the tension knot at the back of my neck releases. She’s not going to cry. I pour her another drink because the worst feeling after being drunk is the cessation of liquor. And if there’s anyone who needs the little peace that the brown bottle can bring, it’s Regan.

“So they didn’t leave me?” she asks in a stronger voice, the tremors all but gone.

“Nah, they sent me. Trust me. I’m far better-looking and a better shot. Not to mention a helluva lot funnier. You’d rather have me, wouldn’t you?” I flex for her, and she chuckles like I intend.

“I guess so. I mean, I like Daisy, and it sounds stupid after all that I’ve been through that being abandoned by her hurts worse.”

“Sugar, you’re allowed to feel any damn way you want.” Just don’t cry because your tears hurt worse than a knife wound to the gut.

She nods slowly, as if she’s trying to rearrange her internal feelings toward Daisy. I guess betrayal by someone close is worse than constant abuse from strangers?

Her head is starting to bob now. Lightweight. I could drink the whole bottle and feel nothing. It’s my party trick. I can drink nearly anyone under the table. Vasily Petrovich—the newly installed head of the Petrovich mob family—and I had a contest when we were waiting for Nick to show up so we could go kill Vasily’s uncle. He swore no Westerner could drink as much as a Russian. I kept up and Petrovich deemed me suitable to retrieve his hacker. Shit, why is everyone in Rio? I shake my head.

So helping Regan fell to me because Nick Anders is not a hit man. He’s an art student. It’s hard to kill the head of the Bratva and come out alive, which is why Nikolai Andrushko is dead, killed by Vasily in retribution for his uncle’s death. From the ashes rose Nick Anders, a quiet, brooding American. So no, Nick can’t be running around the slums looking for blonde girls from the U.S. when he’s supposed to be dead, and Daisy…well, there isn’t anyone less suited for doing the rescue of her best friend.

“You sleepy?” I ask gently. She nods. “I’m going to pick you up and carry you to the bedroom.” The up-and-down motion of her head could be consent or it could be that she’s too drunk to hold her head up. I pick her up, and she doesn’t protest. Instead, she snuggles into me, her soft cheek pressing against the skin exposed by my unbuttoned shirt and beater tank. “We’re going to need to take you to a doctor and make sure you’re okay on the inside.”

She ignores this and instead proceeds to rub the tip of her nose into the hollow of my neck, and I tremble like a goddamn preteen. I need to rub one out. It’s just a desperate backlog of sperm. “You smell good,” she murmurs. Man, I had no idea that spot on my neck is such a sensitive place on my body. Picking up the pace, I stride over and drop her onto the bed. She bounces a little and the mattress squeaks, but she doesn’t appear fazed.

The shopping bags are not completely unpacked, so I dump everything out on the table and start rolling up the items into the new bag I bought her. But as my hand brushes over the lace and satin of the bras and panties the sales associate had picked out, I pause. It’s sexy stuff, but I didn't understand the leap in logic from the nice fabric to I better fuck Daniel before he leaves me. We don’t have time to stop and get new stuff. Hopefully, Regan will put this out of her mind or we are both in for a bad time.

I stuff the rest of the purchases into the bag and set it on top of the table. Shrugging into the tactical vest, I gather up all my shit and set my packed bag next to Regan’s. Two guns are shoved into my vest along with a full case of ammo.

Taking one of the chairs, I stick it under the handle of the apartment door. After rechecking all the windows to make sure they’re locked, I lay down beside Regan. It’s hot inside the apartment with all the windows and doors closed, but better to be hot and safe than cool and open for anyone to climb in.

My phone buzzes and I pull it out. It’s a text from Pereya, a contact I made who supplies bad people—and good ones too, I suppose—with everything from medical supplies to guns. He does a booming repeat business.

Informant in Morro Dos Macacos. Futbol field. Dawn.

Isn’t that fucking great? I will have to take Regan into one of the most dangerous favelas in order to gather some intel. I’m betting if I take her over to the Palace she’d run away, no matter that it’s the nicest hotel in all of Rio. And the soccer field? Last I heard there were circular burn marks all over those fields because the drug gangs liked to place their torture victims inside a ring of tires, douse them with gasoline, and burn them alive.

But if what Regan says about the embassy is true, I can’t take her back there. The revelation that one of the embassy guards is working for some human trafficker shouldn’t surprise me but it does. I doubt he’s a Marine though. A lot of embassies hire contractors—most of them former military—and they’re supposed to pass a deep background investigation, but the government often cheaps out on the firms running the background check; and, hell, fake backgrounds are easy to concoct if you’ve got enough money, and one thing traffickers don’t seem to lack is a ton of coin.