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?”