Last Breath (Hitman #2)(33)
Author: Jessica Clare

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.