Last Breath (Hitman #2)(23)
Author: Jessica Clare

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.

My phone beeps again, this time with a message from Vasily.

All roads lead to Rio. I’m coming. Find him. -V

Even better. I force myself to loosen my grip so I don’t crack the plastic clamshell. A new Russian mafia boss in search of a computer hacking genius is coming to Rio. We should hole up in one of the favelas and have a shootout until the last man—I look over at Regan—or woman is standing. Keeping her with me wasn’t the plan. I was going to locate her, drop her at the embassy, and then find my sister. But now our destinies are bound. Fate, karma, whatever shitty fucking overlord above who shines his paltry light down on us has put us together. So be it. We’re going to go in together and get out together.