Last Breath (Hitman #2)(24)
Author: Jessica Clare

I text my contact at Morro Dos Macacos.

Thanks. Will need some supplies. USD cash?

USD OK.

And then because she needs it, I text back.

Need female doc to run some tests. Blood work.

No problem.

Nothing is a problem for Pereya.

Tomorrow I’ll get more ammunition, have Regan checked out, go see an informant, find Vasily’s hacker, save my sister, and get the hell out of South America. Right now though, I need some fucking shut-eye or I’ll be completely worthless. I allow myself to doze off, one hand on the grip of my Ruger. Anyone comes in and I’ll blow their head off. At this point, I wouldn’t even care if it is Vasily.

SCRATCHING SOUNDS IN THE EXTERIOR room wake me up. In her sleep, Regan has cuddled up close to me. Her long, naked leg is thrown over mine. I’m amazed I didn’t wake up when she got close. My body responds to the closeness of hers, and I grow semi-hard in an instant. Fuck. Ain’t got time for that now.

I disentangle from her and roll off the bed, pulling Regan with me to the edge. With one hand over her mouth, I shake her a bit with my other and then slide my palm down her side to press her legs into the bed. Predictably, when she wakes, she’s violently furious at being held down.

“Regan, it’s Daniel,” I hiss. “There’s someone outside. I’ll let you go, but you have to be silent. Nod if you understand.”

It takes her a few seconds, but then she nods. The minute I release her, she curls into a fetal ball. “No worries,” I tell her. “But crawl into the bathtub.”

She shakes her head, slides off the bed and hunkers down behind me. Her fingers tuck into a strap on the back of my vest. I’m guessing my promises to return aren’t something she puts a lot of faith in. “I’ll let you stay, but you can’t hold on to me.” I’ll be hampered in hand-to-hand combat if she’s holding on to me.

Crouched low to the floor, I creep to the entry. Once I’m situated with Regan behind me, I reach for the knob and release it. The door swings open and the scuffling in the outside room ceases. A second later, the drywall above our heads explodes. Plaster debris rains down as shots are peppered along the wall.

“Bathroom. Now,” I command. This time Regan doesn’t hesitate. She jumps up and races to the bathroom as I shoot twice to the right and roll across the open doorway. Then I hear a crash as the intruder stumbles into a table. I smile maliciously to myself. Shoot first and you give away your location, asshole. Creeping out on my belly, with a Ruger in one hand and knife in the other, I see a black shoe. I aim my Ruger two feet higher and when a loud, high-pitched squeal is released, I know I’ve hit a kneecap. I follow it with another shot, this time slightly to the right. When a thud reverberates, I know I’ve hit my mark on the shoulder. People are predictable. You shoot the leg and they bend over to grab their wound. It’d be easy to have made a head shot kill, but I wanted this asswipe alive.

Still crouching, I move farther into the room and switch on my laser sight. The little red dot never fails to scare the piss out of people and, if the pain is too much, he has something to focus on. I’m a giver. My target is on the ground, writhing and moving his hands from his shoulder to his knee as if unsure which wound he should try to compress first. It won’t matter. Once he answers a few questions, I’ll make sure he doesn’t have to worry about either injury. A quick glance around the interior shows that the room is empty. The window near the sofa is open, and a rope is dangling down. He must’ve come alone because anyone else would have rappelled down to save this guy once the gunshots went off. Despite the suppressor, there’s no good disguise for the supersonic boom that a bullet makes when fired, not to mention the screaming he made when I popped his kneecap. That’s a painful injury.

I walk over and pick up his gun, tucking it into my vest. As I walk to the window, I step on his wounded shoulder, which makes him sob out in pain. Reaching out, I tug at the rope. There’s no return resistance which means it’s passively secured. The rope comes tumbling down with a few flicks of my wrist, and I haul it inside. No sense in advertising a break-in.

“Senhor Gomes really likes this girl, huh?” I say, winding the rope into a loop and then tucking it into a bag. “Regan,” I call, “need an ID, please.” Maybe she’ll recognize him. I sure as hell don’t.

Regan comes tiptoeing out.

“Just as far as the doorway.” This asshole isn’t in any shape to attack a kitten, but I want to be extra sure that Regan’s out of harm’s way. Kneeling behind the intruder, I lift up his head by the hair and jerk him into a sitting position. “You know this guy?”

A cry of anger flies out of her and she rushes toward the both of us. His hands are outstretched as if to repel her attack, but rage powers her straight through and she kicks him in the gut, causing him to crumple over. Another kick hits his knee, and he starts babbling in Portuguese for me to make the devil woman stop. I guess she does know this guy.

Reluctantly I put a stop to the action, although it was kind of amusing in a dark way.

“Okay, Regan, I need to ask this asshole some questions, so you need to dial it back.”

She restrains herself, huffing and puffing. There’s blood on her leg, probably from her inadvertent kick to the gun wound on the intruder’s knee.

“Better go wash that off. No telling what he’s got in his body.”

She looks down at her body and then shudders. With a short nod, she spins and heads into the bathroom. When I hear the water running, I pull the guy into the remaining chair, forcing his legs into a bent position, and zip tie his hands to each side.

“Ai meu Deus do Céu!,” he pleads. I can’t work up any sympathy for this rapist.

“Nope. No god is helping you today.” I tap his knee again, and he starts blubbering. While he cries, I examine his gun.

“What is it?” Regan is back. In the moonlight, her legs are exposed and shiny from the water, and if I’m staring at them no doubt our intruder is.

“It’s an African Vektor SP-1. A nice piece not usually carried by someone from the slums. Most of those guys either have their AR47s or armas hechizas, makeshift weapons with pipe and a firing pin.” I heft the gun. “This one, though, shows he’s part of a well-funded, well-armed gang.” I turn to her. “Go put some pants on.”

She flushes but hurries over to the bag and pulls out a pair of linen pants. I realize as she’s tugging them on, right in front of both of us, that she’s scared shitless. She’s not letting me out of her sight. Running to the bathroom was an extreme act of bravery and trust on her part. She needs a reward and a security blanket.