Last Breath (Hitman #2)(32)
Author: Jessica Clare

I pull away, dazed, and notice that his eyes are narrowed with desire, his lids heavy. How have I never noticed before that Daniel is so sexy? So masculine? This must be Stockholm syndrome; I’m falling for Daniel because he’s the only constant in my world.

That must be it.

I lick my lips—tasting him—and say, “We can’t separate. Every time people separate in a horror movie, the girl always has a horrible death.”

He looks surprised at my words, and then a slow smile spreads across his face. “Name one movie where that happens.”

I begin to tick them off on my fingers. “Cabin in the Woods, The Descent, Tremors—”

“Okay, okay.”

“Ghostbusters—”

He shoots me a look. “No one died in Ghostbusters.”

“Scooby Doo—”

Daniel throws his hands up. “All right. You can come with me.” He eyes my hair. “We need a baseball cap to stuff your hair in. Maybe we won’t seem as out of place if no one can tell from a distance you’re a woman.”

I smile. “Quit trying to get rid of me, all right?”

“I’m trying to save your life. Excuse me for being cautious,” he says, and there’s a teasing note in his voice.

“I’d rather die next to you in a gun fight than be sent back to the brothel,” I answer. And I’m a hundred percent honest about that. I’m not going back. Ever.

Daniel gives me a sobering look then shakes his head. “You know, you have Daisy fooled.”

This strikes me as an odd thing to say. “Oh?”

“Yeah.” His mouth quirks up on one side, and he begins to tuck knives into my flak vest and adjusts it again. “She told me you were sweet and agreeable and wouldn’t give me any trouble.”

I can’t help it; I giggle at how rueful he sounds. Maybe I was sweet and agreeable before, but I’m not now. I’m tired of the world crapping on me, and I’m going to stand up for myself. “I guess she didn’t know me very well.”

“Guess not,” he says with amusement. “Maybe we should get to know each other better if we’re going to be glued to each other’s sides for the next week.” And his gaze slides back to my mouth, as if he’s considering all the ways he’d like to get to know me better.

And for some reason, that makes me feel good. “Well for starters, I like horror movies. And I don’t like to be left behind.”

Daniel laughs. “Darlin’, I already knew that.”

Fourteen

Daniel

RECALIBRATION OF PLANS THEN. IT is obvious that Regan wouldn’t stay with Pereya even if he were willing to keep her. Pereya finds some jeans and boots but no hat. Once outside the house, I take Regan’s hand. “Stick close to me,” I order unnecessarily. Her grip on my hand would have broken my fingers if I was any weaker or she was stronger. I make a mental note that we should eat before we get papers.

“There’s a protein bar in the front pocket,” I tell her. “Eat.” She definitely does not have enough food in her belly. After this, I need to take her to get a good meal.

“Are you ordering me around because you’re mad?” she asks but digs in and finds the protein bar. She breaks it in two and hands me half. While she nibbles on one end¸ I shove my entire part into my mouth and swallow before I respond. Regan’s a liability, but her fear is overcoming any good sense. And after what happened inside Pereya’s war room, I don’t have the heart to tell her she’s slowing me down. But I do want her to take some basic precautions. Tugging on her hand, I turn her so she can see I’m serious—but for a moment I’m lost looking down into those deep green eyes, more mysterious and beautiful than the waters of Rio. I’m so goddamn exhausted, mentally and emotionally and physically. I’d like to dive into those waters and not come up for days. It’s this endless, wearying hunt for my sister and the fear that one day I’m going to find her in a body bag. It’s knowing that scum out there like Freeze and Gomes and others seem to be winning.

But then there’s Regan. She’s evidence that things can go to hell and something good can still survive. It’s my job, then, to not fuck this up. I need—no, want—to keep her safe.

“I’m not mad at you. Don’t got time for that. What I am is worried. You need to follow my instructions at all times. If I say jump, you jump. If I tell you to eat, you eat something. If I say stick with me, that means there’s no more than a paper’s width between us. Our getting out of here depends on you listening. Got it?”

She nods, and a glimpse of the agreeable, sweet self that she referred to earlier peeks out. The whole situation is a clusterfuck, and I’m not even talking about taking Regan deeper into the slums. It’s my stupid attraction to her and her need to see if she can wrangle some response out of me. I’m torn between wanting to tell her that if I were any more attracted to her that I wouldn’t be able to get up and walk and not traumatizing her even more with my attention.

“Ouch,” I hear Regan say, and I realize that this time I’ve squeezed her fingers too tight.

“Sorry.” Letting her hand fall, I pick up the pace. The sooner we’re out of here, the better.

The streets are narrow and curved here on Monkey Hill. There was no city planner to lay out roadways in strict geometric patterns. Instead, the people of the favelas have built this neighborhood by placing red brick and rusted corrugated metal shacks on top of each other like a child stacking empty SPAM cans into a tower.

This high up you can see the Maracanã Stadium, where they are gearing up to host the World Cup and where Olympic Soccer will be played in two years, at the base of the hill. Its gleaming new walls shine like a great false white hope.

Rio has tried to clean out the slums, raining down a barrage of bullets like a shield. The drug lords retreat but don’t die. There’s still an acrid smell that lingers here in the streets, the smell of spent bullets, burnt flesh, and grief. Down in Ipanema or Leblon, everyone has a smile for you. Up here, walking out your door is an act of courage. Smiling at a stranger signals your willingness to be shot down for being stupid.

Three quarters of the way up, the community square becomes visible. At one time the large square compounds housed a daycare, swimming pool, and soccer field for the people on Monkey Hill. The drug lords won’t allow the pool to be filled for no good reason. I’d think they’d like to bring people here to drown. The soccer field is devoid of grass except around the edges. Instead, it’s one giant oval of dirt. This is where true footballers were once born. One thing that everyone up here agrees upon is that those that are Pelé-blessed shall pass through untouched. Drug lord or slum dweller, they all love their soccer gods. Edson Arantes do Nascimento and Manuel Francisco dos Santos, better known as Pelé and Garrincha, are more revered than the Virgin Mary.