Last Breath (Hitman #2)(37)
Author: Jessica Clare

“What’s going on?” Regan asks as I grab both bags without stopping. The motion causes one of the bags to brush against my side, and the pain shoots outward causing me to stumble and groan. “See, you are hurt.” She tugs on my arm as if she thinks we can go back to Pereya’s safe room.

Stopping, I cup her cheek and that intimate movement stills her actions. “We’re not welcome there right now.” She makes a distressed sound. “I’m not hurt. Really. I promise if I were, I’d tell you.”

“Would you?” Her big, forest green eyes look up at me with trust and…is that longing there?

I give myself a mental head slap to dislodge a dozen unsuitable thoughts—such as her actually having feelings for me that arise out of something other than gratitude and wanting to kiss again. Hell if she needs more practice, I’m her man.

I content myself with rubbing my thumb along her dirt streaked cheek. “Nothing’s going to happen to you while I’m still breathing. Swear.”

We stare at each other for what seemed like an eternity or at least two cycles of the moon before she drops her gaze. “Okay,” she says softly.

Her soft acquiescence stirs a response in a place far above my belt line. If we weren’t running for our lives, if I didn’t have my sister to save, if everything were different, I’d sweep Regan into my arms and carry her off to the nearest horizontal surface to show her how sincere my words are. Not for the first time, I wish that I had met Regan when I was still in the army, full of cockiness and the belief nothing could ever harm those I truly loved. Those feelings are long gone, and the oppressive weight of guilt and fear that replaced them has become the new normal. My response to Regan staggers me, so to regain my equilibrium, I grab my junk and make a smart ass comment.

“There’s a part of me that is in real pain, baby doll, if you’re feeling like you need to do something.”

“Really, Daniel? Did you have to ruin it?”

Yeah, baby, I do because neither of us have time for this strange pull between us. Giving her a strained smile, I head off down the hill. Like a good soldier, she follows. For all the shit I’ve thrown her way, Regan has done what I’ve told her without question. No one stops us on our way down Monkey Hill. Maybe word has spread of our shootout or maybe we look dangerous. Dusty, dirty, and bloody, we look like two people who’ve walked out of a battle and aren’t afraid to mow down anyone who tries to stop us. At least that’s how I hope we look because the truth is that Regan and I are weak as kittens right now. We need food, shower, and sleep. In that order. At the base of the favela, I look around for some transportation because we need to put some distance between us and Monkey Hill. Ipanema, Luiz, and papers are about an hour away to the southeast. In between are more favelas, hills, and forests.

Glancing to my left I see an older model fiat and the flanelinha is nowhere to be seen. I tug on Regan’s arm. “Let’s go.”

“You’re not stealing this, are you?”

“No, I’m borrowing it.” I take my gun and smash the driver’s side window. Climbing in, I reach over and flick open the lock. “Get in.”

Shaking her head, she climbs inside. “Someone really needs this car, I bet.”

“Then they should’ve paid a flanelinha to watch it.”

“A what?”

“Car attendant. Pay someone to watch your car so that some shitty criminal doesn’t come along and steal it.”

“Nice.”

“Same thing happens in the certain parts of our great northern America. Some neighborhoods are entirely transactional.” I fiddle with a few wires, and the car coughs to life. “Plus, are you up for walking forty kilometers or would you rather eat in an hour?”

“Drive then.”

Flashing her a big grin, I floor it. Throwing her my phone, I say, “Find the shittest-rated hotel in Ipanema.”

Fifty minutes later, we are checking into Real Aorporto. Regan reads the reviews to me as I drive down the narrow, hilly streets. “Carpets are filthy. I was scared to even lie down on the sheets, so I slept in my clothes and when I woke up, I was covered in more sand than you could find on the beach.”

“Sounds perfect.”

“Not that I’m complaining because I’m not funding this, but why are we looking for something so awful?”

“Because we can’t go into Copacabana Palace Hotel looking like we fought a drug gang in Monkey Hill. This place is going to be happy to accept our cash and not ask questions.”

“I DIDN’T THINK PLACES THIS shitty existed,” Regan says as we unlock our hotel room door. The hallway stinks like fish guts were spilled and never cleaned up. This room smells of stale smoke and too little air. I place our bags on the rickety desk and check out the bathroom. There are two towels that look as thin as tissue hanging on a towel bar and two extras on the bed. Flies are everywhere. “Maybe I should’ve asked you to look up the second worst hotel down here.”

“Thanks, genius.”

I throw one of the towels onto the base of the shower floor. “Stand on those while you shower. I’ll get you another dress so you can dry yourself off with it. It’s cleaner than anything here.”

Inside Regan’s bag I find a swimsuit, toiletries, and a cover-up. The attendant at the shopping center had thought of everything.

Scooping it into my arms, I carry it into the bathroom and am rewarded with a yelp. “Jesus, Daniel,” Regan harps. “A little privacy.”

“Sorry,” I mutter. Placing the clothes and toiletries on top of the toilet, I try to make it out of there without peeking. But a little scream halts my progress. Gun in hand, I whip back the shower curtain and there’s Regan huddled away from the shower head. Heart pumping, I look for the danger. Whisper-thin legs stretching out from a fat black body cling to the metal head. Shit, I don’t like spiders either. Glancing over my shoulder, I can see that Regan would be happy to have me shoot the insect with my Ruger. I shove the gun into the back of my jeans, grab a bunch of toilet paper, and remove the damn thing.

“I can’t finish my shower,” she says miserably.

“Sure you can.”

“No, because I can’t close my eyes now. I have to keep watching for spiders.”

“You can shower with your eyes open.”

“No, I can’t. I haven’t washed my hair. Will you…?” She doesn’t finish her question, but I can see it plainly in her eyes. “Please, Daniel.”