Last Breath (Hitman #2)(43)
Author: Jessica Clare

“Just awesome,” I lie. “Look, I could give you a big song and dance complete with code words and shit like that, but I need to see Luiz. Pereya sent me.”

A speculative glint appears in her eyes, and she says, “Wait here.”

“Is this the place?” Regan whispers after the leggy brunette disappears into the backroom.

“Hope so.” I force myself not to follow the brunette into the back. Shifting our heavy bags over one shoulder, I try to relax. The artwork on the wall is stunning, but clearly directed toward tourist tastes with iconic shots of Sugarloaf Mountain and the Christ the Redeemer statue. In the middle of the room on a pedestal is a crystal sculpture that looks like a futuristic piece of kryptonite, only it’s not green, just clear glass. After a moment, the attendant waves us in the back.

Luiz is a small man, barely coming up to my chest. Or maybe he was once taller, but he’s so spent so much time bent over a table, his natural height reduced about four inches by the forward roll of his shoulders.

“What do you need?”

“Credit cards, passport.”

“For who?”

“Two blondes.”

“This one?” He points to Regan.

“Yeah, and one more.”

“Do you have a picture?”

I do. “It’s twenty months old though,” I caution. Pulling out my wallet, I lift out the picture I’ve kept in a vellum envelope in an interior pocket. I’ve had this picture with me for a long time, just for this purpose. When I first started out in mercenary work, I hadn’t realized how important false identities were—being able to change your name and move throughout countries with ease is something of a necessity in my line of work. I have dozens of identities but none for Regan. I have a couple of stolen identities I carry around for my sister, but I might as well have something made up for her while I’m at it.

Luiz nods and takes the photo with tweezers. I can tell by his meticulousness that our papers will be flawless.

“It will be two weeks.”

Regan, silent the whole exchange, finally speaks up. “Two weeks?”

“Tomorrow,” I say implacably and pull out a wad of cash to sweeten my demand.

Luiz shakes his head. “Detailed work takes time.”

Regan makes a distressed sound, and I shove the cash at Luiz. “Tomorrow.” At his hesitation, I draw a gun and everyone ducks, but I aim it toward the crystal sculpture of Sugar Loaf Mountain sitting in the middle of the showroom. “Tomorrow,” I repeat.

Luiz looks at me, the heavy bags at my back, and then the cash. “Tomorrow then.” He gestures for Regan to stand against one empty space of white wall and takes her picture.

I holster my gun and shove the cash in his hand. Gesturing toward the door with my head, I urge Regan out.

“Why not now?” She looks like she doesn’t want to leave without the papers, but I don’t want to piss off Luiz anymore. I drag her out of forger’s office and into the street. She looks unhappy, and I miss her sunshine-like smile from earlier this morning.

“Let’s go get our stuff and then check into a better hotel. I feel like I need another shower after lying in those sheets.”

“Who’s the girl?” she says.

“The girl?” I’m not sure I follow her. What girl? She’s the only girl I’m with.

“The other girl. The one with her picture in your wallet? Who is it?”

“My sister.”

Seventeen

Regan

HIS SISTER.

A few things click into place, my brain suddenly making sense of things. He’s got a sister—a young, pretty blonde who was sold into slavery, like me. That’s why he’s hunting blondes. That’s why he’s in and out of brothels in the slums and knows people like Luiz and Pereya.

That’s why he was so giddy when we got the information from the snitch.

I want to laugh with relief. I’ve been trying not to think about the other mysterious blonde he’s so excited at the thought of finding. I’ve been having flares of jealousy, quickly tamped down again. What right do I have to be jealous of anyone or anything Daniel does? He’s not mine. He’s my rescuer that I’m forcing to stick with me.

But . . . I’m still glad it’s his sister and not a rival for his attention.

We leave Luiz’s art gallery and head onto the streets of Ipanema, mingling with the crowd. I look over at Daniel and he’s full of barely-leashed energy. If an assassin could be giddy, that would be Daniel. I wonder if it’s because he’s close to getting his sister . . . or close to getting rid of me? Or both?

I’m not sure how that makes me feel. The conversation at breakfast has left me a bit at odds with myself. I don’t know how I’m going to slide back into my old life and pretend like nothing has happened. I’m a scholarship student, and the company I’m slated to go work for has paid for a large chunk of my schooling. It’s one of the reasons I went into accounting as a major: a guaranteed job at the end of college and someone was willing to pay for most of the classes, provided I keep my GPA up. Of course, it’s mid-semester right now, and I’ve missed two months, which means I’ve now flunked out of all my courses unless I drop them. Either way, I’m screwed.

But I’m alive, as Daniel has pointed out. I should be grateful instead of anticipating problems.

As we head back into the rougher part of the city, the streets clear out a bit. There’s not as many people strolling the shopping districts, and there are a few people loitering in doorways of nearby rundown shops. We’re walking the streets of Ipanema, heading back to the hotel, when Daniel grabs my ass. “Damn, baby doll. I can’t get over how fine this is.” His voice is loud, his Texas drawl thick.

I’m startled, and I jump at his touch, scurrying away a few feet. What the hell? “What are you doing?” His touch, so callous and out of the blue, has made me jittery, and bad memories start creeping up in my mind.

“I don’t think I can wait to tap that again,” he says, and his arms go around me again. Before I can protest, he drags me over a few feet into the alley and pushes me up against the wall. His mouth presses down over mine.

A deluge of bad memories sweeps over me as his tongue presses into my mouth. This aggressiveness isn’t like Daniel. He’s always let me take the lead before, and the difference in his touch is like night and day. I’ve craved more of his touch and wanted to explore . . . until now. Now, I want him to get off of me before I suffocate under the thoughts crowding my mind. Memories of men with guns and sweaty bodies, forcing my mouth open, pushing me down on a dirty mattress . . .