Last Breath

by Jessica Clare

  But . . . what if he tries to go out again?

  What if he leaves me?

  The familiar panic surges, and I’m close to throwing up the food I’ve eaten. I yank the door back open and run into the living room, startling him. He’d sat back down to work on cleaning his guns but stands up.

  “What’s wrong?”

  I can’t explain the sheer relief I feel at the sight of him. I wring my hands and try to think of a probable excuse as to why I don’t want him in the bedroom with me . . . but I don’t want him out of my sight, either. “I . . . um, I’m scared.”

  “Of the dark?” he teases, all smiles again. “You want a nightlight?”

  “Very funny, asshole,” I say, but I’m cracking a faint smile myself. I glance over at the couch. “Can I . . . um, can I sleep here?” I point at it.

  Now he looks confused. “You want me to sleep in the bed and you on the couch?”

  “No,” I yelp out quickly, thinking. If he’s in the bed, he’s in the other room. “I . . . uh, I want to be in the same room as you. Not the bedroom,” I add, “ . . . here. Where it’s safe.”

  Where I can see you.

  He digests this and then nods. “Sure. Get your blanket. I’m going to be up for a while anyhow.”

  I race back to his room, snatch the blanket out of the bed so I don’t have to spend longer than a moment with him out of sight, and then wrap it around me, heading back to the living room. Daniel watches me as I return, his face impassive, but soon returns to cleaning his guns.

  I relax a bit more now. We’re not in the bedroom, and as I lay down on the couch, I face the table so I can watch him work. So I can keep an eye on him. I pull the blanket tight around me and curl up. It’s soft. It’s the softest thing I’ve felt since I was taken, and I immediately feel like weeping again at the small luxury.

  Tomorrow I will figure out some way to make Daniel keep me at his side. I can’t go to the embassy. I can’t chance it. I’ll have to figure out some other way to get home.

  I watch Daniel work until I fall asleep, exhausted.

  Six

  Daniel

  SHE LOOKS FRAGILE. FOR THE first time since I’ve taken her out of the whorehouse, she looks like I can break her. I prefer the feisty, sarcastic girl. This teary-eyed victim scares the hell out of me. None of my past dealings have prepared me for her. What the hell were you going to do with your sister? a little voice mocks. I had hoped to find my sister, take her home, and let the land, the horses, and our mom heal her. But as I look at Regan’s sleeping form, tense and protective when most people are completely lax, I realize what a dumbass idea that was. It’s going to take more than sitting on the porch and drinking sweet tea for a few weeks to recover, and Regan is only a few hours out of her imprisonment and torture. Even trained soldiers need time to recover, and Regan didn’t have any training. When I was part of Special Ops we all went through training on surviving capture and torture, which basically meant being captured and tortured.

  A group of older soldiers would kidnap you and take you to a solitary cell. They’d place a wet towel on your face and leave you there. At first, you feel like the towel is nothing. You can survive a towel. But an hour or so of being immobilized, sucking in the wet fabric with every breath and then having more water poured over your mouth and nose and into your ears while you vomit into your mouth and then swallow it back—all the while choking on the fabric, puke and water—is hell. Then when you are about to pass out or you think you’ll die, the towel is ripped away and you’re stuck in room where fluorescent lights flicker off and on while random noises are piped in, sometimes for what seems for hours at a time and others randomly. After that you listen to your friends call out from the next room while they seem to be tortured or raped and they are calling out your name, begging you to help them, save them, rescue them. But you can’t do anything.

  Oftentimes the soldiers trying to get into the Special Forces fail these mental tests, not the physical ones. Lots of people can swim, run, and carry a rucksack weighing a hundred and fifty pounds for twenty-six miles. Not many can survive mental torture and not come out of it a deadweight victim.

  I don’t know what Regan has endured and I don’t like envisioning it. But I’m guessing that Regan’s suffered more than any Special Forces soldier ever has, and she’s not catatonic. So what if she broke down? That shit’s normal. I couldn’t barely say more than two words when I finished my psychological training. Unlike Regan though, I was alone in the shower of my apartment when I had my mental vacation, and the next day I could pretend that it was nothing when everyone was patting me on the back for graduating and buying me drinks. A few of the old timers, though, passed me a drink and gave me a knowing look that said my bravado was a thin front. So yeah, Regan’s little torrential outburst was nothing but normal. I hope she knew that. Getting her back to the consulate and on her way to the good U.S. of A. would make a helluva difference.

  The first thing we need to get her up and on her feet are real clothes and shoes. It is tempting to leave right now. Rio is like Vegas—open all hours of the night. But if she were to wake up and find I wasn’t there? That seems like a bad idea. I’d deal with the clothes thing in the morning. I kick off my boots, pull off my t-shirt, and settle into the hard-backed chair for some much needed shut-eye. My last thought is there’s a damned good bed not getting used tonight.

  “YOU CAN’T LEAVE.” REGAN’S VOICE is tinged with desperation that she is valiantly trying to swallow back. I pretend like I don’t notice that she’s huddled onto the edge of the sofa, as far away from me as she can get while still maintaining two eyes on me at all times. It’s like she wants to see me there and feels safer that I’m around but can’t really be sure I’m not going to hurt her like she’s been hurt the last six weeks.

  I inject as much gentleness as I can into my voice and hold out a hand—not for her to touch, but to show her I mean her no harm. It’s worked with horses in the past and it’s not like I have any better ideas. “I can’t take you downstairs. You stand out too much, and we need to keep a low profile until we can take you back to the consulate."

  She nods, but I’m not sure if I’m getting through to her. I swipe a hand down my face. Hating to leave her but having no choice, I look around. How can I make her feel safe? My eyes fall on one of the guns I have disassembled on the table. A weapon. She’d been feeling me up yesterday after her storm of tears, searching for a weapon. For a quick moment, I’d thought she was caressing me and I had to fight back a completely inappropriate boner brought on by her soft body and her need for comfort, not to mention her slim fingers running up and down my abdomen and around the waistband of my pants. “Have you ever shot a gun before?”

  “No.” The word is quavering and soft. I go over to the table and reassemble my Ruger. It’s not a good gun for beginner. A Glock would be better, but I don’t like those and, more importantly, I don’t have one with me. This piece will have to do.

  I carry it over and hand it to her butt first. Her hands curl around the stock and her finger is immediately on the trigger.

  “Nuh-uh, uh.” I pull her trigger finger out and rest it along the barrel. “Only put your finger on the trigger when you’re going to pull it,” I instruct. This time her nod is matched by some understanding in her eyes.

  “See the switch here? It’s the safety." I slide her thumb along the safety, making her push it up and down. “Up and the safety is engaged. Down, it’s not.” I wait for her acknowledgment and watch her flip the switch a couple of times. I take her other hand and pull back on the barrel. “Your chamber is loaded. The gun is hot. You disengage the safety and wrap both hands around the stock.” I pull her left hand off and fold it around her right hand. “The SR45 has a soft recoil, but it’s still going to kick which makes you point upward. Always bring your gun back down when you shoot or you’ll only hit the ceiling.”

  “Pull back the chamber, disengage the safety. Got it.” She rubs her index finger
almost lovingly along the side of the barrel and my junk starts swelling again. Shaking my head at my own dumb response, I redouble my efforts to concentrate on showing Regan the rudimentary steps of using a handgun.

  I pull the gun from her hands, but she won’t release her grip. I tug on it and then promise, “I’ll give it back. Just a minute.” Reluctantly, she lets the weapon slide out of her hands. Pulling back on the slide, I release the bullet we’ve chambered and then press the magazine release. It drops into my hand and I push the bullet back in. Checking to make sure the safety is still on, I hand her back the gun and then walk out fifteen paces, which puts me right in the kitchen about ten feet from the door. “Wait until your intruder is right here and then shoot. Anything farther away and you’re bound to miss.”

  She scowls at me. “Because I’m a girl?”

  “Because you haven’t shot a gun before. Doesn’t matter if you’re a girl or a guy,” I correct. “I’m going to run out and get you some clothes and shoes and a case and…” I wave my hand toward her body. “Other stuff. When I come back, I’ll say my name. If I think you’re in danger, I’ll say ‘Honey, I’m home’ and that’s your signal to run to the bedroom, grab my pack, and climb out onto the fire escape. Instead of going down, go up to the roof and wait there.”

  “I thought you said the windows were nailed shut.” She scowls at me.

  “I lied.”

  “And if you don’t come?” A fearful look creeps into her eyes.

  I crouch down so we’re both eye level. “I’m coming back for you, Regan. I won’t leave you until you’re safe. I promise.”

  “Why?”

  It’s an easy question and there are easy answers if I trusted her to keep her mouth shut, but it’s not just my life that is on the line. It’s Nick and his girl Daisy, who happens to be Regan’s best friend. I don’t know what story they want me to tell her, so until I can make contact with them, I have to keep my mouth shut. But I don’t want to leave her hanging.

  “Because you’re too important not to save.” I know it’s the truth the minute I say it. I’m not going to let her be hurt again, not on my watch, not while I’m still breathing. Because I’m a stupid piss, I lean in even closer and I give her a soft kiss on her temple. The air around us grows thick with tension. I know what the tension is on my side because I can feel my pants getting too tight. Her tension is fear based. I stand swiftly, feeling something like embarrassment, and pull up my pants to check my service revolver strapped around my ankle.

  “Why can’t I have that gun?” she asks. “It looks like it would be easier to shoot.”

  “Nope,” I shake my head. “This baby only has a .22 and your big girl gun is a .45. You can shoot a lot bigger holes with a .45.”

  Shrugging on a loose-fitting linen top over my beater tank to cover the two knives I have strapped to my sides, I turn to face Regan. She’s pointing the goddamn gun at me. “You aiming to shoot me, sugar?”

  “What?” She looks confused and a little distressed.

  “Then don’t point the gun at me.” I point to the ceiling. “You only point the gun at a target, so ceiling or floor unless I’ve done something to piss you off so much that nothing short of a bullet is going to clear the air.”

  She flushes but lowers the gun.

  “Good girl.” I pull open the door. “What’s our code?”

  “Your name is safety. ‘Honey, I’m home’ is danger.”

  “Good girl.” I repeat and close the door behind me. The door’s thin and I can hear a muffled sob and then a deep breath. Then…nothing. Good girl, indeed.

  I run downstairs, not wanting to be gone too long. The drumbeat in my blood says that Regan needs me back soon, soon, soon.

  Once on the street, I head for Copacabana Palace Hotel. While there are dozens of small stalls along the beach, I figure it will be easier to get everything I need from one place. But first . . . I duck down the first alley I come to and then wait three heartbeats. When my tail, a dark-haired male in his late twenties with pock marks and loud boots, pauses at the mouth of the alley, I reach out and grab his windpipe. His hands come up to claw at my fingers, but my grip doesn’t abate. With a fierce jerk, I pull him into the narrow passage between the two cement structures. It’s easy to swing his head back against the wall, and though he might outweigh me by a good twenty pounds, I’m far stronger than him and at least four inches taller. My forearm keeps him from breathing for thirty seconds. When he’s turning blue and his breath is noisy and labored, I ease off slightly.

  “Why does Gomes want her back so bad?”

  He spits in my direction. Gross. This is why I hate close up contact. All the fucking fluids like blood, piss, spit, and vomit can spray over you like spray from a shaken soda can. Maybe he doesn’t speak English. I ask him, “Falas Inglês?"

  He presses his lips together in a universal non-verbal refusal to answer, so I reapply my forearm to prevent a bunch of spit in my face again. “I don’t care if you speak English or not because if you don’t give me a good answer, you’re going to die here.”

  “ Engasga na minha porra!” he gasps out, telling me that I should choke on his cum.

  “No, thank you. I prefer eating pussy to drinking some stranger’s cum.”

  “That puta does not belong to you,” he finally says, showing that he does speak English just fine.

  “Who does she belong to?”

  Gomes’ man struggles ineffectually against me. I lift him higher until he can barely reach the ground. The muscles in my right arm are shaking and I know I’ll have to put an end to this soon.

  "Não é da sua conta."

  None of my business? Is he fucking kidding me? “Since you’re following me and trying to kill me, it kind of is my business.”

  He tries to swing his head forward to head butt me, but the forearm against his windpipe prevents such movement. An evil grin spreads across his face, and I know what he’s going to say even before it comes out of his mouth. “That whore loved every minute of my cock inside her.”

  My left fist smashes his mouth in and I feel the gratifying crush of jawbone under my hand. Blood sprays out of his mouth onto my shirt. It’s linen. Blood is fucking hard to get out of linen. There’s no Tide Stain Stick for Assassins at the supermarket. Playtime is over.

  With a swift upward jerk of my knee, I introduce his balls and cock to his kidney. “Guess you won’t be using that anymore.” I release him to fall to the ground at my feet, moaning out of his broken mouth. Deciding the world can do without one more rapist, I twist his head to break his neck with one swift motion.

  My shirt is covered with his blood and spit. Crap. Can’t go into the hotel like this. At one of the street vendors, I buy the first shirt I can find. It’s bright blue and can be seen for five miles in the dark, but it’s better than the fluid-splattered cotton I’ve left in the alley shrouding the dead man.

  The whole thing has only taken about five minutes, and I’m at the hotel in no time.

  My visit to the hotel shop takes longer than I’d hoped. They want me to make decisions about color and fabric. Patterns or solids. I don’t care and I’d venture to guess that Regan doesn’t either. After about fifteen minutes of nonsense, I buy everything they recommend. I pay for the load of clothes and shoes and underwear and other female stuff in cash and no one blinks. It could be because I’m a stupid North American tourist or it could be that crime is so common that no one cares if my money is clean or dirty so long as it is negotiable currency.

  I take my three shopping bags and hurry back to Regan. My watch says I’ve been gone an hour. It feels like two days. As I approach the door I hear the chamber on the Ruger being pulled back. “Daniel here,” I say while knocking and then move to the side in case she shoots through the door.

  Inside there are some muffled sounds and then a curse. Finally she says with resignation, “Come in. I’ve got the gun pointed at the ceiling because I don’t know how to do the fancy thing with the bullets.�
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  Disengaging the lock, I go in low in case there is anyone else with Regan, but it’s only her. She has a funny look on her face, but it’s indecipherable to me.

  “Something happen to your shirt?” She gestures toward my shirt. Not wanting to tell her that Gomes has sent yet another man after us, I shrug. “I like blue, what can I say?” Holding up the three bags, I ask, “Trade?”

  She sets the gun down on the floor in front of the sofa, barrel pointing toward the wall. Smart girl. She picks up stuff fast. I like that I don’t have to repeat anything with her. She knows and goes.

  “What’s all that?” Her head jerks toward the bags.

  Setting them down on the table where I cleaned my guns, I pick up the abandoned Ruger off the floor. “Stuff for you. Clothes, shoes, shit,” I reply absently as I shake out the bullet and then eject the magazine. Once everything is back together, I go into the bedroom and pull on a nylon holster vest and stick my two Rugers inside the breast pockets.

  When I get back into the living room, Regan is sifting through all the stuff. The near-sleepless night and early morning excursion is hitting me. I stretch out on the sofa and watch her as she unpacks the bags.

  “This is a lot of stuff.”

  “Figured you can tell the consulate that you lost all of your luggage but a carry-on. Not sure how long it will take you to get them to ship you back, so I got you a bunch of stuff. There’s a carry-on for all that shit in one of the bags.”

  Regan looks pissed at something, but I decide that I’m too tired to care. The adrenaline spike from my fight outside is fading fast. I’ve been hunting for her for weeks now and getting into Gomes’ whorehouse wasn’t easy. I figure that killing the last scout bought us a little time. I need some shut-eye if I’m going to do Regan any good because I can’t think right now. I’m too fucking tired.