Last Breath

by Jessica Clare

  “Good,” he says in the most brutal voice I have ever heard.

  Hudson pulls right up behind us, and before I can demand that Vasily start the van again, shots ring out. The remaining windows in Hudson’s car shatter, and someone yells something in Portuguese. I see hands go up in the air.

  Hudson is surrendering.

  An explosive sob of relief escapes me, and I crawl back to the front of the van, to Daniel. Naomi is at his side, her hands pressing against his wounds. He’s still breathing, but he looks so pale.

  “We need a doctor, Vasily,” I tell him, but he’s not getting out of the driver’s seat. As I look around, there are men, armed men, swarming Hudson’s car. It’s Mendoza and his men.

  Oh, thank God. I push the passenger door open and practically spill out onto the concrete, all naked, bloody, and snot-faced from crying. “Mendoza,” I cry out. “Daniel needs a doctor! He’s been shot!”

  He rushes to me, barking orders at his men. Someone hands me a shirt, and I try to get to my feet, but pain stabs me. I collapse on the ground and stare at the red soles of my feet that are gleaming with shards of glass. I can’t stand. “Daniel,” I say as someone tries to help me up. “Get Daniel!”

  Then, there are men dragging him out of the van, gesturing another man—hopefully a doctor—forward. Mendoza is draping the shirt over my naked body as I hug one of my glass-embedded feet.

  “Come,” Mendoza tells me. “Put the shirt on. I want both you and Daniel in the infirmary.”

  I nod and slip my arms into the shirt, hugging it closed. Mendoza picks me up in his arms, and I want to yell for him not to touch me, but I can’t walk, and I want Daniel more than anything. I crane my neck and see that they’ve brought him inside, and that’s where I want to be. In the distance, Hudson is surrounded by dozens of armed men, his hands behind his head. Good.

  As soon as we step through the doorway of the compound, I hear an engine start. Startled, I turn at the same time Mendoza does, and we watch the catering van drive out of the compound, despite the number of people in the courtyard.

  I look around. Naomi is nowhere to be seen.

  Neither is Vasily.

  Daniel’s friend has re-stolen Daniel’s sister. Oh no. My heart sinks.

  “We need a blood transfusion,” someone yells up ahead, and I forget about everything but Daniel. Clutching at Mendoza’s shoulders, I don’t relax until I’m in the clinic with Daniel.

  And then I can do nothing but watch as Mendoza’s doctor goes to work on the man I love.

  Twenty-six

  Daniel

  “SERGEANT HAYS , YOU HAVE A Red Cross call.”

  I look up from the picnic table where I’ve got a ten and a five. Rubens, one of the direct assault troops in my squad has a face card and a four. Do I hit or stay?

  “Wait,” I say. “Did you say Red Cross?”

  The lance corporal delivering the news nods his head stiffly. A Red Cross call is an emergency call, a special number that connects families of troops with deployed soldiers no matter where they are. I’ve never had one in the eight years I’ve been in—not even when I was in theatre and my old man had a heart attack. It was a minor one, but I learned about it an email four days after I’d come back from a mission in Beirut assisting the Lebanese in ferreting out a leading member of Al Qaeda. The U.S. military is enjoying using its Middle East staging ground from Afghanistan to launch all kinds of Special Forces missions. “Hit me,” I tell the other recon sniper assigned to my squad. He lays out an eight. “Fuck.”

  “Busted,” Rubens crows and drags in the cigarettes we’re using as currency. Three of them break and the tobacco leaves a trail on the scarred and cracked wooden surface. “Sergeant?”

  I jerk my head around. Nothing good comes from a Red Cross call, but I go and lift the phone up like it weighs more than a 50 cal machine gun.

  “Your sister’s been kidnapped. You need to come home and find her.” My dad’s voice is hoarse, as if he spent the whole night crying or, more likely, shouting at people. I stagger on my feet, looking for a chair and can’t find one. I slide to the ground.

  “When?” I ask. I need details, but there’s silence on the other end. Finally, my dad sighs.

  “Two days ago.”

  “Two fucking days ago and you’re calling me now?” I scream down the line. My heart is pounding so hard and fast now I fear it will jump out of my chest. This is my fault. All my fucking fault. I was the one who encouraged her to take this spring break trip. I had almost bullied her into going, telling her she needed to spend time with people her own age.

  “You need to come home, Daniel.” It’s my mom’s voice, so quiet I can barely hear her. She’s crying and her tears remind me of Naomi. “Daniel, come home.” More tears. Lots of tears.

  “Save me, Daniel.”

  I see those words in a thousand faces. The hunt for Naomi started in Cancun, but it has taken me everywhere. From the Philippines to Dubai to Russia to London. Girls are being sold everywhere. Their red mouths and tiny hands reach out to me, but before I can reach them they are shot, one by one. I turn around to stop the shooter, but no one’s there. A heavy weight drags down my arm, and I see a smoking gun. I throw it away with a scream.

  There’s a fire in my shoulder and another in my waist. I’m burning up. It’s the fires of hell, I think. I’m in hell and being burned for my failure. For my sins.

  “Daniel. Stop.” It’s Regan.

  “Fighter. Wait for me,” I tell her. “I’m coming for you.”

  Wetness falls on my face. “You promised not to leave me,” she screams. Her screams are so loud. I see Hudson above her, his whip hand reaching back to strike again. Grabbing it, I pull him away, but there’s another man and another and I can’t reach her. “Regan,” I scream. “I’m coming. Hang on.”

  Arms try to hold me down, but I have to get to her. I’m not leaving her behind. I’ve got to keep my promise.

  “Don’t come home until you find her.” The stern face of my father appears next to me. My mother lies in pieces at his feet. Someone’s shaking my arm.

  “I’m coming, Regan, wait for me.” They’ve immobilized me, but I’m not being held back. “I won’t leave without you!” I roar. And then a blow across my face renders everything black.

  Twenty-seven

  Regan

  I CLUTCH DANIEL ’S HAND IN mine for hours. He’s asleep, due to the heavy duty drugs they’ve given him, and isn’t aware that I haven’t left his side. I still hold his hand anyhow. They’ve pumped blood into him, and his color is better, his wounds are stitched up, and they assure me he’ll be fine. But I won’t believe that he’s going to be all right until he wakes up and smiles at me and calls me “fighter.” Then, I’ll know he’s okay.

  Then, I can tell him that his sister’s gone again.

  Vasily has disappeared. Mendoza sent some men to hunt him and try to stop him, but both he and Naomi have vanished without a trace. Mendoza thinks that Daniel will know where Vasily has taken Naomi, and I hope so.

  I worry he’s going to be furious at me because I didn’t do enough to stop Vasily from taking her again. And I worry that Daniel will look at me with loathing because I’m still here and Naomi’s gone again.

  Mostly, though, I sit and worry.

  One of the favela doctors swings in and checks on Daniel. Daniel has a new bruise on his face from when Mendoza came in and clocked him in the jaw to get him to stop yelling. The doctor smiles at me; I think he’s impressed that I never leave. He checks Daniel’s vitals, switches an IV bag, and starts to leave again.

  “Is he going to wake up soon?” I ask softly.

  The doctor doesn’t look concerned. “Soon. How are your feet?”

  “They’re fine,” I say flatly. I have bruises all over, and my feet are torn up from all the glass I had to have extracted from them, but it’s unimportant. Daniel’s all that matters. “How soon is ‘soon?’”

  The doctor shrugs and turns to leave.
He looks so unconcerned. Maybe he’s used to patching up bullet-holes far too often. He nods at me. “Soon.”

  And then he leaves again.

  I press my mouth to the back of Daniel’s hand. He’s so still in bed, so lacking that vibrancy that I’m used to seeing. I never realized until now how very alive Daniel is and how much I ache to see that devilish smile of his again.

  Instead, I’m here, listening to every breath he takes and hoping it’s not his last.

  “You promised you wouldn’t leave me,” I murmur against his hand. “You promised, Daniel.”

  He doesn’t respond. Of course not. I press another kiss to the back of his hand, thinking. Then, I smile. “If this was a horror movie, you and I would both be dead, you know.” I pause, as if imagining his outraged response, then nod. “It’s true. Horror movies follow basic stereotypes, and those stereotypes always get picked off. One of the first ones to go is always the slutty blonde. Bad guys love a good, slutty blonde.” I imagine his laugh and smooth my fingers along his skin. “They usually die screaming and running through the woods, only to trip because they wore some ridiculous high heeled shoes. And you, of course, would be the cocky, arrogant asshole stereotype. Those die pretty fast, too. You’re far too competent, too good at what you do, too good looking. I think the movie writers make it their mission to take down guys like you.” I nip at his fingers idly. “Which is ironic because we both know you’d toast anyone or anything that tried to get past you, and you’d do it with a smile.”

  “Who lives?”

  My head jerks up at the softly worded question, my heart hammering in my chest.

  Daniel’s eyes are mere slits in his face, but he’s smiling at me, and the hand in mine squeezes briefly. “Hey, fighter.”

  “Hi,” I say, and my vision blurs and more tears stream down my cheeks. I’m so relieved. The doctors said he would be fine, but I don’t trust anyone’s words anymore. All I trust is Daniel.

  He’s all I trust, and all I need.

  “Hey, hey,” his voice is soft, and he tries to reach for my wet cheeks. “Why you crying, fighter?”

  I shake my head, excusing my tears. “Just kinda emotional.”

  He looks around the room, dazed. “Naomi?”

  I freeze for a moment. I don’t want to tell him what happened. Not right now, not when I know he’d climb out of this bed, unhook his IVs and go after her. He needs to rest. “She’s out,” I hear myself saying and hope he’s not too angry about the lie later.

  He nods and relaxes back in bed again, those sleepy eyes gazing at me. “You look tired, fighter.”

  I shrug. I’m tired because I haven’t slept a wink since Daniel got shot. But that sounds needy, so I hold it back. “I’ll be fine.”

  “How badly was I shot?”

  “Once in the shoulder and once in the side. They say that you were lucky it didn’t pierce any organs.” I shudder, my breath catching on the words. “You should be fine in a few days. You lost a lot of blood.”

  “Mmm.” His eyes are sliding shut again, and he looks exhausted.

  I kiss the back of his hand again. “Sleep, Daniel. I’m not going anywhere.”

  He slides his hand out of mine and pats the side of the bed. “Come curl up next to me. I’ll sleep better with your body against me.”

  I shouldn’t. There are tubes and IVs and he’s fucking hurt, but I can’t resist. I crawl into the bed on his good side and hope he doesn’t notice that my feet are covered from the calf-down in puffy bandages with big white fluffy socks over them. But his eyes are closed, and when I slide in next to him, my butt leaning off the edge of the bed, he puts an arm around me and nuzzles against my neck.

  “Mmm, you smell good,” he tells me.

  “And you’re going to sleep, you horn dog,” I tell him in a prim voice.

  He chuckles, but goes silent again. I snuggle close and listen to the sound of his breathing for long, sweet seconds of peace.

  Then, after a moment, he says sleepily, “Who lives?”

  “Hm?”

  “In a horror movie. Who lives?”

  “Oh.” I think for a moment. “The innocent girl. The virgin.”

  He snorts as if this is ridiculous. “I’d take you over Daisy in a horror movie any day.”

  I smile and slide in even closer. “Sleep.”

  He does, and I sleep next to him.

  Daniel

  I’M PRETTY MUCH OUT OF it the first day, but by the second, the drugs that Mendoza’s doc has pumped into me are masking my pain, at least the pain in my shoulder—Regan’s sweet kisses and honeyed fingers are driving me crazy.

  “Fighter, I need you to climb on top of me, right now.” The pain in my pants is going to kill me if I don’t get relief.

  “Shut up, we’re not having sex.”

  “How can you say that?” I whine. “I’m a wounded man. You need to render aid and suck on me.”

  “Pretty sure that’s succor,” she says, but there’s a small smile running around the edges of her mouth. I’m thinking she could be talked into this.

  “My dick is so hard right now that if you don’t cover it with your pussy, it’s going to break off. I don’t think you want to be responsible for that kind of damage.” My right arm is undamaged, so I use it to palm her sweet breast. The nipple firms up under my fingers, and Regan bites her lip. Yup, she’s convincible. I slip my hand around to her back and pull her down. She resists at first, but with a firm tug I have her mouth right against mine. “Pretend I’m Sleeping Beauty,” I whisper against her lips, and she’s laughing until I slide my tongue into her mouth.

  She whimpers sweetly in response. I plunge my tongue inside her mouth like how I want to be fucking her hot little pussy. “Climb on top of me, fighter.” My one good hand grips her ass and pulls her on top of me, but her clothes are in the way of us feeling good.

  Fortunately, she’s wearing a loose-fitting skirt which I wrench out the way. There’s a tearing sound, but I could care less. The thin blanket covering my lower half is kicked off, and then her hot cunt is sliding against my rock hard dick. The wetness slicks her path, and my body is engulfed in flames. I’m burning up with want for her. “Jesus, I need you on my dick right now.” Taking my aching cock in hand, I center it at her entrance, and she slides down slow.

  I can’t take my eyes off our joined flesh.

  When her hot, wet heat envelops me, I drop my head back and both her hands crash down on either side of my head. Her hips rise, and she pulls off me almost completely before gliding back down in slow, small torturous increments. It’s like she wants to kill me—but if this is how I go out, then glory fucking hallelujah.

  My one hand grips her hip as I try to hurry her along, but she’s having none of it. “Sleeping Beauty,” she whispers, “if you want me to save you from villain Blue Balls, then you need to let me run this show.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” I say, because what else are you going to do when the love of your life is basically telling you that she’ll fuck you to death and then bring you to life again? “I fucking love you.”

  “I love you too,” she answers and tightens her pussy to punctuate her words.

  I’m panting because she’s doing a number on my body. Her slick walls against the sensitized bare skin of my cock is killing me. I feel every little vein and ridge inside her cunt, and it’s fucking glorious. Heaven won’t be this good. Shit, this is heaven. Being inside the tight cunt of the girl you love more than life itself is something close to it at least. Nothing has ever felt this good, and I suspect nothing else will. I’ll always be chasing her down, trying to get inside that pussy even when I’m eighty.

  I brace my foot against the thin mattress to push up a little, and I’m rewarded with a breathy moan.

  “Right there,” she whimpers. I wish I could flip her over and pound into her, but I can’t. Not in my sorry condition. Instead I reach between us and find her little nub of delight. I pinch it lightly and thrust up at the same time. “Oh
my God, Daniel,” she screams.

  I roll her clit between my fingers and piston my hips upward. If I could hold on to the feeling forever, I would, but we’re both chasing down the hurricane of pleasure. Ignoring the pain, I use my left hand to pull her head down to mine so that we can fuck each other with our mouths at the same time my cock is spearing her sex.

  We’re slamming against each other when her orgasm hits. Her walls close around me like an undulating wave, clenching and releasing. Her cunt is a hot glove of power, and I’m completely under her control. The pulsating grip pulls my own orgasm from the base of my back.

  “I’m coming inside you in three seconds. Pull off if you don’t want a bunch of my swimmers attacking your eggs.” It’s the only warning I can get out, but Regan bites down on her lower lip and looks me straight in the eye.

  “I want it.” And I explode on her command. My hot seed jets into her, and she throws back her head and clamps down again, a second climax chasing my own. We finally stop pumping against each other, and she collapses on her elbows, still careful to avoid my injured shoulder.

  “You’re so fine, Regan Porter,” I murmur, running my hand through her cloud of blonde hair. “You’re a motherfucking rock star at this.”

  She giggles against my neck.

  “No, seriously, you are.” I turn my head and awkwardly kiss her cheek. “Best ever.”

  “Really?” she asks, and I sense the question isn’t really rhetorical.

  “No shit.” I draw her down flush against me because having her body next to mine is worth any amount of pain. The bullet wound in my shoulder isn’t keeping us apart. Nothing ever is again. “I’m going to need a daily dose of this in order for me to fully recuperate. Maybe two doses a day.”

  Even though I don’t mind that she’s resting on top of me, Regan wriggles over to my side, avoiding both wounds. “What’s going to happen?” she asks.

  “We’re going to go home. You, me, and Naomi.”

  She doesn’t respond, which worries me. “Or I can come to Minnesota with you.” I’m not letting her go. “I hate to tell you this, but you’re stuck with me now. I’m going to follow you around, and if you don’t let me into your house, I’ll sit outside on the porch.”