I stare blankly at him for a moment, and then I shake my head. “I-I’m good, thanks.”
“Any other genius plans for escape?” he asks, pulling the silencer off his gun and tucking it back into his jacket. “Because I’d really prefer not to spend all night chasing your ass, Regan.”
A bitchy retort rises to my lips, and then I snap it back as I realize—“How . . . how did you know my name?”
“I know a lot about you. What, you think I like trolling the slums of Rio de Janeiro for blondes because I can’t get laid?” He gestures back to where I came from. “Come on. The meter’s running.” The man reaches for me again.
I sidle away so he can’t touch me, tugging the coat closer. I look at the two dead men at my feet. I should feel something for them, right? Some sort of horror that they died right in front of me? That this man shot at them while I stood here? But all I can think is that they were this close to dragging me back to the brothel.
And this man knows my name. He was looking for me. My heart thuds in my chest. Once. Twice.
Maybe I’m not forgotten after all.
“Who are you?” I ask as I step over the lifeless body of one man.
“Call me Daniel.”
DANIEL
Regan is looking at me like I’m going to kill her or, worse, take her to someplace that will make Gomes’s brothel look like Disneyland. Not that I blame her. If I were in her shoes I’d be running in the other direction, too. She doesn’t know jack about me other than the shit I spouted off in front of Gomes, which was essentially that I was taking her to my hotel room where I’d pound her so hard that there wouldn’t be anything left but a corpse. She’s unlikely to believe that the only place I’m taking her is to the U.S. Embassy, so rather than waste time arguing with her, I start walking. Actions over words and all that.
The taxi is likely long gone and even if it isn’t, bringing Regan back into Gomes’s reach isn’t an option. He’s too interested in her return. Why he’s having second thoughts about selling her for the night doesn’t add up for me. It’s not like Regan’s the only blonde in a hundred-mile radius. I’m not even convinced she’s the only star-spangled pussy around. She’s damn pretty though, and maybe if I were a half-rate, back-alley brothel owner, I’d think a girl like this could elevate my reputation among the expats who like a taste of home. But I’m not paid to think about why. I’m paid to do.
I’ve located Regan after running around Russia like a fool, freezing my nuts off until the head of the Petrovich Bratva, a powerful Russian criminal family, learned that she had been shipped down here. By accident, Vasily Petrovich told me. That’s some kind of accident. Vasily had stashed her in a Petrovich house, only someone stole her from there and sold her to some rich dude in Rio. Then when I arrived in Rio, she wasn’t with the rich dude but was in Gomes’s place. Another week wasted. I just need to get her to the embassy, and then I am on to the important part of my task: finding my sister. Vasily gave me a tip in exchange for retrieving Regan that there was a stream of blond girls from the United States being funneled down to some guy in Rio. One of those blondes might be my sister.
Petrovich should’ve known I’d come for Regan anyway since Nick was kind of a friend and Regan was his girl’s best friend, but instead he gave me two pieces of information. I’m supposed to be looking for some hacker that Vasily wants called the Emperor, but his little task will be put on the back burner until I find my sister.
Wary of me, Regan walks a half step behind. Or rather, I let that distance between us exist. She’s more afraid of bogeymen jumping out of the houses or back alleys than she is of me right now, but that could change at any moment. Fear is a good thing. It makes you sharp and aware. Complacency makes you dead.
“How do you know my name?” she repeats.
“Ask me no questions and I’ll tell you no lies,” I quip.
She curls her lip at me, telegraphing disdain for my humor. But I’m not telling her anything. Who knows what she will tell the folks at the U.S Consulate? If she’s smart, she’ll tell them everything—including how a tall guy with a black suit and big black guns killed two Brazilians in the slums—and then I can add the U.S. military to the number of people who want to see me captured or dead. The list is long and varied, but I’m still alive and most who’ve encountered me are not.