Total pages in book: 117
Estimated words: 109286 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 546(@200wpm)___ 437(@250wpm)___ 364(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 109286 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 546(@200wpm)___ 437(@250wpm)___ 364(@300wpm)
“Nice.” Her nose—the one that fits perfectly into my neck—wrinkles up. I’m rank. Maybe I should’ve let her sniff me more, because that would be enough to send any girl into a fit. I’ve got dirt, blood, and who knows what other bodily fluids from two dead men on my clothes, and I haven’t showered in . . . I count back. Three fucking days.
If I were with my team, we would’ve joked about the smell, saying that if you aren’t riper than a rotten peach, then you haven’t been outside the wire long enough. I’ve gotten soft in the years since I’ve been out. Sleeping in a “ranger grave” is common enough during deployment that blankets and pillows should be a luxury, but the services of hired assassin pay pretty well and I’ve gotten used to feather beds and down comforters, not to mention hot showers.
I lay the bundle onto the wooden table and then stare down at Regan. My tired mouth speaks before my filter can catch up. “You are really fucking beautiful, you know?”
I’m grateful but surprised when she shakes her head and laughs disbelievingly. “You know my boyfriend Mike said I looked like a colt. All legs, no torso.”
“Shit-for-brains-Mike? The one who couldn’t give you an orgasm? You actually listen to what he says?”
Regan’s face falls. “I should’ve never told you that. You think I’m a weirdo.”
Leaning against the table, I shake my head in disbelief. “You’re the weirdo because he can’t give you an orgasm?” I don’t even tell her about the other stuff I know, like how he’d sleep through her masturbating right next to him. And how he hasn’t called, not even once, to find out where she is. Nick told me that he’d considered shooting Mike because he was taking up space in the universe that could have been given over to someone who actually gave a shit.
“No, because I told you all the stuff and . . .” She waves towards my crotch. “Other stuff.”
I don’t need for her to notice my other stuff, because it’s swelling in hopes that she pays real close attention to it. I need to get her out of sight and out of mind before I start telling her that I’m not going to be a tool that she uses to get off. What I’d like to say is that the next time my touches are going to be personal, and when she gets wet, it’ll be because of my up-close attentions.
Worried that she’s a distraction to me, I cast around for a place to stash her. In Morro dos Macacos everyone is armed—from the residents to the police force that regularly marches through trying to clean up the slums so that Rio is respectable for the world stage. Regan could easily get hit by a stray bullet, which to my way of thinking would render this whole escapade worth about a Benjamin ripped in half. Meaning, less than nothing.
Mentally I check off the things we have to do. First, we need identification and passports for Regan or she is never leaving Rio. Second, we need to get to the airport and send Regan home. Third, I need to find the hacker. Fourth, I need to find my sister, and then the Hays siblings get on their own plane and return to their ranch and never, ever leave it again. But before all that I need to hustle up to the hill and meet my informant, the one that Pereya found that might have information about Naomi.
Running an agitated hand through my hair, I order her, “Stay here. Be right back.”
Upstairs, I find Pereya sleeping like an innocent next to his wife. My knife hand itches, and I place my palm against my ankle so I can feel the outline of the sheath against my hand. Pereya has sold me ammunition and given me a place to stay. I don’t need to threaten him with a knife across the throat. Not yet at least.
I give him a few alternating taps on the side of his face, and when I see his eyes pop open I cover his mouth. When the warm saliva and tongue hits my palm, I wonder why I don’t wear gloves more often. Resisting the urge to pull my hand away, I whisper in his ear, “Need one more thing from you before I leave.”
Pereya nods and I release him, swiping my hand across the fabric of my pants. A wet wipe will be in order as soon as Pereya gives up a source. “I need to know of a good paper maker.”
“Lots of them in the favela, but none that are good. You’ll have to go to Ipanema. See a mermão by the name of Luiz Soto. He can hook you up.” Pereya holds out his hand, and I slip him another hundred. It’s an expensive tip.