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)
Utopia is clearly enforced by martial law.
But all that show only means one thing: this guy must be a bad shot. I holster my gun, casually try to hide Regan behind me, and place my hands up in the air.
“We’re here to see the Knife’s Edge.”
“State your business.” He folds his massive arms across his chest, the movement pushing the hilts of the wrist knives out toward me. With a quick mental calculation, I figure I can pull out one of the knives and pin his hand to his chest in about ten seconds—that is, if the blade is long enough. Behind me I feel Regan’s slight form creep closer.
“We’re here to do a trade.”
“We don’t trade in flesh,” he growls.
Enlightenment dawns. He thinks we’re here to trade Regan for . . . something. I pull her to the side. “Nope, she’s with me. My Russian buddy is going to pull out some money so you can see that we’re interested in information and some services in exchange for cash.” I didn’t want the guard to get trigger-happy when Petrovich reached inside his suit pocket.
Petrovich hands a wad of cash to the guard, who doesn’t even count it, just flips it in his hand as if he can measure us merely through the weight of the cash. Maybe we should have brought gold. Without a word, he disappears inside and closes the door.
“Nice friends you have, Petrovich,” I mock.
“I associate with you, do I not?” he retorts. Regan stifles a semi-hysterical giggle.
A minute passes. Maybe five. I cross the street and sit on the curb. We aren’t leaving until we speak to the person in charge. Petrovich stands by the door, like he’s a soldier awaiting orders.
“He’s super-strange,” Regan observes.
“Yup.”
“Like, I think he really wanted me to beat him.”
“Yup.”
“Are all your friends that fucked up?”
“Yup.”
She’s silent for a minute. “I guess I see why you like me.”
This brings a grin to my face. “Fighter, you’re the least fucked up of all the people I know. You’re like the normal control in a sample full of crazy.”
“You weren’t always part of this world, though.” She gestures toward the favela.
Leaning back on my elbows, I raise my face up to the sky. The sun is warmer here, more intense. Its rays touch you with a close hand. If not for the kidnapping, my missing sister, and the surly Russian standing five feet away, I could pretend I was lying on the beach sipping a fruity drink with an umbrella with Regan in a barely there bikini, her body glistening with the oil I’d spread over every square inch of her. “You know why bad guys win?”
“No.” She sounds as despondent as I felt staring into Hudson’s compound.
“Because they live in these fucking compounds. When I’m done here, I’m going to buy my own fucking island and you and my sister and I are going to live there and drink fruity drinks with little umbrellas. I’ll grill some steaks, and after we’ve gorged ourselves, you and I will go inside and make sweet love while Marvin Gaye serenades us.”
“I like that you’ve put a lot of thought into that.”
Before I decide to get my gun out and start shooting holes into the walls in front of me, the guard comes out and gestures us inside. The door opens into a small room with one table. There are no windows here, and the space is dark and cool, lit only by a couple of bare bulbs. There are two other guards standing in front of the only exit. Nice. My gun hand twitches. The first guard hands the wad of cash back to Petrovich. “Strip.” I raise an eyebrow at Regan, and she gives me a wan smile.
When her hands fly to her blouse, the guard barks out, “Stop.” We freeze.
“Not you.” He waves a hand toward Regan. “Stand over there,” he orders, but Regan doesn’t move. Her fingers creep out and loop into the waistband of my pants.
“I’m not leaving Daniel,” she says.
“Sorry.” I shrug my shoulders. “We’re a package deal.”
He snaps his fingers, and one of the men standing in front of the rear exit leaves. A few minutes later a woman appears with a folded cloth in her hands. She approaches. “If you’ll come with me, you can change into this. I promise to return you.”
Regan looks reluctant, but stripping down to nothing in front of these three seems like it would be more traumatic than being separated.
“I won’t leave without you. I promise,” I tell her, and she releases me with reluctance.
With Regan gone, Petrovich and I undress swiftly. The guard who left to get the woman comes over and pats us between our legs. I’m not sure how many people can hide a weapon up their asshole—and I don’t think I even want to know—but the guards here are more invasive than a TSA agent. I hope Regan isn’t suffering the same kind of inspection.