“It’s a great little place I like to call Shut the Hell Up and Quit Asking Questions. Now, come on.” He gestures at the wide-open door. There’s a hard tone in his voice. “Stay close to me. You won’t like it if I have to chase you.”
Ominous words, but I’m not scared of him. What’s the worst that could happen? I get stuck here sucking the dicks of strangers? End up in a shallow grave? I feel as if I’m out of choices as it is. You can’t really threaten someone with nothing to lose. An hour ago, I would have feared for my life, but if I go with this man, I’ve lost it anyhow. The scared looks Augustina shoots in my direction are real. She thinks I am already dead.
I need to do something. The open door, so close, is a challenge I can’t resist. I take a few steps out, following the man in the suit. He’s tall and clean cut. I’d find him handsome enough if he wasn’t here in a Brazilian brothel purchasing me. Since he is, he’s clearly a deviant.
As soon as I step outside of the front door, a barrage of sensations hit me. The streets are narrow, a tight cluster of haphazard slums. The night air is cool and crisp and carries a hint of garbage. But I feel a breeze ruffling my hair and nearly choke on tears. I am outside. Escape and freedom are so close that I can feel them in my grasp. I tremble all over, my toes curling on the dirty, cracked pavement lined with trash.
“You cold, sweetheart?” The American puts a big hand on my shoulders, urging me on. At the end of the street, I see a taxi waiting, and he gives me a little push toward it.
I stumble forward, my legs stiff, and jerk away from his hand, whirling around. “Don’t touch me.”
As I turn, I see that Ricardo is moving ahead, too, and his hand is in his jacket. But the American has obviously used me as a distraction. Before I fully realize what is happening, the American’s hand is already on his gun and it’s pointed at Ricardo’s forehead.
“Nope,” says the American quietly, his intense focus on Ricardo’s face. “Don’t even think about it unless you want your brains on the pavement. Drop it on the ground.”
I freeze in place, watching the men. The first thought that flashes through my mind is that if I had a gun, I’d have all the power. A gun can make a person do anything, by waving it around. And I’m so tired of being on the other end of the gun. One day, I’m going to be the one holding the weapon, and someone else is going to weep and beg for me not to hurt them. And I’ll think about it.
I’ll have to be quicker to get the drop, though. The American man is so speedy with that gun, so deadly. He moved faster than I could imagine.
I’m so dead if I go with him.
Ricardo slowly reaches into his pocket and lets his gun fall to the ground, gaze on the gun barrel pointed between his eyes. As I watch, the American stoops to grab it, does something with the gun, and the entire magazine of bullets drops to the ground. Two more swift motions and the barrel is separated so the entire thing looks like a dissected animal in pieces on the pavement. Just like that, Ricardo has been disabled.
I stare for a moment, and then I run. I bolt like all the devils in the world are at my feet. Not toward the taxi and where the American wants me to go—down the street, into the slums themselves. The houses here are narrow and tight, and the streets equally so. I will lose myself in the maze, get away from both brothel and American psycho. When it’s safe, I’ll emerge.
I dart down an alley, my bare feet slapping on the broken concrete of the street. “Hey!” the American calls after me. “Wait!”
I don’t wait. I’m not stupid. I turn down a trash-strewn alley and slam away, running like I never have before. I’m free, my brain calls with every beat of my feet on the pavement. I’m free. I’m free.
Rough arms grab me at the waist, hauling me aside so roughly that my entire body flails and a man’s arm slams the breath out of my lungs. I choke and gasp as a big, sweaty-smelling man presses my body against his, his hand moving to my neck and pinning me against him. I start to fight. A moment later, there is a gun pressed to my forehead.
It’s not the American. It’s someone new.
Two guns to my head in one night. If I was in a horror movie, I’d be screaming at the screen at how stupid the heroine is. A laugh chokes from my throat and ends up as a sob.
The man holding me strokes a hand down my throat in a way that makes my stomach revolt. He murmurs something in Portuguese, and then says something to a friend that emerges from the nearby shadows. I catch the word “Gomes” in their foreign chatter. These men work for the brothel. They are retrieving me.
I’m not free after all.
A loud pop sounds in my ears. Behind me, the man slumps and falls to the ground. A second pop, and I turn. His friend falls to the ground, too. I blink in shock, chest heaving as I try to pull air back into my lungs.
The American strides forward from the far end of the alley and gives me an irritated look as he reloads his gun, a long, skinny barrel-looking thing on the end of it. A silencer, perhaps. “I guess I should thank you for flushing them out, but all I really want to do is choke that skinny neck of yours. Can we quit with the bullshit and get out of here, already? As much as I love the atmosphere of the favelas and all, I’m tired, dirty, and hungry, and I’d really like to call it a night. So can we do that, please?” His voice is laden with sarcasm. “Or did you have any other blind alleys you wanted to charge down, half-naked and barefoot?”
I stare blankly at him for a moment, and then I shake my head. “I-I’m good, thanks.”