“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 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’ brothel look like Disneyland. Not that I blame her. If I was 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 wasn’t, bringing Regan back into Gomes’ 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 amongst 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’ 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 blonde 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 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.
Fighting the urge to stare at her is more challenging than I expected. As we walk down the hill, several boys make hooting calls that cause her to flinch and drive her closer to me. I take her in surreptitiously. Only the lights from the homes and the occasional street light illuminate our path. The dirt and poverty looks more like quaintness than squalor. And Regan Porter looks like the shiniest rock in the diamond mine. I can’t fucking take my eyes off her.
Maybe she’s been sent to me as karmic punishment. You can look but don’t touch. Or worse, you shouldn’t even be looking.
Despite all that she’s gone through, Regan is magnetic. Her blonde hair has dried in a cloud around her face, and neither the dirt nor the trauma can disguise the oval perfection, high cheekbones and full lips. My hand rises of its own volition to tuck a few strands of hair behind her pretty pale little ear. She jerks back from me, wide eyed, nostrils flaring like a scared wild Mustang I’ve brought in to tame.
And then my dick takes over and my thoughts go on an inappropriate detour thinking about all that pale pinkness riding me and that long blonde hair brushing my bare chest. And those plump lips making a perfect circle for my—oh fuck. I am such a fucking asshole. Clenching my hand, I force myself to back off. Time and place, Daniel, time and fucking place.