But I trust Daniel. So I force a wobbling smile to my face. “Let’s go.”
Twenty-one
Daniel
“THERE ’S NO WAY IN .” REGAN ’S dismay echoes my own internal frustration. It’s a sign. If you believed in signs, warnings, or symbols, the lack of an obvious entrance to Tears of God clearly said fuck off. I run my hand along the concrete walls and corrugated metal barriers that stand where the paved road indicates the entrance should be.
“What do you even know about this group?” I turn to Petrovich, who is standing slightly apart, hands on his hips, looking upward as if Touchdown Jesus will bend down from his place on the hill and part the metal seas for us.
“They are loyal, men of their word,” he answers and then points to the inscription written in Portuguese above the gate.
“What’s it say?” Regan asks.
“Revelation 21:4.” It’s a scripture. I read it out loud. “And God shall wipe away all tears from their eyes; and there shall be no more death, neither sorrow, nor crying, neither shall there be any more pain.”
“That sounds nice. Maybe it would be more comforting if there wasn’t a dagger punctuating the end,” Regan observes wryly. I flash her a quick grin. That’s my girl.
I pull out my gun and point it at the dagger. “What are you doing?” Regan hisses.
“Gotta get their attention somehow.”
Before I can squeeze off a shot, a door appears in the wall to my left, and a large hulking figure steps out. His heritage is indeterminate, which likely makes him a true Brazilian. Native Brazilians are almost a greater melting pot of heritages than the U.S. Afrikaan, Asian, and American mix in fantastic harmony. The only real important thing about this stranger is his size—extra large—and weaponry. He’s got machine gun belts draped over his chest like suspenders. On his arms are leather wrist guards that double as knife sheathes. He’s got an AK strapped on his back and an armory belt with guns, knives, and more ammunition.
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.