Cut scared me worse than Vitaly. Cut was an unknown quant.i.ty, whereas with Vitaly, at least I knew for a fact that he could and would kill without compunction. I knew he liked to look at me, liked to watch me shower, like to grope a bit. He made me sleep on the floor at the foot of his bed like a G.o.dd.a.m.n dog, which really p.i.s.sed me off, but I dealt with it without complaint because I liked being alive, and it didn't mean anything in the long run. No blanket, no pillow. Just the carpet, my naked a.s.s hanging out, my arm under my head. Vitaly was toying with me, testing me, pushing me to my limits. Trying to elicit a reaction.

Unfortunately for him, he was absolutely correct in his a.s.sessment of me: I had an iron will. If I decided to do something, no force on earth could sway me. Usually I just did what I wanted, whatever seemed fun or easy. But if I got something in my mind, there was no stopping me until I did it. That was how I managed to work two full-time jobs plus fifteen credit hours at Wayne State University. It was how I survived the s.h.i.t I did, growing up. I survived the ghetto as an outsider, not black, not white, not Hispanic, but as a girl alone on the streets and in the schools, which were often as dangerous as the streets, if not more so. In school, they could trap you in the locker room or the bathroom. On the streets there was usually somewhere to run. I'd survived that-not necessarily unscathed, but I'd survived it. I didn't talk about that s.h.i.t with anyone, though. Not anyone, not even Kyrie.

But I survived. I'd push through f.u.c.king anything, no matter what. I'd made it this far, made it out of the ghetto on my own, I'd paid my way through school, d.a.m.n near got myself a bachelor's degree, and a good set of skills. And I would be d.a.m.ned if some motherf.u.c.king Greek kingpin would end me. He wanted to watch me shower like a f.u.c.king nasty-a.s.s creeper? Let him watch. He wanted to make me sleep on the floor like Fido? I'd sleep on the floor.

He wanted to rape me?

Wouldn't be the first time.

Wanted to beat me into a b.l.o.o.d.y pulp?

Wouldn't be the first time.

I hadn't been tortured, but I'd survive that too.

And besides, Harris was coming.

So each morning as Vitaly's expressionless black eyes watched me shower, I'd envision a h.e.l.lish new scenario, and figure out my best options.

Turns out, one of them came true.

Vitaly was gone, leaving me alone in the penthouse. The elevator was locked, no call b.u.t.ton, only a keyhole. All points of exit or entrance were either guarded or locked. I had a TV-in the local language, of course-and magazines, again all in the local language, and most of those were nudie mags anyway. Not my thing.

BOREDOM SUCKS.

I flipped through all the magazines, tried to figure out words and phrases, I watched TV I didn't understand. I did a lot of pacing, and a lot of staring out the window. A lot of watching people come and go far below me, wondering if one of them was Harris.

And then it happened.

The elevator opened, revealing Cut. He was b.l.o.o.d.y from head to toe, splattered, painted crimson. Unhurt, though, it seemed, which meant the blood was someone else's. He swaggered toward me, leaving b.l.o.o.d.y footprints on the marble, dripping gore from his fingertips. He even had blood on his face, his neck, on his ears.

A grin curved across his features, splitting his scarlet-bathed face with white teeth. "Everyone is gone."

I glanced at the doorway Maria usually came through. "Oh. Okay." I backed away.

He stuck a hand in his pocket, casually, and stalked closer. "Just you and me."

"Where is Vitaly?"

"He was called to Brasilia. He won't return for many days."

I swallowed hard. "Oh. Um. Okay."

My skin crawled as Cut stepped close enough that I could smell the blood and the death on him. He touched the center of my chest, leaving a red streak on my skin as he dragged his fingertip down between my b.r.e.a.s.t.s. "Now you're mine."

"I...I don't think that's a good idea, Cut." I forced myself to stay calm, to breathe. "He'll come back, and he'll know if you do anything to me."

"He won't know."

I lifted my chin. "I'll make sure he does." I faced him square, nose to nose. Put all my att.i.tude into my eyes. All my contempt. "You want a piece of me, it won't come easy. Which means he'll know. And that won't go well for you. He killed Yuri just for not treating me well enough on the way here. What do you think he'll do if you hurt me?"

Cut just leered. "I am his oldest friend. You think he would kill me like he does those piece of s.h.i.t p.i.s.sants?" He spat onto the marble. "He won't. I want a piece of you, I'll take it. And b.i.t.c.h, you make it hard, you will regret it. I promise you this."

I backed away. "f.u.c.k you."

I never saw his fist move. Just BAM! I was on the floor, my cheek throbbing. And then he was leaning over me, rancid breath on my face. "Wrong answer." An open-palm slap to my cheek, and then again on the other side. Again and again, until I was dizzy from pain.

I swallowed the pain, clenched my teeth, and kept breathing. When Cut finally stood up, my lip was split and my face pounded with fiery pain.

I stared up at him, unblinking. "You hit like a p.u.s.s.y."

"You want more?" Cut sneered.

He smacked my t.i.t, and Jesus, that hurt. Again, again, again. I gritted my teeth and endured it, eyes stinging and leaking, but I didn't so much as whimper. And then he pinched. And by "pinched" I mean clamped down and twisted so hard I thought he was trying to rip my d.a.m.n nipple off. A shriek escaped, but I bit down on it.

I had blood smeared on me from his hands and clothes, and I was writhing in agony when he finally let go. A moment to breathe, and then I scrambled away, realizing this was all just foreplay to him.

"You going to cooperate now, b.i.t.c.h? Or you want me to start really hurting you?"

I should just cooperate. Pretend it was a drunk f.u.c.k. He was bit old for my taste, and it wouldn't be pleasant, but if I cooperated, he'd be done in a few minutes and I'd still be alive.

I thought about it. s.h.i.t yeah, I did.

For about four seconds.

"f.u.c.k. You." I spat the words, and then spat on the floor near his feet.

CRACK! His fist split my lip open and loosened a tooth. Knocked me to the floor. Hurt, but I'd been jumped and had the s.h.i.t kicked out me more than once, even badly enough to need hospitalization on one occasion, so this wasn't exactly new territory for me. Of course, he was a big guy who'd been pummeling people for longer than I'd been alive, so he could hit significantly harder than the teenaged d.i.c.kweed g.a.n.g.b.a.n.gers who'd jumped me when I was in high school.

He hit me twice more, and I felt the pain building enough to feel like maybe it was time to stop taunting him.

But then I heard rustling, and peeked through swollen eyes to see him unzipping his pants.

f.u.c.k that. f.u.c.k him. Not without a fight, douchebag.

Under the guise of rolling around and moaning in pain-which I didn't exactly have to fake, mind you-I twisted onto my side, away from him, and withdrew Mr. Papermate the p.u.s.s.y Pen, slipped it out of myself as swiftly and surrept.i.tiously as I could.

Jesus, it stank.

I curled into a ball, hiding it from him. Pried the cap off the point, blinked hard to clear my vision, held it in my fist, point down-yeah, it was a little...slippery. Eew. Just...eew. This would serve his a.s.s right, though.

I waited. Curled up in a ball, fighting the urge to whimper in pain. I wasn't gonna cry. f.u.c.k no. b.i.t.c.hes like him wouldn't make me cry. Nothing could. No one could.

His foot crashed into my back, sending me rolling across the floor. I nearly dropped the pen, but managed to hang onto it. I groaned, curled into a ball again, and waited.

This time, he grabbed my arm and rolled me to my back, straddling my p.r.o.ne body with a leg on either side of me. Still standing, he bent over me.

Dumba.s.s.

I silently thanked Brad the MMA fighter and our six months of hot monkey s.e.x-slash-Brazilian jiu-jitsu practice.

I almost laughed at the irony: I was about to use Brazilian jiu-jitsu, and I was in Brazil. Heh-heh-heh.

Let's break some s.h.i.t.

I stuck the pen in my teeth-yuck-and grabbed his palm with both hands, then twisted until it wouldn't twist anymore, hooking my leg around his arm so the back of my knee braced the cap of his elbow. Grinning up into his surprised face, I then pulled back with both hands while rocking my body in the opposite direction. SNAP. His elbow now bent in two directions.

The entire move took less than three seconds.

He screamed, I screamed, it was glorious.

Cut fell to the floor, writhing and grabbing at his ruined arm. I rolled over him, hooked my leg around his throat and got him into a good strong leg-lock; look at the little b.i.t.c.h turn blue.

I wasn't done.

Rape me? f.u.c.ker, I don't think so.

I took the pen in my fist, spat into his face. Steeled myself, jaw clenched, squeamishness locked down tight. He saw it coming. I made sure he did. I held the pen up high, palm of one hand cupping the back of my pen-wielding fist, slammed it down as hard as I could into his eye socket, putting all my weight, all my strength into the move. It pierced his eye like...well, like an ink pen through Jell-O. I hit resistance, and the pen stuck. He was thrashing, gurgling, twitching. I smelled s.h.i.t. I put my palm to the end of the pen where it protruded from his skull, slammed my fist down onto the back of my hand like a hammer, driving the pen deeper into his brain.

He went still.

I puked until I had nothing left but bile.

I released my leg-hold on him, kicked his inert bulk off me. I stood up shakily, staring down at him, and retched again.

The elevator stood open, key still in the hole. That was my chance out of here. I made quick work of Cut's blood-soaked shirt, unb.u.t.toning it, peeling it off his torso, and then slipped it on, shuddering at the warm wet stickiness of it. G.o.d, so f.u.c.king gross. But I was covered. I untied his boots, pried them off, stuffed my feet into them, tied them as tight as they'd go, and then patted him down for a weapon. I found a black folding knife in his pocket, the blade clean while the handle was tacky and b.l.o.o.d.y. Clearly, this was the weapon used to create all the blood covering him, and now me.

No matter, I was covered, shod, and armed.

Time to go.

I ran at a stumble, lurching into the elevator, his huge boots flopping and clopping like clown shoes. I looked ridiculous, but that was no concern. I mean, it was, because the thought crossed my mind while in the middle of a life-and-death scenario that I looked utterly ridiculous, wearing a man's blood-soaked white shirt, the edge hanging to mid-thigh, and a pair of men's huge, smelly work boots, ten sizes too big. But I wasn't naked, and wasn't running barefoot through So Paulo, so there was that in my favor.

Also, I'd just killed a man.

There would be time to process that later, hopefully. Now, I had to get out of here.

I twisted the key to the P, for parking lot, I a.s.sumed. I hoped. The door slid closed and the lift lurched into motion, descending rapidly. A couple gentle b.u.mps, and the elevator halted, the door slid open, and I was through, knife blade open, cutting edge up. A guy I'd hooked up with once had taught me that; hold the knife with the blade pointed up. He was a pretty rough character, obviously, but he'd explained that if you gotta cut someone real quick, cut up, start low and jab up. You can exert more force by jerking upward, do more damage.

Thanks, Lil D. Looks like that'll come in handy.

The parking garage wasn't empty. There were a bunch of valets standing around smoking pot, chattering, laughing. They went quiet as they caught sight of me, and one of them came over to me, a lit joint between his teeth, holding his hands palms out, chattering at me in Portuguese.

"I don't speak that s.h.i.t, bro. Habla usted Ingles?" That was Spanish, not Portuguese, but it was all I had.

"No English." He gestured at the knife, saying something else.

"You can have the knife over my dead body, a.s.shole." He understood my tone of voice, at least, and backed up, holding his hands up. I lunged at him, grabbed his shirt front. "I need a car."

"O que?" He seemed surprised by my sudden aggression, but not particularly worried.

"A car. Un auto? Das Auto? s.h.i.t, that's German. Um..." I mimed driving, making a zoom-zoom sound.

The other valets laughed like f.u.c.king hyenas, but the guy whose neck I had my knife pressed against wasn't laughing. He was sweating and waving at his buddies, chattering in Portuguese. Give her the d.a.m.n keys, you idiots, I imagined. One of them dug in his pocket and produced a key attached to a ring with a tag shaped like a soccer ball. He tossed me the ring and gestured at a beaten-up old jalopy, something small and once-green, now more rust than paint. Probably a stick-shift. Good thing I'd learned that skill too. How? You guessed it-a f.u.c.k-buddy. See? Being a s.l.u.t comes in handy, as long as you learn valuable skills along the way.

I hopped into the driver's seat, thanking my lucky stars that it was on the left, which meant they drove on the right here, which would make my getaway that much easier. I turned the ignition, and the engine caught with a cough and a sputter, and then set to idling. I was about to put it into reverse and pop the clutch, but one of the valets banged on the hood, shouting something at me. I just stared at him in the rear-view mirror, shrugging broadly.

He smacked the trunk again, miming opening it. I fumbled, found the latch, and opened the trunk. Maybe it was his car and he wanted to get something out of it? I didn't think there would be immediate pursuit, not until someone found Cut. The valet, the one who'd tossed me the key, closed the trunk again, pocketing a baggie and what looked like a wad of cash and a pipe. Yep, his car. He also had a pair of shorts, a T-shirt, and a pair of flip-flops in his hand.

He tossed them through the open window onto my lap. "Big Boss, up there? a.s.shole."

I nodded. "Yeah. He's an a.s.shole, that's one word for him."

He pointed at me. "You steal my car. I no see you."

I grinned at him. "See who?"

He laughed and backed away, and I shoved the shifter into first, popped the clutch, and hit the gas. The ancient little car bolted forward and the valets all scattered out of the way, laughing at me. I squealed the tires as I slammed the gears into second and took off, up, up, toward the light and out into the city. I nearly got in a wreck immediately upon exiting the parking garage. Super great. A big truck full of fruit swerved out of the way, earning me shouts and what I a.s.sumed were rude gestures. I just flipped them off and peeled out, zipping past them and through an intersection. Of course, the light was red, so I caused two T-bones and one head-on collision as I darted through the intersection, flooring it once I was past. This piece of s.h.i.t could move, it turned out. I mean, it was no BMW, but it had a little get up and go. Enough that I could cut around slower-moving cars and rush through intersections.

But then a thought occurred to me: I was an American woman, without a pa.s.sport, without a Brazilian driver's license, and I was wearing nothing but a b.l.o.o.d.y shirt, with a b.l.o.o.d.y knife still clutched in my shifter-hand. Maybe I shouldn't draw too much attention to myself. So I braked to fade in with the traffic, forcing myself to keep calm and look like I knew what I was doing.

I didn't.

I hadn't thought past getting out of the hotel.

So now I was in a strange city, alone, half-naked, with no money, no ID, no means of communicating with anyone. I mean, I knew Kyrie's cell phone number by heart, but I didn't have a phone, and I didn't know how to dial out of the country.

I turned at random, weaving around the city with no particular destination in mind, trying to come up with a plan. I needed money, and I needed to get hold of Kyrie so she could tell Harris how to find me.

Step one, change out of the b.l.o.o.d.y shirt.

I pulled into an alley and drove halfway down, put the jalopy in neutral and set the e-brake, left the motor running. I shucked the b.l.o.o.d.y shirt and tossed it out the window and into a nearby Dumpster. I slipped the boots off and threw those away too. I changed into the valet's shirt, shorts, and flip-flops. Thank G.o.d he was a short, skinny little s.h.i.t; the clothes were actually a little small. The blue shorts ended up hugging my thighs and a.s.s, and the maroon shirt barely covered my t.i.ts, and when I did get it over them, it was tighter than a d.a.m.n sports bra. The sandals were a little big, which worked out. My hair was a mess, so I searched around on the floorboards on the pa.s.senger side-this guy obviously lived in his car, as it was an unholy disaster area of random c.r.a.p. I found a rubber band eventually and used it to tie my hair back-it'd be a b.i.t.c.h to untangle later, but it kept my hair out of my eyes for now.

There was even a scratched-up pair of dollar-store style sungla.s.ses in the back. And-score!-some tightly-rolled dollar bills in the glove box. Pesos? What did Brazil use for currency? I unrolled one and examined it; they were reals, apparently. Pink, with a picture of a sculpture on the front, the numeral 5 in the top right and bottom left corners. I counted them-I had a hundred real. Reals? The correct plural didn't matter. Thank you Pedro-I would nickname my valet benefactor Pedro, I decided-for being a money squirrel.

Attired more like a normal human being rather than a horror movie victim, I felt like maybe I had a chance, now. A slim one, but it was something.

It's amazing how a set of non-b.l.o.o.d.y clothes can improve a girl's mood, huh?

I backed out of the alley carefully, watching oncoming traffic for a clear spot. I pulled out, and headed away. I drove at a sedate, unhurried pace, sweating buckets, cutting a direct line one way, then turning left and driving for several more miles, and then turning right and going even further, just trying to get away from the scene of the crime. I checked my mirrors regularly, watching for signs that I was being followed but, so far, nothing.

I found a gas station with a small market, put one of my precious five-real bills'-worth of gas into the tank, and went in to the little shop. I got a bottle of water, what I hoped was a protein bar, and a map of the area. At the counter, I saw prepaid cell phones and minute cards. Of course, the instructions were in Portuguese, but I'm a smart girl, I hoped I'd be able to figure it out. I grabbed a phone and a card and pa.s.sed it to the cashier. He rang me up, pa.s.sed it all back to me.

And then, squinting, he spoke. "American?" He was an older guy, a little salt in his hair, wrinkles and weather on his skin.

You'd think with my hair and skin color that I'd be able to pa.s.s for a local, but apparently not. I just nodded. "Yeah. American."