Part 16 (1/2)

He chewed on something in his mouth, and then ripped open the phone, took the minutes packages and withdrew the SIM card, glanced at the instructions, and then spent a few minutes pressing b.u.t.tons and listening. Eventually, he closed the phone-an old clamsh.e.l.l-style phone, the cheapest one he had, as it was all I could afford-and handed it to me.

He circled a set of instructions on the minute plan packaging and shoved it at me. ”Dial home. Ring America. Easy.”

He must have a.s.sumed I was a student or tourist, lost, and trying to call home. True enough, and thank G.o.d there were still nice people in the world.

I was closer to tears at his kindness than I could remember being in a long, long time. ”Thank you! Thank you so much! Gracias!”

He laughed at me, waving a hand. ”Nah. No e nada.”

I got in the car with my purchases, and as I checked my mirrors, I happened to get a good look at my face. Well s.h.i.+t, no wonder the old guy took pity on me: I looked like I'd gone three or four rounds with Manny Pacquiao, with predictable results. My left eye was quickly going purple, my lips were split and puffy, I had a cut on my right cheekbone, and I'd bled from the nose at some point, although it had stopped on its own, but had left a sticky trail of dried blood on my upper lip.

I got back out of the car and went in to the market, making a beeline for the bathroom. There wasn't much I could do but wipe at the blood and rinse my face with cold water, but it was better than nothing.

”Bad boyfriend,” the clerk said, as I pa.s.sed him.

”What?”

He gestured at me. ”Boyfriend no good.”

I nodded, and felt an absurd compulsion to laugh. ”Yeah, but you should see what he looks like.”

”You kick a.s.s?” His face lit up with a grin.

”Yeah buddy, I kicked his a.s.s good.”

He nodded, his expression fierce. ”Hit girl no good. Hit pretty girl? Very no good.” I laughed at that. Apparently hitting any girl was bad, but hitting a beautiful one was especially bad. Good thing I'm pretty, then, right? The old man gestured. ”You go Guaruja. Drive to o mar. Very pretty, much relax.”

”I will. Thanks. Gracias.”

He laughed again, pointed at me. ”No gracias. No Espanhol. You say 'obrigado.'”

”Obrigado,” I repeated ”Sim, sim. Obrigado.” He waved at me again, and I left.

I got back into my ”borrowed” car, the interior of which felt like it was at least a hundred and fifty degrees, even with all the windows down. Brazil was f.u.c.king hot, dude. I sat in the driver's seat, the engine running, the radio playing some kind of local club music, examining my map. Rodovia dos Imigrantes seemed like my best shot for driving to this Guaruja-which I wasn't even going to pretend I knew how to p.r.o.nounce. Now I just had to figure out where I was currently and how to get to the Rodovia-whatever-whatever. But first, it seemed, I had to go through both So Vincente and Santos, across a bridge, and through Guaruja. But then if I wanted to go the ocean, why not just stop in Santos? The old guy had specified Guaruja, though, so I'd go there.

I found the most direct route according to the map, dug a pen out of the glove box, and outlined the path I'd need to take, memorizing the numbers of the roads-the 160 to the 101 to the 248. So not through Santos at all, now that I checked the route again; I would be skirting north of there, staying to the mainland as opposed to going through the island of So Vincente. Whatever. I just had to get out of So Paulo. Find somewhere to lay low, get hold of Kyrie, and wait for Harris. Hopefully without any more super-fun run-ins with Vitaly's army of a.s.sholes.

So, I took my map back inside the market and showed it to the clerk. He spent a few moments staring at it, finger tracing one road or another until he located our current location-which, it turned out, was only a few miles away from the highway I needed. He grabbed a pen from the counter and drew a path for me on the map so I'd know how to get to the interstate, or the highway, or whatever the road was called. The big road out of So Paulo. Rodovia dos-something-about-immigrants.

Let me try this once more, this time with feeling.

I actually left the gas station, followed the helpful clerk's directions to the Rodovia dos Imigrantes, and hit the highway. Except for a bunch of cars whose makes and models I didn't recognize, and all the signage being in Portuguese, the trip was a lot like any road trip across anywhere in the US. Green gra.s.s on either side along with some scrub brush, palm trees in a hot breeze, semis and buses and pa.s.senger cars zipping back and forth.

I had two major concerns: running out of gas, and running out of food and water. I had one lonely little five-real bill left, unless my buddy Pedro had more cash stashed somewhere in his ride. I felt bad about stealing the dude's car and all his bank, but a girl has to do what a girl has to do, right? I was alone in a foreign country, didn't speak the language, and I'd just killed the right-hand man of a crime syndicate's top boss.

Not going there. Not thinking about putting a ballpoint pen through Cut's eye. Not thinking about the way he twitched and gurgled, or the fact that he s.h.i.+t himself. s.h.i.+t. s.h.i.+ts.h.i.+ts.h.i.+t.

I had to swing off the road and onto the shoulder so I could lean out the open window and retch.

Keep it together, Layla, I told myself. I couldn't afford to fall apart. Not now.

Iron will. Iron will.

I steadied my breathing, pushed away the images of Cut's violent death at my hands. Pushed away any and all emotions. Feel nothing. There was nothing in this moment, nothing but doing whatever was necessary to get myself out of this.

While I was stopped, I followed the instructions for calling out of the country and dialed Kyrie's number from memory, pulled the car out onto the freeway and tucked the phone between my shoulder and my ear, since I didn't think the archaic cell phone had speakerphone technology.

The line rang once, twice, three times...four, five, six. ”Come on, b.i.t.c.h,” I muttered, ”pick up the d.a.m.n phone.”

I heard a click, and then a smooth male voice. ”Who is this?”

I choked, blinked back blurry stinging salt out of my eyes. The relief I felt was immeasurable. NOPENOPENOPE. I'm not crying. For sure I'm not crying. ”I-Harris? It's-It's Layla.”

A pause. ”Layla?” Another pause. ”Sit-rep? Um, I mean, what is your situation?”

”I know what a f.u.c.king sit-rep is, Harris-I watch TV. I'm fine. I got away.”

”Where are you?”

”Brazil. Heading out of So Paulo toward-well, I don't know how to p.r.o.nounce it. A city on the coast, south of So Paulo. Starts with a 'G' and has an 'A' with a slant over it at the end. Gwar-yooh-jah or some s.h.i.+t.”

”Guaruja.” He said it gwar-ooh-zha. ”Good plan. I can be there in-less than twelve hours. Are you hurt?”

I hesitated. ”I'm fine. I can last twelve hours.”

”Layla.” He said my name...softly. Strangely inflected, like with emotion and s.h.i.+t. It made my heart squirm and my stomach flop. ”What did they do to you?”

”Nothing, really. Nothing to worry about. I got away. I'm alive, not permanently damaged, and I'm in transit.”

”How'd you manage that?”

”I stole a dude's car. He had some money in it, so I bought a prepaid cell phone. A nice gas station guy hooked it up for me. I don't know if I'll have enough gas to get all the way there, but I've got my route mapped out. I can walk if needed.”

”I'm impressed.” It sounded like he wanted to say a lot more, but kept it to himself.

”I grew up in Detroit, Harris. This s.h.i.+t is cake.”

”Think you're being pursued?”

”No. Not yet, at least. When they find-well, when Vitaly finds out what I had to do to get away, I'm sure he'll send guys after me with a vengeance. But for now, I'm not being followed. Vitaly's in Brasilia for a few days, Cut said, so it might be hours at least before Vitaly is even aware that I'm gone. Depends on if his maid at the hotel knows how to get hold of him or his guys. We'll see.”

A rife pause from Harris. ”Layla...? You met Vitaly?”

”I met a lot of people. But yes, I met Vitaly hisownself. He's a scary motherf.u.c.ker, Harris.” I tried to keep my voice even and calm but couldn't quite stop a quaver.

”What did you have to do to get away?” This, said softly, in that same concerned tone.