Omega (Alpha #3) (22 page)

There was even a scratched-up pair of dollar-store style sunglasses 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-bloody 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 passed it to the cashier. He rang me up, passed 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 pass for a local, but apparently not. I just nodded. “Yeah. American.”
 

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 buttons and listening. Eventually, he closed the phone—an old clamshell-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 assumed I was a student or tourist, lost, and trying to call home. True enough, and thank god 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.
Não é 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 shit, 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 passed 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 ass?” His face lit up with a grin.

“Yeah buddy, I kicked his ass 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 Guarujá. 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 fucking
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 Guarujá—which I wasn’t even going to pretend I knew how to pronounce. 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 São Vincente and Santos, across a bridge, and through Guarujá. But then if I wanted to go the ocean, why not just stop in Santos? The old guy had specified Guarujá, 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 São Vincente. Whatever. I just had to get out of São 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 assholes.
 

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 São 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 grass on either side along with some scrub brush, palm trees in a hot breeze, semis and buses and passenger 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 shit himself. Shit. Shitshitshit.
 

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, bitch,” I muttered, “pick up the damn 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 fucking sit-rep is, Harris—I watch TV. I’m fine. I got away.”

“Where are you?”
 

“Brazil. Heading out of São Paulo toward—well, I don’t know how to pronounce it. A city on the coast, south of São Paulo. Starts with a ‘G’ and has an ‘A’ with a slant over it at the end.
Gwar-yooh-jah
or some shit.”

“Guarujá.” 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 shit. 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 shit 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 motherfucker, 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.

“Nothing I’m willing to talk about on the phone. I gotta keep my shit together. Maybe after you’ve rescued me I’ll let myself think about it. But for right now, don’t worry about me. I’m fine.”

“Get to Guarujá, Layla. Find somewhere to hide out. Don’t talk to anyone. Don’t stop for anything. I’ll be there as soon as I possibly can, okay? You’re going to be fine. I’m on my way.”

I wanted to say so many things. “Harris?”

“Yes, Layla?” God, that tone in his voice. No one had ever spoken to me like that, as if I mattered more than anything.
 

“I’m fine. This is like a road trip. Just…in Brazil.” I was trying to convince myself more than anything.

“You’re just fine. Everything is fine. We’re on vacation together.”

“I’m gonna go lie on the beach and put on my bikini and get some sun. Drink a few dozen mai tais.”

This earned me a chuckle. “Mai tais are more Hawaii, babe. You’re in Brazil. Have a piña colada.”

He called me ‘babe.’ I tried not to love that, and totally failed. “How about straight tequila?”

“Does tequila make your clothes fall off?”
 

“I hate country music, Harris.”
 

He laughed. “Yet you got the reference. Must not hate it
too
much. And I bet tequila does make your clothes fall off.”
 

“Yeah, it kind of does. But then…so does whiskey, and rum, and wine.” I hesitated. “I can’t afford that many minutes, so I should go. Save them for emergencies.”
 

He laughed, and then sang a few bars of the Joe Nichols song, his voice surprisingly smooth and melodic. “Keep your eyes open,” he finally said. “Don’t trust anyone. And…do whatever you have to.”
 

“Just get here,” I said, and then ended the call before he could hear the knot in my throat.
 

I didn’t cry. I was just sweating…from my tear ducts. I had a little sniffle. A summer cold.
 

No big deal.

Harris is coming. Harris is coming. Harris is coming
.

12

LOST AND FOUND

I made it to the ocean. The 248 ended in the middle of the city, which got me turned around and required a lot of circling and hunting before I found the shore, but I made it. I was puttering along a road whose name I couldn’t pronounce—something-something-
da Fonesca
, the ocean on my right, cars crawling slowly bumper to bumper and parallel parked and honking, tourists and locals moving in packs on the sidewalks, and the engine coughed, sputtered, and gave out.

Right in the middle of the road, the engine just up and died. I turned the ignition, the engine sputtered a few more times, wheezed, turned over, and then, surprisingly, caught just long enough for me to hang a left onto
Avenida Puglisi
and drift into a handicap parking spot before the motor coughed like an asthmatic smoker and died again. I rested my head on the steering wheel, sweat dripping off my nose and sliding down my spine, smeared on my face and my shoulders and…everywhere.