“And you are going to do what?”

She shrugs. “Nothing anymore. I’m not going to be able to take the test in time, which means all my prep classes are wasted, which means I won’t be able to start my job, which means . . . I don’t even know anymore.”

“This is a fucked up world, darlin’. That you’re still breathing oughta be counted as a win.”

“It’s . . . how do I go back to that?”

“To what? Your dick-for-brains boyfriend? Your job that you talk about with all the enthusiasm of a goat herder?” I’m getting angry, and I can’t even pinpoint the real cause. Is it because I am pissed off that she still cared enough about her boyfriend to contact him? That she actually called him a boyfriend? That she didn’t care enough about herself to be with a guy who could give her a real life orgasm? That she is thinking about going back to Minneapolis, the coldest tit a witch ever froze, to take up a job that would turn her into a zombie in under three years? Or that she is so achingly goddamned beautiful, and that I want her so much my balls might fall off?

Even though my external word vomit doesn’t match my internal bloviating, Regan still looks taken aback, but she rallies quickly.

“You know, I’ve gone through a lot and am still standing, so you can dial back on the Robin Williams Die Hard inspirational speeches. You suck at them.”

“It’s Bruce Willis, and I know.” I grin at her because I’ve never been one to stay angry long and her confusion between Bruce Willis and Robin Williams is funny as shit. “Let’s go, fighter.”

“Fighter. I like that. You can keep calling me that one.”

“How about baby fighter? Or fighter doll?” I tease. I pay the bill and gesture for Regan to step out in front of me.

“You staring at my ass? Is that why you always want me to go first?” She sasses back, whatever hurt my incautious words may have caused apparently gone.

“You do have a fine ass, fighter baby,” I whistle. “It’s plump and bitable like a juicy piece of Brazilian fruit.”

“Yet you haven’t even attempted a taste. Maybe you don’t like Brazilian fruit?” she sashays out in front of me, her ass swinging back and forth, looking like a true Rio native. All the ladies in Rio seem to have a special hitch in their step that makes people-watching down here almost mandatory. But right now my eyes are glued on this one Minnesotan’s prime real estate, and my head’s reeling from her very obvious come-on. I don’t really know what to make of it.

“I love fruit,” I say. “I never like to eat where I’m not invited.”

“What kind of invitation is it that you need then? An engraved one with gold lettering?”

I want to pull her aside, maybe push her up against one of the concrete walls of the buildings lining the Rua Visconde de Pirajá and test out that invitation. She laughs and then snaps her fingers. “Better close your mouth, baby boy, or flies will land there.”

Snapping my jaw shut, I hurry to catch up with her. Who said we needed sleep when we got done with Luiz? I’m thinking there are a dozen other things we could be doing in a soft, warm bed between some cool, clean sheets.

Whistling, I wink at Regan, and she gives me a big smile in return. Life is easy when you don’t think about anything but the moment. We’ve got to get Regan papers, and then we’re checking into a decent hotel room.

“This is a pretty nice place,” she says as we walk down an avenue full of luxury brand stores. “I mean, I think these are nicer stores than we have in Minneapolis.”

“Ipanema is the second-wealthiest neighborhood in Rio.”

“And we’re going to see a forger here?” she asks.

“Maybe it pays well?” I stop at the address that Pereya gave me. It’s an art store—a high-end art store.

“This?” Skepticism drips from the word.

Opening the door, we step inside, the air conditioning almost too cool for our skin. Regan shivers noticeably, and I wrap an arm around her instinctively. She leans into my embrace. For the warmth, I remind myself, but I find myself pretty damned pleased.

“Tudo bem?” A lithe, model-tall woman walks toward us, her dark hair caught up in a heavy braid that lies like a thick snake on her shoulder.

“Just awesome,” I lie. “Look, I could give you a big song and dance complete with code words and shit like that, but I need to see Luiz. Pereya sent me.”

A speculative glint appears in her eyes, and she says, “Wait here.”

“Is this the place?” Regan whispers after the leggy brunette disappears into the backroom.

“Hope so.” I force myself not to follow the brunette into the back. Shifting our heavy bags over one shoulder, I try to relax. The artwork on the wall is stunning, but clearly directed toward tourist tastes with iconic shots of Sugarloaf Mountain and the Christ the Redeemer statue. In the middle of the room on a pedestal is a crystal sculpture that looks like a futuristic piece of kryptonite, only it’s not green, just clear glass. After a moment, the attendant waves us in the back.

Luiz is a small man, barely coming up to my chest. Or maybe he was once taller, but he’s so spent so much time bent over a table, his natural height reduced about four inches by the forward roll of his shoulders.

“What do you need?”

“Credit cards, passport.”

“For who?”

“Two blondes.”

“This one?” He points to Regan.

“Yeah, and one more.”

“Do you have a picture?”

I do. “It’s twenty months old though,” I caution. Pulling out my wallet, I lift out the picture I’ve kept in a vellum envelope in an interior pocket. I’ve had this picture with me for a long time, just for this purpose. When I first started out in mercenary work, I hadn’t realized how important false identities were—being able to change your name and move throughout countries with ease is something of a necessity in my line of work. I have dozens of identities but none for Regan. I have a couple of stolen identities I carry around for my sister, but I might as well have something made up for her while I’m at it.

Luiz nods and takes the photo with tweezers. I can tell by his meticulousness that our papers will be flawless.

“It will be two weeks.”

Regan, silent the whole exchange, finally speaks up. “Two weeks?”

“Tomorrow,” I say implacably and pull out a wad of cash to sweeten my demand.

Luiz shakes his head. “Detailed work takes time.”

Regan makes a distressed sound, and I shove the cash at Luiz. “Tomorrow.” At his hesitation, I draw a gun and everyone ducks, but I aim it toward the crystal sculpture of Sugar Loaf Mountain sitting in the middle of the showroom. “Tomorrow,” I repeat.

Luiz looks at me, the heavy bags at my back, and then the cash. “Tomorrow then.” He gestures for Regan to stand against one empty space of white wall and takes her picture.

I holster my gun and shove the cash in his hand. Gesturing toward the door with my head, I urge Regan out.

“Why not now?” She looks like she doesn’t want to leave without the papers, but I don’t want to piss off Luiz anymore. I drag her out of forger's office and into the street. She looks unhappy, and I miss her sunshine-like smile from earlier this morning.

“Let’s go get our stuff and then check into a better hotel. I feel like I need another shower after lying in those sheets.”

“Who’s the girl?” she says.

“The girl?” I’m not sure I follow her. What girl? She’s the only girl I’m with.

“The other girl. The one with her picture in your wallet? Who is it?”

“My sister.”

Regan

HIS SISTER.

A few things click into place, my brain suddenly making sense of things. He’s got a sister—a young, pretty blonde who was sold into slavery, like me. That’s why he’s hunting blondes. That’s why he’s in and out of brothels in the slums and knows people like Luiz and Pereya.