Alpha: Omega Part 16

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.

"Nothing I'm willing to talk about on the phone. I gotta keep my s.h.i.t 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 Guaruja, 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?" G.o.d, 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 pina 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 sh.o.r.e, but I made it. I was puttering along a road whose name I couldn't p.r.o.nounce-something-something-da Fonesca, the ocean on my right, cars crawling slowly b.u.mper to b.u.mper 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.

Brazil is f.u.c.king hot.

I'd long since drunk the last of my water and the protein bar was also long gone. I had five real, and a pocketknife.

But Harris was coming.

Time to hide.

I spent a few minutes ransacking Pedro's car, digging under the seats and in the glove box and in all the crevices, but only came up with a single crumpled one-real bill. I popped the trunk and checked in there, but he'd taken anything of value out of it, leaving only some garbage, an empty plastic bag, a tire iron and donut spare, an empty red gas can, and some empty baggies that had once held pot.

I found a sc.r.a.p of paper and wrote "obrigado" on it, set it on the driver's seat with the keys under the seat, and then set out on foot.

I trudged out from the relative cool and shade provided by the buildings of the downtown area and down to the beach, removing my flip-flops and stuffing them in my back pockets. The dry sand was hotter than Satan's a.s.shole, but I trotted through it to the surf, letting the water slosh over my bare feet. There wasn't a cloud in the sky overhead, only a stiff, steady, hot breeze from off the water.

I just walked. North, I was pretty sure, but it didn't really matter. The beach was actually fairly deserted, only a few couples and individuals here and there. I tried to seem at ease, as if I was just a lone tourist taking a walk on the beach.

I made it as far north as the beach would go until it ended at a cl.u.s.ter of high-rise condo buildings b.u.t.ting up right to the edge of the sea, hiding what looked like an outcropping of rock covered by a scrim of jungle. I kept walking, following the narrow streets uphill and around the ridge jutting out of the hillside and back down to the beach.

Know what I did then?

I walked.

And walked.

And walked.

Theoretically, I could probably just keep walking up the coast of Brazil until there was no more beach. In reality, I was f.u.c.king tired of walking. But what else could I do? I didn't have money for a hotel, or food. I couldn't just sit down on the beach and wait for the next ten hours. I didn't want to stop, didn't dare stop moving. If I stopped moving, I'd start thinking. If I started thinking, I'd have a nervous G.o.dd.a.m.n breakdown because I'd killed a man two hours ago. And once I started dwelling on that happy little fact, I might never stop bawling like a baby.

So I walked.

I followed the beach and tried to just enjoy the sunlight and the heat and the ocean and the beauty of Brazil, and tried not to think. I just walked. Eventually, after maybe three miles, the beach ended at another rising mountain of jungle, this one much larger and more permanent, as in not the kind of outcropping you could walk around. So I picked a road and started following it, pa.s.sing a lovely cafe right on the water, the kind of place where I'd have loved to be able sit at a table and watch people come and go, eat, drink, argue, kiss. But I didn't dare stop. So I followed the road, up, up, up. It just kept going up, half-finished high-rises on my left, the jungle on my right stopping just at the road's edge. Not a nice area, necessarily, not for tourists. But I kept going. Unwisely, perhaps, but I was committed to just walking, walking, walking.

The jungle gave way to a mammoth hotel, and I realized I was topping the rise. Sort of.

Okay, no, not really. There was still a lot of hill left to climb.

A lot of hill.

Jesus.

I started climbing and was sweating b.a.l.l.s, out of breath, and exhausted beyond all comprehension, but I'd started up this hill and by G.o.d I'd make it to the top. Just because I'm f.u.c.king stubborn that way.

Up. Up. Up.

It eventually crested with the sea far below and off in the distance, blue and hazy, nothing but an outcropping of tree-covered rock ahead and a handful of dilapidated, white-washed buildings off to my right. The road turned into ancient, cracked octagonal cobblestones, angling to my right toward the cliff's edge. A hand-painted sign announced a telephone number, and beneath the number were some Portuguese words, and one word in English that I recognized: "camping"-a campground, then. Run-down, out of the way, and s.h.i.tty.

Perfect.

A trio of chickens meandered past me, clucking to each other, seeking shade under a lone palm tree, hustling a little faster as I pa.s.sed them. At the road's edge was a white-washed cinderblock building topped by a slab of corrugated tin, nothing but some cheap chicken-wire fencing at the very cliff's edge. A couple of yellow signs announced something or other in Portuguese, which obviously I didn't read. But I did know enough back-of-the-house restaurant Spanish to recognize that "fritata" and "coco verde" probably meant food of some kind. That, plus the rickety plastic table and chairs and the bright pink umbrella, meant this was very likely a restaurant of some kind.

Way out here, five real might just get me something to drink and somewhere to sit and not have to walk for a few hours.