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“It means we’re not going anywhere near him.”
I frown and peek out the window, gazing down at the walls of the place. It’s not exactly pretty—nor is it inconspicuous. The walls are made of enormous concrete blocks, and the double doors open only to allow the occasional truck in. The tops of the walls are curling with barbed wire, and Daniel has said they even have a sniper on the rooftop, like us.
“So why don’t we start shooting? Take as many out as we can and then charge in once we’ve picked off a bunch of their guys?”
Vasily mutters something derisive in Russian behind me, and I’m pretty sure he’s calling me stupid.
“No can do, fighter,” Daniel says, finally putting down his rifle and looking over at me. “I could pick off one or two before they notice, but then they’d figure out where we’re coming from and swarm up this hill. It’s too dangerous.”
“Why don’t we sneak in at night, then? We could get a few blankets and some ladders, toss a blanket over the barbed wire and climb our way over. I saw that in a movie once.”
“If he has thirty men outside, he will have thirty more inside,” Vasily bites out. “He is expecting us. He is ready. We need a new plan.”
Daniel rubs a hand down his face, looking as frustrated as I feel. I want us to go in there, guns blazing, and shoot Mr. Freeze in his ugly, pale face until he can’t come after me ever again. But if two assassins are saying it’s too dangerous, then maybe it is.
“So what do we do?” I ask.
“Tears of God,” Vasily says.
“Fuck. No way,” Daniel retorts. “I’m not taking Regan there.”
“What’s Tears of God?” I ask, my gaze moving between Vasily and Daniel. “What?”
“Remember I told you about the favela that’s controlled by the mercenaries? The one that no one fucks with?”
“That’s Tears of God?”
“They owe me favor,” Vasily says curtly. “This can be the favor.”
“Goddamn it, no, Vasily.”
“Why?” I ask again.
Daniel shoots me a dark look, and he seems rather upset. “No one goes into Tears of God without being checked over first. They take your guns, they take your clothes, and they search you. All of you. I’m not putting you through that. Fuck that. We’ll figure something else out.”
Vasily barks something harsh to Daniel.
I swallow, trying to imagine being patted down by a bunch of mercenaries. Walking into a place like the one below, naked and vulnerable. But there are two people being held in that compound—Daniel’s sister and the hacker. Daniel’s told me that wherever we find the hacker, we’ll find Naomi. I can’t stop thinking about that. Maybe she’s suffering the same things I went through. Hudson likes them broken. I try to picture a girl like Daniel but broken, and I shudder internally then force a calm look on my face. “I can do it.”
“No, fighter—”
“No, Daniel. I said I’d go with you. I have to take the good with the bad. I can stand to be patted down by a few guys, I promise.”
His jaw clenches, and I can tell that he doesn’t like it. That it’s vulnerable, and we’ll be naked and at their mercy if they try anything. If they decide to get rid of us, we’re fucked.
But I trust Daniel. So I force a wobbling smile to my face. “Let’s go.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
DANIEL
“There’s no way in.” Regan’s dismay echoes my own internal frustration. It’s a sign. If you believed in signs, warnings, or symbols, the lack of an obvious entrance to Tears of God clearly said fuck off. I run my hand along the concrete walls and corrugated metal barriers that stand where the paved road indicates the entrance should be.
“What do you even know about this group?” I turn to Petrovich, who is standing slightly apart, hands on his hips, looking upward as if Touchdown Jesus will bend down from his place on the hill and part the metal seas for us.
“They are loyal, men of their word,” he answers and then points to the inscription written in Portuguese above the gate.
“What’s it say?” Regan asks.
“Revelation 21:4.” It’s a scripture. I read it out loud. “And God shall wipe away all tears from their eyes; and there shall be no more death, neither sorrow, nor crying, neither shall there be any more pain.”
“That sounds nice. Maybe it would be more comforting if there wasn’t a dagger punctuating the end,” Regan observes wryly. I flash her a quick grin. That’s my girl.
I pull out my gun and point it at the dagger. “What are you doing?” Regan hisses.
“Gotta get their attention somehow.”
Before I can squeeze off a shot, a door appears in the wall to my left, and a large hulking figure steps out. His heritage is indeterminate, which likely makes him a true Brazilian. Native Brazilians are almost a greater melting pot of heritages than the U.S. African, Asian, and American mix in fantastic harmony. The only real important thing about this stranger is his size—extra large—and weaponry. He’s got machine gun belts draped over his chest like suspenders. On his arms are leather wrist guards that double as knife sheaths. He’s got an AK strapped on his back and an armory belt with guns, knives, and more ammunition.
