°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･
I always figured the stupidest thing a man can do is answer honestly when some drunk asshole in a bar leans in too close and asks, "Why the fuck do you do this kind of job?"
"Because of the woman and the money, man," I answered, raising my glass like I was toasting my own goddamn brilliance.
He laughed.
I laughed.
The bartender pretended not to hear and kept wiping the same spot on the bar.
It was a nice, easy fucking night.
Except right now I was slumped against a rusted shipping container in the back reaches of Santos port, São Paulo state, Brazil, blood pouring out of me like someone had turned on a faucet under my ribs, and that punchline had stopped being funny about three pints of blood ago.
"Fuck me," I rasped.
My left palm was glued to the entry wound—9mm through-and-through, just below the ribs on the right side. The exit hole in my back felt bigger while my hand still clutched the Glock 19, finger off the trigger because the last thing I needed was to shoot myself in the dick while bleeding out. I got my priorities fucking straight!
I could hear them though, four sets of boots now, maybe five, crunching over broken glass and gravel about sixty meters off, voices low and pissed, arguing in Portuguese about whether I was already dead or just faking it to draw them in.
I glanced at the black Pelican hard-case between my boots. Still padlocked. Still handcuffed to my left wrist with an aircraft cable because I'm not a complete moron when another cough tore through my chest and hot copper flooded my mouth.
I spat a thick red string onto the concrete and tried to laugh at myself again but it wasn't a surprise when it came out as a wet gurgle.
"Woman and the money," I muttered. "Fucking brilliant, Jackson. Shakespeare-level shit."
I sighed as blood kept seeping between my fingers while I forced my brain to stay sharp.
I can do this.
One task at a time.
And the first being my gun.
I dropped the magazine with trembling fingers. Twelve rounds were visible, one in the chamber and thirteen potential middle fingers left. Not ideal, but better than praying.
I slammed it back in, racked the slide—Jesus Christ that hurt like a branding iron—and tried to pull air without sounding like a dying accordion.
But how the fuck did I end up here?
It was an answer I already knew but didn't want to watch replayed in high-def while my life leaked out onto foreign soil—and of course the whole fucking mess started with a woman.
Sofia.
But as these stories always go, she was one heck of a beautiful one, the kind of beautiful that makes you forget your own damn name.
We met at a rooftop bar in Rio where I was nursing a caipirinha I couldn't afford, and she was sipping something clear and expensive while her eyes swept the room like she was waiting for a bomb to go off. I bought her a drink; she accepted. Ninety minutes later we were fucking against the wall of my shitty Copacabana Airbnb.
Then she told me her problem over cigarette smoke and it was not the usual "my ex is crazy" kind of problem I often heard from women but the "my ex runs security for a cartel money-launderer and I just stole seven million reais from his panic room while he was passed out on blow" kind of problem.
Her ex—former by sunrise—was a guy named Rafael. Not top-tier cartel, but high enough to have sicarios on speed dial, a garage full of armored SUVs, and one heck of a temper. He'd been holding the cash for a bigger fish up in Paraguay.
Sofia knew the safe combination and knew where he hid the spare fob for the garage gate. She also knew she had maybe thirty-six hours before Rafael woke up, checked the room, and put a bounty on her head that would make every lowlife in the southeast hungry.
So she needed someone who could drive through roadblocks, shoot when it mattered, and keep his mouth shut about where the money went.
I was broke, between contracts, and still stupid enough to think I was the GUY.
So I said yes.
Because of the woman.
And the money.
We pulled it off clean at first though. I drove us north in a stolen Hilux, dodging toll booths and military police checkpoints, all the way to a beach house outside Ubatuba that a contact owed me. We fucked again—triumphant, frantic, we're-alive-for-now sex.
Then morning came and she was gone.
So was four million of the seven.
Left on the kitchen table was a folded note in her neat handwriting sitting next to my empty holster.
Desculpa, amor. Tinha que ser assim. Não me segue.
Sorry, love. Had to be this way. Don't follow.
Yup!
I got fucking played.
Masterfully.
I should've been furious. Scratch that, I was fucking furious but mostly I was broke again, hunted again, and suddenly very motivated to track her down, get the rest of the cash back, and maybe hand it over to Rafael with my hands up and my pride in the dirt.
Heroic plan.
Fucking moronic plan.
Which is how I ended up in Santos port at 2:41 a.m., bleeding from a fresh gunshot, listening to sicarios fan out to finish the job, with the remaining three million still chained to my wrist.
I dragged myself upright against the container, legs shaking like they belonged to someone else.
The pain was everywhere now and every breath felt like swallowing glass. I bit the inside of my cheek to stay awake and tasted more blood.
"Achei o sangue!" one of them barked. "Ele tá ferrado, mas ainda respira!"
Great. A fucking blood trail.
I checked my options. Left: toward the dark water and the fishing boats. Right: toward the main gate, floodlights, and at least four more guns. Water meant swimming with a sucking chest wound. Gate meant running a shooting gallery.
I went left.
Because fuck logic.
The dock reeked of diesel, rotting fish, and salt. Moonlight silvered the black water as I stayed low, Glock up, trying not to leave a goddamn highway of red drops behind me.
I heard the voices again, closer this time.
"Atira! Não deixa ele pular!"
I spun, fired three times into the shadows. Muzzle flashes painted their faces and one dropped, clutching his thigh. Another screamed and hosed the area with an Uzi knockoff.
Bullets ricocheted off containers and one clipped the edge of a drum next to my head, showering sparks. I dove, rolled, slammed into a pallet of crates hard enough to knock the wind out of what was left of my lungs.
And there we have it.
More blood in my throat.
I crawled behind a stack of oil barrels, my heart slamming so loud I was sure they could track it like sonar.
This was the end.
Not in some blaze of Hollywood glory or walking away rich.
Just bleeding out next to fish guts in a Brazilian port because I thought pussy and cash were worth more than breathing.
I laughed.
"Woman and the money," I whispered to the dark.
Then I checked my rounds one last time.
Ten left.
I chambered one.
And waited for them to come finish it.
Because if I was going to die tonight, I was damn well taking a couple more of those motherfuckers with me.
That was the only promise I could still keep.