Page 52 of Omega

I ran at a stumble, lurching into the elevator, his huge boots flopping and clopping like clown shoes. I looked ridiculous, but that was no concern. I mean, it was, because the thought crossed my mind while in the middle of a life-and-death scenario that I looked utterly ridiculous, wearing a man’s blood-soaked white shirt, the edge hanging to mid-thigh, and a pair of men’s huge, smelly work boots, ten sizes too big. But I wasn’t naked, and wasn’t running barefoot through São Paulo, so there was that in my favor.

Also, I’d just killed a man.

There would be time to process that later, hopefully. Now, I had to get out of here.

I twisted the key to the P, for parking lot, I assumed. I hoped. The door slid closed and the lift lurched into motion, descending rapidly. A couple gentle bumps, and the elevator halted, the door slid open, and I was through, knife blade open, cutting edge up. A guy I’d hooked up with once had taught me that; hold the knife with the blade pointed up. He was a pretty rough character, obviously, but he’d explained that if you gotta cut someone real quick, cut up, start low and jab up. You can exert more force by jerking upward, do more damage.

Thanks, Lil D. Looks like that’ll come in handy.

The parking garage wasn’t empty. There were a bunch of valets standing around smoking pot, chattering, laughing. They went quiet as they caught sight of me, and one of them came over to me, a lit joint between his teeth, holding his hands palms out, chattering at me in Portuguese.

“I don’t speak that shit, bro.Habla usted Inglés?” That was Spanish, not Portuguese, but it was all I had.

“No English.” He gestured at the knife, saying something else.

“You can have the knife over my dead body, asshole.” He understood my tone of voice, at least, and backed up, holding his hands up. I lunged at him, grabbed his shirt front. “I need a car.”

“O quê?” He seemed surprised by my sudden aggression, but not particularly worried.

“Acar. Un auto? Das Auto? Shit, that’s German. Um…” I mimed driving, making a zoom-zoom sound.

The other valets laughed like fucking hyenas, but the guy whose neck I had my knife pressed against wasn’t laughing. He was sweating and waving at his buddies, chattering in Portuguese.Give her the damn keys, you idiots, I imagined. One of them dug in his pocket and produced a key attached to a ring with a tag shaped like a soccer ball. He tossed me the ring and gestured at a beaten-up old jalopy, something small and once-green, now more rust than paint. Probably a stick-shift. Good thing I’d learned that skill too. How? You guessed it—a fuck-buddy. See? Being a slut comes in handy, as long as you learn valuable skills along the way.

I hopped into the driver’s seat, thanking my lucky stars that it was on the left, which meant they drove on the right here, which would make my getaway that much easier. I turned the ignition, and the engine caught with a cough and a sputter, and then set to idling. I was about to put it into reverse and pop the clutch, but one of the valets banged on the hood, shouting something at me. I just stared at him in the rear-view mirror, shrugging broadly.

He smacked the trunk again, miming opening it. I fumbled, found the latch, and opened the trunk. Maybe it was his car and he wanted to get something out of it? I didn’t think there would be immediate pursuit, not until someone found Cut. The valet, the one who’d tossed me the key, closed the trunk again, pocketing a baggie and what looked like a wad of cash and a pipe. Yep, his car. He also had a pair of shorts, a T-shirt, and a pair of flip-flops in his hand.

He tossed them through the open window onto my lap. “Big Boss, up there? Asshole.”

I nodded. “Yeah. He’s an asshole, that’s one word for him.”

He pointed at me. “You steal my car. I no see you.”

I grinned at him. “See who?”

He laughed and backed away, and I shoved the shifter into first, popped the clutch, and hit the gas. The ancient little car bolted forward and the valets all scattered out of the way, laughing at me. I squealed the tires as I slammed the gears into second and took off, up, up, toward the light and out into the city. I nearly got in a wreck immediately upon exiting the parking garage. Super great. A big truck full of fruit swerved out of the way, earning me shouts and what I assumed were rude gestures. I just flipped them off and peeled out, zipping past them and through an intersection. Of course, the light was red, so I caused two T-bones and one head-on collision as I darted through the intersection, flooring it once I was past. This piece of shit could move, it turned out. I mean, it was no BMW, but it had a little get up and go. Enough that I could cut around slower-moving cars and rush through intersections.

But then a thought occurred to me: I was an American woman, without a passport, without a Brazilian driver’s license, and I was wearing nothing but a bloody shirt, with a bloody knife still clutched in my shifter-hand. Maybe I shouldn’t draw too much attention to myself. So I braked to fade in with the traffic, forcing myself to keep calm and look like I knew what I was doing.

I didn’t.

I hadn’t thought past getting out of the hotel.

So now I was in a strange city, alone, half-naked, with no money, no ID, no means of communicating with anyone. I mean, I knew Kyrie’s cell phone number by heart, but I didn’t have a phone, and I didn’t know how to dial out of the country.

I turned at random, weaving around the city with no particular destination in mind, trying to come up with a plan. I needed money, and I needed to get hold of Kyrie so she could tell Harris how to find me.

Step one, change out of the bloody shirt.

I pulled into an alley and drove halfway down, put the jalopy in neutral and set the e-brake, left the motor running. I shucked the bloody shirt and tossed it out the window and into a nearby Dumpster. I slipped the boots off and threw those away too. I changed into the valet’s shirt, shorts, and flip-flops. Thank god he was a short, skinny little shit; the clothes were actually a little small. The blue shorts ended up hugging my thighs and ass, and the maroon shirt barely covered my tits, and when I did get it over them, it was tighter than a damn sports bra. The sandals were a little big, which worked out. My hair was a mess, so I searched around on the floorboards on the passenger side—this guy obviously lived in his car, as it was an unholy disaster area of random crap. I found a rubber band eventually and used it to tie my hair back—it’d be a bitch to untangle later, but it kept my hair out of my eyes for now.

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 werereals, 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 hundredreal.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.