“Your handler probably doesn’t know about your hesitation, or you wouldn’t be here alone,” she whispered. “Whatever has happened, you not killing me, the questions gnawing at you… they’ve done something to you, and it’s breaking down now.”
His jaw clenched. I was right.
“We help each other,” I said. “You want answers. So do I.”
The silence stretched between us, interrupted only by my pounding heart and his controlled breathing. Outside, I heard what he’d detected earlier—the faint sound of footsteps in the corridor. They grew louder, more deliberate. Multiple men.
Then came the first heavy knock, making me flinch.
“Hey, American lady!” A thick Portuguese accent slurred through the thin door. “We know you in there!”
More laughter, then another voice, “Open door! We just want to talk!”
The doorknob rattled violently. These were the same men who’d eyed me when I checked in—the ones with predatory stareswho’d followed me halfway to my room before I’d quickened my pace.
Despite the noise that grew louder outside my door, Reaper and I remained in our spots, not budging. He only had moments to make a decision before all of this went to hell.
“Come out, pretty lady!” Another fist pounded the door, harder this time. “We show you a good time in São Paulo!”
Something scraped against the lock—a makeshift pick or credit card. My throat tightened as one of them switched to rapid Portuguese, too fast for me to catch, but the mocking tone needed no translation.
“Please,” I whispered to the assassin standing motionless across from me. Desperation gripped me tightly now that the threat stood just outside my door. I couldn’t let my story end like this.
I couldn’t let down Xavier. If I didn’t look for him…no one else would.
My hand reached for his, as if that simple motion would somehow bring him back into the present. “I can help you. You know it’s true.”
He made a brief motion with his head, gesturing toward the bathroom. “Bathroom. Now.”
I didn’t question. I ducked under his arm and moved swiftly to the bathroom door. He followed, steps silent as a ghost.
I frantically scanned the cramped bathroom, panic rising. The window was barely larger than a shoebox—no way either of us could fit through that. What was Reaper’s plan? To kill me in a bathroom instead of the bedroom?
“There’s no way out,” I whispered urgently, turning back to him. “The window’s too small.”
Reaper didn’t respond. Instead, he moved past me toward the ancient bathtub with its stained enamel and rust, ringed drain. I’d noticed it earlier when I checked the bathroom—just another depressing feature of this decrepit motel room.
He knelt beside the tub and ran his fingers along its edge where it met the wall. I heard footsteps in the hallway growing closer.
“What are you...”
“Quiet,” he commanded, his voice barely audible.
His fingers stopped at a particular spot where the caulking had completely deteriorated. With a swift, controlled movement, he pressed against the side panel of the bathtub. There was a dull click, and the entire panel shifted inward.
My jaw dropped. “How did you...”
“Maintenance access,” he said, already removing the panel completely to reveal a dark space beyond. “Old buildings like this often have them. The plumbing runs between rooms.”
I stared in disbelief. I’d inspected the bathroom thoroughly when I checked in—a habit from years of paranoid journalism—but hadn’t noticed anything unusual about the bathtub. The panel had been seamlessly integrated despite its deteriorated seal.
“You first,” he said, gesturing to the opening.
I hesitated, peering into the darkness. It was a tight space that appeared to run parallel to the rooms. Pipes lined oneside, and years of dust covered everything. The ancient wood looked rotted in places.
“How did you know this was here?” I asked, suspicion momentarily overriding my fear.
“I checked the building plans before I came.” His expression remained unreadable. “Standard procedure.”
