by Joel Shulkin
Without awaiting a reply, Quinn tossed aside the phone, grabbed the cloth and mopped the oil stain. When he finished, he lifted the pistol and snapped the magazine into place. If his operative failed, Quinn would have to stop worrying about getting his hands dirty.
“Here.” Maria entered the living room, carrying a bundle of clothes. “These will be more comfortable, and you will not stand out so much.”
“Thanks.” Cristina accepted the garments and laid them on the couch. She started to remove her pants and stopped.
Maria was watching.
“I’m sorry. I know you’re my sister but—”
“You see me as a stranger.” Maria turned her back. “I understand.”
“Thanks. Again.” As Cristina disrobed she recalled how, for so long, she wanted to know her family. Now she had a sister—one she couldn’t remember anything about. Cristina sighed as she pulled on a pair of jean shorts. Nothing in her life would ever be simple. “How far is it to where we’re going?”
“Less than an hour drive, but the roads are too dangerous for cars.”
“So how will we get there?”
“De motocicleta.”
Cristina paused in the middle of zipping up ankle boots. “A motorcycle?”
“I kept your Sherco in perfect condition.”
“My Sherco? You can’t be serious. I can’t even stand riding in cars.”
Maria shrugged. “I’ll drive. I’m sorry, but there’s no other way.”
Cristina removed her long-sleeved blouse and tossed it onto the couch. The locket bounced on her chest. She held it, the engraving caressing her palm like an old friend. Memories flitted through her mind—some familiar, some not.
Maria glanced over her shoulder. “Are you okay?”
“Trying to make sense of something.” Cristina threw on a blue T-shirt. “You can turn around.”
When Maria faced her, Cristina showed her the locket again. “Even if Santos gave me this to make me remember who I am, why would Zero Dark send Gomes to steal it? Why would it matter to them?”
“Because they don’t want you to remember.”
“It’s more than that. Santos said it was important.” She opened the locket, displaying the photos inside. “But it’s just family pictures.”
“You wore that same necklace ever since you were twelve. Mother gave it to you, so she’d always be with you and—”
“What’s wrong?” asked Cristina.
“This picture of Mother. It’s not the same.”
“Are you sure?”
“Look.” Maria pointed at the framed photo. “This part is different.”
Cristina reexamined the photo. Sure enough, the lower corner was a lighter shade. A thin line indicated where it had been torn and reglued. Cristina tugged at the photo until it lifted out of the locket. She flipped it over. On the back, someone had written C20H23NO4+C13H16N2.
“What does that mean?” Maria asked.
“I have no idea, but the handwriting looks familiar.”
“It should,” said Maria. “It’s yours.”
Cristina puzzled over the message. Perhaps this was the secret Zero Dark wanted.
“Maybe the Renascimento researcher will be able to help.” She looked Cristina up and down. “Good. You only need one more thing.”
Maria opened an armoire door, revealing a safe. After spinning the combination dial, she reached into the safe and removed a pair of semiautomatic pistols.
“Why do you have those?”
“We’ll need them in the favela.”
“But why do you have them?”
“My father worked for Tropa de Elite, Rio’s special forces. He trained us both in self-defense.” Maria stared at the guns and tightened her grip. “He was a good man.”
“What happened?”
“His commander ordered him to flush a nest of Barracudas—a dangerous gang. When his troops arrived, they found the Barracudas engaged in battle with Comando Novo.”
“Who?”
“The New Command, an even more powerful gang. After you disappeared, the gangs went to war. They didn’t care who was caught in the crossfire.” Maria turned to Cristina, her eyes hollow. “Father tried to rescue a six-year-old boy. Both were killed.”
Cristina felt sick. “Oh no.”
“Father wouldn’t take chances. I always believed it wasn’t an accident but never found proof.” Maria offered the pistol again to Cristina. “That’s why I’ll help you. To find out why my father died, so his spirit can rest.”
Cristina held her gaze another moment, then accepted the gun. The cold metal jolted through her arm and up to her brain. Images of intensive combat training flashed through her mind. She saw herself standing side by side with Maria in target practice. A man with close-cropped hair and strong features instructed them. He was firm but kind.
Then a shadowy figure appeared. He shouted in her ear. Ordered her to set aside fear and compassion. To focus on self-preservation. Nothing else mattered. Follow orders. The only way to survive. She aimed not at targets but the faces of men and women. She pulled the trigger.
A hand touched Cristina’s shoulder. She jumped. Twisted around. Raised the pistol. Shadow Man stood before her. White teeth glittered. She aimed.
“Sabrina!” Maria’s voice shattered the illusion. “What are you doing?”
The shadow man dissipated. Sweat streamed down Cristina’s cheeks. Her hands shook. She lowered the pistol. “I’m sorry. I—I don’t think your father was the only one who trained me.”
Releasing her breath, Maria removed the gun from Cristina’s hand and placed it next to hers on the couch. “Maybe you’re not ready yet. I’ll return it when I’m certain you won’t shoot me by mistake.”
“Again, smart.” Cristina concentrated on slowing her breathing. Three days without Recognate and she was losing self-control. She needed answers fast. “What else do we need?”
“Only one thing.” Maria held Cristina’s hands. “We must help you become whole before you lose anything else.”
Chapter Fifty-Six
The best thing about the Albany Street homeless shelter was its anonymity. The missionaries had a strict motto of “Love unconditionally.” That meant no questions asked or ID required. When Francisco Martins limped in, they ensured he had a bed, food, and antibiotics. It wasn’t the Maharajah Hotel, but it was a good place to hide.
After another spoonful of beef stew, he wiped his mouth with a paper napkin and carried his tray to the kitchen.
The kitchen volunteer accepted it. “Feeling better?”
“Yes, thank you,” Martins said. “A good shower always helps.”
“Don’t leave anything valuable lying around. Cecil lost an iPhone last week—still not sure how he got one in the first place.”
“Thanks for the warning, but I have nothing of value.” Martins donned a stocking cap. “I’m leaving now to look for work.”
“Try the burger joint on the corner. They always need someone.” The volunteer wiped his hands.
As he stepped outside, Martins wrapped a scarf around his face and turned up his collar. He stumbled from awning to awning. When possible, he waited for a large vehicle to pass and rushed alongside it before ducking into an alley.
Ten minutes later, he stopped at a nondescript brick building two blocks from Andrew Station. Upon entering, he walked directly through the first door on the left, where a sign announced U-Save Self-Storage.
“Can I help you?” a teenage girl asked without looking up from her phone.
Martins held up a tiny key. “Withdrawing my items from locker thirty-two.”
She checked her computer. “You’re paid until the end of the month.”
“I no longer need it.”
“Whatever. Drop off the key when you leave.” She returned to
her texting.
Martins smiled inwardly as he passed the desk and veered into the first row of lockers. He’d investigated five storage facilities. This one had only one security camera behind the counter and it accepted cash with no ID checks. He’d carefully selected the locker, far from the desk and out of line of sight.
He crouched before locker thirty-two. He turned his key and the door popped open. He slid out the box, removed and unzipped a duffel bag, then activated a small black device contained inside. A map appeared, displaying a blinking red light. He deactivated the device and stuffed it into his pocket.
Digging through the bag, Martins located his Ruger and three clips. He inspected the gun and started to load it. His hand shook. He paused and took slow breaths. When the shaking ceased, he tried again. This time, the magazine clicked into place. Setting aside the weapon, he removed a tightly rolled pair of socks. He unrolled them and withdrew a pill bottle.
Martins poured a handful of green capsules into his palm. As he studied one, he considered how such a tiny package could be so valuable—and so dangerous. Yes, if it weren’t for the pills, he might never have found his daughter, but at what cost? Even now, he could feel control slipping away. He had to stay focused, and there was only one way to do that.
He popped a pill into his mouth.
Wind whipped against Cristina’s face. Sand and gravel splattered off her legs. Even closing her eyes and imagining sunbathing on a tropical beach wasn’t enough to block out every bump, every whine of the Sherco’s engine. The roads had been bad, but the dirt mountain road to the favela was intolerable. She buried her face in Maria’s back and wished they’d taken the car.
After another five minutes of struggling uphill, Maria skidded to a stop. The engine shut off. She said, “You can let go. We’re here.”
Cristina opened her eyes. Her heart sank. Broken cars and trucks sulked on both sides of the ruined street. Dilapidated hovels crumbled around them, built one atop another all the way up the mountainside. The bitter tang of garbage hung in the air. Men, women, and children meandered in shorts and T-shirts, some wearing shoes, some not. They wore a haunted look, as if waiting for their world to end.
“Why do they look so afraid?” she asked.
“Fala português! ” Maria got closer and then said in Portuguese, “Don’t speak English. You must appear as if you belong. They target tourists first.”
Across the street, three young men lingered, menace radiating from their eyes. A pistol butt protruded from the shorts of the smallest man.
Cristina swallowed hard. Since she’d been in the country, Portuguese was becoming more comfortable for her. But would it be convincing enough? In Portuguese, she said to her sister, “Can I have the gun now?”
“Soon. First, we must get past them.”
Just uphill, two men in black uniforms leaned against a police car. They caressed their assault rifles while they chatted.
“Many officers truly want to help the people who live here,” Maria said. “But they cannot watch everywhere. The gang leaders may be gone, but there isn’t peace.”
“How do we know who we can trust?”
“We do what those here have learned to do. Trust no one.”
The color drained from Cristina’s cheeks. Santos’s warning became all too clear. Against so much corruption, what chance did she have?
Maria motioned for Cristina to follow as she approached the officers. “Let me do the talking.”
Cristina kept her head down, only glancing at the officers. Neither was older than twenty, but the tightly coiled way they seemed to study everything made them seem older, hardened.
The two women halted a few feet from the police car. The men stopped chatting.
“This road is restricted,” said the darker one with a black beret. He tightened his grip on the rifle barrel. “Residents only.”
“We’re volunteers at the Casa do Coração orphanage.” Maria smiled and indicated a backpack strapped to the motorcycle. “We bring supplies.”
The lighter-skinned officer scratched his goatee. “What supplies?”
“Toothbrushes, crayons, clean clothes. Things that children need.”
“We must inspect everything.”
“Of course.”
Maria stepped back and motioned to Cristina to do the same. The goateed officer opened the backpack. The darker one trained his sights on the women. After sifting through the bag, the officer nodded at his partner, who relaxed.
“If you’re carrying drugs or weapons,” Goatee said, “declare them now.”
“What would children do with drugs and weapons?”
A hint of a smile appeared. He stepped away. “Okay, you’re clear.”
“Thank you.” Maria led Cristina by the hand back to the bike.
“Hold up!” Beret approached. He examined Cristina’s face. “Why are you bruised?”
“She’s visiting from Belo Horizonte,” Maria began. “She was—”
The officer held up his hand. “Let her speak.”
Cristina’s cheeks cooled. At least, her Portuguese had improved to fluency, most likely an effect of her restored memories. “I . . . went rock climbing at Sugar Loaf. I slipped and crashed against the mountain. The doctor said it’ll be fine in a few days.”
Beret studied her. To his partner he made a gesture with his thumb and pinky. Goatee nodded and spoke into his radio. Beads of sweat formed on Cristina’s forehead.
They know who you are. They’re going to kill you. Run!
The voice roared in her head. Cristina ignored it.
After what felt like several minutes, Goatee murmured to his partner. Beret nodded and waved. “Don’t keep the children waiting.”
“Thank you, Officers.” Maria grabbed the motorcycle’s handlebars. “You’re doing fine work keeping us safe.”
As the women passed, Beret caught Cristina’s eye. “You should be more careful. Rio is a dangerous place.”
Once they were out of earshot, Cristina said, “Where are the guns?”
“Better you don’t know.” Maria kept her eyes on the road as they walked the bike up the mountainside and onto a dirt path. “Don’t look back and make eye contact with no one.”
“You sound like you know your way around.”
“For the past two years, I’ve been studying the effects of Rio’s policies on the favelas. The system is designed to keep the poor from moving beyond their caste, starting with the children.” She pointed ahead. “That’s why we’re going there.”
The ground fell away beneath Cristina’s feet. Ahead stood a building composed of colored blocks covered with tangled telephone wires and graffiti.
It was the same building from her horrible nightmare.
Chapter Fifty-Seven
Trash littered the ground. Bullet holes riddled the building’s front wall. Odors of sweat and urine drifted toward Cristina’s nostrils. When she squinted, she saw children’s dirty faces staring out at her. When she listened, she heard voices chanting, Liar, liar . . .
Maria nudged Cristina’s shoulder. “What’s wrong?”
“I’ve been here before.” The voices faded; the faces disappeared. Now Cristina saw two young boys and a girl—all around seven or eight years old—sitting on the front stoop, making crafts out of paper and bent pieces of metal. Neither of the boys wore a shirt. The girl’s tank top and shorts were covered in dirt. Something fluttered in her belly. “What is this place?”
“Casa do Coração.” Maria half-smiled. “Why do you think I brought crayons and toothbrushes?”
“Your contact is hiding here?”
“This orphanage was once under Comando Novo protection. Even in their absence, the police know better than to tear apart a home for children. Wait here.”
Maria pulled the motorcycle up to the orphanage. The children looke
d up and said something Cristina couldn’t hear. Maria replied and the kids laughed. Maria looped a chain through the front tire and secured it with a padlock before removing the backpack. She handed it to one of the boys, who unzipped it and pulled out a box of crayons. He held it over his head like a trophy and ran into the building. The others squealed and chased after him.
“That should keep them busy.” Maria ran her fingers under the motorcycle seat. Something clicked. She lifted the seat, revealing a secret compartment. She removed one of the handguns, loaded it, and handed it to Cristina.
The moment Cristina touched the gun, a chill ran through her body. Voices whispered in her ear, Liar, liar. She smelled blood and gun smoke. Children’s faces appeared again, scarlet stains over empty eyes, accusing her. Liar, liar.
“Sabrina?” Maria’s voice dispelled the visions.
Shaking, Cristina turned to her. “Children died here, didn’t they?”
Pursing her lips, Maria nodded.
Cristina’s eyes filled with tears. Her stomach churned. “Was it my fault?”
Maria used her thumb to wipe the tears away from Cristina’s eyes. “You made poor decisions. But you wouldn’t harm children.”
Something stirred inside Cristina, something warm and pleasant. Comforting. A sister’s love. But whether it was a memory or a new feeling, she couldn’t tell. Steeling herself against what she might find inside, she stuck the pistol into her waistband. Maria prepped her own weapon and did the same.
Together, they entered the building. The green-and-pink interior walls lifted Cristina’s heart, but only slightly. Someone had started to paint a red-and-white fish on the concrete floor but had never finished. Half of a princess doll lay in a dusty corner. Cristina detected a hint of bleach. At least the inside was clean.
“Ei, você! ”
Two young men, neither older than seventeen, strolled toward them. The younger boy wore shorts and a tank top. The taller wore only a pair of torn jeans. Deep scars lined his bare chest. They stopped in the middle of the doorway.
“Who is she?” the shorter one asked in Portuguese, eyeing Cristina.
