Threads: A Thriller

by T. R. Ultra

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Copyright 2020 T.R. Ultra. All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means without the express written permission of the author.

  Edited by Griffin Smith

  Cover by Marcus Pallas

  For information contact: t.ultra@gmail.com

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Epilogue

  Prologue

  I see the tray sliding through the iron door into my room. The hand that pushes it across the opening is mangled. A scar in place of the pinky finger.

  Looks like it was flat out plucked out of the hand, as it happens to sprouting potatoes when they’re plucked out of the soil. Was the pinky finger gnawed upon to satisfy the hunger of an animal? I don´t know. I never know what kind of wickedness those bastards outside are up to.

  Actually. I know what they’re up to. They’re evil. They’re all devils.

  I pick the tray up. Five steps back, three steps to the left. I turn it over and that vomit-like soup splashes on the ground. The hand that pushed it inside swears from outside, but I don’t give a damn. Even though I know what they mean.

  What I can’t stand is the spilling, entirely breaking its usual pattern. It made today’s soup mix with yesterday’s, spoiling the memories I wrote on the ground, already dried.

  “Get out of there, you beast! You damn little beast,” I say. A rat steals the bean grain that I placed as a period in last week’s last sentence. It was written with rotten soup over the ground, but now it is destroyed.

  While running away, that rat tramples over my carefully planned letters. For every one of them you kill, three other spawn. You can never kill enough of them.

  But something else catches my attention.

  “Who is it?” I say. Nobody responds. “Who is it?” I repeat. Nobody comes.

  I hunch down and start scrawling on the ground with today’s soup. I need to let the truth out. Writing is my only alternative for putting it out.

  They never allowed me to have pen and paper. They don’t want to truth to be told.

  But I´ll tell it. I´ll tell it anyway.

  Chapter 1

  I turned the phone on to catch up with the latest news.

  People were already leaving their seats, huddling to form lines up and down both aisles on the airplane. I took the flight in Atlanta, but instead of flying nonstop to Rio, we changed planes in Panamá. The connection that should have taken two hours lasted for six and a half. According to the flight crew, some extra inspection was needed due to a “strange electrical issue” with the airplane taking us to Rio.

  We landed in Rio late—but safely. When I turned my phone on, a system message flashed across the screen: “Sim card not allowed in this region”.

  I had forgotten to pick up the Global Sim Card provided by my employer, Johnson & Brothers Co, from over my desk.

  Before leaving, I had been told that Carlos, a local driver, would give me a ride to Praia Palace. A fancy hotel my boss, Joanne, had arranged before sending me to Brazil—and that was how she persuaded me to face Rio in February, when summer hits its peak. Because of the delay, I knew the chances of having someone waiting for me upon my arrival were slim at best. Especially with an aged man like Carlos who, according to Joanne, had bladder control issues.

  “Don’t be startled if he eventually pulls over to take a whizz,” Joanne had said.

  If I wanted to reach the hotel, I would have to rely on my Portuguese skills, which were more likely to leave me starving before ordering a sandwich, let alone articulating directions to a taxi driver. After becoming an avid Uber rider, I’d probably have issues explaining my destination to a taxi driver even in Atlanta.

  After a muffled thud, the airplane doors opened and people started shuffling down the aisles. I stared at the moving line, craving for a spot in it.

  I wiggled over the economy seat and reached for the overhead compartment, the line shut for seated strangers. As Joanne had said, “Johnson & Brothers is operating on a low budget.Whatever neck pain you happen to catch on the flight will disappear as soon as you reach Praia Palace Hotel. You better thank our partners for snatching a room there, free of cost for us.”

  Johnson & Brothers Co. being on the verge of bankruptcy was not news to me. I felt such an argument was a ploy to guilt me into staying at the cheapest hotels around the world. The flight to Rio followed the same patterns of my previous international flights on behalf of the company: small seats on big routes. My job was to write reviews about new products and prospects regarding the gun industry—I hate everything about my job except writing. But Praia Palace Hotel was too great an opportunity to pass up.

  When a Brazilian woman, full of gray hair and wrinkles, held the line behind her, I promptly hopped in. She must have sensed impending dispair coming out my face.

  I gave her a slight nod and a feeble smile while doing my best to replace the previous sour grimace with some kindness.

  Travelers tide pushed down the aisle of the Boeing. Before long I stepped onto the jet bridge. All signs inside the airport were written in Portuguese and English, and that’s how I found directions to the bathroom.

  Whenever I travel to non-English-speaking countries, I always feel a sense of detachment, of being among humans and not being one of them at the same time. It’s hard to mingle with people I can´t understand. Language can either be a blessing or a barrier.

  I glanced at the clock when it hit 3:00 p.m., six hours after Carlos’s transfer services schedule. I took for granted he was gone. No driver would wait for so long.

  And such a thought led me to look at my phone again. Offline. There was a whole set of messages locked out in a distant vault somewhere in the cloud. Statistically, I knew what to expect from them: 10% worth my time, 80% spam, 10% I wish I hadn’t read. Strangely enough, the moment I found myself offline those pieces of data became attractive, as though they were 90% gold—the 10% I wish I hadn’t read still there.

  Being offline led to new perspectives. It’s actually productive not having to read all that daily “leaving mistakes behind”, or “forgiving is the utmost virtue of mankind,” or even “I had a moment of fragility that won’t happen anymore, I love you” sort of pleads because they all sounded the same to me:

  “I’m very sorry for screwing your best friend. That won’t happen again. Next time I’ll be pulling down my co-worker’s panties.

  Love, Marlon.”


  I kicked him out of my life soon after I found his face tucked into my Belinda’s thighs, under our recently bought, just-married bedsheets. I wasn’t even aware that his face knew how to find a way into someone’s thighs. He’d never found his way into mine. But life is like that. We better kick shit out while it’s fresh, because once it ages and dries out, it clings forever.

  Makeup reapplied, I suffered an additional hour-long immigration bureaucracy and, after cleared, headed to the airport’s baggage claim section to pick up my case. Pink, wrapped in plastic, pineapple tag dangling from the handle.

  Now, I need to find my way to that hotel.

  Chapter 2

  Outside the baggage claim area, a human corridor had been formed to receive travelers. On its borders, people raised signs with names on them: Maria Antonieta, Clark Smith, João de Deus, André Moraes.

  I still had some speck of hope inside me. While I wandered looking for my name, I witnessed some lucky travelers find their own version of Carlos.

  I never thought I could envy people like that.

  Winding among the mass of tourists flowing out, some guy bellowed, “Need taxi, Senhora?” right into my ears. I immediately hurried on to avoid him. My boss had told me to take care in Rio, the city had a bad reputation with pickpockets.

  What I needed was Carlos, the only driver in Rio I knew would comply to all Johnson & Brothers security policies.

  I sauntered along the corridor and scanned signs scattered in a sea of arms, searching for my name. I found it at the end: Emily Bennett, Johnson & Brothers.

  The hand holding the sign was part of the crowd, but even so I noticed that old man Carlos ought to be a tall one.

  “Here, I’m Emily Bennett, I’m here,” I said, my waving hands trying to catch his attention.

  I craned my neck to see Carlos, but I tripped on my carry-on and let my phone fall to the ground. I leaned over to pick it up, and a heat wave blew from behind me.

  “Let me help you, Senhora Bennett,” a man’s voice said, which I assumed was Carlos. The problem is that it sounded too stiff, too jovial, to pertain to an old man with bladder issues.

  Before I could face the man behind me, I felt his other hand coming over mine, the one with which I dragged the suitcase. A strong, coarse palm slid over the back of mine and squeezed, as though never willing to set it free. A stream of cold rushed through my arms, all hairs along it standing on end.

  “I’ll take care of your suitcase,” he said close to my ears.

  “Wait . . . Are you Carlos?” I said, jolting around to look at his face.

  Square gorgeous complexion, black undulating hair. Carlos was a slim, sunburnt, swimmer type. He carried a lavish scent, a smell I could easily miss. What the hell did my boss have in mind when she scheduled a driver like this?

  I freed my hand from the suitcase handle and took a step away from him, my mouth dry.

  “I’m sorry, Senhora Bennett, but Carlos is sick today. My name is Renato, his nephew. I’ll take you to your destination,” he said.

  Renato gave me a crooked smile, tucked his hand inside his purse, and brought out of his trunks a small card.

  “Your company asked us to deliver this Sim card to you,” he said. “I hope you had a pleasant flight. Now, please follow me.”

  He turned his back and walked across the airport parlor. I had a bit more room to breathe and take a good look at him. He was wearing floral trunks, white t-shirt, and sandals that scratched the ground with each step. He looked like someone ready for a holiday at the beach, not a professional driver fit to greet a businesswoman like me. He had unsuitable clothes and bad manners, which were unforgivable.

  I replaced my Sim card with the one Renato had provided me. After that, I strolled behind him. My phone, now online, popped off sound notifications. All those vaulted messages delivered at the same time, both the gold and the turd. “Need to talk to you, please call,” “Check-in at hotel schedule to 1:00 pm, Rio time,” and “I Dreamt of you last night.”

  Renato had pretty calves, muscles used to jogging, skin tanned from the sun.

  Bad start.

  After breaking up with my ex-husband, I had spent the last three months in love with myself, which wasn’t much different from before. He usually passed the role of pleasing Emily Bennett to me. But the certainty that I was not being cheated on anymore was liberating. After going over the pain of our breaking apart, I felt free, focused on my job, and decided on not having an affair in the next few months, specially in Rio. I was there to work, to write papers.

  Renato walked past a revolving door that led to the outdoor portion of the airport, equally populated by confused bystanders and loud cars. When we left the comfort of air-conditioning, I felt Rio’s scorching heat under a clear sky.

  It struck me with a steamy punch, taking my breath away.

  “Are you feeling well, Senhora?,” Renato said.

  “Yes . . . it just feels hot. Very hot,” I said.

  Renato grinned. “You’ll feel better inside the car. I’ll set the temperature to cold.” Then, he winked at me.

  Chapter 3

  Renato’s car, a black sedan, had its windows tinted a deep black that made it impossible to look inside the vehicle. I sat behind the passenger seat, and before we had escaped the traffic jam on the airport driveway, I went back to my phone.

  “I’m already in Rio. On my way to the Hotel. Love you,” I typed to Mom. To Joanne, I sent, “Carlos sent his nephew. I’ll talk to you when I get to the hotel.”

  We lost a few minutes just to get on the main highway that would take us to Rio. Cars piled up on the road, traffic slow, and around us, instead of the blue ocean that I had expected, my eyes only captured deep, brownish roofs and bare brick walls of city slums.

  How did people live like this? Garbage on the streets, streams of sewage water trailing along open-air ditches and shoeless children running through debris. Really?

  Our car slowed down , held back by traffic congestion. I hadn’t crossed eyes with Renato’s up to that moment. He exaled the kind of charm that ought to be avoided.

  I eyed two young men who strolled behind the highway’s boundary walls. They wore rags as brownish as the slum behind them. They waved at the car.

  “Don’t worry about them,” Renato said. “kids want your money, but only if you’re willing to buy the bottles of water they sell.”

  “Okay,” I said, hardly feeling reassured.

  Through the rear-view mirror, Renato stared at me with eyes that seemed to give shelter to puzzles behind the curtains of his eyelids. I tried to focus on the city encompassing the car, but my sight kept going back to him.

  Quick glimpses tell a lot, and I sensed that with every glance at Renato I would get extra details to better know him.

  But then I sensed he was doing the same with me. His eyes darting away whenever I glimpsed at the rear view mirror, and back when I looked away.

  My cheeks heated up. A notification popped on my phone. It was Joanne, again.

  “I’m unable to contact Carlos since last night. Got you a new driver, his name is Ricardo. Are you ok? I have scheduled a meeting for you tomorrow, right after the opening ceremony. Call me.”

  All of a sudden I felt the car too small for us, the air too cold. Renato wasn’t supposed to be my driver, not at all. He had sneaked into my life motivated by some dreary, unspellable purpose. I had fallen into a trap.

  What did he want from me?

  I fumbled over the screen while tapping my response.

  “What do you mean? I’m already in a car with a guy named Renato. He presented himself at the airport, he had my name on a paper sign,” I replied to Joanne.

  Inside the black sedan, I tried to conceal my panic, to control my breathing, to avoid Renato from noticing my figuring out his scheme. I was aware of events like this in Rio. Kidnappers disguised as taxi drivers, willing to drag dazzled tourists into webs of corruption and evilness, its infinite strings spreading throughout the
city.

  Once newcomers got caught, odds were not even their bodies would be returned to lessen the grief of their families.

  I looked around and noticed that our car came to a complete stop. Traffic a mess, my situation a disarray, and the man on the wheel plotting a sudden twist.

  “It’s rush hour,” Renato said, in a relaxed way.

  I took a glimpse of the rear-view mirror, my eyes bolting from side to side, but this time I didn’t see Renato’s face. He had tilted the mirror downwards, all I saw were the reflection of his trunks.

  I knew what that meant. He wanted to take a good look at my body, at my legs, and had probably started adapting his evil scheme to fit a rape before the looting.

  The phone rang, boss calling, I quickly turned it off. Renato might easily dispose of my phone in case he suspected I was trying to challenge his plan. Where was his gun? He ought to have it hidden somewhere in the car.

  He tilted the mirror upwards and squinted at me. This time, I didn’t avert my eyes, while his didn’t seem as riddled as before. Now, his intentions were clear to me.

  “Is the temperature ok to you?” he said.

  “Are you going to kill me?” I replied, betrayed by my own mouth. Whatever my destiny, I would not grant to my hideous predator the safety of an ignorant victim.

  He blinked.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “You are not supposed to be my driver. What do you want from me?” I said, trying to conceal the shivering panic that kept hitting my joints.

  Renato laughed.

  “Are you sure about that? Haven’t I given you a local Sim card?”

  He had a point. How could he have known I did forget my Global Sim Card if not through Carlos? Nonetheless, given that my thought had been working as if drenched in glue, I remained silent.

  “Look,” Renato said, “Carlos is sick. I was not supposed to drive you to your hotel. But I’m not going to do you any harm.”

  “You should’ve informed my company that you were coming to pick me up. You’re interfering with our policies.”