VENGEANCE REAWAKENED

by Fredrick L. Stafford

  The man set the purses on the table before their respective owners and spoke. “My men told me your Portuguese is somewhat limited. Perhaps you both speak a better version of English?”

  Raziela answered in English. “We do.”

  The man switched to pleasantly accented English. “I am Major Fernandes, National Police of Brazil, agent in command of a special investigations unit. I apologize for how you were brought here. However, my men needed to take all precautions to protect themselves after you assaulted sergeants Valdez and Margot on the beach, who also belong to my team.”

  “How are they?” Raziela said.

  “Physically fine, pridefully injured, of course. They were only going to politely ask you to come to speak with me about my investigation when you sprung your vicious surprise on them.”

  Molka smirked. “Then they should have been a little quicker to identify themselves.”

  Raziela affected a conciliatory tone to Molka’s combative one. “You wanted to talk to us about your investigation? What investigation?”

  Major Fernandes read from his tablet. “Your car was rented by the Israeli Embassy in Brasilia. You both match the security camera photos taken at the car rental counter in the airport here. And those photos match the ones on your Israeli Embassy employee IDs.”

  Raziela fabricated a cheery smile. “Excellent police work, major. And now that you’ve identified us, may I tell you about diplomatic immunity?”

  Major Fernandes viewed Raziela with a serious face. “I know about diplomatic immunity.”

  “Wonderful,” Raziela said. “Then you also know that first thing in the morning, the Israeli Ambassador in Brasilia will call your country’s Minister of Justice and Public Security to register his strong protest about two embassy employees being unlawfully harassed, placed at gunpoint, and detained by the National Police of Brazil. Your country’s Minister of Justice and Public Security will then start a vicious ball of blame rolling downhill by calling the Director-General of your organization who will roll the ball down on his immediate deputy, who will roll it down on his deputy and so on and so on until the ball finally reaches you. And when it does, it will be rolling very fast and hit you very hard.”

  Major Fernandes laid the tablet on the tabletop. “A calculated risk I am willing to endure in the hopes of forming an understanding.”

  “What type of understanding?” Raziela said.

  “An understanding that my investigation will not interfere with the Counsel’s investigation of Gabriel Cardoza.”

  Raziela’s normal calm-faced grin carried a nervous hint. “Well, you’ll need to speak with the Counsel about that. We’re just lowly employees of the Cultural Department.”

  “And you wish to maintain that stance?” Major Fernandes said.

  “We do.”

  Major Fernandes nodded. “I understand.” He knocked on the door, and an officer from earlier entered, removed the handcuffs from Raziela and Molka, and exited.

  “Are we free to go?” Raziela said.

  “You are,” Major Fernandes said. “But since you now realize our surveillance of Cardoza caught you surveilling Cardoza, do you want to hear what I have to say concerning that?”

  Molka definitely did.

  Raziela did too. “I’m still listening.”

  Major Fernandes moved to the chair in the corner, carried it to the table, and sat across from the women. “Whatever interest your country has in Cardoza is of no interest to my investigation or to me personally. As a matter of fact, I would not at all be disappointed if something bad happens to him.”

  “Then why are you surveilling him?” Raziela said.

  “To catch one of his associates.” Major Fernandes moved the tablet to him and swiped to the photo of a shirtless, bald, Hispanic male with a red bull tattooed on his chest and a ripped, muscular physique. “Are you familiar with this man?”

  Raziela and Molka viewed the photo, and both shook their heads to the negative.

  Major Fernandes continued. “His name is Alejandro Abreu. Age 38. He is a former professional bodybuilder and a former professional wrestler who performed under the name ‘The Bull’, which he is still called by many. As his wrestling career waned, he became involved with a short-lived but very violent domestic terrorist organization intent on overthrowing our government. He was considered an enthusiastic and highly motivated soldier. He even went to the Middle East, where he was trained in sophisticated bomb-making and torture techniques from some of your enemies. Your organization may have a file on him.”

  Raziela grinned. “You mean the Counsel would.”

  Major Fernandes continued. “The members of the terrorist cell Abreu belonged to were all killed or captured. He spent four years in prison. While there, he was befriended by the leader of the CV—who is serving a life sentence but still runs the favelas through appointed lieutenants. This leader saw in Abreu the perfect blend of intelligence, ruthlessness, and intimidation to run the Esperança favela: the largest and most profitable for the CV. And since Abreu’s release eight years ago, that is precisely what he has done.”

  Raziela spoke up. “And what is his connection to Cardoza?”

  “Abreu supplies large amounts of narcotics to Cardoza, which Cardoza, in turn, sells to the ultra-wealthy party-set of Rio for an exorbitant mark-up. A high price they are happy to pay to keep them from dealing with dangerous CV traffickers. However, this is not why we want Abreu. We want him for more serious unrelated matters.”

  “Which are?” Raziela said.

  “He is the prime suspect in fifty-nine homicides across the country.”

  “Serial killer?” Molka said.

  “He is either a serial killer using revenge killings as a justification or a revenge killer using serial killings as his method.”

  “Who are his victims?”

  “Most were rivals to his favored narcotics suppliers. Apparently, they offered him a discounted rate for eliminating their competition, and he seems to enjoy it regardless. However, he also ventured into murdering several law enforcement officers and judges involved in his terrorism conviction. His preferred methods of killing are by a car bomb and the chainsaw.”

  Raziela presented and inquisitive face. “He sounds like a very dangerous maniac that needs to be caught as soon as possible. But how exactly does surveilling his associate Cardoza assist in that apprehension?”

  “We are hoping to catch Abreu meeting with Cardoza out of the Esperança favela. Hence, our surveillance of Cardoza is only to use him as a lure for Abreu.”

  “Why wait for him to come out?” Molka said. “Can’t you just go into the favela and get him?”

  “I have a special team who could do that, but we cannot conduct the surveillance in the favela necessary to locate him for apprehension. He has over 100 gang member lookouts covering Esperança for any unusual activity. And unfortunately, the local civil police are badly compromised at this time, and police informants in Abreu’s employ who serve in the favela would also alert him to our presence, and Abreu would be long gone before we could find him.”

  Raziela spoke again. “Does he ever come out of the favela to meet with Cardoza?”

  “As far as we know, he has only left Esperança a few times since entering it eight years ago. He knows he is practically untouchable there.”

  Molka spoke up. “So you essentially have him caught in a trap that you cannot empty.”

  Major Fernandes nodded. “A very astute way of putting it. But we are vigilant he will make a mistake and come out again soon. We have no other recourse at this time.”

  Raziela grinned again. “Well, we have to get going. Best of luck with your investigation, Major Fernandes.” She stood.

  Molka did the same.

  Raziela continued. “Please tell your men from the beach….”

  Major Fernandes spoke up. “Sergeants Valdez and Margot.”

  Raziela continued. “Please tell Sergeants Valdez and Margot we hope there are no ill feeli
ngs.”

  Major Fernandes’ cool face cracked with a tinge of desperation. “Before you leave, would you say we have a mutual agreement with the Counsel not to interfere in each other’s investigations?”

  Raziela picked up her purse. “When I get back to the embassy, if I run into anyone with the Counsel, I’ll mention that. But if I were you, I wouldn’t be too worried about it.”

  Major Fernandes’ desperation face re-cooled. “Fair enough. Thank you. And if you—I mean the Counsel—should ever need to get in contact with me about this matter, just call the National Police of Brazil office here in Rio and ask for me. Say it’s the Israeli calling, and they will forward the call straight through to me anytime day or night.”

  Raziela and Molka cruised quiet Rio night streets toward their hotel near the airport.

  Molka turned down the Samba music on the radio Raziela bopped her head to. “Did you know about Cardoza’s drug dealing?”

  “That was new information to me,” Raziela said. “But not surprising. Once a crook, always a crook. I do feel sorry for Major Fernandes, though. He seems like a truly dedicated professional.” She grinned. “Not bad to look at either.”

  “You feel sorry for Major Fernandes because unless this Abreu ventures out to meet Cardoza in the next few days. We’ll take that chance away from him forever.”

  “Yes,” Raziela said. “Now, let’s get our ice cream and frozen yogurt and get some sleep.”

  “Ok. But…um…about our cash.”

  CHAPTER 13

  Border Crossing Station

  Pacaraima, Brazil

  Brazil-Venezuela Border

  11:44 PM

  A navy blue-uniformed and sidearm-carrying border police officer sat behind a desk with a phone to his ear.

  Sitting in chairs across from him, glowered two handcuffed men.

  One was in his 50s, stocky build, with a paunch and short, side-parted silver hair over a craggy-complected face.

  The other was perhaps ten years younger with a similar but thinner build. His darker hair was side-parted, and he sported a gray-streaked beard over a craggy-complected face.

  Both wore black leather jackets—which the warm weather did not warrant—over black shirts, black pants, and black boots.

  The officer continued his phone conversation. “Yes, sir, a random inspection of a truck carrying refrigerated meat products… No, sir, they still refuse to speak… Caucasians, sir… No IDs, no wallets, nothing in their pockets… No, sir, we don’t believe the truck driver knew they were in his truck. He thinks they broke into the trailer hours ago when he stopped for—”

  CRAAASSSHH!

  The loud crashing noise from the next room was followed by multiple voices yelling.

  The startled officer dropped the phone and sprung to his feet.

  The door burst open, and four late teenaged, thin to wiry built males—each sporting an identical buzzed haircut, identical black tactical tee shirts, black tactical pants, and black tactical boots and carrying Glocks—scrambled into the room. Three of the males wore white skull-faced bandanas covering their faces, and the fourth wore a red skull face bandana covering his.

  The officer’s hand dropped to his weapon.

  The red skull face intruder pointed his Glock at the officer’s face. “Don’t be stupid, bro. They don’t pay you enough to die.”

  The officer raised his hands.

  The red skull face continued. “We didn’t hurt your bros out there. We just cuffed them and laid them down. Like we’re going to do to you.”

  The three white skull-faced males moved fast. One laid the officer face down on the floor and cuffed him with his own cuffs. The other two pulled the two handcuffed men from their chairs onto their feet.

  The older handcuffed man said something in Russian, and the younger man replied with a nod.

  With the two white skull faces escorting the cuffed men by their arms and the other white skull face positioned behind them, the red skull face led the way from the room to the outer room where two more, armed white skull face bandana-wearing males—aged, built, and dressed as the others—covered four more border officers cuffed and face down on the floor.

  The red skull face continued out the front exit where yet another, armed white skull face clone stood watch.

  Immediately, a windowless black van with its side door open —driven by a white skull face bandana-wearing driver—powered to a stop outside.

  Moving with quick, practiced precision, two white skull faces helped the cuffed men into the van through the side door and into the middle seat and sat on their flanks.

  The other four white skull faces then entered through the side door and occupied the rearmost seat.

  The red skull face then entered through the side door, pulled it shut, and crawled into the passenger seat.

  The van’s driver accelerated away from the border station fast but not frantic, turned left from the parking lot onto a lighted street running through a small town, passed the Brazil-Venezuela border marker sign, and entered Brazil proper.

  The red skull face opened the van’s glove compartment, removed a cuff key, and tossed it to one of the white skull faces in the rear seat beside the cuffed men.

  While the white skull face removed the men’s cuffs, the red skull face looked back at the men, pulled the bandana from his face, and spoke in Russian. “Mr. Kozlov, Mr. Kozlov, Mr. Cardoza sends his greetings and welcomes you to Brazil.”

  The older Kozlov answered. “You’re Cardoza’s man? But you’re just a boy.” He glanced next to and then behind him at all the white skull faces who had also pulled their face coverings off. “You’re all just boys.”

  The red skull face spoke up. “We’re all 18 and 19, Mr. Kozlov. Sorry about the little change in plans. Those border cops hadn’t inspected a truck from that company in the month we’ve been watching that crossing. It’s a very reputable company, which is why Mr. Cardoza chose it for you. I guess the cops got bored today and decided to look. It was just bad luck.”

  The younger Kozlov spoke. “Don’t curse my brother and me with more bad luck, boy.”

  “No disrespect to you and your brother, Mr. Kozlov,” the red skull face said. “In a way, it worked out for the best. Those cops were half asleep when we walked in. Taking you away from them was easy. Stopping that truck after it crossed the border to get you out of the trailer, as planned, might have been more dangerous. Some of those drivers carry shotguns to protect themselves against hijackers.”

  The lights from the little border town faded behind the van, and dense, dark jungle rose on each side of the road. The only illumination came from the van’s headlights which seemed to be swallowed up only a few meters ahead by the all-encompassing blackness.

  The older Kozlov spoke again. “You’re Hispanic. Where did you learn to speak Russian, boy?”

  Red skull face answered. “Mr. Cardoza pays a tutor to teach us all. We’re only to speak Russian in your presence. We’re going to be looking after you for a while.”

  The younger Kozlov spoke. “Where are you taking us?”

  “Someplace very safe and very beautiful. Mr. Cardoza will join you there in a few days.”

  The older Kozlov spoke. “We expected Cardoza to meet us with his…men at the border and escort us himself.”

  “Mr. Cardoza is much too important a man in this country to be doing the work of a common soldier. That’s why he has us. We’re one of his Ghost Crews.” Red skull face ballooned with pride. “His first Ghost Crew in this whole country to be accurate.”

  “What is a ghost crew?”

  “We appear out of nowhere, scare the hell out of everyone—or scare them to death if we have to—then we disappear like we were never even there.”

  The driver spoke up. “We’re being followed, bro.”

  Red skull face looked into the side view mirror outside his door. “Police?”

  “No.”

  “Who?”

  “I don’t know,” the dri
ver said. “It’s a dark-colored, four-door car. When we pulled out of the police station, it whipped out of that pharmacy parking lot across the street and got behind us. They hung way back, so I wasn’t sure, but now I’m sure because they’re slowly, but steadily, closing in on us.”

  Red skull face looked into the mirror again. “They’re going to make their move on us out here in the bush.”

  The older Kozlov spoke up. “If not police, who else?”

  “Probably just local bandits,” the red skull face said. “They saw this brand-new van and want to steal it. Don’t worry, Mr. Kozlov, we’ll get rid of them.” He addressed one of the white skull faces in the rearmost seat. “Use your SAW, bro.”

  A middle white skull face turned around, reached down, opened a gear bag on the floor behind the seat, and removed an M249 light machinegun—known as a Squad Automatic Weapon or SAW for short—with an attached 200-round magazine.

  Red skull face spoke. “Just stop them, bro. Don’t kill them. Remember what the boss said, ‘today’s enemy could be tomorrow’s thief in law.’”

  The Kozlov brothers laughed.

  The SAW carrying male crawled over the middle seat with his weapon and opened the side door. The rushing air filled the van with a pungent jungle scent.

  The driver spoke. “They’re making their move. I think they’ll try to pass and cut us off.”

  The weapon holder crouched, braced his back against the back of the passenger seat, pointed the weapon out the door, and took aim at the pursuer. The red skull face reached back and grasped the shooter’s shirt as a safety measure.

  The shooter fired on full automatic.

  BRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRP!

  The long burst of rounds sparked and skipped off the road surface and impacted the car’s front bumper and grill. The car’s oil pan took a hit, and white smoke poured from the engine compartment.