“They came to you and told you that because they fear you and believe you have my back.” Cardoza smiled and used his left forefinger and thumb to twist his thick gold ring. “My father used to say a well-implied threat keeps the peace better than 1000 gunmen.” His smile faded. “But the IDI leader could be lying about not wanting a war while he builds up strength or sends another assassin to finish the job.”
“That’s a more likely possibility.” Abreu grinned. “Now, what are you going to do, boss man?”
Cardoza removed the phone Leonardo gave him from his pocket, opened the recent photo album, and handed the phone to Abreu. “That’s him.”
Abreu scanned through shots of Henrique’s dead body, including a closeup of his IDI tattoo. After a moment, he said, “He is, or was, definitely IDI.” He held the phone for Cardoza to take back.
“Keep it,” Cardoza said. “I need another favor.”
Abreu shot an annoyed glare at Cardoza. “Damn. Now what?”
“Find out where he lived and if he has family there. I want to pay my respects to them for their loss.”
Abreu smirked. “You mean you want to question them and find out if he was active IDI?”
“Yes.”
Abreu yawned and went back to viewing his movie again. “I’ll have Felipe start asking around in the morning. He’ll find out where that dumb fucker lived.”
“No, you’ll personally start looking tonight. All night if you have to. And when you find out, send Felipe or one of your other little minions to my office with the information tomorrow. I’ll be there from 4 to 5:30 as always. And after that, I’ll be staying at my lake house.”
“Your lake house? What, you gonna go hide out now?”
“I’m staying out of Rio until I can confirm the IDI isn’t trying to kill me. And that starts with you finding his family for me. And if you don’t want to, I’ll just ask my police friend, the deputy chief, to send a task force in here to do so. And while they do that, maybe they’ll shut down your operations for two or three or ten days. Are we clear?”
Abreu continued his movie viewing.
Cardoza repeated. “Are we clear?”
“Yeah,” Abreu said.
Cardoza’s voice hardened. “A real man looks another man in the eye when he makes him a promise. Now, are we clear?”
Abreu turned raged repressed eyes toward Cardoza. “Yes. We are clear.”
Cardoza walked out.
CHAPTER 27
After Molka reserved a seat on the 7:30 PM direct flight back to Rio, two things occurred to her.
Problem one: she did not want to go on Raziela’s night errand wearing her comfy tracksuit with its reflective stripes, nor did she want to change into her standard covert operations ensemble at their apartment. She wanted to wear something more intimidating.
Problem two: She also did not want to go into the favela at night and forcibly enter an unfamiliar apartment unarmed.
Maybe her possible embassy asset could be of assistance to remedy both challenges? Go try to recruit him and find out.
Molka moved from the basement to the embassy’s second floor and knocked on an open office door carrying a nameplate stating: Embassy Security Director Danny Geller.
The door’s namesake—outfitted in his on-duty black polo shirt over dark gray tactical pants—sat at a desk working.
Geller smiled at Molka’s entrance. “Good afternoon, Molka.”
“Good afternoon, Director Geller.”
“Please call me Danny.”
“Do you have a moment?”
“For you, always. Please sit.”
Molka sat in a chair fronting the desk. “You said if I needed your help while I was here to just ask. Did you mean that or were you just being polite because of what happened on that op?”
Geller’s confident face became humble and reflective. “I meant it. I owe you my life, and my three kids owe you theirs. They would never have been born without you, and I’ve told them that. How can I help?”
“Your contracted security officer Pereira and the other female officer I saw at the front gate are both about my size. I wonder if you could ask one of them if I could borrow a uniform and patrol cap?”
“May I ask why?”
“I would prefer you didn’t.”
“Ok,” Geller said. “Since I issued those uniforms to the contractors, loaning you one in a female’s size won’t be a problem.”
“Great. Thanks.” Molka smiled. “And Danny, I also need to borrow or buy a sidearm.”
Geller closed his laptop. “Borrow or buy a sidearm?”
“Yes. For pick up and use in Rio. Obviously, I can’t carry one on the plane.”
Geller’s brow furrowed a bit. “Obviously. And you can’t tell me why you need a sidearm for pick up and use in Rio either, right?”
“I can’t. Sorry. Could any of your—very useful contacts—in the country that you told me about possibly meet me in the Rio airport parking lot with say…a .45 caliber semi-automatic?”
Geller stood, moved to his office door, closed it, and lowered his voice. “There’s a storage closet right across the hall. On the third shelf on the left-hand side, you’ll find the uniforms. While you pick one out, I’ll make a call to my man in Rio about the other thing you asked for. He’ll take care of you.”
Molka smiled. “Thank you, Danny.”
“Happy to help. It’s literally the least I could do.” Geller’s eyes reddened. “Thank you for allowing me.”
Asset recruited.
CHAPTER 28
Galeão International Airport
Rio de Janeiro
Short-Term Parking Lot
10:18 PM
Molka spotted the large, white delivery truck backed into a corner space where the driver told her on the phone he would be waiting.
Black lettering on the truck’s cargo box identified it as representing Maximillian Tools. Maximillian, also being the name of Geller’s man in Rio she came to meet.
Molka parked her white Nissan rental beside the truck.
The driver door slid open, and a burly, late-40s, Hispanic male with short graying hair exited dressed in camouflage fatigues and combat boots. He approached Molka’s rolled-down window and spoke in Portuguese accented English. “Molka?”
“Yes,” Molka said.
“I’m Maximillian. Your referral from Danny also came with a very high recommendation.” He nodded to the black gear bag next to Molka on the passenger seat. “Grab your shopping bag and step inside my store.”
Molka exited with her bag wearing her new white tracksuit and white cross trainers and followed Maximillian into the truck through the open driver’s door and through an access door behind the seats into the large cargo box. Inside, a gleaming, nonslip stainless-steel aisle bisected dual rows of floor-to-roof gleaming stainless-steel drawers.
Maximillian faced Molka. “Please note, what I have here is just a very small sample of my inventory. If you need something I don’t have, I can go back to my warehouse where I promise I’ll have it.”
“My time is limited tonight,” Molka said. “So, I’m sure we can make do with whatever you have.”
“I understand you want to mimic a uniformed police officer?”
“Yes.”
“And you prefer .45 caliber in your sidearms?”
“Yes.”
Maximillian moved to the right-side drawer bank, pulled open a middle drawer, and removed a semi-automatic pistol. “I brought this Ruger in .45 ACP. This model in 9-millimeter is used by some of the local Rio police units, so it fits with your look.” He handed the weapon to Molka.
“Nice balance,” Molka said. “I like these grips too.”
“I put those on special for you to fit a smaller female hand.”
“Thank you.”
“It’s loaded with 10 plus one,” Maximillian said. “Will one spare loaded mag be enough?”
Molka grinned. “I hope so.”
“Understood.” M
aximillian removed a loaded magazine from the drawer, passed it to Molka, closed the drawer, crouched, pulled open a lower drawer, removed a black duty belt with a black carbon fiber holster, stood back up, and passed it to Molka. “This is a standard Rio civil police duty belt. No charge for that.”
“Thank you.” Molka secured the weapon in the holster and placed the rig into her gear bag.
Maximillian affected a salesman's smile. “Now, can I interest you in any add-on weapons?” He moved to the left-side drawer bank and opened side-by-side, chest-high drawers. “I have some very nice tactical assault rifles and tactical shotguns.”
Molka viewed several of the high-end weapons.
“Sounds tempting,” Molka said. “I need to go in light, though.”
Maximillian smiled and shut the drawers. “Understood.”
“But,” Molka said, “since this is a tool truck, you wouldn’t happen to have some actual tools in here, like maybe a large hammer?”
“For what purpose?” Maximillian said.
“I have to open a locked door.”
Maximillian moved to another left-side drawer, opened it, and removed a rugged, black, metal oversized hammer with a thick pointed spike where a prying claw would be on a normal hammer. “This is a dynamic entry breaching sledge,” he said. “It combines the strike face of a sledge with the prying wedge of a hallagan.”
Molka smiled. “Believe it or not, I’ve seen one before.”
Maximillian handed the tool to Molka. “Only 20 reais leasing fee for that.”
“Ok.” Molka placed the hammer in her bag. “And I’m ready to check out now.”
“Did Danny tell you my fees and my delivery and pick-up policies?”
“Yes,” Molka said. “She reached into her front pocket, removed a stack of folded currency, counted out several bills, and handed them to Maximillian. “That’s the leasing fee, and your policy is to call you anytime day or night for delivery or pick-up.”
Molka left the airport, drove to a nearby 24-hour drugstore and bought a box of rubber gloves. She then drove to the fast-food restaurant next door, entered the women’s restroom as a white tracksuit, white cross trainers, and ponytail wearing tourist carrying a black gear bag, and exited as a reasonable facsimile to a police officer wearing the borrowed blue security officer uniform and patrol cap, her own black tactical boots, and the leased holstered sidearm.
In humid, hazy, overcast night conditions, Molka parked in a closed store’s parking lot near the entrance to the Esperança favela, reached into the gear bag on the seat beside her, removed her old pilot’s watch and checked the time: 11:14 PM.
She strapped the watch on her left wrist, reached into her purse, retrieved the paper on which she wrote the safehouse location coordinates Raziela gave her, and entered them into the car’s GPS.
The safehouse’s location showed up as on the favela’s main road about a kilometer away. A location probably chosen as convenient and easily accessible.
Molka drove into Esperança. On her last trip up the same road, the daytime vibrancy succumbed to an eerie abandonment with all the businesses closed and closed off behind steel security fencing.
Ahead—at a slight curve in the road—the gray structure containing the safehouse came into view and revealed it sat next to a closed restaurant with a narrow alley separating the two buildings.
Molka parked at the curb before the restaurant, shut the vehicle off, killed the headlights, and observed. Nothing moved by motor or by foot in that portion of the dimly lit street.
She removed a set of rubber gloves from the box, pulled them on, exited the vehicle, locked the doors, slung the gear bag over her left shoulder, and observed again.
Light glowed from numerous windows in apartments above the street-side businesses. Those lights didn’t worry her. But the even more numerous darkened windows in the apartments did because maybe they concealed numerous people observing her.
She hoped that although Geller removed the uniform’s Velcro attached nameplate and shoulder patches for plausible deniability reasons, she still presented enough as a legit police officer to deter any watcher’s suspicions.
Molka moved into the narrow alley beside the restaurant, which led to the apartment’s rear and back door. A dumpster’s reek and the unpleasant scent from an open barrel filled with used frying oil quickened her pace.
The alley traversed the building’s entire length and continued on into unsettling blackness.
Molka reached the gray structure’s rear. Narrow, rail-free wooden steps made a treacherous climb to the building’s second story to her left. And located beside those was the safehouse’s back door.
She moved to the faded and peeling yellow-painted wooden door. The door handle contained a key lock, and a deadbolt keylock was mounted above that.
Molka placed her bag on the concrete doorstep, unzipped it, and removed the entry hammer. She scanned behind her and in both directions: nothing moved. She inserted the hammer’s prying spike into the door crack next to the deadbolt lock and—using the door frame as a fulcrum—pulled back on the hammer’s handle with both hands.
A fist-sized chunk split away from the door frame to reveal the deadbolt secured into the building’s concrete wall. Molka used the hammer head to smash away the concrete around the deadbolt and then another prying move to break the entire assembly away from the door.
There was probably an easier, quieter way to do that, and she made a mental note to research it for future use before she stepped back and used two sidekicks to defeat the door handle lock and pop open the door.
Absolute blackout conditions awaited her inside, and she cursed herself for not remembering to ask Maximillian for a flashlight and for leaving Raziela’s phone with its flashlight function in her purse in the car.
Molka dropped the hammer into the bag, re-slung it, and stepped inside onto a tile floor. She felt along the wall to the door’s right for a light switch: none. She felt along the wall to the door’s left for a light switch: found. She flipped on an overhead light attached to a room-central ceiling fan. She closed the wrecked door behind her the best she could and assessed her surroundings.
The studio-style apartment was about the same size as her apartment back home. She had more furniture than just a small table and single chair located in the corner, though. The room’s aroma blended male body odor with dirty dishes filling the sink in the small kitchen across the room. Next to the kitchen, open doors exposed a small bathroom and a bedroom.
Molka’s eyes fell back on the table to items sitting atop it.
She moved to it and found a neat pattern of Henrique’s old ID beside a new phone, his new ID and passport, and a printed out boarding pass for a one-way flight to Barcelona.
Molka frowned. A new identity and a new life in Spain sounded pretty good. But Cardoza talked—more likely bluffed—Henrique into changing his mind.
She laid the gear bag on the table, unzipped it, and placed all the items inside. Next, leaving the gear bag on the table, she walked into the little bedroom and flipped on the light. The room contained a mattress on the floor with a blanket and two pillows. She moved to the room’s empty, doorless closet and pressed against the back wall. It retracted a bit to reveal it sat mounted on sliding rails top and bottom.
Molka slid the false wall to the left, and it opened onto a walk-in closet-sized space lined with shelves, possibly once used by narcotics traffickers. All the shelves sat empty except for one holding a blue, school-type backpack. She entered the space, retrieved the backpack from the shelf, and unzipped it to divulge several banded stacks of blue and white reais in the 100 denomination.
She re-zipped the backpack, carried it back to the table in the main room, and began to stuff it inside the gear bag.
BOOM!
BOOM!
BOOM!
Heavy handed knocking on the front door.
Molka froze.
BOOM!
BOOM!
BOOM!
>
A deep male voice sounded from the other side:
“We know you’re home. The lights are on, and we saw your shadow move across the curtains. Open the door.”
BOOM!
BOOM!
BOOM!
“Open the door. I just want to talk to you about Henrique. It’s ‘The Bull.’”
The Bull?
Abreu?
BOOM!
BOOM!
BOOM!
“Open the door, or I’ll kick the bitch down.”
BOOM!
BOOM!
BOOM!
Molka finished stuffing the backpack into the gear bag.
The back door creaked open.
Someone entering.
Molka retreated into the bedroom.
She turned off the light and peered at the back door.
A black male face peeked inside: Felipe.
He didn’t see Molka.
Fight or flight?
Try flight first.
Molka retreated into the closet, popped open the false wall again, moved inside, and re-closed the wall.
BOOM!
BOOM!
BOOM!
“Open the fucking door!”
Felipe yelled: “I’m in! Hold on!”
Felipe—still in his same tee shirt and jeans from earlier—unlocked and opened the front door to Abreu outfitted in a red muscle shirt, tight blue jeans, and black boots.
Abreu moved to the room’s center and yelled: “Just fucking come out and talk to me! Quit playing games! I’m about to get mad!”
Molka stood silent with her ear to the false wall and the Ruger in her hand.
Abreu addressed Felipe. “Check the bedroom and the bathroom. Make sure you look in the shower.”
Abreu moved to the kitchen and looked inside all the cabinets.
Felipe flipped over the mattress in the bedroom, looked into the empty closet, and headed for the bathroom.
A moment later, the two men regrouped in the main room.
VENGEANCE REAWAKENED Page 14
