by Logan Ryles
Vila Cruzeiro differed from whatever favela they left the car in. Whereas the first favela showed signs of life from the outset, mixed with occasional flashes of light or voices, Vila Cruzeiro was desolate—no lights, no sounds, and no people. Occasional bullet holes decorated the metal sides of shacks, and a couple of rotting dog carcasses lay in ditches.
Wolfgang swallowed past the stench of death and pressed forward, checking again to make sure Megan was at his side. She stood twenty yards away on the other side of an empty goat pen.
“Charlie Lead, you’re now approaching the target,” Lyle said. “It’s the third building ahead of you. I can’t tell for sure, but I think the roof is made of red metal.”
“Copy that, Charlie Eye,” Edric said. “Charlie One and Three, close up.”
Wolfgang bent down and hurried up the street, panting a little as he closed the gap between himself and Edric. His legs burned, but he was focused enough to ignore the discomfort.
“Building identified,” Edric said. “Charlie Eye, what do you have on-screen?”
“All clear, Charlie Lead. The favela is quiet.”
Wolfgang slid to a stop behind a stack of worn-out car tires, kneeling on the concrete and peering ahead down the streets. Directly ahead was some sort of square, but not an official community center by any means. Six or eight buildings were gathered around an intersection of dirt tracks with some kind of animal pen in the middle. Several of the shacks facing the pen featured awnings that covered stalls. The stalls were boarded up and locked with rusting chains, but Wolfgang could imagine them open with tables covered in merchandise and produce.
It’s a market.
Between two of the shacks, the dirt street they now traveled continued up a hill, and two shacks farther in, Wolfgang saw a block building with a red metal roof. It stuck out from the rest—a little taller with black windows and a door that leaned downward, suspended on only one hinge.
Edric knelt in the dirt about thirty yards ahead on the left side of the street. Kevin wasn’t visible, but Wolfgang assumed he was close by. Waiting behind the tires, breathing between dry lips, Wolfgang couldn’t help noticing again how quiet it was. This place didn’t feel like a marketplace or a neighborhood. It felt like a graveyard.
“We’ve got a visual on the building,” Edric said. “Charlie One and Three, are you in position?”
“Copy that,” Megan said. She knelt on the other side of a pile of rotting garbage heaped up against the side of another shack.
Wolfgang acknowledged his position to Edric, then slid the UMP out from beneath his coat and pulled the charging handle.
“Okay, moving in,” Edric said. He emerged from the shadows and rushed across the square, leaning close to the ground and keeping his rifle held into his shoulder.
Kevin followed, moving with a little more tactical precision as he dodged from cover to cover, only yards behind Edric. Within seconds they were on the other side of the square and closing in on the building with the red roof.
Then Wolfgang saw it. From the top of a structure, four shacks to the left of the target building, a head appeared, followed by a rifle barrel. Only a split second later, another head appeared next to it with another rifle.
Then heads popped up everywhere, and rifles bristled from the rooftops. Wolfgang dove back behind the tires, raising his weapon and screaming into the mic. “Take cover!”
6
Wolfgang heard his own words crackle through his earpiece. He’d forgotten to hum, and the mic caught only the last half of his transmission. He had no time to repeat it as the first gunshots rang out from the rooftops. A flickering light show of orange flashes illuminated the night sky as bullets slammed into the street, peppering the square and ripping through the shacks. Wolfgang peered around the base of his tire stack, searching for Megan. She huddled behind the garbage pile, keeping her head low and directing her rifle toward the rooftops, but she didn’t fire.
“Charlie Lead, do you copy?” Megan shouted.
The radio crackled, but Wolfgang couldn’t hear the response. He stuck his head around the base of a tire and searched the street ahead, but neither Edric nor Kevin were visible.
Then Lyle’s voice burst over the headset. “Charlie Team, you’ve got two armored vehicles and about fifty Brazilian troops moving in from the north! ETA, sixty seconds!”
Wolfgang’s mind spun as a nearby favela shack shuddered under a raking blast of bullets. It was only then that he realized that the shooters on top of the shacks weren’t there for Charlie Team.
We’ve stumbled into a war.
“Charlie . . . radio . . .” Edric’s voice faded as Wolfgang’s heart pounded.
The thunder of automatic rifle fire on all sides was overwhelming—too much to let him process what Edric was trying to say. He stumbled to his knees and bolted across the street, sliding in behind the garbage pile like a baseball player sliding onto home base.
Megan huddled close to the dirt, her breaths quick but controlled.
“Can you hear Edric?” Wolfgang said.
Megan shook her head. “Charlie Eye! What do you have?”
Lyle’s voice was a great deal less calm than Megan’s. “They’re all around you, Charlie One! Shooters on the roof, in the alleys, and moving in on the square. More Brazilian police are closing up the hill with a third armored vehicle.”
“They’re taking the favela,” Wolfgang said. “This must have something to do with that criminal organization you mentioned. The Red Guard?”
“Red Command,” Megan said. She leaned out from the garbage pile, looking up the street. “Charlie Lead! What’s your position?”
No answer. She tried again, then Lyle interrupted.
“Charlie Lead and Charlie Two are inside the target structure. I think the roof is disrupting the radio somehow. Charlie One, you’ve got to move. I’ve got armed militants closing in behind you.”
Wolfgang looked over his shoulder but couldn’t yet see the gunmen Lyle had seen. Maybe they were just around the corner rushing up to defend the square against the imposing threat of the Brazilian military.
“We’ve got to move south,” Wolfgang said. “Circle around and rendezvous with Edric on the other side.”
Megan shook her head. “No, that’ll lead us deeper into the favela. The Red Command will reinforce from that direction.”
A string of random gunshots ripped down the street from behind. Wolfgang looked over his shoulder again to see five or six militants moving up the mountainside from the direction Charlie Team had come, closing in rapidly. The bullets didn’t appear to be directed at him and Megan, and as far as he could tell, the militants had yet to see either of them, but it was only a matter of time.
“Stop arguing,” Wolfgang snapped. “Let’s go!”
He yanked Megan up by one hand, and they dashed between two shacks. Sheet metal dug into Wolfgang’s arm as he ran, while he twisted his hips and shoulders sideways to fit between the narrowing gap. Up ahead was the opening of another darkened street, this one leading deeper into the favela. Gunfire and the growl and rumble of what Wolfgang assumed were Brazilian armored vehicles filled the air behind them, then an explosion rattled the sheet-metal-clad buildings.
Of all the times to tour Rio, we chose the night of an invasion.
Wolfgang and Megan broke through the narrow alley and into another winding dirt street. To their right, the track wound up the mountainside, while to their left it split and took off in illogical switchbacks through the favela. Wolfgang lingered, trying to decide which path was most likely to lead them into a position to assist Edric and Kevin, and then a shrill cry broke from twenty yards to his right, between the buildings. Someone spoke in what sounded like the voice of a Portuguese child. Sharp and panicked, the voice repeated the same words over and over. Wolfgang didn’t need to comprehend the language to recognize a cry for help.
“Come on,” Megan said. “We’ve got to move!”
“That’s a child,” Wolfg
ang said. “Can’t you hear it?”
“We don’t have time! They’re coming this way.”
Megan pulled him to the left, but the child’s cry repeated from his right, sharper this time, filled with pain and fear. Wolfgang hesitated, listening to the note of desperation that filled the child’s voice. It was more distinct and relevant to him than the pop of gunfire only yards behind, and it blocked out the demands of the mission. In an instant, Wolfgang wasn’t in Rio anymore. He was transported miles and years back to West Virginia, and the voice he heard wasn’t that of a helpless Brazilian child, but of an American girl. A girl he knew well.
Collins.
Wolfgang tore free of Megan’s hand and bolted up the hill, following the voice. Mud crumbled beneath his feet, and he almost fell as the UMP slapped against his chest, but he caught himself on the windowsill of a shack and kept moving. The screams were louder now, only a few yards away, and he thought he heard a second whimpering and agonized voice join the first. Another child?
Wolfgang rounded the corner, one hand on the grip of the UMP. Another alley, not more than eighteen inches wide, greeted him, with the rusted metal walls of two shacks pressing in on either side. It was so dark he couldn’t even make out silhouettes of the children he heard crying ahead, but the voices were sharp and immediate, laced with pain and panic.
He jerked the flashlight from his jacket pocket and snapped it on, flooding the alley with white light as Megan crashed in behind him. Halfway down the alley, he saw the two children—a boy of maybe twelve, bone skinny and barefoot, and a girl three or four years younger and lying on the packed Brazilian earth in a growing pool of blood. Wolfgang couldn’t tell where the blood was flowing from, but he knew it belonged to the girl with tears flowing down her face and a shaking body. The boy leaned over her, one hand on her shoulder, the other covered in blood as he pawed at her leg, but when Wolfgang clicked the light on, the boy whirled toward him and jerked a kitchen knife from his belt.
Wolfgang held up a hand, directing the flashlight at the dirt. “Easy!” he said. “I’m here to help.”
The boy’s face clouded with confusion, and he glanced back at the girl. She writhed in the dirt, and Wolfgang could now see that her leg was twisted under her and pinned beneath the washed-out foundation of the shack she lay next to. Blood flowed from that general vicinity, and he concluded she must have fallen and torn her leg on the sheet metal. Maybe she broke it, too, and now she couldn’t pull it free.
“Easy,” Wolfgang repeated. “I want to help.”
“Wolfgang!” Megan snapped. “We have to go.”
The roar of battle continued from the direction of the square. Lyle’s voice crackled over the radio, but it was distorted, and Wolfgang couldn’t make out the words. He didn’t care. The mission was blown to hell. The best they could do was escape the vicinity with their lives, but he wasn’t about to do so at the cost of two starving children.
“Shell in or shut up!” Wolfgang snapped, shoving his flashlight into Megan’s hand as he twisted and wiggled down the alleyway.
The boy held the knife out and mumbled a threat, but there was no resolve in his voice or body language. He kept looking down to check on the girl, and Wolfgang saw the fear in his face.
Wolfgang pressed himself deeper into the gap, then rotated until his hips jammed against the creaking walls of the favela shacks on either side. He had just enough room to wiggle the final three feet to the boy, and he placed a gentle hand on the outstretched arm.
“I’m here to help you,” Wolfgang whispered. He pushed the boy’s arm down, carrying the knife with it, then he knelt next to the girl and brushed her hair back with a gentle shushing sound. “It’s okay . . . we’ll get you out. Be quiet now.” He held a finger to his lips, and the girl quieted a little but still shook.
Megan wiggled in behind him, and light flooded over his shoulder, exposing the girl’s predicament. His first assessment was correct—she had fallen, scraping her leg against the twisted edge of a sheet metal panel as she fell. A jagged gash gushed crimson from her knee all the way to her ankle, and her foot was twisted and pinned beneath the concrete foundation of the shack.
The twist was decidedly unnatural, and Wolfgang had little doubt that her ankle was broken. “Shhh,” he soothed, twisting his shoulders until he could pull his jacket off.
“Charlie . . . can . . . copy?” Lyle’s voice had broken over the radios in a garble, but Wolfgang caught the gist.
“We’ve got a situation, Charlie Eye. Where are the bogies?”
Lyle didn’t answer.
Wolfgang dug his fingers into the arm of the jacket and ripped it off the body of the garment, then quickly wound it around the child’s leg as tightly as he could manage. She shook and gritted her teeth, but to her credit, she didn’t scream.
Wolfgang looked up at the boy and saw the knife shaking in one hand. “Your sister?” Wolfgang asked. The boy said nothing, and Wolfgang motioned to Megan. “Take that knife before he falls on it.”
Megan spoke soft words to the boy and gently took his weapon as he cried. Wolfgang turned back to the girl and slid his arm beneath her skin-and-bones torso. He lifted, taking the pressure off her leg, but the movement jarred her ankle, and a shrill scream broke from her lips.
“Shh. Don’t scream,” Wolfgang said.
Megan leaned in, helping to support her body as Wolfgang laid his hands around her shattered ankle and tugged just a little.
The girl screamed again.
“Cover her mouth,” Wolfgang said. “I’m gonna pull.”
Megan slid one hand over the girl’s mouth, then Wolfgang twisted the foot and pulled in one motion. The girl writhed and shrieked in Megan’s arms, but the foot came free. The three of them fell back against the second shack, shoulders slamming into sheet metal with a loud clang. Megan’s hand fell away from the girl’s mouth, and she screamed again as loud and panicked as a dying animal.
“ . . . Charlie . . . bogies . . . inbound, inbound!”
Lyle’s warning cleared the radio only a split second before Wolfgang heard shouts from the far end of the alley. The voices spoke Portuguese, and he looked up and saw two men carrying assault rifles and pressing their way into the opening of the alley fifty feet away. They wore dirty clothes and sported red headbands wrapped around shaved heads.
The Red Command.
Before Wolfgang could move or even speak, both men raised their weapons and pointed them down the alley.
7
Gunshots filled the alley so close to Wolfgang’s ears that his head pounded with each blast. Both gunmen jerked and stumbled backward, then fell to the ground riddled with .45-caliber holes from Megan’s UMP.
“Let’s move!” Megan shouted.
She pulled Wolfgang to his feet as he cradled the girl, then the four of them twisted in the narrow space and hurried back the way they had come. Moments later, they broke out of the alley and into the street.
The girl lay next to Wolfgang’s chest, still shaking. The warm stickiness of her blood saturated his shirt, and he placed a hand on her leg and squeezed, trying to block the flow. He’d lost his UMP back in the alley, but right then, speed was more important than firepower. The roar of battle filled his ears as the eye of the storm rolled their way.
“Which way?” Wolfgang said. His earpiece continued to crackle, but he couldn’t hear Lyle. The signal was almost completely lost, leaving nothing but the rush of static.
Megan motioned to the left and started to run, but the boy shook his head and grabbed her by the hand, gesturing to the north and rattling off a string of panicked Portuguese.
“What’s he saying?” Wolfgang demanded.
“Hell if I know! I don’t understand you, kid.”
The boy repeated his monologue, gesturing frantically and pulling Megan toward the north.
“Trust him,” Wolfgang said. “He knows this place.”
They followed the boy deeper into the favela. There, the streets all but
vanished, leaving behind them a maze of twisting foot tracks that were barely wide enough to traverse. Some of them shot rapidly upward before diving again, so slick with mud that Wolfgang stumbled and crashed between the neighboring shacks.
All the houses were empty. No signs of life, whether animal or human, graced the decaying shantytown. It was so dark that Wolfgang frequently couldn’t see more than a couple feet ahead, but Megan led the way with his flashlight, and he trusted her to alert him of any impending dangers before he slipped and met the same fate as the trembling girl in his arms.
The girl didn’t make a sound, shaking from head to toe, but she kept her lips clamped shut as he hurtled forward. At first glance, she’d seemed so small he thought she couldn’t be older than eight, but now that he looked closer, he realized she could well be the boy’s twin. Malnourishment kept her small and frail.
The boy hurtled on, taking each turn with no apparent hesitation or calculation. Wolfgang figured he either knew this part of the favela well, or else he was just running as far as he could from the sound of the battle, in which case, he was no more help to them than their own judgment. Either way, the gunfire grew slightly more distant, even if the favela matched that peace with a haunted emptiness that Wolfgang found altogether unsettling.
Suddenly the boy stopped at the mouth of a narrow street, holding up his hand and looking both ways into the inky blackness. He motioned for Megan to extinguish the flashlight, then took a hesitant step onto the street.
A gunshot cracked from someplace to their left, and dirt exploded only inches from the boy’s foot. He danced back as a burst joined the first gunshot, and bullets slammed into the shack right next to Wolfgang’s face. The four of them retreated into the shadows, but the cat was out of the bag. Voices shouted from up the street, and feet pounded toward them. Wolfgang turned back the way they had come, but ground to a halt when he heard the sounds of more fighters storming toward them from that direction.
