by Logan Ryles
“Say what?”
“The kids in the alley. You told me to leave them. I should’ve listened.”
Megan stared at him, her grey eyes as still and calm as a mountain lake. For a moment he lost himself in her gaze, and even the pounding in his skull faded to the background. It wasn’t peaceful, staring at her. Nothing could be with their very lives on the line. But it was close.
Megan leaned her head against the wall. “Never apologize for being good, Wolfgang.”
Wolfgang wasn’t sure what to say. They lapsed into silence, and he listened to Megan’s soft breathing. It was a faint sound, like the breath of a sleeping child, and he thought he’d never heard something so comforting. He imagined again her being tortured by the Red Command and relived the fear that had overcome his mind. It dominated him as quickly and instantly as a shot of heroin—or at least what he imagined a shot of heroin would feel like. It was an overwhelming surge of focused emotions all orbiting around a single image. A single person.
He never remembered feeling that way about anybody else—not his mother, not his childhood friend, Marcus, not even his little sister, Collins. As desperately as he loved Collins and as ferociously as he would protect her, he never felt a maddened rush of hulk-like drive to defend and protect as he had felt while watching Megan held down, beaten, and violated.
Wolfgang blinked, driving away the images, then watched Megan staring at the wall in stony silence. The bruises on her neck and the dirt in her hair didn’t tarnish her natural beauty. He bet she’d look like a million dollars covered in mud.
“Remember Paris?” He whispered.
Megan didn’t move. “What about it?”
“When we danced.”
She cocked her head, just a little. Just enough to meet his gaze. “I remember.”
“And then in the car, driving back to the plane . . . you told me you’d never date a team member.”
“Yes.”
“Well . . .” Wolfgang licked his lips. “If we survive this, I just want you to know, I’m asking you out anyway.”
She didn’t blink. Didn’t look away. Didn’t move at all. She just stared right at him with unreadable grey eyes just as still as before, but now as deep as the ocean.
Wolfgang’s stomach twisted, and he immediately questioned everything he’d just said. Was that anger he saw? Frustration that somebody she counted as a friend had disregarded her desires and taken advantage of a moment of weakness to . . .
Megan leaned in and pressed her face close to his, kissing him hard and slow and twisting her head to lean in closer. Wolfgang sat stunned for a half-moment, and then he kissed her back. Her tongue touched his, and her gentle lips pressed against his mouth. He breathed in the scent of her body, as dirty and sweaty as it was, and everything about their desperate situation just faded. It didn’t matter anymore.
Megan leaned back, breaking the kiss hours before Wolfgang wanted it to end. She settled against the wall, and with a small smile, rested her head against the bricks and looked up at the ceiling. “Glad we cleared that up.”
9
The hours that passed following their kiss were the most surreal of Wolfgang’s life. He knew in the back of his mind that he should feel panicked about their predicament and probably busy himself with orchestrating some manner of elaborate escape.
But with their hands effectively bound to the wall and nothing at all of use in the small room, there was nothing to be done, and Wolfgang’s mind kept reliving the moment that Megan kissed him.
He said nothing afterward, just sitting in stunned silence as Megan did the same, feeling the space between them and wishing like hell she’d kiss him again. He didn’t want to crowd her or push his luck, but the thought of her gentle touch and soft words consumed his mind.
She kissed me.
He stole a glance at her and imagined what it might feel like to hold her. To pick her up and spin her around and—
“What?” Megan asked, flashing him a semi-annoyed-but-not-really grin.
Wolfgang looked away. “Nothing.”
“I didn’t say I’d go out with you.”
He grinned. “You didn’t say you wouldn’t, either.”
“You’re incorrigible, you know that?”
“I am if you’re into it.”
She rolled her eyes. “How about we figure a way out of this mess, then we’ll talk about it?”
“I was starting to have a good idea when you kissed me . . . but I couldn’t quite work it out.”
“Nice try. I’ve got nothing for you until I’m out of this shit hole and have a long shower.”
Wolfgang pulled at his bonds. He’d already attempted to break the wire ties with brute force, but they were made of thick plastic, probably intended for industrial use, and he couldn’t get effective leverage over them. “How long until sunrise, you think?” he asked.
“Couple hours. I figure we were captured sometime before midnight, but we’ve been here awhile.”
“We have some time, then. They’ll probably come for us in the morning—”
Gunshots erupted outside the shack, and Wolfgang sat bolt upright. The string of automatic gunfire split the air and was quickly joined by another four or five guns and loud, angry voices.
“Think again,” Megan said. “We’ve got to move.”
Wolfgang jerked at his bonds until they bit into his skin, and he leaned backward and forward rapidly, scooting his butt away from the wall for more leverage. With every jerk, he felt more layers of skin being scraped away from his wrists, and the wire ties refused to give.
More gunshots blasted the sky, and then a commotion of shouts filled the air. Wolfgang thought he heard Brazilian John Cena’s voice amongst them, yelling commands at his army of thugs. Something had seriously upset the Red Command, and he didn’t want to be around for the fallout.
“Any luck?” he asked.
Megan grunted, twisting onto her side and struggling to place her feet against the wall. Her shoulder popped, and she let out a little scream, then lay still. “That didn’t sound good,” she panted. “God, it hurts.”
“Don’t move,” Wolfgang said. “I’ll do something.”
Smack. Smack.
They both froze. The sound was hard and immediate and came from directly beneath them. It reminded Wolfgang of a hammer striking against wood, and he held his breath as the sound repeated itself.
Something rattled the wooden floorboards. Wolfgang saw a particular plank jump as a third set of blows smacked it from the bottom. Nails popped out on one end of the plank, then a moment later, the smacking resumed at the far end of it.
Wolfgang wriggled around, drawing back his legs in preparation to kick whoever or whatever appeared from beneath the house. The plank jumped again, then slid aside, exposing an eight-inch gap in the floor with the blackness of the crawl space exposed beneath.
Wolfgang tensed, ready to kick, and then a brown hand poked through the hole. It was small and childlike, and a moment later a head wiggled through. Wolfgang recognized the face. It was the boy they had saved in the alley, and when he met Wolfgang’s gaze, he flashed a wide smile.
Wolfgang lowered his feet and started to speak, but the boy held a finger to his lips, shook his head, and pointed to the door. Wolfgang followed his gaze and saw light spilling beneath the crack. It flickered every couple seconds, as if somebody were walking in front of it.
Or toward it.
The boy lowered his head into the hole and whispered to somebody in Portuguese. They grunted beneath the shack, then the boy slithered out of the hole with a pair of cutting pliers in one hand. He stepped quickly behind Megan and snipped away the wire ties, then moved to Wolfgang and repeated the procedure.
Wolfgang’s hands broke free, and he exhaled an exhausted sigh as his taut, cramping muscles loosened. He pulled his hands in front of him and tossed aside the cut ties, massaging both wrists with dirty fingers. The boy returned to the hole and dropped the pliers in, then motioned t
o an invisible friend beneath the house. The smacking sound resumed, and the plank next to the hole twitched.
Wolfgang looked back at the light beneath the door and saw it flicker again. Voices boomed from outside the shack. The gunshots had ceased, and panic rose in his chest. The second plank bounced free on one end as the nails gave way, then the boy knelt and lifted it with both hands, leveraging the other end free of the beam it was fastened to.
A sixteen-inch gap opened in the floor, wide enough for a full-size adult to slide through with a little manipulation. The boy beckoned, dropping through the hole and disappearing up to his chest.
Megan and Wolfgang hurried to follow as the voices outside the shack grew louder. Wolfgang was now sure that Brazilian John Cena was one of the gunmen approaching the shack, and he was also sure he didn’t want to be there when the crew of thugs arrived.
The air flowing out from beneath the house stank of garbage and mud, but Wolfgang dropped his legs in and stood. The floor came up to his waist, grinding against his hips as he dropped to his knees. Megan had already vanished into the blackness of the crawlspace, and the boy motioned for Wolfgang to follow as a chain rattled against the outside of the shack’s front door.
Wolfgang dropped to his hands and knees, squishing in the muck beneath the house. The boy reached back into the house and quickly slid the boards into place, covering the hole only a split second before the door swung open on rusty hinges.
Wolfgang held his breath as the boy knelt beside him with his finger to his lips, while Megan and a second boy—as skinny and ragtag as the first—hid in the shadows a couple feet away.
The floor creaked. Wolfgang remembered the bent nails scattered across it and prayed they wouldn’t be noticed. A Brazilian voice boomed overhead, filled with anger and confusion. More grumbling voices joined the first, and then boots pounded on the floorboards like a stampede of angry buffalo.
Wolfgang glanced down at the boy and was surprised to see his skinny face spread into a vengeful grin.
This isn’t his first encounter with the Red Command.
Wolfgang twisted onto his stomach to crawl, but the kid shook his head and grabbed him by the hand, motioning to the darkness behind them. Several milk jugs formed a pyramid beneath the center of the shack, leaned up against each other and gleaming a piss-yellow in the cracks of light that slipped between the floorboards.
The boy winked, then motioned to the back of the house. He led the way toward the rear of the crawlspace, crawling quickly on his hands and knees. Megan closed in behind him, and Wolfgang followed, beckoning to the second boy. The kid shook his head and waved Wolfgang on, and Wolfgang decided not to argue with him. He was more than ready to escape this place.
They crawled through a gap in the back wall of the house, which doubled as the side wall of the next house, then dropped into the next smelly crawlspace. The floor of this shack was lower to the ground, with barely enough room for Wolfgang to crawl without slamming his head into the base of the floor joists only inches above. Everything was muddy, and as he slogged along, he caught sight of more piss-colored milk jugs arranged in a pile beneath the center of the shack. This time their visual was joined with a distinct stench he would have recognized anywhere.
Gasoline.
Something shifted to his left, and he turned to see a third boy emerge from the shadows, dressed like the first two in ragtag shorts and a castoff T-shirt. Then a girl, a couple years older than the rest, with raven hair and bright orange plastic clogs, whispered something in Portuguese to the lead boy, who beckoned the growing group through the next wall.
They crawled that way for what may have been ten minutes or half an hour. The time was distorted by the muck and the growing crowd of children. There were ten of them now, tweens or young teens, all crawling on their hands and knees and smelling like gasoline.
What the heck is going on here?
Wolfgang struggled beneath a particularly low home, barely squeezing beneath the floor joists before finally seeing the light of a streetlamp leaking through a hole in the brick wall directly ahead. He was sure they hadn’t progressed in a direct line away from the start of their journey, but had instead switched back and zigzagged, probably to take a path that kept them sheltered beneath a house at all times. The voices of the Red Command had grown distant, but if Wolfgang lay still and listened closely, he could still hear shouts.
Finally, he pulled himself out from beneath the house and onto a dusty favela street. He was now covered in mud and God only knew what other gunk, but the fresh air tasted so wonderful he didn’t care. Megan crawled out behind him, also covered in mud. Wolfgang remembered his earlier speculation that she would look gorgeous even in this state, and was gratified to find he was right.
He scanned their surroundings for signs of the Red Command, then looked for the boy. He found the kid squatting next to the house, looking back in the direction they’d come. Before Wolfgang could speak, the boy held up a hand, then poked his head back into the hole they had emerged from and shouted. Three seconds later, a ground-shaking boom erupted from deeper in the favela, back in the direction of the Red Command. The first boom was joined by a second, then a third, and plumes of fire illuminated the favela as panicked screams filled the air.
The boy stared at the rising flames with a self-satisfied grin on his face, and Wolfgang put a hand on his shoulder. “Nice work, kid.”
10
Only minutes after the explosions rocked the favela, three of the kids Wolfgang had seen earlier emerged from the hole, all covered in mud and the smell of gasoline. They ran around the circle of Brazilian teens and tweens, trading high-fives and whooping at the sky. Wolfgang stood in stunned silence, watching them celebrate as smoke rose from the heart of the favela. Most of them were barefoot, but it didn’t stop them from jumping and throwing fists into the air.
Wolfgang found their rescuer and offered his hand. “Thank you. I’m indebted.”
The boy said something in Portuguese, and the girl in the orange clogs appeared.
She let the boy finish, then turned to Wolfgang and spoke in halting English. “Luiz thanks you for saving his sister. She is with the doctor and will be okay.”
“Thank him for saving us,” Wolfgang said. “And thank you, also.”
She mumbled to Luiz, who made a waving motion back toward downtown Rio.
“Luiz says you should not be here. It is not safe in the favelas. We are at war.”
“We’re not tourists. We’re looking for someone. Maybe you can help . . .” Wolfgang dug into his pocket and then handed him the photograph of Rose. “Have you seen her?”
Luiz examined the photo, then muttered something dark. He shoved the picture back at Wolfgang and turned away.
Wolfgang put a hand on his shoulder. “Wait! Have you seen her?”
Luiz stared at Wolfgang with a searching intensity, then he said something to the girl.
“Luiz wants to know why you ask,” she said.
Wolfgang hesitated, evaluating what angle Luiz might be playing. The boy clearly knew something, but he didn’t want to share it.
“We’re here to save her,” Wolfgang said, deciding to put all his cards on the table. “She was kidnapped.”
The girl seemed to struggle with the meaning behind the words. She asked for clarification, then haltingly translated for Luiz.
Luiz took a step forward until he stood only inches away, then tilted his head back and folded his arms. There wasn’t an ounce of fear in his face—only iron.
Finally, Luiz spoke to the girl.
“We have seen her,” the girl said. “She is in the next favela, kept by white men.”
Kept by white men.
Suddenly, Wolfgang understood Luiz’s hesitation. He probably thought Rose was being kept by child traffickers, and he was unconvinced Wolfgang and Megan weren’t in league with them. Apparently, the staring contest had assuaged his fears.
“Will you take us?” Wolfgang asked. “Please.
We want to help her.”
Luiz shouted an order to his compatriots as a commotion came from the Red Command section of the favela. Wolfgang guessed it would only be a matter of time before retaliation was underway. The kids dispersed into the buildings like smoke, vanishing almost as quickly as they had appeared, and leaving only Luiz and the girl behind. Luiz walked to a nearby shack and opened the door, calling something over his shoulder.
“He says he brought your jacket and your gun,” the girl said.
Wolfgang’s heart leapt at the thought of his abandoned submachine gun. Right now, pretty much nothing short of a battalion of Marines sounded more helpful.
Luiz emerged from the shack carrying the torn jacket. Wolfgang didn’t see the UMP, and Luiz held out his hand, presenting him the flare gun.
Wolfgang’s heart sank, his shoulders dropping with it. Defeat pass across Luiz’s face, and Wolfgang accepted the flare gun with a small smile. “Thank you, Luiz. I appreciate it.” He cast Megan a sideways look.
“Don’t worry about it,” she said. “Let’s get Rose and get out of here.”
He jammed the flare gun into his pants and turned back to the boy. “Okay, buddy. Show us where she is.”
Luiz took off like a jackrabbit, the girl in the orange clogs not far behind, and Wolfgang and Megan broke into a run to keep up. He led them along narrow paths that wound in and out of shacks, moving westward in a gently curving arc. As the houses flashed by, Wolfgang thought he saw more signs of inhabitants than he had before. An occasional dog or potted plant or clothesline was visible amid the shanties, as well as more hints of light behind the windows. Whatever part of the favela they were navigating through, he guessed they were moving out of the district controlled by the Red Command.
He gasped for air as they ran, his body aching and dry mud crumbling off his clothes. Despite her shorter legs, Megan ran stronger than he did, keeping up with the children and beckoning him to hurry.
It was impossible to tell how far they had traveled in a place that had neither blocks nor mile markers, but eventually, Luiz held up his hand, and they slid to a stop at the end of a street. Luiz pointed up the side of the hill through dense jungle overgrowth toward a small shack with a rusting metal roof clinging to the side of the mountain fifty yards away. An animal track ran from the edge of the favela to this lone building, and as Wolfgang studied the mud, he noticed the imprint of narrow, singular tire marks on the trail, probably left by an off-road motorcycle.
