by Logan Ryles
“She is there,” Luiz’s companion said. “There are men, also.”
“Do they have weapons?” Wolfgang asked.
The girl shrugged, and Luiz waved his hand dismissively, already turning back down the hill.
“Thank you,” Wolfgang said, catching him by the shoulder and smiling.
Luiz nodded once, and a moment later he and the girl faded back into their favela.
Wolfgang turned to Megan. “Are you okay?”
Megan brushed mud off her forehead and looked up at the house. “I’m fine. Just a little dazed. We should find a phone and make contact with Edric.”
Wolfgang shook his head. “We can’t wait for Edric. Half an hour from now, this place could be a warzone. Plus, for all we know . . .” He hesitated, unwilling to finish his sentence.
“I know,” Megan said. “I hope they’re okay.”
Wolfgang licked his lips, suddenly very aware that he had drunk nothing since leaving the car. He checked the jacket pocket for the water bottle, but it was gone. “It’s still dark,” Wolfgang said. “Let’s check it out. We’ll have the element of surprise.”
They started up the trail, keeping low enough that the shack on the hill was just barely visible over the top of the undergrowth. Megan led the way, picking up a tangerine-sized rock and cupping it in her right hand like a baseball. Wolfgang felt the grip of the flare gun in his pants and desperately wished that it were an actual pistol or even a knife. A flare gun in this situation was about as useless as Megan’s rock and even less comforting. He kept close enough to the ground that the passing brush shielded him from view of the house, and he chose his steps carefully to avoid dry sticks and ruts.
The path wound and switched back on itself a few times, but eventually they closed in enough that Wolfgang saw light spilling beneath the front door. That light appeared paler now than the light of the houses in the favela, and Wolfgang realized it was because the sky was no longer perfectly black. He looked back over his shoulder toward downtown Rio and saw a lighter shade of grey on the horizon. Sunrise would be soon, and with it, more fighting in the favela. They had to hurry.
At the end of the path, the brick, metal-roof shack stood only thirty feet away, and the front tires of two dirt bikes protruded from behind it.
“Two men,” he whispered. “Should we circle the house?”
“No,” she said. “Do you see that golf club leaning against the shack? They’ve been hitting balls off the mountainside.”
“Right. So?”
“Slip up there and get the club, then circle to the front and stand next to the door. I’ll draw them out. You . . . hit some balls.”
Megan smirked as she finished the sentence, and Wolfgang rolled his eyes.
“I’m better at jokes than you are,” he said.
“I’m better at kissing than you are.”
“Ouch.”
Megan patted him on the shoulder. “Go!”
Wolfgang dashed out of the cover of the undergrowth, hurrying across the yard in a few quick bounds. He found the golf club nestled in the grass next to golf balls and empty beer cans.
They’ve been here awhile.
He picked up the club and felt its weight. Wolfgang knew nothing about golf, but this was one of those clubs with a metal end—large and wedge-shaped with a little heft.
Good enough.
He grasped the club with both hands and circled to the front deck of the house, crouching to duck below the window before he slipped up to the knob-side of the door, where he would be invisible to anybody opening it from the inside. He pressed his back against the wall and held the club up, then looked back toward the mouth of the trail.
He couldn’t see Megan but gave her a thumbs-up. A couple seconds ticked by, and Megan’s rock came sailing through the air and smacked into the front door.
Something rustled inside the house, but nothing happened. Wolfgang watched the door and counted the seconds, then another rock smacked the side of the home only inches from his shoulder. He glared at the trailhead but was immediately distracted by the sudden extinguishing of the light inside the house. Next he heard the familiar sliding sound of a pistol being chambered, and the front door creaked opened.
11
The door swung open, but nobody came out, and it was then that Wolfgang fully appreciated the training of whoever was in the house. Cutting off the lights ensured that whoever was outside couldn’t see anything when the door opened, while opening the door itself was probably a tactic to draw attention or fire away from . . . the back door.
Wolfgang crouched, lowering the club and pressing himself next to the wall. He held his breath as feet scraped against the mud to the left of the shack.
The first man appeared as a shadow, dressed in black clothing with a handgun brandished against the darkness. He worked his way toward the trailhead, stopping every few paces to sweep the muzzle of the gun in both directions, then he continued a few feet farther. He reached the edge of the clearing, where the brush rose out of the mountainside like a bad haircut, and he lowered the gun a little.
“Anything?” another man spoke from the house.
The first man straightened a little and kicked at the grass. He swept his gaze around the perimeter of the property, then spat. “Nah. Must’ve been an animal.” He turned back toward the house, and that was when Megan’s third rock clocked him in the back of the head like a baseball.
The man dropped to his knees, and the pistol slipped out of his hand as he reached for his head. Before he could touch it, a fourth rock struck him almost exactly where the third one had, and he collapsed without a sound.
The second man muttered a curse and barreled out of the house, holding a rifle into his shoulder. Wolfgang sprang into action, leaping off the deck and swinging from the outside with the golf club as if it were a baseball bat. He clobbered the man in the back of his head, the iron landing with a sickening thunk that reminded Wolfgang of watermelons dropping on concrete. The man went down without a sound, but then Wolfgang heard footsteps on the deck behind him.
He didn’t bother to turn, knowing he’d never have time to raise the club before he was gunned him down. Instead, he dropped straight to the ground, ducking and rolling onto his back as bullets passed overhead.
A third man appeared from the house, his handgun spitting fire like a miniature dragon. As Wolfgang hit the dirt, the man ground to a halt, then lowered his aim.
Wolfgang was quicker, swinging the club with all the force he could muster while lying on his back. The club struck the man in the left knee with a sound like cracking ice. The man screamed but stumbled backward instead of falling. He raised the gun again, and Wolfgang rolled to the side as the next shot blasted toward him. Megan rocketed out of the shadows, body-slamming the man with the full force of her petite frame.
Wolfgang scrambled to his feet, abandoning the golf club and slinging himself into the tangled mass of arms and legs that writhed in front of the house. Megan screamed, and Wolfgang saw red as he landed between them, striking out with both arms.
The pistol was lost somewhere in the melee. Wolfgang delivered two punches to the man’s nose and heard the satisfying sound of bone and cartilage crunching on the second blow. He rolled on top of his opponent and locked both knees around the man’s ribcage, then rained blows down on his skull, driving him into the mud as blood covered his knuckles. The man was beat after the fourth or fifth blow, lying limp in the mud.
Megan grabbed Wolfgang by the upper arm and hauled him backward. “That’s enough, Wolf. Let’s find the girl!”
Climbing to his feet, Wolfgang scooped up the pistol and then stared at the unconscious bodies splayed over the mud. After hesitating to make sure none of the men would rise, he followed Megan into the house.
The shack consisted of three small rooms. The first was a combination of a kitchen and a living room, with a dilapidated couch on one side and a battered card table on the other. Empty fast-food packages, beer boxes, and dir
ty cooking paraphernalia lay everywhere, along with a couple laptop computers and a TV. Beyond the main living area were doors that led to what Wolfgang assumed must be bedrooms. A door on the left was open, and a quick sweep by Megan confirmed that the room contained nothing except a couple cots and an assortment of dirty clothes. A second door was shut and padlocked from the outside, and though there was no light coming from the room, the dust on the floor outside was scuffed with obvious traces of in-and-out traffic.
Before Wolfgang could comment, Megan raced outside, returning a moment later with a padlock key.
She motioned to the pistol Wolfgang still held. “There could be another man inside.”
Wolfgang raised the weapon, wrapping his finger around the trigger. His heart pounded from the fight and the impending uncertainty of what lay inside the room. Megan slid next to the door and inserted the key into the lock, which opened without resistance. She lifted it out and then placed one hand on the doorknob.
Wolfgang nodded, and Megan threw open the door, flipping the switch next to it. Light flooded the room as Wolfgang barreled inside, leading with the gun. Megan followed just behind, brandishing the first man’s pistol and ducking low.
Nothing could have prepared Wolfgang for what he saw. The room was small, and smelled stale. A teenage girl huddled in the corner, wearing nothing but underwear while she curled into a ball with her hands shielding her head. Her exposed skin was lacerated and bruised, and a heavy, rusted chain encircled her stomach, binding her to a ring in the wall. She sat in a puddle of what Wolfgang could only conclude to be her own urine.
“My god!” Megan dropped the pistol and rushed over, heedless of the mess.
The girl recoiled, exposing more injuries on her stomach and thighs, and though tangled hair obscured her face, Wolfgang thought the bruises extended to her cheeks, also.
Inhuman rage seeped into his blood as he lowered the pistol, but he didn’t rush forward. The girl was terrified enough and didn’t need too many people crowding around her.
“Rose?” Megan said.
The girl recoiled into the corner.
“My name is Megan.” She kept her voice soft and put a gentle hand on Rose’s arm. The girl flinched, and Megan kept talking. “Your father sent us. We’re here to take you home.”
With strained and bloodshot brown eyes, the girl looked from Megan to Wolfgang.
Wolfgang shoved the gun into his pocket and walked out of the room. It took only a moment of digging through the laundry pile to find her clothes. They were soiled, but she had to wear something. When he returned with the clothes, Megan had already unlocked the chain and unwound it from her stomach. The restraint left rusty bruises patterned after the links, and Wolfgang’s stomach turned.
“Give us a minute, Wolf,” Megan whispered.
Wolfgang stepped out of the room, running a hand over his mouth. He wanted to hit something. Break something. Or somebody.
Who does that to a girl? What kind of sick bastards . . .
Wolfgang forced the thoughts into a mental vault and closed it. He didn’t have time to be righteously angry. He still had to get Rose and Megan out of this mess alive. They’d need transportation—a way out of the favela.
The bikes.
The motorcycles were parked in the back. Wolfgang searched the shack for the keys, and after five minutes of finding nothing, he remembered Megan had found the padlock keys outside—probably in a kidnapper’s pocket.
He hurried outside and slid to his knees next to the man he’d knocked out with the golf club. The man lay still, but his chest rose and fell slightly with each breath. Wolfgang dug through his pockets and located a pair of keys, one of which was labeled with a Yamaha logo. He crawled the five feet to the next man and found the second key almost immediately. As he pocketed it, the man twitched and coughed.
Wolfgang withdrew the pistol and placed his finger on the trigger. Kneeling next to the man, he watched as his eyes flickered open and saliva bubbled from his mouth. The rage inside Wolfgang’s vault boiled, and he pressed the gun against the man’s head. “You got something to say?”
The man blinked, then twisted his head until he saw Wolfgang. He licked his lips and coughed a couple times, then a strange grin spread across his face. “You’ve got . . . no idea who you’re screwing with.”
Wolfgang bent down, driving the gun into the man’s temple until he grunted. “Likewise.”
The man tried to pull away but couldn’t under Wolfgang’s pressure. His breaths came in ragged snatches, saliva running down one cheek.
Wolfgang kept the pistol in place, his finger on the trigger. He wanted to pull it and blow the sick sack of human shit into Hell. It wasn’t difficult to imagine the recoil of the gun and the instant explosion of the man’s head. Wolfgang pictured his face vanishing as successive shots tore through his skull, and the image brought a strange hunger to his soul—something he’d never felt before: a lust for blood.
Wolfgang blinked, chilled by his own feelings, and relaxed on the pistol.
The smug grin returned to the man’s face. “Don’t have the balls?”
Wolfgang gritted his teeth. “Don’t have the time of day.” He lifted the gun and smashed the butt squarely into the man’s forehead until his body went limp again.
What a waste of humanity.
The distant pop and rattle of machine guns arrested Wolfgang’s attention, and he looked toward the heart of the favela. From so far away, the guns sounded as innocuous as slamming doors, but he knew better. A moment later, he recognized the grind of a Brazilian armored vehicle crushing its way up the street, taking and returning fire.
The attack has resumed.
Wolfgang grabbed the motorcycle keys and dashed back into the house, where he found Megan helping Rose put her shoes on. “Time to go!” he said. “They’re coming this way.”
12
Wolfgang led Megan and Rose through the door as the first rays of a Brazilian sunrise crested the horizon. “I’ve got the keys,” he said. “The bikes are in the back.”
Megan looked toward the fallen men. “What about them?”
“Leave them for the dogs. Let’s go.”
He hurried around the corner of the house to the two dirt bikes. Both were old and muddy but appeared serviceable. He selected the larger of the two and swung his leg over it, then kicked the starter. The motor rumbled to life as the gunshots coming from down the hillside grew steadily louder. He could hear truck engines, also. Then a man screamed.
“Megan, put Rose with me!” Wolfgang said, motioning to the seat behind him.
Rose blanched at the sound of the gunshots, but she didn’t object as Megan helped her onto the rear of the bike. There were no helmets lying about, which didn’t surprise Wolfgang. The favelas didn’t seem like a safety-conscious sort of place.
Rose wiggled in close behind him, then he felt her tentative hands wrap around his sides.
He looked back and gave her a reassuring smile. “It’s okay, Rose. We’re gonna get you out of here.”
Megan slid onto the second bike and caught the keys Wolfgang tossed her, then her motor roared to life.
“We stick together,” Wolfgang called over the buzz of the engines. “We find our way out of the favela and locate the Brazilian police.”
Megan kicked the bike into gear and gunned the motor. The wind tossed her red hair as she circled the house. Wolfgang twisted the throttle and raced to follow, slinging mud and rocks in a spray behind him.
As soon as they reached the front of the house, they were blinded by the rising sun. Wolfgang squinted and ducked his head, narrowly avoiding collision with Megan as she struggled to find the trailhead. He took the lead and crashed through the undergrowth, finding the trail a moment later and rocketing downward like a kid on a snow sled.
In the distance, smoke rose from the favela, and somehow Wolfgang didn’t think it was from the fires Luiz and his friends had set. The Brazilian military had returned to Vila Cruzeiro, and
this time they were there to finish the job.
Wolfgang reached the bottom of the trail and slowed to negotiate a turn onto the footpath Luiz had led them up. Rose clung to him from behind like a tick on a dog, tucking her head into his side so close that it was difficult to move his left arm without elbowing her in the face. The bulk of Rio lay to his left, but between him and it was a cloud of smoke and the roar of urban combat. They’d have to circle the outskirts of the favela at the base of the mountain, and with luck, avoid crossing paths with Red Command reinforcements.
Wolfgang shifted down a gear and powered around a house, narrowly missing a stray goat as Megan closed in behind him. The next turn led him around a cluster of shacks built together, and then he burst onto a slightly wider track that ran across the side of the mountain with favela shacks on either side. The bike’s motor was strong, pumping out enough power for him to surge forward at every available straightaway.
After half a mile, Wolfgang judged they were far enough to the west of the main conflict to risk turning south toward downtown Rio. He jerked his head to the left, not risking looking back to make sure Megan understood him. He still heard her bike, so he knew she was close, but without the aid of rearview mirrors, he couldn’t be sure she was keeping up with his developing plan.
Wolfgang turned left at the next track and almost immediately collided with the Red Command. Half a dozen of the highly armed thugs clustered in the street, running south and firing into the air every few yards. Somehow, they hadn’t heard the dirt bikes screaming toward them, or more likely, they assumed the bikes carried more of their own comrades. Wolfgang didn’t have time to stop, and there wasn’t any place to hide, anyway. He crashed into the back of the small crowd at over twenty miles an hour, knocking two of them to the ground and running over a third man’s foot.
