by Mark Dawson
“Turn around,” Alessandro said. “You want to be over there.”
The road had three lanes on either side of a central island. Alessandro pointed to the other side of the island, to a spot just outside an apartment block. Paulo drove east for another fifty metres until he reached a spot where he could turn left onto the road heading back to the west. He waited for the lights to turn red, stopping the onward traffic, and edged the car around.
“See the apartments?”
“Yes,” he said.
“Park on the other side of them.”
Paulo fed in a little gas, drove past the block, and then indicated that he was going to pull over at the side of the road.
“Leave the engine running,” Alessandro said.
“What’s going on?”
Alessandro ignored him.
“What is this?” he pressed. “We’re picking someone up?”
“Be quiet,” Junior snapped. “You do as you’re told when you’re told to do it. And keep your mouth shut or I’m gonna lose my temper.”
Paulo looked at Alessandro; the other man held Paulo’s eye coolly.
Paulo started to feel more concerned about what it was that he had signed up for. What was this? A robbery? Was he the getaway driver? He wondered whether he could go back and tell Garanhão that he didn’t want his money, thanks but no thanks, he’d find another way to fund the treatment. But then he remembered how much he needed, how much he owed Palito, and the fact that he had nothing and no way to make anywhere near enough to meet all his obligations. Paulo felt sick. He couldn’t leave. He was trapped. He had to see this through.
Junior’s phone buzzed. He put it to his ear and listened to whatever it was the other person was saying. He delivered a curt, “Yes,” and put the phone away.
Paulo waited for instruction, but it didn’t come. He looked out of the window as a pair of good-looking girls in bikinis jogged across the road and hopped down to the beach. He tried to ignore the churning in his gut.
He wanted to be anywhere other than here.
He glanced up in the mirror as a truck pulled out of the traffic and slid up against the kerb outside the hotel. He recognised the livery: it was one of the dry-cleaning trucks that served the businesses down here.
Paulo was still looking in the rear-view mirror when Junior leaned forward so that he could speak directly into his ear. “You remember what I said?” he hissed. “No questions. You do exactly what we say when we say it. You don’t do that, or you ask questions, then I’m going to put a bullet in your brain and drive this fucking car myself. You understand?”
Paulo swallowed.
“Say it.”
“I understand,” he said.
“Good boy. You want to know why we’re here? We’re here to pick up two passengers. They’re not going to want to get into the car, but we’re going to make them. And then, once they’re inside, you’re going to drive us away, all the way back to the top of the Hill. You got it?”
“I got it.”
Junior leaned back in his seat once more.
“Good,” he said.
32
They turned onto the road that ran along Ipanema beach and headed back to the apartment. Milton kept his eyes open all the way, scanning ahead and to the sides and then behind them to ensure that they weren’t being followed. It was difficult to make an assessment; there was so much traffic that it was tricky to spot patterns, but, as far as he could see, Milton was satisfied that they were not being tailed.
They reached the apartment block.
“Here we go,” Drake said as he flicked the indicator. “We’ll leave the car down here while we get your luggage. Do you think you’ll need long?”
“No,” Valentina said. “We’re already packed. We’ll need ten minutes, that’s all.”
There was a van parked at the side of the road opposite the entrance to the block. It was marked with RIO FRESH and a logo of a pile of neatly folded sheets, and a man was lowering the loading ramp. The rear doors of the van were open, but, as Milton glimpsed the inside, he saw something that concerned him.
“Go around again,” he said quietly.
“What is it?”
“See the man on the truck? He’s not in company uniform.”
“So—”
“And the truck’s empty. Nothing inside. Keep going.”
Drake turned the wheel and edged carefully back into the traffic again. Milton watched carefully as they went by the truck. The man on the back of the truck was watching them. Why would he be paying them attention?
Milton took the radio and opened the channel.
“It’s Smith,” he said.
Berg responded. “What is it?”
“Check out the van,” Milton said.
“He’s picking up laundry from the—”
Milton spoke over her. “Check it out,” he said. “We’re going around again.”
“Copy that.”
Milton glanced behind as the second Range Rover swung into the parking space that they had just avoided. First Berg and then Hawkins opened their doors and stepped down from the car.
Valentina leaned forward. “Excuse me?” she said. “What’s happening?”
“We’re just being careful,” Drake said. “There’s a van outside the apartment that wasn’t there when we left.”
“I saw it—it’s the laundry van. There’s a hotel next to us.”
“It’s probably nothing,” Milton said. “But I’d like to be sure before we get out of the car.”
Milton looked at the satnav unit in the car’s dash. There was a right-hand turn just ahead that would allow them to get off the main road. The streets were arranged in a grid, and if they took it, they would be able to follow Prudente de Morais until they reached the rear of the apartment block.
“Is there a way into the building at the back?” Milton asked.
“I don’t know,” Drake admitted. “Senhora Saverin?”
“There’s a goods entrance,” she said.
“Thank you,” Milton said, and then, to Drake, “Take the next right.”
Milton reached down to where he would have holstered his weapon before remembering that he was unarmed.
“In the glovebox,” Drake said quietly.
Milton reached forward and opened it. He saw a Glock 17 in a polymer clip-on holster. He took the gun, removed it from the holster, and automatically checked the chamber and the magazine. There were sixteen rounds in the mag and another in the spout: seventeen shots in total. He pressed the magazine home again.
He watched, looking through the front and side windows and into the rear-view mirror, switching his attention through a circle that encompassed the car and its surroundings. There was a median between the eastbound and westbound Vieira Souto; it accommodated trees for most of its length, but the stretch adjacent to the car was crowded with mopeds and motorbikes that had been left there by owners who had then made their way down to the beach. The road had three lanes, and each was full of traffic waiting for the lights to change. There was a black Chevrolet to their immediate left; Milton looked through the window and discounted it as a threat: the female driver was applying lipstick as she looked in the vanity mirror. They were at the front of the queue, but the lights were holding them as pedestrians in swimsuits and flip-flops crossed to get to the sand.
The lights changed.
“Here we go,” Drake said.
Milton looked up into the mirror as the car edged forward and started to turn. The laundry van was blocking his view of the Range Rover, but he could see Berg standing between it and the line of stationary traffic. It looked as if she was in conversation, gesticulating animatedly as she spoke.
And then Milton saw a flash, a puff of red mist, and Berg toppled straight back to sprawl across the hood of the car that was next to her.
“Drive!”
Milton’s shout had barely left his lips when he saw a large vehicle rushing out of the street that they were turn
ing into. It happened too fast for him to be able to make out the details, save that it was a silver Chevrolet Suburban with tinted windows. The SUV raced across the pedestrian crossing and slammed into their Range Rover. The Suburban was moving quickly; the Range Rover’s progress was abruptly arrested, and the rear end leapt up and then slid around to the left. All of the airbags detonated loudly; Milton bounced back against the seat and then whiplashed forward, his face and torso absorbed by the bag.
Their car continued to slide around, eventually stopping as the offside rear wheel caught against the kerb on the other side of the road that they had been trying to take.
Milton heard screams from behind him: Valentina Saverin’s shriek and the distinctive, higher pitch of a panicking child.
The airbag was already deflating, and, as it shrank away, Milton looked through the cracked windshield. Two men were getting out of the Suburban. They were both dark-skinned, wearing jeans and T-shirts and dark glasses. The man getting out of the passenger side was holding a pistol in his right hand, and Milton glimpsed the driver reaching down to his belt, most likely going for a weapon of his own.
Milton raised the Glock, pointed it at the windshield, took aim at the passenger, and pulled the trigger. The bullet punched a hole through the safety glass. Milton’s aim was true, and the passenger dropped to the road.
The driver had brought up his own pistol and, before Milton could switch his aim, the man pulled the trigger.
The bullet raced across the short distance between them and punched its own hole through the windshield. Milton flinched as it deflected downwards, whistling by his torso and thudding into the floor.
Drake’s Browning roared, deafeningly close, his round drilling the man in the middle of the chest. He stumbled back against the wing of the Suburban and slowly slid down to the road.
“Drive,” Milton urged again.
Drake put the car into reverse and stomped on the accelerator; the engine whined, but they barely inched back. Milton guessed that the cars had been jammed together by the crash. Drake cursed.
Milton turned to look out of his window. The line of traffic had stopped, and angry horns sounded from those drivers waiting down the road who hadn’t seen the crash. Milton could see two men running toward them from the west. One of them was on the sidewalk, and the other was in the road. They were both armed. Milton assumed that they had taken out Berg and Hawkins.
“Come on,” Milton said to Drake.
“We’re stuck.”
Milton caught a quick flash of Valentina and Alícia in the back. They looked terrified. Milton opened his door and stepped out.
“Get them away from here,” he called back to Drake as he stood and turned. “I’ll cover you.”
33
Milton quickly assessed the tactical situation. The two men who had come at them from the SUV had been shot, and, for now, were out of the picture. There were another two who he assumed had taken out Berg and Hawkins. They were approaching from the west and must have seen what had happened to the men in the Suburban. They had slowed their approach. Milton looked east. He couldn’t see anything that gave him cause for concern.
The Range Rover had swung around enough so that Milton was able to duck down beneath the open door. It was average cover, at best, but it was better than being exposed in the open.
He felt the weight of the Glock in his hand. One shot fired, sixteen shots left.
“Go west,” Milton called back. “I’ll cover you.”
“Affirmative. On your mark.”
Milton took a breath, calming himself for action.
“Three. Two. One. Go!”
Milton waited and, as Drake threw his door open, he popped up and raised his Glock. He aimed at the only one of the two men that he could see. The man was twenty feet away, a tough shot to make, but he didn’t need to hit the target to buy Drake the time that he needed.
He squeezed the trigger—once, twice, a third time—and the man scurried back until he was out of sight.
Milton heard the boom of a big handgun and flinched as a round rushed by his cheek. It missed, crashing into the back of a car that was trying to bully its way through the jam and out of danger.
Milton saw the shooter crouched behind the row of parked motorbikes and returned fire, his three rounds cracking into the raised windshield of a Vespa.
He glanced back. Drake had placed himself between Valentina, Alícia and the two shooters, and now he was switching his attention from front to back as he ushered them down the street. Valentina had Alícia pressed close to her body, her hands on the girl’s shoulders, and, at Drake’s instigation, she shepherded her around the smoking Suburban and along Vieira Souto to the west.
Milton saw a flash of movement from the sidewalk. The shooter had popped out of cover and unloaded three rounds in Milton’s direction. Milton ducked down behind the open door; two rounds thudded loudly into the panel. He rose up ready to return fire, but the man had fallen back into cover again, and he had no shot.
Milton had counted each shot as he fired and knew that he had ten rounds left. He was sweating badly. They were in trouble. He had to assume that both Berg and Hawkins were dead. Drake had his hands full getting the Saverins to safety; it was down to Milton to give him the time that he needed. He thought of the AR-15 in the trunk. The increased firepower and capacity would even the odds. It was a risk to go and get it, but maybe it was a bigger risk to stay.
He decided that he had no choice. The Glock squirmed in his sweaty palm as he took three deep breaths, readying himself to move.
Three.
Two.
One.
Go.
The man near the motorbikes made a run at the exact same time that Milton raised his Glock and came up from behind the door.
The man fired and missed.
Milton fired back at him.
The round was badly aimed, but Milton got lucky. The man skidded to a stop, and the bullet punched him in the leg. He collapsed and his leg kicked out from beneath him. He fell face first and ate the sidewalk. Milton sprinted to the rear of the Range Rover and pressed the button to pop the trunk. He grabbed the rifle and brought it up at the same time as the final attacker came out of cover. Milton aimed and pulled the trigger three times. The man was twenty feet away, and all three shots found their marks. The second man was on his belly, crawling for cover. Milton swivelled his hips, took fresh aim, and fired again. Two shots missed, blowing out chunks of asphalt, but the third drilled him in the ribs.
Milton’s relief was short-lived. He heard the sound of automatic gunfire. It wasn’t coming from the east, from the direction of the laundry truck; rather, it was coming from the west, the direction that Drake and the Saverins had taken.
Milton spun around. A Jaguar XF was parked on the same side of the street. Two men were standing outside the vehicle, each aiming small submachine guns at Drake. He had put himself between the men and the Saverins; Drake had his arms raised, and, at a shouted command from one of the men, he dropped his Browning to the ground.
Milton knew what was about to happen. He aimed the AR, supporting the forestock with his left hand as he pressed the side of his head against the buffer tube so that he could look right down the iron sight.
One of the two men approached Alícia and grabbed her by the wrist. Valentina screamed and seized her daughter around the waist. She had put herself between Milton and the potential abductor, and Drake blocked his line of fire to the second man; Milton had no shot at either man.
Milton heard the rattle from one of the automatics and yelled out as Drake fell to the ground.
Valentina and Alícia screamed as one.
Drake was on the ground, but at least he was no longer in the way. A gap had opened up; Milton had an opportunity.
Valentina and the man who had grabbed Alícia were still wrestling with one another. Milton aimed at the man who had shot Drake. He took a breath, exhaled and, in the moment of calm that came between breaths, s
queezed the trigger a single time. The man spun like a top as the bullet hit home; Milton was too far away to be sure, but he thought he had struck him in the shoulder.
The other man elbowed Valentina in the face, and she fell. Milton watched, horrified, as he scooped Alícia up and, clutching the girl to his chest with one arm, backed toward the Jaguar, then turned and shoved her into the car. The man Milton had tagged was on his feet again, too, struggling across the road to the open rear door and falling inside. Milton aimed at the first man again, but he had moved quickly and was now in the car beside the child; he had no possible shot that would not also risk her being hit.
The man backed into the Jaguar and, even before the door was closed, the engine roared, the tyres squealed, and the car raced away.
34
Paulo watched what was happening outside with a quickening sense of dread. This wasn’t a normal pickup. It was a kidnapping and, worse, it was a woman and a little kid. Junior was aiming his submachine gun at one of the men who had come out of the Range Rover. Alessandro and the woman were fighting over the girl, dragging her toward the car as the woman tried to pull her in the other direction. Paulo heard the clatter of automatic gunfire and saw, with horror, that Junior had fired on the man.
He wanted to be anywhere but here.
Fuck.
He couldn’t take his eyes off the mirror.
Alessandro struck the woman with his elbow. She fell. Alessandro scooped up the girl and started to back toward the car.
Fuck.
Paulo saw the other man who had come out of the Range Rover. He had found a long gun from somewhere, and now he was aiming it in their direction. Even as Paulo fought the urge to lift his foot off the brake, he saw a puff of smoke and heard the crack of a single shot.
Junior cried out and fell to the ground.
Fuck, fuck.
The engine roared as Alessandro shoved the girl into the back of the Jaguar. Junior hauled himself into the back through the opposite door; Paulo caught a quick flash of red and saw that Junior’s hand was pressed to his shoulder.
