by Mark Dawson
“Filho da puta!” Junior grunted.
Alessandro got in next to the girl.
“Go!” he yelled. “Move!”
Paulo released the brake and, tyres squealing as they laid rubber down on the asphalt, the car leapt ahead like a bolt of lightning. The back fishtailed at the sudden acceleration, but Paulo had anticipated it and was able to nudge them back straight without having to let go of the accelerator.
He knew the way back to the favela without having to look at the satnav. Vieira Souto followed the beach until it reached Leblon, and then he would be able to stay on the coast road through Vidigal or, if he needed an alternative, he could go north around the Ecological Park. There would be traffic, but he knew that he would be able to carve a way through it.
It was six miles from here to Rocinha.
Fifteen minutes to get them back there and off the street.
Milton knew that there was nothing that he could do for Drake; he had been shot at close range, and he hadn’t moved since he had fallen to the ground.
He had to assume that he was dead.
Drake, Berg and Hawkins. Four bad guys. Seven dead.
Valentina Saverin was on her hands and knees. “Alícia!” she wailed. “Help!”
“Call the police!” Milton yelled at her.
He ran across the road. The traffic had jammed up as panicked drivers had tried to escape the shoot-out; one car had crashed into the back of another, and a line had formed up behind them both. The nearest car to Milton was a red Honda Civic. He raised the AR-15 and aimed it at the driver, jerking the muzzle to the left in an order that the man should get out. The driver froze; Milton reached his door, opened it, and, as the driver finally managed to disengage the seat belt, Milton grabbed him and hauled him onto the street. He put the AR-15 on the passenger’s seat, slid into the car, threw it into drive, and yanked the wheel around so that he could mount the median and cross over to the opposite lane. He straightened up and stomped on the accelerator, smoking the wheels as he left the Civic’s driver behind.
The Civic was nimbler than the bigger Jaguar. Milton raced along the road, darting in and out of gaps in the traffic, slowly closing the distance to the lead car.
35
“Puta que pariu,” Junior cursed.
Paulo glanced in the mirror. The gangster was slumped against the inside of the car door, his left hand pressed to his right shoulder. Paulo could see the blood that was seeping between his fingers, and, as Junior raised his hand, Paulo saw the red all over his palm and heard the squelch as he pressed it back down again.
“Que merda!”
“Is he all right?” Paulo called back.
“Just drive,” Alessandro shouted back.
“Foda-se,” Junior grunted. “Who the fuck was that?”
“I don’t know,” Alessandro said.
“Garanhão said it would be easy. He shot me. The puta shot me!”
“It’s just your shoulder. You’ll be fine.”
“You ever been shot in the fucking shoulder?”
The two men bickered as Paulo hammered the accelerator, swerving the big car into a gap between a bus and a delivery truck. He looked back again: the little girl was in the middle, tiny and delicate between the gangsters. She was sitting up straight, her eyes wide, and tears rolling down her cheeks. She was petrified. Junior was still cursing, but Alessandro had ignored him to look out of the rear window.
“Someone’s coming after us!” he yelled out.
Paulo checked his mirrors. There was a red Honda Civic ten car lengths behind. It was obvious that the driver was giving chase; the car had switched over to the wrong side of the road, accelerating along the quieter lane faster than the Jaguar was able to travel.
“Get rid of him,” Alessandro ordered.
Paulo swerved left so that they were running down the middle of the road. There was just enough space for them to carve a path ahead: they overtook cars to their right and narrowly missed the cars that approached them on the left.
“Look out!”
Everything slowed down for Paulo, just as it always did: he saw how the road changed up ahead, with the median between east- and westbound traffic given over to a line of parking spaces that were occupied by cars that had delivered their occupants to the beach. He couldn’t continue on the same line without slamming into the back of the queue. He yanked the wheel to the right, sliding into the opposite lane and then touching sixty as he slalomed around slower-moving cars.
“He’s still coming,” Alessandro yelled over the sound of the engine.
There was a gap in the long line of parked cars, and Paulo bent the Jaguar into it, finding the sweet spot where grip and momentum intersected so that it was almost as if the car were on rails. He looked back into the mirror and saw that the Honda had followed them through the gap.
They were on the wrong side of the road now, facing oncoming traffic. Paulo swerved in and out, tracing a route in the gaps between the cars, instinctively calculating angles and closing speeds and escape points, all of it done without thinking. He caught a quick glimpse of the frightened face of the girl in the back; his passengers were flung left and right as Paulo muscled the wheel.
Alessandro opened the window all the way down and turned himself around so that he was facing backwards.
“Let him get closer,” he said, raising the submachine gun.
Paulo ignored him.
“Slow down! Let him get close!”
“I can lose him.”
“Slow down now.”
Paulo hit the brakes, and the Civic quickly closed the distance between them. Paulo was able to see the face of the driver: he was in his middle age, white, and had dark hair. His face was set in a grimace of determination.
Alessandro brought the submachine gun up and leaned out of the window with it.
36
Milton changed down, pumped the accelerator, and then changed back up again. He glanced down at the dial and saw that he was doing seventy; the engine was screaming, and he could feel the slip and slide of the rubber on the road.
The driver of the Jaguar hit the brakes, the taillights burning a sudden red. Milton closed quickly, then saw the man leaning out of the passenger window with the submachine gun. Milton jagged the Civic to the left, getting behind the Jaguar as the gun chattered. He had been fast, but not quite fast enough; rounds chimed against the bodywork of the Honda, a pattern that tracked up the hood and into the wing mirror, blowing it clean off its housing.
The Jaguar swerved away, heading into a side street. Milton hit the brakes a fraction of a moment later and spun the wheel around. He felt the inside wheels lift off the road as the car fought for balance, but Milton had bled off just enough speed to stay upright, and the car slammed back down as he straightened the wheel and planted his foot again.
The Jaguar swerved to the left, the rear end crashing against the wing of a car heading west. The driver of the struck car sounded his horn as the Jaguar fishtailed, slowing rapidly. Milton put his foot all the way down. This road was emptier than Vieira Souto, and Milton was able to take advantage. He closed in again until he saw a truck reversing into the road from a building site. A banksman was in the road behind it, beckoning the driver to reverse; it was a big eighteen-wheeler, and, as it kept backing out, it quickly blocked the road.
The Jaguar swerved into a junction, heading north. Milton stabbed the brakes and downshifted all the way to second. The car started to slide, and he cranked the wheel all the way across, then stomped down on the pedal. The Honda went sideways, sliding into the street. Milton pushed the speed back up to seventy and swerved hard onto Rua Visconde de Pirajá, close to the Jaguar again.
The two cars raced together, side by side, and Milton took a moment to chance a fast glimpse across at the other car. The driver looked young, perhaps in his late teens or very early twenties, with hair that he wore close to his scalp. He was looking dead ahead, his eyes fixed to the road. There were three people in t
he back: there was a man with the submachine gun and a second man with a tattoo across his face. The third person was Alícia, the girl’s face a mask of the purest terror.
Milton fought a blast of fury. He looked back to the road, saw that it was clear, and turned the wheel to send the Civic into the flank of the bigger car. The Honda bounced off, too light to do much more than nudge the Jaguar away. But it forced the driver to brake, and Milton was able to draw ahead far enough that, when he swerved into them again, he was able to strike the front wing.
The Civic crashed into the Jaguar, nudging them toward the sidewalk before Paulo turned the wheel and corrected their course.
“Who is this fucker?” Alessandro yelled out.
Paulo knew what was coming up: the sharp right-hand hairpin where he had dumped Aldo during the race. The turn passed through more than ninety degrees as Avenue Niemeyer swung from west to northeast and started its ascent toward Estrada da Gávea, the run into Rocinha and home. He had to lose the other guy here or risk being followed into the favela.
He did not want to disappoint Garanhão. He knew how dangerous that would be.
He turned the wheel to hug the inside of the right-hander. The rocky outcrop and the wire mesh fence that guarded against rock falls were almost close enough to reach out and touch. He hit the brake, losing speed until he was down to fifty, and waited for the Civic to draw closer. Paulo could see the ragged petals in the bodywork from where Alessandro had shot at it, but the car’s performance was unaffected. The driver of the Civic brought the front of his car alongside the rear of the Jaguar.
Paulo hammered the brake and twisted the wheel sharply to the left.
The Jaguar crashed into the Honda hard, with enough force to bump it off course. It was too late for the driver of the Civic to slow down. He tried to stop, but he had too much speed, and the manoeuvre unbalanced his car. Paulo glanced across as the front end danced left and then right before the front rubber caught too much traction and the back end slid out. Paulo watched in the mirror as the Honda rolled, tumbling side over side until he couldn’t see it. He didn’t see the crash, either, but he heard it.
He turned back to the road, managing the sharp turn and then punching all the way down on the accelerator as they took off again.
37
Paulo turned off the main road. They approached the warehouse, and Paulo turned into the road that led to the loading bay. He drove slowly, following the passage around as it gently turned to the left and ascended before it levelled out and widened a little in front of a roller door.
“Hit the horn.”
Paulo did as he was told. They were left there for a moment, and Paulo had the distinct impression that they were being observed. Paulo knew that Garanhão would have spotters with automatic weapons posted here to defend the building; the narrowness of the passage meant that it would be impossible for a vehicle to approach quickly or, indeed, to retreat before it could be shredded in a crossfire.
Paulo slapped the horn again; the roller door lifted up and started to fold back. He drove forward, slowly sliding beneath the door into the loading bay. Alessandro opened the door and called out a name that Paulo did not recognise, adding that Junior had been shot.
“Help him get out,” Alessandro called to Paulo.
Paulo stayed where he was. He had been tricked, and now he felt stupid and vulnerable. Alessandro reached back into the cabin and, as Paulo looked up into the mirror, he saw the pale face of the little girl as she was half-carried and half-dragged out of the car.
He thought of his father and what he had said about Garanhão all those years ago.
He had listened then.
This was what happened when he forgot.
“Are you deaf? Help him!”
Paulo switched off the engine, opened the door, and went around the car to the back. He opened the door and looked down. Junior was pale faced and sweating. His shirt was soaked with blood, and there were swipes of it against the upholstery and on the back of the seat in front of him. Paulo reached down and tried to slide his arm behind the man’s back. He gasped in pain, swore loudly, and pushed Paulo away.
“What the fuck is going on?”
Paulo turned. Garanhão was there.
Alessandro suddenly looked very nervous.
“What?” Garanhão said. “Why is he shot? What happened?”
“It wasn’t as easy as we thought,” Alessandro said.
Junior struggled out, his hand still clasped to his shoulder.
“What happened?”
“The security, Don Rodrigues,” Junior groaned.
“We knew they would be there. Four men. We had six. And they didn’t know we were coming.”
“There was one guy,” Junior mumbled. “He shot me.”
Garanhão swept around Junior, dismissing him, and looked into the car. “Where’s the wife?”
Alessandro shook his head.
“What does that mean? You don’t have her?”
“I mean they put up a fight. We didn’t get her.”
“And the other car? Pedro and Luiz? Fabrício? Gael? Where are they?”
Alessandro shook his head again. “Dead.”
Garanhão raised his arms and pressed his hands against the sides of his head. “This was supposed to be easy,” he muttered, and then, in an eruption of anger that was as sudden as it was frightening, he cursed and slammed both hands against the side of the car. “Where did this happen? Ipanema?”
“Outside the apartment.”
Garanhão cursed again.
Alessandro held Alícia by the collar of her shirt, and he shook her now. “We got her, Don Rodrigues,” Alessandro said, trying to placate him. “His girl. She’s more important than the wife.”
Garanhão tamped down his anger. “Put her in the basement.”
“I need to speak to Barbantinho,” Alessandro said. “I need to make sure the police don’t know anything.”
“For fuck’s sake.” Garanhão exhaled irritably. He turned to Paulo. “Fine—you do it.”
Paulo turned to him. “What?”
He stabbed a finger into his chest. “You’ve got a daughter—you deal with her.”
“Deal with her?”
“Are you stupid? You want to start paying off what you owe? Thirty thousand reais, you motherfucker—you can be the best-paid babysitter in all of Rio.”
“Where? Where should I take her?”
“There’s a room on the other side of the office,” Alessandro said. “Down the stairs. Take her there.”
“I want her quiet,” Garanhão said. “She doesn’t make trouble. Make her understand.”
Another question came to his lips before he could stop it. “But what are we doing with her?”
Garanhão looked at him scornfully. “Are you fucking stupid? Just make sure she doesn’t cause any trouble—can you do that, Paulo?”
Paulo could see that he needed to tread carefully; Garanhão’s previous bonhomie toward him was a distant memory. Paulo knew that he had been fooling himself. The don’s good-natured generosity was a mask; this—the malice and the callous disregard for the girl—this was Garanhão’s true self. The stories that Paulo had heard of the man—the things that he had done to complete his ascent to the top of the Hill and then secure his position—they all came back to him now. Paulo was nothing: just a driver and dispensable. Garanhão was not his friend. He never was, and he never would be. Paulo needed to remember that.
“Of course, Don Rodrigues,” he said. “I’ll make sure she’s no trouble.”
Garanhão said nothing.
Paulo went to the girl. She had backed up against the side of the car, as if trying to hide. He crouched down in front of her. Her face was pale, and her eyelashes were plastered down from the tears that still glistened on her cheeks. He reached for her hand, but she flinched and drew it away.
“Come with me,” he said gently. “I’m not going to hurt you.”
She turned her face away fr
om him. Paulo reached one arm behind her knees, put the other around her shoulders, and lifted her up. Her body was stiff with tension. He started toward the stairs.
38
Paulo carried the girl and the bag of money down the stairs into the basement of the warehouse. It was damp, with pools of stagnant water spread out across the cracked concrete. Mildew stained the floor; it was hot, and the air was thick with humidity. There was a single door in the bare brick wall. It was smaller than usual, and he could see that he would have to stoop if he wanted to go inside. There was a key in the lock. He put his fingers on the key and left them there for a moment. The metal was cold to the touch, and he focussed on it and tried not to think about how far he had already been dragged into the world that his father had always tried so hard to keep him away from. But who was he kidding? He was already implicated. And, worse, he had taken Garanhão’s money and put himself into the don’s debt. He was Garanhão’s man now, bought and paid for, and there was no way out.
He felt sick as he put the money on the floor, turned the key in the lock, and opened the door.
The space inside was dark. A little light from the basement seeped into the room beyond the door and, as his eyes adjusted to the gloom, Paulo could see a light switch on the wall. He flicked it, and the space was illuminated with golden light. It was little more than a crawlspace, and it was not pleasant: it had a low roof and a rough concrete floor, with a plastic crate that he assumed was intended to be used as a seat. There was a plastic bucket for a toilet.
He put the girl down, rested his hands on her shoulders, and gently turned her around so that he could look at her.
“What’s your name?” he said.
She didn’t answer; she didn’t even look up.
“What’s your name?” he said again. Still the girl didn’t look up. He dropped down to his haunches so that he was at the same height as her.
