by Mark Dawson
“It doesn’t matter who I am,” Milton said. “I’m not a friend. And I’m definitely not someone you want to have as an enemy.”
“You’re out of your mind—”
Milton reached around and took the SIG from the back of his jeans. He pressed it against Lima’s forehead. “Be quiet, please.”
Milton sat down on the edge of the bed, the pistol aimed squarely at Lima’s chest. “I know what you’ve been doing.”
“With what?”
“Saverin’s got you for corruption.”
“Nothing about what he says is true, and, when my lawyers have finished with him, there’ll be a different story to tell.”
Milton smiled at him. “You can’t kid a kidder, senhor Lima. I’m going to ignore your bullshit and cut straight to it—I don’t have the patience to play games. I have a lot to do tonight.”
“I don’t know—”
“Antonio Rodrigues is your brother, isn’t he?”
Milton saw Lima’s larynx bob up and down.
“They call him Garanhão in Rocinha, don’t they? The Womanizer. The Stallion.”
“You crazy? I don’t…”
Milton stared at Lima, let the businessman look into his eyes for a moment, and waited as his protests died in his throat.
“Your brother helped you out,” Milton went on. “You asked him to put pressure on Saverin, so he kidnapped his daughter. Am I getting warm?”
“You’re crazy,” he repeated, although he spoke with much less conviction.
“Spoken to him recently? Antonio?”
Lima didn’t reply; Milton could see the blood slowly draining out of his cheeks.
“Probably not,” Milton said. He took out his phone, woke it, and navigated to his photographs, selecting the one that Paulo had sent of him with Alícia in the Grumari hotel room. He held the phone up so that Lima could see it.
Lima stared.
“That was taken this morning,” Milton said. “Doesn’t look like your brother has kept you up to speed. Let me help you out with that. I went up the Hill and got her. She’s safe now—once the judge gets over what happened at your villa, he’ll go and see her. I expect he’ll take his family to Curitiba, where you won’t be able to get to them. No more leverage for you, senhor Lima. You’ve played your cards. And you lost.”
Milton took out the knife, making sure that Lima could see it. “The best case for you now is that I give you back to Saverin. He’ll add kidnapping and conspiracy to murder to your charges, and then you’ll go to prison for a long time. It won’t be pleasant, but you should look on the bright side: there’s no death penalty here, is there? At least you’ll still be alive.”
Lima bit down on his lip and his fists clenched and unclenched. He couldn’t take his eyes off the blade.
“Nasty, isn’t it?” Milton said. “The RAF give them to pilots. It’s for cutting parachute shroud lines after a bail-out.” Milton held the blade closer. “See the curved end? It’s not made for stabbing, but it’s all I’ve got. I won’t lie. It’ll hurt like hell.”
Milton leaned forward; Lima flinched and leaned back, but there was nowhere for him to go.
“Like I said,” Milton continued, “prison is your best-case scenario. The alternative is much worse: I cut your throat and toss your body in the ocean.” Milton held up his hand, forestalling Lima’s retort. “I know, I know… You might be thinking that that’s a bluff.”
There was a towel on the edge of the bed. Milton took it, forced Lima’s mouth open, and shoved the fabric inside. He leaned down, putting all of his weight on Lima’s left knee so that the leg was immobilised, and then pressed the tip of the knife against his thigh. He held it there, just enough for Lima to feel the prick of the blade. All Milton needed to do now was push down, and the tip would slide into the flesh. Lima was anticipating the pain, mumbling into the towel. Milton knew that Lima wouldn’t call his bluff. The fear would be too much for him.
“I’m your worst nightmare,” Milton said. “I have nothing to lose. And I’ll be honest with you: you and your brother have been unlucky. If you’d pulled this off two weeks ago, or if you’d waited a week, I wouldn’t even have been here. But you didn’t—you took that little girl when I was responsible for her. And the man I thought was my friend was stupid enough to ask me to come along to help him out, and now he’s on my list along with your brother. The only question is whether you get out of here alive. I’d say it’s fifty-fifty at the moment. It’s down to you, really.”
Lima was trying to speak.
“What’s that? Are you going to cooperate?”
Lima nodded; fear blazed out of his eyes.
“I’m going to ask you one question,” he said. “It’s a simple question. If you answer it honestly, and if I believe you, you’ll live. You have my word.”
Milton pulled the towel out of his mouth.
“You want me to trust you?” Lima stammered.
“I don’t care,” Milton said. “But if you don’t answer honestly, I promise you’ll leave this room in a box. I’ll chop you into little pieces.”
Lima gritted his teeth and looked up at Milton. “Filho da puta.”
“I know,” Milton said. “It’s been said before.” He raised the knife and held it against Lima’s throat, the blade catching against the bristles on his skin. “Ready for the question?”
Lima blinked, his face crumpled with terror.
Milton took him by the chin again and tilted his head up so that he could look down into his eyes. “Where is your brother?”
90
The convoy rolled into the compound at four in the morning. They rode in two Escalades and a Hummer, each equipped with privacy glass to hide the occupants. Antonio Rodrigues rode in the Hummer, with armed outriders in the Escalades ahead and behind. It was a two-hour drive from the city, heading almost due north through the Parque Nacional de Serra dos Orgãos. His bodyguards had called ahead, and they were met by a second armed detail as they rolled inside the perimeter. The gates—ten feet high and tipped with razor wire—rolled shut as soon as the last car was clear.
Rodrigues had been persuaded that he should leave for Itaipava after he had killed the old man at the top of the Hill. It had become obvious that John Milton was rather more dangerous than Shawn Drake had suggested. The man was far from his description as an ‘old drunk.’ Instead, he had single-handedly mounted an attack on the heart of Red Command territory, killing even more of his men before swiping the Saverin girl from the basement and then escaping in one piece. The feat was as unprecedented as it was alarming, and Rodrigues had agreed with his guards that it made sense for him to retreat to his farmhouse until the threat that Milton posed had been neutralised.
He felt the same sense of pride as he always did as he got out of the car and looked around. To call this retreat a farmhouse was seriously underselling it. There had been a single building on the site when the previous owner had purchased it, but it had been renovated and extended in the years that had followed, and Rodrigues had added a number of other buildings to form a U-shaped collection. The compound sat on a picturesque hill surrounded by mountains and was encircled on three sides by a moat. The interior of the main house had none of the froideur that marked the architecturally designed residences in the city, the sort of places that his half brother and the political class would pay millions of reais to buy. Instead, Antonio had insisted that the building should retain the exposed beams and hardwood panels that had been included when it was first constructed. There were some luxuries: a dining table that could seat eighteen, a secluded spa room where a masseuse was kept on twenty-four-hour call, an infinity pool that offered a beautiful view of the national park. The new buildings provided accommodation for his guests and for the three bodyguards that stayed by his side at all times. There was a six-car garage, too, carpeted and climate controlled to provide the perfect environment for his collection: a Ferrari F50, a Honda NSX, a Bentley Continental GT, and a Maybach Landaulet.
The building still retained its farmlands, too, and was surrounded by five hundred hectares of forest and pasture. It was secluded and easy to defend. Rodrigues had always felt safe here.
Lucas Peres got out of the lead car and came back to open the door of the Hummer. Peres had a gold-plated 9mm in a holster attached to his belt, but he was a lot more relaxed than he had been as they had left Rocinha. Antonio stepped outside and allowed Peres to close the door after him.
“Don Rodrigues,” Peres said, “I have bad news.”
“Go on.”
“I sent Luis and Branco to your brother’s villa, just as you said. They have just called me. Something is wrong.”
“What do you mean?”
“The police were outside. Two cars. The door to the villa was open, and they saw Saverin inside.”
Antonio had called his half brother as soon as he had realised that Milton had taken the girl. He had told Andreas that he should come to the compound, too, but Andreas had said that he could not. Antonio had forgotten about the curfew and the radio bracelet that the court had made him wear. Antonio had no reason to believe that Andreas was in any more danger than he had been the day before, but events were changing fast, and he did not want to be caught out. How much did Paulo de Almeida know? Not much, surely, but he couldn’t be certain. Shawn Drake was more concerning; he knew plenty, and Antonio had been unable to find him since he had come to apologise for the fuck-up at de Oliveira’s house when Milton had killed Alessandro and Junior.
“What do you want me to do, Don Rodrigues?” Peres said.
“Speak to Barbantinho. He needs to find out what the police are doing there and where my brother is. And send a car back to the city. He is not brave. He’s probably on his way here now.” He flicked his hand, exasperated. “Whatever. Just find him and keep him safe.”
Rodrigues stalked across the courtyard toward the main house. They were miles from anyone, but it was far from quiet: cicadas chirped, and he heard the moan of a potoo and then an answer from somewhere in the fringe of forest to the south of the house. He paused to look into the darkness that gathered between the trees. He knew that he was safe here, but the news that his brother was not where he was supposed to be had unsettled him. He wanted to get inside.
91
Milton had been driving for two hours, the last ten minutes with the lights off. Lima had provided a detailed description of the security at Rodrigues’s compound, including that there would likely be sentries posted on the road half a mile out from the gates. Milton did not intend to announce his arrival to them and had decided that he would travel the rest of the way on foot.
There was a dirt track leading away from the main road, and Milton took it, rolling around a bend so that the car was out of sight behind a stand of rubber trees. He brought it to a halt and opened the door, but then stayed where he was for a moment and filled his lungs with clean, cool air. His head was still sore, his chest was bruised from the three rounds that had struck him earlier, and there had been moments during the drive when he would have liked nothing better than to pull over and sleep, but he knew that would have to wait. He had a brief window where he held the advantage over his prey; he would seize it. Rest would come later.
He collected his bag of equipment from the passenger seat and set it down on the baked, rutted track. He took out the G36 and slipped his head through the strap, adjusting it so that he could hold the stock in his right hand. He collected the spare ammunition and shoved it into his pockets. He took the SIG, screwed on a suppressor, and pushed it into the waistband of his trousers. He would have liked the security of the ballistic vest, but that was in an industrial bin somewhere on the Hill. Never mind. He still had the stick of camo paint, and he reapplied it, checking in the mirror until his face was black save for the whites of his eyes. He took out the head mount and positioned it on his forehead again, testing the monocle and then pushing it up so that it was out of the way.
His muscles were stiff and sore. He pushed his shoulders back and felt the cracks as his spine realigned. He was as ready as he would ever be.
Milton went around to the back of the car and popped the trunk. Andreas Lima was curled up inside. Milton had secured his wrists and ankles with cable ties and had wrapped tape around his mouth, making sure that he could breathe through his nostrils.
Milton had decided to spare Lima for two reasons: first, because he didn’t want to rob Saverin of his prize, and, second, because he had promised that the businessman would be unharmed and Milton’s word meant something to him. Milton might have chosen to hand Lima over to the judge, but that didn’t mean that the next few hours of Lima’s life had to be pleasant. Milton intended to see to it that they were not.
“Uncomfortable?”
Lima’s response was muffled by the tape.
“Never mind,” Milton said. “You don’t need to say anything. We’re here. I’m going to go and see Antonio now. Is there anything you want me to say to him before I kill him?”
Lima moaned again, the words indistinguishable.
“I’ll be off, then. We’re in the middle of nowhere. Make as much noise as you want. No one will hear you.”
Milton slammed the lid of the trunk and turned away from the car. The track continued ahead, mirroring the road as it climbed into the foothills to the north. It was dark; he wouldn’t be seen, especially not in the shelter of the undergrowth.
He set off.
Milton settled into the cover provided by a stand of palm trees. He glanced up into the canopy; the tree was laden with hard fruits that had attracted the attention of a family of spider monkeys. They chattered irritably at Milton’s incursion and scurried higher into the branches with their prizes.
It was five in the morning. Milton had taken his time covering the approach to the compound, but he was here now. The land dipped down into a wide bowl with a collection of buildings at its centre. The buildings were enclosed within a brick wall. A dirt track wound its way between the trees before making its final approach through a section that had been cleared to offer better visibility to the guards on the gate. Milton watched the scene through the monocle. He counted three men: one on the gate and two leaning against a big Escalade. None of them looked particularly vigilant. Why would they? The compound sheltered behind its walls, and only a madman would consider going up against someone like Antonio Rodrigues here, on his own turf. They probably thought the risk had passed as soon as the gates rolled shut behind them.
They would have been wrong.
Milton scoped out the last section of the approach. The vegetation had been kept down at the front of the facility, but it had been allowed to grow back around the sides. There was a margin of ten metres that he would have to cross where he would not be able to rely upon the cover afforded by the ferns and palms, but he could see no guards at that side who might otherwise spot him.
Garanhão had allowed his power to go to his head. Milton had seen his type before. The Don knew that people feared him. He revelled in that fear and assumed that it would protect him. And that was enough to keep most of his adversaries in line. But Milton was not most adversaries. Garanhão was arrogant and lackadaisical, and it was going to kill him.
Milton scoped the compound through the monocle once more and, satisfied that he was clear, passed through the fringe of overgrowth so that he could get around to the unattended stretch of wall. He paused at the edge of the vegetation, took a breath, scoped left and right one final time and, after confirming that he was clear, he sprinted for the wall and hauled himself up.
92
Antonio Rodrigues had only been asleep for a few hours before he awoke. Something had disturbed him, and, as he lay in his expensively upholstered bed, he couldn’t quite put his finger on what it was. He opened his eyes and looked around the room. It was dark, with the curtains still drawn; everything was just as he would have expected it to be. He fumbled across the bedside table for the Rolex President and blinked his eyes until h
e could make out the time. It was six. He had only been in bed for a couple of hours. He closed his eyes again, running his finger against the links of the watch’s yellow gold bracelet. He had bought the watch after he had made his first big score. He had stolen a backpack of coca paste from a matuto who had brought it over the border from Bolivia, and sold it to one of the entrepreneurial chemists who would turn it into powder and then sell it to local cariocas. Antonio had made ten thousand and had haggled with the thief who was selling the stolen watch until he had accepted four. Antonio had split the remainder three ways: he’d kept two for himself and given two each to his half brother and father. He had been twelve years old.
He often remembered that first score, thinking about how far he had travelled since then. It was one of the memories that he played back before he settled into sleep, but, try as he might, it didn’t have its usual soothing effect this morning. He gave up and, cursing at the thought of how tired he was going to be today, he sat up, swung his legs out of bed, stood and padded across the room to the window.
He parted the drapes and looked outside. His bedroom was in the central portion of the house, with two stubby wings extending out to form an enclosed courtyard. The two Escalades and the Hummer were parked in the same spots as last night. There was something, though, out beyond them, past the courtyard and out to the garage where he kept his cars.
He blinked, then rubbed his eyes.
A man was lying spread-eagled across the gravel.
He rubbed his eyes again.
He looked over to the accommodation block and saw another body leaning back against the wall as if resting. It was a man, and he was wearing a red, white and green Fluminense jersey, the same as Lucas Peres had been wearing last night.
Rodrigues felt sick.
He turned away from the window, and, in the second before the drapes came together, in the moment before the light that fell into the room was closed out, he saw that someone was sitting in the armchair on the other side of the room.
