MURDERED: Can YOU Solve the Mystery? (Click Your Poison Book 2)

by James Schannep

  “Would you mind giving us a private moment?” Viktor asks you.

  • “Yes, of course, take all the time you need.”

  • “There’s no time. Let’s grab the evidence and return. You can catch up on the way back.”

  MAKE YOUR CHOICE

  Crowd Control

  “Good luck,” the two agents say in stereo.

  You wish them the same, then watch as they dash into the halls of the Energy Summit conference grounds. Back outside, Irma scans the massive crowd of revelers for potential threats.

  “You don’t think he’s inside yet?” you ask.

  “The Energy Summit security is tight. It’s possible he’s in there, but it’s more likely he’s lying in wait somewhere near here. If his next target is one of the scientists, it’s much easier to get the man on his way to or from the conference. Whenever there’s an event of this scale, police resources are stretched so thin that crime skyrockets in other areas. Bank robberies will be up this week, simply because so many cops are busy here and with Carnaval.”

  “I never thought of that,” you say.

  “Just ask your agent friends: the most dangerous part of protection is when the subject is on the move. Buildings are hardened, people are soft.”

  “Unless you hired an actor, so that the police are looking for the wrong guy.”

  “True,” she says.

  Without warning, the ground beneath your feet quakes and a loud boom comes from the Energy Summit. It’s a dull, cavernous sound, like a cherry bomb going off in a bathtub full of water.

  “Bomba!” she shouts, going for her service revolver and running toward the building.

  A moment later, you see two men sprint out the back of the building. It’s the blue-eyed suspect (the real Viktor) followed closely by Agent Bertram. You call out to Irma just as the detective is about to enter the front door.

  She turns and follows as you sprint after the two men, trying desperately not to lose them in the crowd.

  The telltale crack of gunfire rings out over the music and screams echo through the party-turned-nightmare. When the crowd parts, you see Agent Bertram lying on the ground, a devil-costumed man lying just beyond him.

  Viktor stands on the periphery, his blue eyes glimmering behind his glasses. Then he turns and runs away.

  “Did he just shoot Bertram?” you ask. “And some random civilian?”

  “I don’t know! Go see if Bertram is okay and I’ll take care of Viktor.”

  • “No way! I’m coming with you. Let’s nail the bastard.”

  • “Go! I’ll make sure he gets to the hospital.”

  MAKE YOUR CHOICE

  Dead Bastard

  You stand, but have considerable difficulty breathing and significant burning in your chest. You raise your hands and wheeze out the words, “Turista! Turista! Turista!”

  Irma goes with your move and draws, standing and pointing her pistol at him while he swings to meet her. Gunshots ring out, but neither from the AK nor from Irma’s handgun. There’s another shooter, up on the rooftop. He’s tall, well-built, his black hair close-cropped like a combat soldier’s. Clean-shaven, but there’s a thick scar along the front of his chin like you’d expect to see on someone who flew over the handlebar of a motorcycle. He wears aviator-style shooting-range glasses and his face is as pale as a skull sun-bleached in the desert. He wears all black—combat boots, tactical cargo pants, a vest to match, and skin-tight long-sleeved under-armor. He has dual-silenced handguns pointed at you and he wears motorcycle gloves.

  In short, he’s terrifying.

  He fires with both weapons simultaneously, expertly putting a round in Irma’s chest, the subject’s chest, and then yours. He returns, shooting each of you another time, with proficiency as exact as a computer simulation, before putting a bullet in each of your heads. The entire thing, nine shots, takes three seconds—one instant for each of you.

  THE END

  Dead End

  The KABOOM of the revolver echoes through the alley, ending in a high-pitched ring that stays in your ears. The metal orb of the would-be bomb falls to the ground harmlessly with a clink and Viktor falls to the concrete in a heap.

  She hit him directly in the forehead.

  The whole alley is silent, save for the ringing in your ears. You can barely hear something off in the distance, maybe Irma calling for backup, but right now your senses are muted, as if you’re floating in the ocean at night, deep, deep, far from the surface.

  Irma Dos Santos shakes you. “Hey, are you okay?” she asks.

  You nod. You look around, reassessing where you are. An evidence team moves through the alley, tagging the body, the bomb, the bullet casing, anything relevant. Time appears to have dilated in your state of shock.

  “Well done,” a man says. You turn to see it’s the Rio Chief of Police. “You helped, yes? You are the American?”

  You nod again. The man shakes your hand firmly, with prolonged eye contact.

  “What about the agents?” Irma asks.

  “They’re fine,” the Chief says. “They’re on their way to the hospital as we speak. Both are stable and should have a full recovery.”

  “Okay, let’s get you back to your hotel, huh?” she says to you.

  “Sure,” you say. “It’s over….”

  • Click to continue…

  MAKE YOUR CHOICE

  Dead to Rights

  You raise the revolver, thinking you’ll have some sort of standoff like they do on TV, where they shout, you shout, then slowly you’ll all lower your weapons to the floor and talk this thing out like civilized people.

  Nope.

  As soon as you make like you’re pointing the gun at one of them, both open fire, filling your chest with lead. You fall to the floor, dead before you even know what hit you.

  THE END

  Dead (Wo)Man Kneeling

  The revolver clatters on the tile floor, cracking a piece of jungle-chic ceramic that was popular in the 1950s. You get a really good look at it as the man and his partner (there were two of them behind you, evidently) slam you to the ground and handcuff your arms behind your back.

  Staring at the body of the man before you, your future becomes all too clear. You’ll be tried for murder, and it doesn’t look good. It’s hard to claim self-defense when you shoot an unarmed man in the back. And the woman? They’ll probably pin her death on you too. You think you’ve heard something about Brazilian prisons somewhere before, maybe on an episode of Locked Up Abroad, and your gut tells you this won’t be an easy sentence.

  You’re not sure if this country has the death penalty, but you’ll probably be begging for it once the locals get done with the tourist-gone-mad killer.

  THE END

  Deputized

  “Firsts things first, Hotshot,” Agent Bertram says, “We’ve got to get you vetted through the RSO.”

  Agent Danly then goes on to explain what an RSO is—a Regional Security Officer; basically, the head American Law Enforcement presence in Brazil. He’s your new partners’ immediate supervisor. And apparently it’s necessary for you to meet with his approval before you can all work together.

  “What about the trail getting cold? Let’s get moving!” you protest.

  “That’s why we’re not headed to the Embassy in Brasilia. It’s north of a twelve-hour drive into the interior, but luckily for us, he’s down here at the Rio Consulate,” Danly says. “We’ve got to do things by the book if we want a conviction. There may be plenty of lawlessness in this country, but there is no law without regulation. Sorry, that’s just how it works.”

  “Well, if I’m going to be working with you guys, I should probably check out of my hostel.”

  “Sounds good,” Bertram nods. “Let’s go get your stuff.”

  You head over to say a final goodbye to your friends, give them your blessing to continue their Brazilian vacation without you, and pack up the last of your belongings. After that, you’re off to the Consulado Geral Do
s Estados Unidos.

  * * *

  It’s kind of an odd sight. In the middle of a busy downtown intersection there’s an office building with majorly restricted access. Foot traffic is constantly scrutinized by men in Security uniforms and Kevlar vests. The road out front is blocked from any would-be kamikaze car-bombers by rows of concrete pylons and a guard shack allowing entry only to those with proper identification. Bertram shows his credentials and you’re in.

  The inside of the building is a little less extreme, though there are a few more security hoops to jump through. Mostly, it’s just people in cubicles doing administrative work. A conference room is set up for you, and you’re offered bottled water while the RSO is told of your arrival.

  The room is essentially a large table surrounded by chairs, with a projector screen mounted on a wall opposite the doorway. To the left of the entry, a framed poster reads, “MISSION STATEMENT — The U.S. Mission in Brazil seeks to protect the well-being of U.S. citizens, represent U.S. interests, promote better bilateral relations, and foster friendship between the people of our two countries.”

  “Please, take a seat,” a voice from behind booms over the rush of the door opening. You turn to see a man probably ten years older than the agents, his head shaved bald, adjusting his suit jacket in a manner that suggests he had just put it on. “I’d like to keep this brief.”

  He sits at the head of the table and pops open a manila file folder. While he rummages through the papers, the three of you sit down, Agents Danly and Bertram on either side of the table and you opposite the RSO. There’s a moment of silence as the three of you watch the RSO read his dossier.

  “Background check looks good; nothing out of the ordinary.”

  “Background check?” you parrot.

  “Yes,” the RSO says, looking up to you. “It’s good to have some idea of whom I’ll be partnering up my Junior RSOs with, wouldn’t you say? A rush job just faxed over, but an essential formality.”

  He closes the folder. “So, you’re to be a Cooperating Witness. Why’s that?”

  Without giving it much thought, you say, “I was asked to.”

  “Yes, but why did you agree?”

  “Just seemed like the right thing to do,” you say, giving the most Boy Scout answer you can muster.

  “That it is.” The RSO rises and, in a grand gesture, draws your attention to a photograph on the right-hand wall. It’s a portrait of a man in his mid-50s, with a politician’s warm smile, his graying hair neatly combed and short-cropped. He wears a navy blue suit, the red power-tie beaming with authority, and poses in front of an American flag overlapping its Brazilian counterpart.

  “Ambassador Mays acts as the President of the United States for all affairs in this country. Right now, right here, I am his proxy. And now you, along with my Special Agents, will represent me. Meaning you directly reflect our President’s will. That’s not a responsibility you should take lightly, and I don’t think you will. This is a brave thing you’re doing, and your country thanks you for it.”

  He offers to shake hands. You accept, and then with a brief squeeze on your shoulder, he says, “I’ll get somebody in here to give you a guest briefing. A little howsitgoin that we sometimes share with new visitors; tells you a brief background about the DSS and what we do.”

  The RSO drops his diplomatic smile and turning toward the two agents, hands them each a file. “Agent Bertram, you talk with Karen Atwood—she’s the veteran OMS, she’s seen the girl from hiring until present. Danly, you’ve got Tompkins. She’s new, but according to the staff she’s Nightingale’s closest friend. Find me the bad guy, boys!”

  With that, the man turns, rushing out to go take care of the rest of his day’s agenda. Before he leaves, you blurt:

  • “Thanks so much! Looking forward to learning more about the DSS and my time here!”

  • “Actually, I’d prefer to sit in with Agent Bertram. I think I might learn more that way.”

  • “Would you mind if I joined Agent Danly instead? I’m ready to start the case.”

  MAKE YOUR CHOICE

  Deputy Shift

  You awaken in a small, single-window room as hazy light filters through a linen curtain. You are floating in a hammock above cleaning supplies and crates. How did you get here again? The grogginess soon fades, and with it your memory returns, but for an instant you don’t understand why the world is swaying and what causes the humming that comes from the walls.

  You’re on the Navio do Destino, the fishing trawler Agent Bertram hired to ferry you to the sugarcane plantation. You recall the ship casting off, heading downriver toward the interior and into the jungle like in Heart of Darkness, and as the reptilian camens sank below the surface of the river, so too did you sink below deck and fall deeply asleep.

  Rising with a stretch, you head out into the jungle air to check on the ship’s crew and inform Bertram that the hammock is all his. The boy, Neto, grins and waves at you when you step out. The captain smokes a pipe while Bertram puffs away at another cigar, but the crewmen are nowhere to be seen.

  “Did I miss anything?” you ask.

  “Hey, Hotshot! Welcome back to the land of the living. Actually, yeah, there was a pretty intense piranha feeding frenzy when a baby bird dropped into the river. Other than that, calm seas and fair winds.”

  “And spider!” Neto adds.

  “Oh yeah, we had one of those killer bugs on here. Nasty thing.” Bertram tosses his spent cigar overboard. “Anyway, I think Cookie is whipping up some dinner down in the kitchen. After that, I’ll leave you to it.”

  You stare out at the river; miles and miles of brown murk pass under the ship, with God-knows-what lurking beneath. The jungle is silent, save for a pair of toucans yelping to one another somewhere in the distance. You take the opportunity to snap a picture of Bertram, the Captain, and the passing jungle.

  The Captain says something to Bertram in Portuguese, and you naturally turn to Neto. The boy seems excited to practice his English. “He’s warning your boss for pirates.”

  “Pirates?” you gulp.

  “Thieves come nighttime. Sometime kid with knife, sometime pirates with AK-47.”

  “Have you been robbed before?”

  He smiles. “Not me. My father, yes. They kill his best friend and that is when I start sailing with him, yes? But I am like ‘good luck,’ I have many adventures and no pirates.”

  A bell rings below deck and everyone turns to head down to dinner.

  “Pirates?” you say to Bertram.

  “Don’t worry too much, Hotshot. They might have guns, but they don’t know how to shoot. I’ll call their bluff.”

  “I feel better already.”

  Bertram laughs. “The captain says there are known dangerous stretches, and they usually turn out their lights when they go by. But the moon is bright and nearly full, so the risk of running aground is relatively low. C’mon, I’m starving.”

  Great, you think. This ought to be a fun night, standing guard unarmed while Bertram sleeps with his rifle. You briefly consider asking to borrow his flak jacket, but think better of it.

  Waiting for you in the kitchen is a large pot boiling over with the most wonderful smell. The chef ladles out generous helpings of some kind of stew and hands you a bowl when you enter. A picnic table with attached benches serves as the kitchen table.

  “Feijoada,” Neto says. “Black bean, pork, and cow.”

  You look down at the stew, which was poured over a bed of rice, and your mouth waters. It’s warm, rich, and flavorful, and the whole crew eats heartily without so much as saying a word. After the meal, Bertram bids you good luck and heads off to bed.

  * * *

  The night passes slowly. But it also passes uneventfully. At the captain’s insistence, the crew remains silent after dark and when they turn off the lights, it’s a bit like being alone in an empty house, wondering if every creak is an intruder. If it weren’t for the threat of pirates, it would have been a peaceful
night, drifting under moonlight and listening to the songs of insects.

  Just as it begins to rain, your shift ends. Once you’re back in the hammock, the pleasant petrichor that accompanies the first downpour of the rainy season lulls you to sleep.

  • Arrive in port.

  MAKE YOUR CHOICE

  Detained

  You’re taken to the local police station, a place overwhelmed with criminals waiting to be processed. You do your best to stay away from the drunks and drug-addled offenders slouched on the benches along the walls—but it’s impossible to avoid their stench. Women shriek in Portuguese, men struggle in vain against handcuffs, and the accused are herded from section to section like unruly cattle.

  The two Rio detectives leave you in the hands of a desk agent, giving him instructions in Portuguese, then quickly disappear into the recesses of the station without so much as a word to you. In what feels like the adult nightmare version of being a toddler dropped off at kindergarten, you look around at the ghastly surroundings through watery, uncertain eyes.

  “Please,” a man protests in English to a desk officer, his eyes red from tears and his cheeks pink from rubbing the tears away. “I know it’s only been a few hours, but we always stay together. She’s my sister. You have to help me.”

  That reminds you; your own friends are probably tearing the city apart trying to find you, tortured by your disappearance, and you’ve no way of letting them know you’re here. Or, on second thought, they’re probably all wasted, drunk and partying, yet to realize you’re even gone. Hopefully it doesn’t come to them finding you here tomorrow—still locked up. Hopefully the Brazilian police will allow you the standard one phone call, so you could at least leave a message for them at your hostel.