“Then what? Big Oil wanted to shut you down?”
“A good guess,” he says, “but wrong again. Only after much ratiocination was I able to decipher the true nature of my attackers. Except…”
“Except what?”
“This is where Jane comes in. I was afraid of Brasileiro crime syndicates. The fastest way to become a billionaire in Brasil is with sugarcane ethanol production. Five percent of the population owns eighty percent of the land here. If we no longer needed obscene quantities of sugarcane—because, let’s face it, there are better food sources—then that industry dries up. Money will always defend itself.”
He looks you squarely in the eyes, his own eyes shimmering in the starlight.
“What happened to her?”
“She was going to speak with her Ambassador, to present the evidence we’d found—actual correspondence from Governor Mateo Ferro instructing his forces to shut me down—and to seek help or asylum, but the sugarcane mafia must have gotten word. The American presence works closely with local law enforcement, and Rio cops are just criminals on the city’s payroll. So they killed her and tried to pin it on me, only somehow you spoiled it for them.”
You’re stunned into silence. He waits, allowing you to digest what you’ve just heard. At length, you say, “But if she’s dead, where’s the evidence? Do they have it?”
“Good question, but if there’s an assassin after us, I’d say not. If you hadn’t been there, I might be dead too. Would I have picked up that revolver, with my Jane lying next to it? I can’t say…”
A chill runs over you, like someone is stepping on your grave. “If the local police are in on it too, it wouldn’t matter. They could have arrived, killed you, then set the scene however they pleased.”
Viktor nods, the realization of his own mortality and the weight of Jane’s murder appearing as heaviness in his blue eyes. He looks out over the city, then back to you. As he speaks, his smooth accent is caramelized with wistfulness.
“This is where I took my Jane on our first date. We shared a bottle of red wine, a block of fine cheese, and summer sausage, sliced one bite at a time. On a blanket, we made love under the warm embrace of starlit autumn.”
In fact, as the sun begins to set and color pours out over the city, you can already feel the romantic appeal. Viktor’s azure eyes glitter with something ephemeral and he puts a hand on your shoulder. “Sit with me a moment.”
Out across the green expanse rises the great city, close enough to be stunning, but far enough away so that you hear the forest singing over the noise of cars swimming in concrete rivers. The skyscrapers shimmer, golden in the waning light.
In a husky voice, he whispers, “You look like you want to be kissed.”
• “Umm… what?”
• “You look like just the man to do it.”
MAKE YOUR CHOICE
Punch Out
You pull the throttle back as far as it will go, and, in first gear on this dirt bike, that means you’re pulling a wheelie. You stand up on the pedals to keep an eye on the garage and lean forward to keep your balance while trying to force the bike back down onto two wheels.
Over the roar of the engine, another sound erupts—gunfire. This is the moment these bored security guys have been waiting for. Hooray! Someone tried to run the gate. Finally, a chance to use our training!
Well, at least you went out with style. And you’ll probably make the news.
THE END
Putting out the Fire
“You’re right,” he says. “I’m sorry. We should focus on the mission at hand. Sometimes my passion spills over….”
“Yeah.” It’s all you can say. You shake your head. “So what’s next?”
“She left us bread crumbs, and if we can retrodict the facts with the evidence, then maybe we’ll find the whole loaf. Once we have proof—then we go to the press.”
“Not the police?”
“There’s a long track record here of inconvenient evidence conveniently getting lost. Tomorrow we head to the favelas. With enough bribes, we may just be able to find the trail. Let’s sleep here tonight. It’s warm enough, and I’m a little worried about that assassin finding us if we go back to either the hostel or André’s.”
• Get some rest and start fresh in the morning.
MAKE YOUR CHOICE
Quick Decision
“I’m a bit disoriented. I think it’s this way, but the fire makes it hard to tell,” Maria says, pointing in the direction the pickup truck fled.
“That would make sense,” you add.
Bertram nods and removes a handheld GPS from his utility vest. He slings his rifle over his shoulder, freeing his hands to manipulate the device. “She’s right. Let’s get moving; it’s going to be a bit of a trek.”
• “In that case, let’s hijack a vehicle.”
• “Fine, but let’s stay hidden.”
MAKE YOUR CHOICE
Quietly, or With a Murmur and Not a Bang
You’re arrested, taken into custody, and charged as an accomplice to murder. Sure, there will be a trial, but good luck defending yourself in Portuguese. And even if you do get a bilingual public defender, that’s where your luck ends. You’ll be convicted for sure, and there are no bilingual prisons.
THE END
Quite the Cocktail
You dig through the backpack, removing one of Viktor’s “Death Star”-shaped weapons and hand it to him. He seems shocked that you decided to go this route, but simply nods like a man grimly accepting his fate.
The three young men, however, are anything from calm, and angrily demand an explanation. Viktor turns to you and says, “See you in Manhattan, Tourist.”
He then clicks the tiny thing into place and now the device has begun moving, rearranging itself like a Rubik’s Cube, expanding in some places and contracting in others. Fearful, the three gangsters shout to Viktor to explain himself, and now the AK-47 is pointed right toward the scientist.
Viktor tries to answer, but his breath is sucked out of him by the device. You feel it too, your insides collapsing as the tiny thing turns into something akin to a miniature black hole and sucks out all the air from the room. The walls, pictures, and television break inward, the ceiling threatens to collapse, and every person in the room dies when the strange bomb implodes.
THE END
Quitter
You shake hands, which quickly turns to hugs, and then say your goodbyes. The Energy Summit is right outside the Sambadrome—ground zero for Carnaval—but something in you just can’t party tonight. Instead, you check into a hostel and watch the news.
It’s not long before you see the report.
The broadcast is in Portuguese, but there are English subtitles. “BREAKING NEWS: Disgruntled scientist and engineer, Dr. Viktor Lucio de Ocampo, allegedly made an attempt on the US Ambassador at the Energy Summit in Rio de Janeiro. Authorities have stated that the Doctor, who was gunned down by American Diplomatic Security, was the prime suspect regarding the murder of his fiancée, who was found dead earlier this week….”
So that’s it. You can’t be certain they would have succeeded with your help, but they’ve certainly failed without it. Odds are, Jane was also killed with a cover-up after the fact. The thought nagging at the back of your mind right now, though, is: Did Viktor mention you? Could he and Jane have been caught and interrogated first? Is the Man in Black coming for you?
You’d better get back to the States, fast. Time to live the rest of your life looking over your shoulder and jumping at every shadow.
THE END
Rain of Terror
The rain has become a deluge of drops that are invisible in the black of night. The three of you spoon for warmth, Maria taking the middle because her pilot’s uniform is thin and offers little warmth. She’s soaked to the bone and you can see right through her white garments.
Sleep comes fitfully. Every time you start to nod off, a raindrop lands on your eyelid, instantly waking you
. The soil around the sugarcane becomes a muddy soup and the fertilizer stinks something fierce. At one point during the night, the sprinkler system comes on.
“Seriously?” is all you can say, suppressing a laugh.
* * *
Eventually the rain stops, just as morning comes.
“Can we leave now?” Maria asks.
Bertram rises, his clothes as drenched as if he had jumped into a lake, and marches silently out to the road. You offer Maria a hand, then follow in Bertram’s muddy tracks, the sludge squishing with each step.
“Shotgun!” Bertram hisses.
There before him is a coiled snake seeking shelter amongst some fallen leaves, but the golden color has given the creature away—it’s too bright against the water-darkened environment.
“It’s a lancehead,” he says. “One of the most venomous snakes in the Americas. Very fucking deadly. Shoot it.”
“Wait!” Maria shouts. “This is a jungle snake. It’s not his fault he was forced from his home. We can walk around it; leave it be.”
• Shoot it.
• Whisper words of wisdom, let it be.
MAKE YOUR CHOICE
Raising Cane
The sugarcane creates a vast forest of grass, much like the ubiquitous cornfields of Iowa, except much higher and thicker. The stalks of the plant are segmented like bamboo and grow out in thick bunches from the ground. They’re spaced about two feet apart and meet high above your head, converging in a leafy canopy that blocks out the last rays of the setting sun. Some of the stalks are as much as three times your height.
Odds are no one will find you if you go deep enough into the crop, but then you put yourself in serious risk of getting lost. The sharp elbows of the segmented plant tug at your clothes and sting your exposed skin with tiny cuts.
You freeze—someone is coming. More than one someone, from the sounds of it. The others hear the sounds too and stop dead in their tracks, weapons raised. The shuffling of sugarcane grows louder and louder until they’re almost right on top of you.
• Shoot blindly into the cane.
• Wait until you see the whites of their eyes.
MAKE YOUR CHOICE
Rattled
That’s not quite how it works here. The last lesson you’ll learn about the Rio slums, a lesson learned too little too late, is that each of the kids see themselves as future lords of the favelas. Just like any kid in the US could grow up to be President, each of these boys could one day rule their slum. In their minds, they’ve only yet to prove themselves.
Well, as you pull out your pistol and gun down the leader, that’s a dozen more young boys all ready to take his spot. And how will the new Lord of the Flies take control of the group? By killing you, of course. The one who avenges the former leader is the obvious choice.
The only problem? They all shoot.
As you and Viktor are riddled with bullets, the sound rattles your skull with a cacophony of booming explosions. The shots enter your flesh with a hissing stab, like venomous fangs sprung forth and delving deep into flesh. It lasts only long enough for you to realize you’re dying.
THE END
Recovery
Some time later, you’re sitting in a hospital room at the bedsides of the two agents, both of whom are unconscious. Danly recovers from “decompression sickness” after Viktor’s bomb nearly turned his insides out. Bertram nurses a gunshot wound from his encounter with the infamous assassin when he tried to pursue the scientist, but the agent came out on top and the Devil Ray is now dead.
Finally, they both stir.
“What the hell…?” Danly asks.
“Hotshot—tell me we got him…”
“We got him,” Detective Irma Dos Santos says as she enters the room. “He was shot as he fled, and he died of his injuries on the way to the hospital. He’s dead.”
“Good,” Danly croaks, going into a coughing fit.
“Take it easy,” you say. “It’s over.”
“I knew it was the fiance,” Bertram says with a grin.
Danly just shakes his head, weakly taking a cup of water from his bedside tray. He sips it through a straw.
“I knew it was the Devil Ray too,” Bertram continues. “But now it’s all over. Viktor must’ve been a wealthy bastard. He was involved in some illegal, under-the-table shit, and Nightingale didn’t like it. She told the Ambassador, so he killed her, hired an actor, hired an assassin, and hired the mafia—all to confuse us until he could finally kill the Ambassador himself. It wasn’t just business; he took it personal.”
“Sounds right to me,” Detective Dos Santos says.
“I don’t know…what about that note?” you say. “Who was that meant for?”
“The only man who knows for sure is dead,” Bertram says. “Sure, there’re a few unanswered questions, but you’re a national hero.”
You look at Danly. The agent nods his approval and smiles.
“Good work, Rookie,” he says, his voice husky, like a chain smoker.
There’s a moment of contented silence as the room basks in a feeling of victory, but something still feels “missing.”
Finally, Bertram says, “You better let us get some rest, Hotshot, and you might want to get some sleep yourself. I bet the Ambassador will have a medal for you in the morning.”
You nod and shake hands with both men.
“Thank you,” you say, “for letting me be a part of this. It was truly an honor.”
They both grin and wave as you leave. Detective Dos Santos follows you into the hall. “Maybe you want to grab a drink?” she says. “I’m buying.”
You smile and think, being a hero sure has its perks.
• Click to Continue.
MAKE YOUR CHOICE
Redemption
Once you arrive at the base of the statue, you’re greeted with throngs of excited tourists, most of them non-locals, save for a busload of schoolchildren on a field trip. And they’re all doing one of two things: either looking up at the towering monolith or posing with arms spread wide before Him. Once they’re done, people generally crowd by the stone guardrails that overlook the city.
You snap a few pictures, and you’re just about to ask Agent Bertram to take your portrait in the same mock-pose as the others, when you’re approached by a man.
“Excuse me, gentlemen. You are the federal agents, yes?”
Both your companions stiffen, prepared for the worst.
The man raises his hands. “Please, let’s be civilized.” His accent is thick, and it sounds as if he says, “sieve-ilized.”
“Is it him?” Danly asks you.
It’s not. This man wears glasses, true, and he’s a handsome Brazilian, but he’s not the man you saw last night. His face is fuller; the man as a whole is broader and he has a five o’clock shadow. He’s rugged and masculine with rakish good looks. The man you saw last night looked deft, intelligent and agile, whereas this man is cock-sure, charismatic and powerful.
And this man’s eyes are a creamy golden brown, not the ice-blue of the man from the murder.
“No,” you say.
“Who are you? Let me see some ID,” Bertram says.
“I’m sorry, sir. The only thing in my pockets is a Real or two. You’ll find I’m unarmed and I only want to talk with you and your partner. My name…is Viktor Lucio de Ocampo.”
He smiles warmly—the man could be Javier Bardem’s Portuguese cousin, he’s so handsome—and slowly lowers his hands.
“You seem awfully smug for a man whose fiancée was just murdered,” Bertram says. “You call us here to brag about it? Gloat that you’ll get away with it?”
The man’s brow furrows, as if he’d never considered this, and he looks past you in introspection.
“You’re right. I’m… I must just be nervous. Let’s try again,” he says.
He lets out a sigh, then slowly passes his hand over his face, from top to bottom, and his countenance changes drastically. His strong jaw now quivers and
his eyes well with tears.
“My Jane was my everything. If I do not look destroyed by this, it is only because I now cling tightly to my Saudade—the memory of her, you Americans might say. Though Jane is gone, my love for her remains.”
“Then come with us, we only want to help find her killer,” Agent Bertram says, reaching a hand out as if the man might take it.
Tsk, tsk, tsk, Viktor clicks his tongue against the roof of his mouth, shaking his head slightly. “The question is not who killed Jane, but why kill Jane.”
“But either way, the answer doesn’t involve you, right?” Danly says, not buying it. “Got any proof?”
“If I had, you’d be reading about it in the papers. But there is proof, should you like to find it. I—as you may know—am a man of science. In fact, I’m here for the Energy Summit, but someone doesn’t want me to share my findings.”
“What findings?” Bertram asks.
“Still not the right question.”
“Still” rolls off his tongue like “steel.”
“Who?” you say. “Who doesn’t want you sharing your findings?”
“There we are. You gentlemen have a smart friend here. Find the who and you’ll find the why, which will lead to the girl. Otherwise, you’re just shooting in the dark.”
“Enlighten us,” Bertram says. “Give us a name.”
He smiles again, thinking for a moment. “I am not at liberty to say,” he replies, stretching out “liberty” to three distinct syllables. “Perhaps, once you solve the case, we can talk again.”
“I don’t think we’re done with you,” Agent Danly says.
MURDERED: Can YOU Solve the Mystery? (Click Your Poison Book 2) Page 29