by Vince Milam
“This would be a good time for you two to leave,” I said and indicated with the pistol a direction down the alley. “If you stay, I’ll get upset. You don’t want that.”
Perhaps life was so cheap it had drained his preservation instinct. Or he possessed outlandish, and stupid, courage. I’d never know. But Mr. Stiletto took a step toward me. I thought the crazy little bastard would make an attacking leap with his knife, so I added to the explosive nighttime gunshots symphony. Zipped a bullet alongside his head. May have nipped his ear. The bullet splatted against a cinder-block wall ten paces away.
He halted. With dignified machismo, he slowly folded the blade and spit toward my feet. Gripped his remaining companion’s upper arm and led him away.
Alrighty, then. Welcome to the neighborhood, Case. But the messenger had been dispatched, the message soon delivered. A crazy American sought the European woman. Claimed they were friends. He’s armed. And dangerous.
I tucked in my shirttail so the Glock would remain exposed, protruding from the front pocket of my jeans. I took the first cut-through available, climbed several steps, and headed along another tight-packed concrete path. Favela life continued, unperturbed by the recent nearby gunshot. Glimpses of stars shimmered overhead, between the stacked apartments and past the electric line tangles. A man and woman yelled at each other within a passed abode, more music played, someone tossed a basin of dirty water and heaven-knows-what-else from an upper window onto the now stone-paved passageway.
A tiny shop—no more than five-by-three paces—where several warren paths intersected held a collection of older men, sharing drinks and smoking. They lounged on beer bottle crates, several rickety chairs, and a stone retaining wall three feet high with no purpose other than a place to sit. I joined them. Conversation stopped. I stuck my head into the shop and purchased bottled water, then leaned against the exterior wall and waited. They’d retrieve me at some point. Their identity was an unknown, but introductions weren’t far distant. Another gunshot echoed across the hillsides as a million packed people settled in for another evening in Rio’s favelas.
“Are you lost?” one of the men asked. All eyes focused my way.
“No. Waiting for a friend.”
My wingnut scientist deserved credit. If you wanted to hide, this was the place. No conventional law, no prying ears or eyes from authorities. Whether she was housed within this section of the Rocinha favela or hid under another section boss’s auspices would soon enough become clear. If another section, she’d been issued a Get Out of Jail Free card for safe passage. A deal struck between two bosses.
“Who is this friend? Perhaps we know this person.”
“A European woman. Tall, thin, blond.”
Knowing glances among the men. They’d spotted her.
“I believe I may have seen her,” another man said. “Only yesterday.”
Cymbals might as well have crashed. Oh, man. The trail hot, my quarry near. Confirmation, affirmation, and I could smell the finish line.
“Where did she stay? Nearby?”
“This will require discussion with Vampire.”
Fine. My boiling anger remained tamped down, controlled. The Manaus opera house shoot-out. The dead zone discovery. A jungle attack with MOIS agents intent on killing. Bernie murdered. The Swiss scientists at the base camp tortured and slaughtered. And now some dude called Vampire stood in my way. Whoever he was, he held the sanctuary door key. I’d meet with him. And with Amsler, hidden somewhere inside this labyrinth. Then I’d take her at gunpoint back down the hill. End of story.
Vampire’s posse arrived. Five young men, armed, emerged from a narrow walkway. They halted and eyeballed me. I returned the favor. Three with sidearms, semiautomatic pistols. Two with full automatic rifles—one Romanian, the other an AK-47 knockoff, of Chinese or Eastern European origin. The size of the posse and their collection of weaponry told me this wasn’t Vampire’s turf. They’d come to collect a gringo, deliver him for their boss. Safe passage assured through negotiation, buttressed with firepower. Fine. One of them head-signaled for me to join them.
I did. Kept five paces away. Pulled the Glock when two of them attempted to slide past me. A frozen and gnarly moment, but I wouldn’t tolerate these thugs at my back. A nearby motor scooter maneuvered through the maze, children called, second- and third-story conversations held across narrow alleys. And a Mexican standoff smack dab in the middle of the entire mess.
I had zero tolerance for argument. Too much carnage, too many innocents killed to get me here. Willing to shoot first, I scanned eyes, weapons, trigger fingers. Interpreted intent within hostile stares. I could take all five if needed. I might catch a bullet in the process, but five dead bodies added to the night’s favela count would be assured if it hit the fan. I was fine with that.
“It is protection, gringo. Men at your back,” said the one who’d head-signaled me.
“Not going to happen.”
He considered his options. His boss had sent him to fetch me, and a shootout was not an ordered outcome. He muttered under his breath and arranged his men in a phalanx with him in the lead. He glanced over his shoulder, snarled, and gave another head signal to follow. I did.
We climbed. Our own little mini-Roman legion, formation tight, winding through packed and stacked abodes along narrow walkways. Five minutes later we crossed an actual roadway—a lane-and-a-half wide. Entered Vampire’s turf, evidenced though the newly relaxed postures of my escort troops. We continued climbing until a mini-square appeared. A five-alleyway intersection, houses crammed together, a street bar set outside a hole-in-the-wall beer and liquor dispensary. And a two-story reclaimed brick and concrete flat-roofed house, lower windows shuttered, door open. Our destination.
Several of Vampire’s soldiers hung at makeshift tables, drinking. Others lingered along each intersecting path. All were armed. My escort led me toward the drug lord’s home and place of business. Concrete stairs led upward. Three entered. The other two moved away, wandered over and chatted with fellow gang members. I waited outside the door, framed by the interior light. The three who’d entered blocked my view of the head honcho as they talked. But an assessment of the room’s layout was available. A makeshift kitchen toward the back. Hand-plastered walls, the red brick exposed in large patches.
The wall decor consisted of revolutionary depictions—posters taped or representations hand-painted. Old Soviet iconography, fists thrust upward, red flags fluttering, the hammer and sickle as savior. Two circle-A anarchist symbols—one in blood red, the other black. Plus the ubiquitous Che Guevara poster. I’d come to the right place.
I assessed the outside situation. Fifteen, maybe twenty, armed minions. Women stood and chatted in lit doorways, watching. A few kids scampered past. Somewhere nearby, meat grilled. One of the men at a table tossed his beer bottle into a beat-up steel drum. The bottle broke, joining dozens of others. Welcome to Vampire’s drugs, death, and revolution World Headquarters.
While scoping the area, I sighted a small cigarette butt pile alongside the two concrete steps outside Vampire’s castle. Bright white butts. Closer inspection revealed each had been puffed on two or three times, then ground out. I retrieved one. Davidoff. A Swiss cigarette.
Chapter 26
His men made way, and Vampire approached the open door. Shaved head, sharp triangle tattoos both above and below his lips. A coiled snake centered across his forehead. Weird random images on each cheek—a set of lips, knives, lightning bolts, circular patterns. Each tat done with indigo blue against mocha skin. The look wouldn’t age well, but I doubted Vampire planned a long life. A Brazilian semiauto pistol protruded from his waistband. Hands gripped the doorframe above me, a hooded stare, and an open shirt exposing more tats.
“How do you know your friend?”
“Fellow scientists, mutual friends. We’re worried about her. She disappeared.”
It wouldn’t jibe with me holding a gun to her head while headed downhill, but start with a
semblance of the truth and build from there. It kept things simpler.
“She did not disappear.”
He leaned through the doorway, arms supporting his position. Performed mini-pushups against the doorframe and scanned his troops. High as a kite—rapid involuntary eye movement, faltering balance. A consideration for subsequent actions.
“Okay. Maybe she didn’t disappear. Maybe she’s lost. But I have to talk with her. We’re worried.”
One of the men at his back clanged pots in the kitchen area. My conversation with Vampire—at this point, benign—lowered the crowd’s on-edge vibe. A vibe prone to a rapid one-eighty change if this drug-addled clown decided to prevent me from seeing Amsler.
“You are worried. Yes. You should be worried.”
His body wavered as he spoke. One of the inside men strolled forward and patted his boss on the ribs. Please move aside. Vampire removed an arm from the doorjamb. The guy edged past, descended the two steps, and delivered me a hard shoulder bump before calling to his friends at the outdoor tables. My had-enough-of-this-shit meter redlined. Amsler occupied the upper floor. I wasn’t leaving this favela without her. So here’s the deal, Vampire, old buddy. Buckle up. It’s a guaranteed ugly ride.
I gave a quick thought to actions once I had Amsler. It required a plan, however fragile. I came up empty, but within a very short time things would become a frenzy of wild activity. Opportunity would arrive amid the mayhem and chaos. Always did.
“You do not look like a member of our cause. Our efforts,” Vampire continued. He called toward his troops spread across the small square. “Does he look like one of us, meus soldados?”
His men returned insulting remarks, laughed. One made squealing pig noises. Vampire’s chin flopped onto his chest, wild eyes focused my way.
“No. I do not think you are one of us. And I do not think you are her friend.”
He’d try and kill me soon. A dozen armed men scattered among the outdoor bar tables. More leaned against the walls within the five dark warren-ways culminating at this semi-open patch of space. Back exposed, a sky-high drug lord at my front revved up about my uninvited appearance. Not the best situation. The weird part—I didn’t give a damn. I’d come too far, been through too much. I’d play the cards as they were dealt, and I held a .40 caliber joker or two of my own.
Vampire angled far forward, arms straining, balance handicapped. “I believe you work for someone else. Someone who declares war against our efforts.”
“Who would that be, Vampire?”
“You are an Americano. The CIA. You are CIA.”
Sure, why not? As good a trigger point as any, and enough of this crap and let’s get the party started.
“Yeah. That’s me. CIA.”
The confession froze him, facial expression washed with rage. He clutched his pistol grip—a clear signal for his men as well. It also signaled his last act on this earth. My Glock spoke first and sent a bullet through Vampire’s forehead snake. I followed it. Leapt upward through the door, attacked. Rapid concussive booms as I double tapped the nearest inside thug. Two chest shots in quick succession. I slid right, back against the brick wall. Plaster and brick dust exploded near my head as the final inside guy managed a halfway decent shot. I returned the favor. Another double tap, indoor enemies eliminated. Game on.
Gunfire from the crowd outside popped against brick and through the open door—impotent, wasted shots. I sprinted up the stairs, pistol at the ready. Aware that Amsler’s revolutionary fervor, her gun blazing, might greet me. I entered an empty room.
Two wooden desks, with desktop computers. Wiring strewn along the walls, held with adhesive tape. A five-foot-high stack of duct-taped, bundled packages. Meth or coke or heroin. A lone mattress occupied the floor, sheets disheveled. Amsler had taken one for the team. The funk of unwashed bodies and chemical drugs and remnant tobacco smoke filled the space. I scoured the desks—nothing other than more cigarette butts collected in a tin can. Oh, man. Gone.
A plywood divider separated the crude bathroom. I cut across the stairway entrance, pistol aimed downstairs. No activity yet, although the calls and cries outside indicated a semi-coordinated attack was forming. The toilet lid seat up, a few blond hairs in the sink. Otherwise, nothing. Gone, gone.
I killed the room’s light and collected myself for a moment, absorbing the fact she’d fled. I flashed to the old man in the adjacent favela who mentioned he’d seen her yesterday. It would have been damn nice if he’d mentioned that she’d been dragging a suitcase behind her. And a large straw tote bag over one shoulder.
Snap out of it, Lee. Gotta move. Gotta get the hell out of here. Downstairs—nothing but screwed, blued, and tattooed as the sound of scuffling feet and cries filled the lower room. I considered a bedroom window exit. A tactic eliminated when automatic gunfire exploded below and sent a bullet string through the window, driving holes in the ceiling plaster. Gone, gone, she’s gone. All of it, the whole kit and caboodle, dead-ended here and now. Oh, man. Another pointless rip of gunfire across the ceiling from the alleyway below. It began sounding like Armageddon around the building. Alright, Lee. Snap out of it. Gotta move, gotta haul it.
The bathroom’s small window presented the lone option. It faced, three feet away, another shack’s corrugated tin wall. Below, a one-person passageway. A passageway soon stacked with wild-eyed thugs seeking revenge. Back—gotta watch my back. The room lights below funneled up the stairs, an illuminated rectangle on the wall opposite the stairway entrance. Framed shadows moved and shifted within the rectangle. Bogies climbed stairs, headed my way. Gotta move, gotta get the hell out of here. But I wasn’t leaving armed killers at my back.
I plopped on the floor near the stairway entrance, back hunched, knees drawn. A forward thrust, floor level, and I exposed head and upper shoulders to the encroaching enemy. And also exposed a two-handed grip on the Glock. The lead bogie caught it first, the one pressed behind him next. The third, at the foot of the stairs, ripped shots my way, striking the cement stair entrance near my face. The contained thunderclaps echoed, rattled. A headshot ended it. A piercing sting high on my cheek, blood dripping. I scrambled up and darted into the bathroom. A quick glance below at the alley—still empty for the moment. And a moment was all I needed. I dropped a near-spent magazine on the floor, slammed a full-load one home. Shoved the Glock into my pocket. Felt my cheek and removed a concrete shard. Gotta move.
Hated this part. Momentary exposure, weapon unavailable. No option. I shinnied through the tight window, strained for a handhold, stood on the windowsill. Gripped the rooftop, pulled myself up and over. Objective achieved—get on the roof. And just in time. One of them cut down the alley below and viewed my final rooftop lurch. He screamed his discovery and fired several shots toward my half-second-ago position.
My near-term tactic was clear—remain rooftop bound. The direction set—downhill. A leap across an alleyway onto a neighboring roof. Then another. Some roofs were planked and tarpaper-covered, others tin. I aimed for discernible rafters under the tin, prayed they would hold my weight. But I couldn’t disguise the clatter of each landing. Another leap, shots fired. They zipped past, too close for comfort. Another rooftop. Estimating my traverse, one of the enemy scaled a two-story shack and laid in wait on a rooftop. Hoped I’d land there. Missed me by one house. He cut loose as I hauled across tin-rattling rafters, striding toward me as he fired. These cats required immediate negative feedback. Feedback delivered when I paused, aimed, and took care of business. His body, in motion toward the roof’s edge, tumbled down. More cries, shouts, gunshots. Deep shit city, Lee. Gotta move, gotta haul it.
Another fired his assault rifle from a second-floor window. His backlit position provided a perfect frame. Paused, aimed, toppled him. They tracked me, anticipated my direction, dashed ahead. A tactic confirmed at the next rooftop. As I landed and sprinted accompanied with tin clatters, shots exploded from the room below and punched through the metal roof. The holes, room light below shin
ing through, followed my pounding steps. I didn’t return blind fire—didn’t know who else filled the space under my feet.
Five loud foot-pounds and airborne again. The next roof was wood and tarpaper. Thank God. It allowed for an altered direction, ninety degrees, with much less noise. Three more rooftops. An unseen clothesline caught me across the chest and caused me to stumble. Far below, the lights of Rio. Their reflection rippled across still ocean. I changed direction again. Head for the big city lights. Relative safety. Gotta move, gotta fly.
Four rooftops later, my luck ran out. I hit a rafter while landing, but it gave way. Sharp-edged tin raked my flesh as I tumbled into someone’s second-floor home. I crash-landed with a hard thump and an even harder out-breath. The residents—a woman and a young child—screamed. Understandable. I scrambled up, tested my twisted ankle. A window stood open and I made a decision. Enough of this crap. Enough rooftops. Hit the ground, return fire, run like hell. Make constant cuts through warren-holes. A quick “Sorry” toward the mom and no hesitation—I leapt through the second-floor window.
Two of them, alerted by the screams, dashed around a nearby corner as I hit air. They slammed on the brakes, rifles raised. I sent a wall of lead in their direction, rapid fire. A desperate move, firing shots with no great accuracy, focused on delivering volume in their general direction. But hell’s bells, I was airborne, descending fast. I hit the ground with an “oomph,” rolled, remained flat. Bullets ricocheted off the stone wall above my head. Our collective fire boomed, echoed along the narrow alley, deafened and lifted and rolled across the hills.
I was more than a little tired of this crap. A half-second aim, two double taps delivered, two bodies crumpled. I hustled upright, ankle screaming, and ejected the magazine. Slammed the last load of ammo home. Hauled ass again, downhill bound.