“Negative. Stay there.” Chavez sprinted up the street and reached the Hyundai in thirty seconds. “Okay, go. Left at the intersection, then turn left and pull up to the stop sign.”
Dominic did as instructed. As they reached the stop sign, Hadi passed in front of them, heading north. Dominic let two cars pass, then pulled out.
Fifteen minutes later: “Someone’s on us,” Dominic said. “Or Hadi.”
Chavez glanced in the side mirror. “Blue Lancia?”
“And two more behind that. Green Fiat compact, red Ford Corcel.”
“What the fuck? You sure?”
“Saw the Fiat and the Ford circle the block twice while I was going around behind the café. Can’t be the cops.”
“Yeah, why?”
“Cops would be better at it. They’re in a goddamned convoy.”
Chavez checked their map. “Let’s get a face.”
Dominic slowed beside a parking spot and put on his blinker. Behind them, the Lancia honked its horn. Chavez stuck his hand out the window and waved him past. As the Lancia swerved and sped by, Chavez glanced over.
“Looked like the same ethnic persuasion as Hadi. His partners in crime, you think?”
“Could be. Maybe Hadi didn’t make a clean break.”
Dominic let the third car, the Corcel, pass, then waited five beats, then pulled out and fell in behind it.
Musa’s third day of travel went as smoothly as his first two, and by late afternoon he reached his final overnight stop: Winnemucca, Nevada; population 7,030; 350 miles northwest of Las Vegas.
81
TO HIS CREDIT, Hadi did his best to dry-clean himself on the way to the Rocinha, skirting the slums for two hours as he drove in circles and doubled back, looking for signs of pursuit that should have been plain to him. The Lancia, the Fiat, and the Corcel remained in convoy formation, never changing places and never more than a hundred yards from Hadi’s rear bumper.
“We’ve got a decision to make,” Dominic said. “Better do it now, before it’s made for us.” If he and Chavez had a chance to snatch Hadi and his three partners, did they go for it or concentrate on Hadi alone?
“The more, the merrier,” Chavez said, “but we gotta remember it’s just you and me, and the Rio cops wouldn’t see any difference between us and Hadi’s group if things go sideways.”
At 6:15 they broke off their pursuit and made their way back to the Rocinha’s southern entrance. Leaving Hadi on his own was a risk, they knew, but neither knew anything about the meeting’s location; they would have to hope Hadi’s pursuers didn’t decide to intercept him in the next forty-five minutes.
The sun was slipping behind the mountains to the west, casting the slums in golden light.
While the Portuguese translation of Rocinha was “Little Ranch,” Dominic and Chavez saw nothing small about it. Covering roughly three-quarters of a mile from north to south and a quarter-mile from east to west, the slums were situated in a shallow, sloping valley bracketed on both sides by thickly forested hills and cliffs. Shaded by crisscrossing clotheslines and makeshift canvas awnings, the narrow streets meandered up slopes of densely packed and pastel-painted saltbox apartments, many so close that their balconies touched and their rooflines merged. Crumbling concrete and brick stairways covered in climbing vines rose up from the streets and disappeared behind buildings. Telephone and power poles festooned with hundreds of feet of exposed wires and cables extended in every direction. Lining every alley were dozens upon dozens of huts made from planks and corrugated tin. Sewage ran down shallow gutters filled with trash.
“Unbelievable,” Dominic said.
“How many people in this place?”
“Hundred thousand at least. Maybe a hundred fifty.”
They found a parking spot down the block from the pool hall and got out. “You take the back, I’ll take the front. Gimme fifteen minutes, then come on in.”
“Roger.”
Dominic headed down the street and turned the corner. Chavez walked across the street, bought a bottle of Coke from a street vendor, then leaned against a wall beneath an awning. Down the block, a lone streetlamp flickered to life. Ten minutes passed. No sign of Hadi, the Lancia, the Fiat, or the Corcel. He finished his Coke, handed it back to the vendor, then walked across the street and into the pool hall.
It wasn’t so much a hall as a double garage-sized room with two pool tables in the center, a bar on the right, and hard-back chairs lining the opposite wall. At the rear of the bar was a seating area with four round tables and chairs. In the corner, a set of three steps leading down to a door labeled “Exit” in Portuguese. Beneath plastic stained-glass hanging lights, he could see men clustered around the pool tables. The air was thick with smoke.
Ding took a seat at the bar and ordered a beer. Five minutes later the back door opened and Dominic walked in. He walked up to the bar, ordered a beer, then took it to the back, choosing a table.
At five after seven, the front door opened and Hadi walked in. He stood near the door, nervously looking about. Dominic raised his beer bottle to shoulder height and nodded at Hadi, who hesitated, then headed in Dominic’s direction.
The front door opened again. The Lancia driver walked in. Like Hadi, he stood still for thirty seconds, scanning the interior. His shirt was untucked, and on his right hip Chavez could see a familiar-shaped bump. The man’s scan stopped suddenly as he saw Hadi, who was just approaching Dominic’s table. The man started after him. Dominic let him pass, then got off his stool.
“Where’s my money, asshole?” Chavez said in Portuguese.
The man spun around, fists coming up. Chavez raised his hands to ear height. “Easy, easy-”
He slapped his right palm down on the man’s face, shattering his nose. He staggered backward, and Chavez followed, delivering a thumb-punch to the hollow beneath his larynx. The man went down. The other patrons watched curiously but made no move to intervene. Debts were debts.
At the back of the room, Dominic was already out of his seat and marching Hadi out the back door.
Chavez walked up to Lancia and stepped on his gun hand, then jerked the gun from his belt. “You speak English?”
The man sputtered.
“Nod if you speak English.”
The man nodded.
“Get to your feet or I’ll shoot you dead right here.”
Dominic was waiting in the alley. It was fully dark now. To the left, the alley ended in a wall, into which was set a stairway leading up into darkness; to their right, twenty yards away, the mouth of the alley.
Hadi stood against the brick wall beside a cluster of garbage cans. Dominic had his gun out and tucked behind his thigh. Chavez shoved Lancia from behind, and he stumbled into the wall beside Hadi.
“Who are you?” Hadi asked.
“Shut up,” Dominic growled.
Chavez saw Dom’s fingers curling and uncurling on the butt of his gun. “Easy, Dom.” He picked up a wad of newspaper from the ground and tossed it to Lancia. “Wipe your nose.”
“Fuck you.”
The door burst open beside them. Silhouetted by the dim light from the pool hall, Chavez saw a figure standing a few feet back from the threshold. His hand came up, extended toward them. Chavez double-tapped him in the chest, and he fell back. Chavez kicked the door shut.
“Go, Dom.” He leveled his gun with Hadi and Lancia. “Move.”
At the mouth of the alley, a figure was running toward him. A gun muzzle flashed orange, then twice more. Chavez sidestepped behind the garbage cans and fired twice. The figure dodged to one side.
“Stairs,” Chavez ordered.
Prodding Lancia and Hadi along, Dom headed for the stairs. Chavez back-walked with them until he felt his shoulders bump into the wall, then turned and followed.
Charging up the steps on the heels of Dominic, Chavez reached the top and looked around. An alley stretched to the left and to the right; above them, overhanging balconies. Behind them and to the right, another re
ctangle set into another brick wall. Chavez gestured toward it. Dominic nodded and shoved Lancia and Hadi up the steps. Behind, Chavez heard the scuff of a shoe and looked back down the steps. Their pursuer was there, head peeking around the corner. Chavez pulled back, went still. After ten seconds of silence, the scuff of a shoe echoed up the steps.
Chavez tucked his gun into his belt, took two steps to the right, then reached above his head and snagged the balcony’s lower rail. He chinned himself up, then reached again, grabbing the upper rail and pulling himself over. He dropped flat on the balcony.
The footsteps continued coming: Step… pause. Step… pause… In the distance, sirens were warbling. Would gunshots be enough to get the police to come into the Rocinha? he wondered. He closed his eyes and listened, waiting for the echo to change.
Step… pause. The shoe scuffed again. No echo this time. The man passed beneath Chavez’s balcony, obviously trying to decide. Alley or stairs? He chose the stairs. Chavez quietly rose to his knees, braced his gun on the railing, and fired, putting a single round into the back of the man’s head.
He jumped down, ran to the body, did a hurried frisk, then charged up the stairs. Dominic was waiting at the top, crouched down behind a Dumpster with Lancia and Hadi. A hundred yards away, the alley opened into a parking lot faintly illuminated by streetlamps. From somewhere close by came the bouncing of a basketball and kids shouting back and forth.
“We’re down to two,” Chavez said.
“We’ll make due with these.”
Chavez dropped the items he’d taken from the dead man on the ground: passport, a wad of cash, a set of car keys. He picked up the keys and dangled them before Lancia and Hadi. “Which car, the Fiat or the Corcel?”
Neither man answered.
Dominic grabbed Hadi by the hair, jerked his head back, and jammed the barrel of his gun between his lips. Hadi resisted, clenching his teeth. Dominic took his opposite hand and slapped Hadi hard on the side of his windpipe. He gasped. Dominic jammed his gun into Hadi’s mouth.
“Five seconds and I’ll spray your brains down this alley.” Hadi didn’t respond. Dominic jammed the gun deeper. Hadi started retching. “Four seconds. Three seconds.”
Chavez watched his partner, watched his eyes. Facial expressions can be manufactured when necessary, but the eyes were a little trickier to get right. The look in Dominic’s eyes told Ding he was serious.
“Dom…”
“Two seconds…”
“Dom!” Chavez rasped.
Hadi was nodding, raising his hands in supplication. Dominic withdrew the gun, and Hadi said, “Ford Corcel.”
Lancia growled, “You’re a traitor.”
Dominic pointed the gun at Lancia’s left eye. “You’re next. Where’s it parked?”
Lancia didn’t respond.
“This time you get three seconds,” Dominic said, then shifted his gun, jamming it against Lancia’s knee. “Then a cane for life.”
“One block east of the pool hall, middle of the block on the south side.”
Chavez said to Dom, “Go grab it. I’ll babysit our friends.”
Fifteen minutes later, Chavez heard a honk and looked down the alley. The Corcel was sitting there, side door open. He got Lancia and Hadi up and walking. At the car, he prodded them into the backseat. “Found this in the trunk,” Dominic said, holding up a small coil of rusted baling wire.
Chavez leaned over the seat. “Gimme your hands.”
Dominic started driving.
“We’re gonna need some privacy,” Chavez said. He sat sideways in the passenger seat, gun resting on the backrest.
“I think I’ve got the place. Saw it on the way here.”
The building was nearly identical to all the others-four-story rectangle with one door and balconied windows-except that the windows and door were boarded up. On the side of the building, a set of steps overgrown with shrubbery rose into the darkness. An official-looking seal was plastered across the front door. In Portuguese it read “Condemned.”
“Here,” Dominic said. “Be right back.”
He got out, shoved his way through the overgrown steps, and disappeared. He was back in two minutes. He nodded at Chavez, who got out and fell in behind Lancia and Hadi as they followed Dominic up the steps. After about thirty feet, the shrubbery thinned out and the steps turned right onto a porch. Like the one below, the back door was emblazoned with the “Condemned” seal, but this one was hanging by only its bottom hinge. Dominic lifted the door free and set it to one side. Chavez ordered Hadi and Lancia inside.
Under the glow of Dominic’s LED penlight, it quickly became clear why the building had been condemned. The walls, floor, and ceiling were covered in soot and in some places charred down to the supports. The floor was a checkerboard of melted linoleum tiles, charred plywood, and open holes, through which they could see the lower floors.
“Sit down,” Chavez ordered them.
“Where?” Lancia snapped.
“Anywhere that isn’t a hole. Sit.”
They complied.
Dominic said, “I’m gonna have a look around.”
Chavez sat down across from their prisoners, listening as Dominic rummaged through the other rooms. He came back with a tarnished kerosene lantern. He gave it a shake; fluid sloshed inside. He set it down in the corner and lit it. Hissing yellow light filled the room.
Chavez looked over to Dom and shrugged. Dominic said, “You’re the boss; your show.”
Chavez got up, walked closer to Lancia and Hadi, then knelt down again. “I’m gonna talk for a little bit. I want you to listen. Closely. I ain’t gonna bullshit you, and I don’t want you to bullshit me. If we get along, you two stand a much better chance of seeing sunrise. What’re your names?”
Neither man answered.
“Come on, just first names, so we can talk.”
“Hadi.”
The other one hesitated, his lips pressed tightly together. Finally he said, “Ibrahim.”
“Good, thanks. Listen, we know you two, and your two dead friends, did the Paulinia refinery. We know this, so let’s not talk about that again. We’re not cops, and we’re not here to arrest you for the refinery.”
“Then who are you?” Hadi asked.
“Someone else.”
“What makes you think we were involved with that place?” Ibrahim asked.
“How do you think?” This Chavez said with a half-smile and a fleeting glance at Hadi.
“Why do you look at me?”
To Ibrahim, Chavez asked, “Why were you chasing Hadi?” Ibrahim didn’t answer, so Chavez continued: “I’m going to take a wild guess at something: You did the refinery job but didn’t count on the smoke closing down the São Paulo airport, so you went to plan B-come to Rio. You get here, then things go bad. Hadi goes on the run; Ibrahim, you chase after him. Why?”
“Why don’t you care about the refinery?” Ibrahim pressed.
“Not our country, not our problem. Why were you chasing him?”
“He’s a traitor.”
Hadi snapped, “You’re a liar. You’re the traitor. You, or Ahmed, or Fa’ad. You leaked the sketch.”
“What sketch?”
“The one on the television. I saw it; it looked like me. Who else could have given it to them?”
“Who told you all this?”
“The Em-when I saw the sketch, I made contact. There was a message waiting. It said you’d betrayed me and that I had to run.”
“You were tricked.”
“I authenticated it. It was genuine.”
Ibrahim was shaking his head. “No, you’re wrong. We didn’t betray you.”
Chavez said, “So you and your friends just wanted to catch up with him and chat, is that it?”
“Yes.”
Chavez leaned closer to Hadi. “That’s bullshit, and you know it. Whether that message was real or not, all they knew was you were running. Probably to the police. They weren’t going to take that chance. You kno
w it’s true.”
Hadi said nothing.
“Okay, so here’s the deal,” Chavez said. “As far as we’re concerned-”
“We still don’t know who you are.”
“Don’t our accents tell you something?”
“Americans.”
“Right. As far as we’re concerned, the refinery is off the table. What we want to know is who’s operating in the U.S. How many cells, where they’re located… All that.”
“Fuck you,” said Ibrahim.
Chavez heard Dominic standing up behind him. He turned to see him walking into the kitchen. He turned back to Hadi. “How about you? Just give us-”
He heard Dominic’s footsteps returning, but at a faster pace and with purpose. He turned. His gun wrapped in a mold-encrusted dish towel, Dominic walked up to Ibrahim, put the gun against his left knee, and pulled the trigger. The towel muffled the shot to a muted pop. Ibrahim screamed. Dominic stuffed a second towel in his mouth.
Chavez said, “Dom, Jesus…”
Dominic shifted the gun again and fired a round into Ibrahim’s right knee. Ibrahim thrashed, screaming into the towel, his head banging against the wall behind him. Dominic crouched down beside him and slapped his face hard, once, twice, then a third time. Ibrahim went quiet. Tears streamed down his face. Hadi had shrunk away from his partner, trying to slide himself down the wall.
Chavez pointed at him. “Not another inch.” He grabbed Dominic’s arm and tried to stand him up. Dominic didn’t budge but just crouched there, slump-shouldered beside Ibrahim, staring into his face.
“Dom! Get up.”
Dominic tore his eyes off Ibrahim and stood up. Chavez pulled him into the kitchen. “What the fuck was that?”
“The talk therapy wasn’t working, Ding.”
“Not your call to make. Christ, get ahold of yourself. He’s useless to us now. A bullet in each knee… we’ll be lucky if he can string two words together.”
Dominic shrugged. “Hadi’s our guy anyway. He was a courier. Ibrahim is a cell leader. He knows Paulinia and that’s it.”
Dead or Alive Page 61