Wes zoomed the lens, scanning left then right and back again but the smoke from the tear gas was too thick. There was a sudden staccato burst of gunfire as the crowd shrieked and attempted to get down the streets away from the police. Simon emerged from the crowd, riding low and tight to the bike, one hand holding the handle, his second scrambling to grip Jaime’s forearm as he slumped forward onto Simon’s back, his helmet lolling as Simon struggled to keep the bike balanced and hold onto Jaime simultaneously.
“Shit! Fucking shit,” Evan muttered, spinning around and shouting something to the boy in Portuguese as he ran for the door. “Wes, keep your ass here. DO NOT MOVE!” he commanded over his shoulder as he slammed out the front door.
Wes saw the boy running into the bathroom. He turned to look over the balcony again, searching for Simon and Jaime through the zoom. When he finally caught sight of them amid the masses, Simon had abandoned the bike. He’d slung Jaime’s inert body over his shoulder as he continued down the street with the crowd. Wes caught sight of Evan fighting the deluge toward them, ducking and rushing as several masked demonstrators tossed Molotovs at the advancing police barricade. The tear gas became so dense, it made Wes’s eyes water and his throat burn. He pulled a bandanna from his pocket, wrapping it around his nose and mouth as he squinted around the apartment, looking for the boy. He was relieved to see the boy hadn’t left the bathroom. Wes swung around, gripping his camera, trying to see through the lens with tearing eyes. He finally caught sight of Evan blocking like a lineman while Simon followed, carrying Jaime over his shoulders as people shoved and poured around them.
Wes backed off the balcony, rushing to close the shutter doors against the fumes. He ran toward the back of the apartment, looking for a bedroom. He ripped a blanket off the bed, dragging it out to the kitchen. Wes knocked everything off the kitchen table, covering it with the blanket, shouting for the boy to come out in broken Portuguese. He grabbed paper towels off the kitchen counter. The boy peeked out, holding what looked to be a makeshift medical kit. Wes smiled encouragingly at him, gesturing him to bring it over. He had gauze, cotton balls, SpongeBob Band-Aids, antiseptic, and tampons. Wes fought off near hysterical laughter just as Evan burst through the door.
“Jaime’s been shot,” Evan told Wes breathlessly. “I need you to get up to the roof of this place. See if there’s enough space for a chopper to land. GO!”
Simon moved into the doorway more slowly, careful not to jar Jaime’s unconscious body against the door jamb while Evan spoke to the boy, asking for other supplies as Simon laid Jaime down carefully on the blanketed table. Wes spared Jaime a glance. His skin was blanched and damp with perspiration. Blood seeped from his lower left shoulder through the jacket he’d been wearing.
“Wes,” Evan barked as Simon laid Jaime onto the table. “GO, goddammit! I need to know if I can get a bird here. Call me from up there.”
Wes headed into the hallway, looking for a staircase. Given the age of the building and the lack of an elevator, he doubted it was more than a mid-rise. He leapt up the stairs, two at a time, grabbing the metal banister as he swung around up another flight. When he made it to the top, he glanced up and down the halls, only seeing apartment doors.
“Christ Almighty, come on!” Wes panted, running down one hall, then another. He slammed into a window at the end of the hall toward the back of the building, trying to see outside the dingy window. He caught sight of an old fire escape just outside. “Fuck!” He yanked futilely at the window handle. The frame must have been painted shut years ago. He’d have to break it open.
Wes stepped back and leveled a side kick at the lower part of the window. He felt the give, but it didn’t shatter. He stepped back again and heaved, sending as much power into his leg as he could, focusing on weakest part of the glass and frame. The window exploded open, shards of glass falling out and around. He withdrew his foot carefully, whipping off his jacket to cover his arm as he knocked the rest of the glass out.
Wes levered himself up and out, clasping the metal brackets of the little fire escape. He climbed quickly, hustling over the railing. The roof was probably large enough for a helicopter to land, but it looked suspiciously soft in the afternoon heat. He could hear the shouts and commotion of the crowd clearly from up here. Wes ran across the roof, confirming his suspicion that it’d be too weak to hold up enough for a landing. He was amazed he’d made it across without falling through the softening tar in the afternoon heat. He palmed his phone.
“Tell me we can do this,” Evan answered, still breathless. “It’s bad. The bullet’s too deep. We think it got his lung. We need to get him to a hospital.”
“We have two logistical issues,” Wes answered quickly. “The fire escape is a partially enclosed ladder outside the back hallway window. Two men can’t fit in the enclosure. The roof is plenty big but it’s weak. I could feel parts sinking while I ran across it.” He glanced around. “There’s a modern office building two buildings to the west. Can you get a bird to land there?”
“It’ll have to work. Get back down here,” Evan told him.
“On it,” Wes replied, already hustling back toward the railing.
When he made it back to the apartment, the blanket was already covered in blood. Jaime’s head lay to the side, his bloody jacket and shirt torn off and on the floor. Evan had packed the wound with tobacco from one of Simon’s cigarettes and was pushing a tampon into the bullet hole to staunch the bleeding. The little boy was patting Jaime’s forehead with a damp towel while Wes murmured calmly to him in Portuguese. Simon stood at the balcony, talking rapidly into his earpiece.
“Help me lift him,” Evan told him. Wes stood at Jaime’s shoulders at the end of the table, gently picking him up. Evan smeared what looked like Vaseline on a swath of gauze he applied to the wound. He began wrapping the torn strips of a sheet around his shoulder, neck and chest. Jaime was gray, his skin clammy, his dark hair wet with sweat.
“We both need to carry him out,” Evan told him as he bundled the blanket back around Jaime, trying to normalize his dropping body temperature. “Simon’s clearing the path, okay? I’ll have his injured side. You need to hold onto his other shoulder and leg like this.” Evan showed Wes what to do.
“The boy?” Wes asked. The little boy was standing in the living room, watching everything with fearful eyes.
“He’s a latchkey kid. His mom works at one of the offices downtown. The safest thing for him is to stay locked up here. I gave him money to give his mom for the mess,” Evan explained.
“Simon, grab my camera,” Wes said as he and Evan lifted Jaime. The walk down the stairwell and out of the building toward the SUV was long and arduous. Wes had never carried dead weight before, and he certainly hadn’t done it while trying to avoid people running for their lives. The mass exodus of protesters had fully given way to a clash between police and a mixture of people from masked anarchists to furious unionists, hurling rocks and bottles, setting things on fire. Thankfully, some of the tear gas had dispersed, making it slightly easier to breathe. Though the crowd had lessened slightly as people ran off or sought shelter, the once charming Avenida Almirante Barroso looked like a scene out of Kandahar. Simon led the charge, blatantly pushing people out of the way as he pressed toward the office building.
Two security guards stood inside the revolving doors, watching the commotion. Simon shouted for them to open the doors they guarded. The guards shook their heads vehemently, gesturing for him to step back. Simon pointed toward Jaime, shouting in Portuguese. The guards looked at each other, unsure of what to do. A worried-looking office worker rushed them from behind, speaking urgently to the guards while gesturing toward Jaime. Another worker followed and another, clearly trying to convince the guard to open the doors. Simon continued to shout through the glass, gesturing toward Jaime.
Wes felt his arms growing heavy from holding Jaime up, but the adrenaline was still surging through his veins. Some combination of the people inside pleading with the gua
rds, Simon’s constant shouting or Jaime’s bleeding and prone body must have snapped the guards out of their wariness. One leaned down, unlocking the door. Simon pushed in, speaking to the guards in halting Portuguese, clearly asking about the elevators and access to the roof and a helipad. One of the workers pleading their case to the guards pushed toward Jaime, pulling the blanket down. She asked them questions, checking his pulse. Evan answered. Wes looked between the two, trying to figure it out.
“She’s a trained nurse,” Evan explained. “Simon, do they have a helipad?”
“Yeah, mate. We gotta get our fuckin’ asses up there,” Simon responded grimly, following one of the guards toward the elevator banks as the second guard locked the door, barring workers trying to leave and other people attempting to get in from outside with an assault rifle. Simon spoke into his earpiece rapidly, exacting their location to someone on the other end. “Talon’s got the chopper on its way,” he informed them as they followed the guard into the elevator.
The guard eyed them warily, clutching his AK-47 like he might have to use it. The Brazilian nurse called to her colleagues. One ran forward with a large medical kit. She fumbled in it, pulling out some sort of pack.
“What’s that?” Wes breathed, watching her tear it open, wrapping and pressing it against Jaime’s wound.
“An Olaes bandage,” Evan explained. “It’s like a tourniquet. It seals the wound temporarily. We use it in the field.”
“Rush.” Wes heard a weak voice in the tense silence. The hoarse whisper had come from Jaime. Wes glanced down. Jaime was staring blearily up at Evan from his prone position.
“I’m here, buddy. We got you,” Evan assured told him.
“Rush. Maddie… Maddie…” Jaime babbled incoherently, his eyes glazed.
“She’s okay,” Evan assured him. “She’s okay,” he said again and again, trying to reassure him.
The elevator doors slid open. The guard went out first, gesturing toward a large metal door indicating roof access. He unlocked it and Simon ran up, glancing around, looking for the chopper as he spoke into the earpiece again.
The noise from the riots on the street were muted at this height but still discernible. The guard left them to go back downstairs, slamming the door behind him.
“Less than three mikes out,” Simon shouted at Evan.
“Maddie,” Jaime whispered brokenly before passing out, his head dropping to the side.
“Who’s Maddie?” Wes asked Evan as they waited for the unmistakable sounds of helicopter blades slicing through the thick, humid air.
Evan looked up at the sky, his eyes apprehensive. “Maddie’s his daughter.”
Chapter 24
November—Tuesday afternoon
An airfield near the Wyatt Ranch, Texas
S A M A N T H A
The phone had started going off every ten minutes two hours ago with status reports about what was going down in Rio. Carey had already been in the air, on his way to client meetings in Atlanta when he’d gotten word. They’d fueled up for the trip to South America at Hartsfield-Jackson. Marvin had the Wyatt Petroleum jet sent up from Houston to come get her in record time. She’d showered and changed from her ranch wear, giving her Aunt and Uncle hasty hugs and kisses, promising an imminent return before jumping into the Jeep and gunning for the airstrip.
Sam had waited to call Jack until she knew more, but the truth was that she was dreading the call. He thought she’d been in Houston on a business trip when she’d been revisiting old wounds—and spending time licking those wounds—back home these past few days. Their conversations had been brief, her exhaustion real from working all day on the ranch, her body pleasantly sore from the labor. Jack may have been busy with work and Maddie, but he knew something was off. He was too observant and intuitive not to sense it, but he was also patient enough not to push her.
And now. Jesus Christ. Now she had to tell him that his brother was in critical condition in Rio de Janeiro and that she’d been unable to prevent it, though she’d been the one to suggest he have protection in the first place. Logically, Sam knew her men had done everything right. Hell, Rush and Simon had jumped in as well, dragging Wes into the madness, though she suspected they wouldn’t have been able to shake Wes’s involvement had they tried. If anyone was going to be front and center of a riot, it’d be Wes. It was Jaime who should never have been caught in the crossfire.
Sam slammed her hand on the steering wheel. The Brasil Telecom building had simply been too damn close to the protests. What had started as a ten-thousand-person, one-day peaceful demonstration had erupted into national mayhem, with over one hundred thousand people taking to the streets over several days, sparking similar debacles in Sao Paulo.
They should have requested a change of meeting locations. They should have kept Jaime in the office for longer. They should have choppered him out of the meeting instead of taking a vehicle.
Countless scenarios and diversions filled her mind while she sped toward the airstrip near the ranch, but she knew it was fruitless and counterproductive. They’d been trapped in a sudden tumult that only anarchists could cook up. It’d been six of her men, including Rush and Simon, against thousands. They’d gotten Jaime to the hospital, but the bullet had entered his back and played pinball with his lung, collapsing it. He was in surgery, but it was too soon to tell. She felt angry, impotent, and scared, the trifecta of the worst possible fucked-up emotions she could be experiencing in a time like this.
Sam pulled up to the airfield. The plane hadn’t landed yet, but she knew the ETA had it coming down within the next five minutes. She glanced around, watching the golden fields surrounding the small strip swaying gently in the wind, their wheat color faded against the setting sun. Sam closed her eyes, breathing in the post-storm scent of damp grass and quenched earth, trying to draw peace from her memories of this place. Her heart clenched—for Jaime, Jack, Maddie, their parents…
Distantly, Sam heard the engines of the jet. She focused on her breathing, allowing the calm to sharpen her hearing, her sense of smell, the tensile feel of the steering wheel. She felt the jet touch down on the field, heard the flaps lower to slow it down on the aging air strip. Opening her eyes, Sam re-centered and focused, stepping out of the Jeep and tucking the keys under the mat, knowing Marvin would have someone figure out the rest. She grabbed her duffel, walking to the plane as the doors opened.
Once she was situated on the plane, she reached for her phone.
“Tesoro, I was just thinking about you—” Jack started. She could hear Maddie in the background.
“Where are you?” she asked quickly, cutting him off.
“I’m picking Maddie up from dance class. Why?” he asked, sounding alert.
“I need you to call me when you’re in a private place. I need to talk to you about something.”
“Samantha—” he started. His breath hitched. “What’s going on? Where are you?”
“I’m on a plane in Texas.”
“Are you coming home?” he asked simply, as if all she needed to do was return to him.
“Jack, I need to talk to you, but I don’t want it to be with Maddie present. Can you call me back when you’ve got some privacy?” she asked, keeping her voice calm and level.
“Give me thirty minutes.”
They were the longest thirty minutes she’d experienced in a long time. She didn’t have any updates on Jaime’s condition when Jack returned her call.
“Tell me,” was the first thing out of his mouth. “Whatever it is, we’ll figure it out. Just talk to me.”
“Jaime’s been shot.”
Jack sucked in a sharp breath. She could hear rustling, as if he’d sat down right where he’d been standing.
“He’s in surgery. I don’t know what the status is, but he was in critical condition when my team choppered him to the hospital,” she continued, pausing to see if Jack would respond. When he said nothing, she continued. “There have been demonstrations going on in Rio.
He got caught in one on his way out of his meetings with Brasil Telecom. They turned violent as we were trying to get him to safety. He caught a stray bullet in his left shoulder that punctured his lung. There’s been a lot of internal bleeding and his lung collapsed. I’m on a jet to Brazil now.”
“I’m catching the first flight out or chartering a plane,” Jack responded, finding his voice.
“No. Jack, no,” Sam replied, adamant. “You need to take care of Maddie. Rush was with him, said he kept calling for his daughter. Jack, you have to take care of her. I’m already on the plane. Carey’s about an hour ahead of me. We’ve got this. I promise you we’ll do everything in our power to take care of this.”
“Like you took care of him? Like you took care of protecting him?” Jack erupted, his voice rising. “May I remind you that it was your idea to send a security team with him? He called me last night. Told me it was your idea to keep him separated from the rest of the group because you didn’t like one of the men on the trip,” he accused. “What’s happened to them? Where are they?”
Sam closed her eyes, touching her temple. “I don’t know, Jack. They weren’t our responsibility.”
“Responsibility?” Jack asked, incensed. “My little brother was your responsibility, and look at what’s happened. Motherfucking hell, Samantha, I’m coming down there, and you’re not going to stop me.”
“Jack, please—”
“Maddie has only one parent left in this world. I’ll be damned if she loses him too,” he said. “Which hospital is he at?”
Sam gave him the information, struggling to keep her voice level and calm, seeming to only agitate him further.
“I’ll call you back with my flight details. Mitch will take care of Maddie tonight until my parents can come back here,” he informed her acidly.
“Jack, please don’t do this. Take a minute to calm down—think rationally. You won’t help Jaime by being in Brazil. You’ve never even been to Rio. You don’t speak the language or have connections. Please trust me to handle this. Carey and I are on it. I swear to you. Please?” she asked, her tone increasingly urgent.
Complicated Creatures: Part One Page 38