by Ross Kemp
It wasn’t until the second half, as the fans around them revelled in their lead, that Jordan settled back in his seat and said, ‘So, you want to tell me how things are going?’
Luiz shrugged, his eyes remaining fixed on the game. ‘I’m still alive.’
‘So I see. They’re beginning to trust you?’
‘They don’t trust anyone. Especially people they’ve just met.’
‘What have you learned?’
‘Yesterday was delivery day. A shipment of drugs was being delivered somewhere downtown. I tried to go with the Comando Negro to see where, but they wouldn’t let me. I had to stay in the favela.’
Jordan nodded. ‘Yes, that would make sense. We suspect that the Comando Negro are receiving cocaine shipments via trucks coming over the Colombian border. They can’t just drive straight into Santa Marta, so the drugs are stored somewhere downtown and shipped in smaller quantities up to the favela. Once it’s safely arrived, the gang cuts up the cocaine, mixes it with chalk powder or bicarbonate of soda to make it more profitable, then sells it in the favelas in one-gram packages. Not that your average member of the Comando Negro sees much of the profits.’ He paused. ‘Anything else?’
‘This kid Dog mentioned some guy called the Doctor. Said he’s the main man, not Angel. Apparently he’s the one who’s buying the drugs.’
Jordan glanced at him sharply. ‘The Doctor? No first name? No other clues?’
Luiz shook his head. ‘Dog says he only talks to Angel. No one else has even seen him. Seeing how jumpy Dog got just talking about them makes me think the guy’s probably another psycho.’
‘Don’t make too many assumptions,’ said Jordan. ‘If this Doctor is the money man, he could be very different from your typical favela gang member. He needs some sort of cover to get the shipments in from Colombia. Maybe he’s a legitimate businessman, someone with a good reason to have trucks going back and forth across the border.’ The American frowned. ‘But if Angel is the only contact the Doctor has with the Comando Negro we may have a problem. I showed your descriptions of the gang to Juan Oliveira and he recognized your man Angel right away. His real name is Wilson Rodriguez. Until the Comando Negro set up, he ran with the Compadres.’
‘What? But he was fighting the Compadres the other night!’
‘He’s going to be fighting them for the rest of his life. You don’t just switch gangs, Luiz. On the other hand, Angel can take care of himself. He’s famous for that shotgun of his for a reason. Oliveira can’t even begin to guess how many people he’s killed. You’re going to have to be incredibly careful around him. This guy shoots first and asks questions later. Getting close enough to him isn’t going to be a walk in the park.’
Luiz gave Jordan a sideways glance. ‘No shit. I’m just waiting for him to stop punching me in the face so I can ask him a few questions.’
The American refused to rise to the bait. ‘If you think that’ll work,’ he said calmly. ‘You know what we need, Luiz. It’s up to you how you get it.’
‘That’s easy for you to say,’ Luiz grumbled. ‘You don’t know what it’s like up there!’
Darius raised an eyebrow. ‘You think I don’t know what gang life is like, son? Shit, Luiz, I wrote the book on it.’
An angry roar went up from the crowd around them. The referee was brandishing a yellow card at one of the Botafogo players, who pressed his palms together in a prayer of innocence.
‘You were in a gang?’ Luiz asked.
‘A long time ago,’ Darius said, nodding. ‘Back in Detroit.’
‘But Richard Madison said you were in the special forces!’
‘Well, for that I have to thank Judge Clarence Hopkins,’ Darius said. He chuckled at Luiz’s puzzled expression. ‘When I was eighteen, I found myself in Judge Hopkins’s courtroom, charged with a variety of automobile offences. I’m sure a car enthusiast like yourself knows how it is. Anyway, the judge gave me a choice: jail or the army.’
‘And you went into the army?’
‘Jail didn’t sound like my sort of place – though for the first couple of years in the army, I found myself wishing I was in a nice cosy cell. But eventually I adapted, got to like the military way of life – got good at it too. After a few years I was selected for Delta Force and spent ten years on counterterrorist missions all around the world: Grenada, Panama, Iraq – and some other places we don’t talk about so much. By the time I got out, I was a very different person from the eighteen-year-old boy in that courtroom. I had discipline, drive. I went into business and made a good deal of money. Carved out the sort of life a man can take pride from. Over thirty years later, I still remember the name Clarence Hopkins, and I still thank him for where he got me.’
Luiz frowned. ‘Is that why you started Trojan – because you were in a gang?’
There was a long pause before Darius replied.
‘Guilt’s a different sort of enemy from the one I was used to. I couldn’t hide from it. Couldn’t kill it. I tried to pay it off for a while – wrote out cheque after cheque back in Detroit for this special programme, that charitable foundation. But no matter how much money I spent, I was still turning on the TV and seeing young people killing one another, while governments sat back and washed their hands of it. So I decided to do something a little more proactive – contacted a few old friends from special ops and put Trojan together. Which is how we find ourselves where we are today.’
Luiz shook his head incredulously. ‘This is crazy. You’re doing all this because you hotwired a couple of cars thirty years ago?’
‘I did a lot more than steal automobiles, Luiz,’ Darius said grimly. ‘Sometimes you just don’t get caught. Believe me when I say that, had I been, I wouldn’t have been given the army option. At best, I’d still be in prison now.’
Looking into his boss’s eyes, Luiz felt a cold chill run down his spine. ‘What did you do?’
If Darius Jordan replied, his answer was drowned out by a jubilant cheer from the crowd. All around them people were clapping and bouncing up and down, waving their scarves above their heads. Luiz looked down through the melee, to see the ball nestling in the opposition net and the Botafogo players celebrating in a huddle down by the corner flag. Jordan wasn’t looking at the pitch, but gazing off into the middle distance.
‘Mr Jordan?’
Disturbed from his reverie, Jordan clapped Luiz on the shoulder. ‘Let’s get out of here,’ he said. ‘I’ve seen enough.’
They got up from their seats and walked down and out of the ground. With twenty minutes of the game remaining, the concrete plaza outside the stadium was quiet. Luiz could still hear the echoes of the crowd roaring and shouting from within Engenhão. Jordan stopped beneath a street lamp, nodding his head in the opposite direction to Santa Marta.
‘I’m going this way. Remember what I said about Angel. Take care around him. You hear anything about the Doctor, anything at all, you contact us, OK? He’s the key to this now. We find out his identity, we can bring down the Comando Negro.’
‘What about Ana?’ Luiz asked suddenly. ‘Is she OK? I want to see her.’
Jordan nodded. ‘I’ll see what I can arrange. Try not to worry about her. As long as we’re looking after her, she’s safe. Right now, you’re the one in danger.’
‘Tell me about it,’ Luiz replied.
Pulling up his hood, he slipped his hands back into the pockets of his hoodie. He could feel Jordan watching him as he turned to walk away.
‘Luiz?’
He looked back at the head of Trojan.
‘You’re doing well, son. Keep it up.’
Luiz was about to make a sarcastic reply, but bit it back when he saw the look on Darius Jordan’s face in the light of the street lamp. Instead he nodded and melted away into the night.
12. Game Over
‘Goooooaaaaaaaaalllllllllll!’
Joker’s voice echoed around the pitch as he wheeled away in triumph, arms outstretched like an aeroplane’s wings. As his team
mates rushed to join in the celebrations, the opposition threw up their arms in frustration, pointing fingers of blame at one another. The goalkeeper went trudging after the ball, abuse ringing in his ears.
The pitch was towards the summit of the Santa Marta hillside, a dusty playing surface separating two sets of goalposts, their white paint peeling in the sunlight. With Angel away at another meeting with the Doctor and the boca quiet for once, a battered football had been produced and a quick game organized. It was the happiest Luiz had been since he had re-entered Santa Marta. On the pitch he was able to forget about Trojan Industries and black ops, drug deals and the Comando Negro. There were only his teammates and the opposition.
However, what had started as a jokey kick-around was rapidly developing into something rather more serious. Luiz blamed the girls. Before they had turned up, everyone had been messing about, trying to outdo one another with extravagant tricks and ball-juggling. But when a group of pretty girls had gathered at the side of the pitch to watch, the atmosphere had tightened a notch. Nobody wanted to look stupid in front of them. Suddenly the tackles went in harder than before and no one on the pitch was laughing.
All apart from Joker, that is. Angel’s brother seemed incapable of taking anything seriously. Even now, as the ball looped up into the air towards him, he stooped over and nonchalantly trapped the ball on the back of his neck. Flicking the ball up again, he volleyed it back to his keeper – the diminutive figure of Dog, looking tiny between the goalposts.
‘Robinho can suck my dick,’ Joker cackled, grabbing his crotch. ‘I’m the best footballer in Brazil.’
For all his showboating, Luiz was glad Joker was on his team. According to Livio, Joker was the best player in the favela – good enough to have had trials with one of Rio’s youth teams, if he could have been bothered to turn up. And even on the rough, uneven surface, it was easy to see why: Joker was a slick con artist, seemingly presenting the ball to the opposition before a last-second flick or a drag-back took the ball away. His dummies invited lunging challenges, only for a sudden change of direction that left his opponents sliding in the dirt.
Given the sudden change in atmosphere, Luiz was grateful that he too was a decent player. As Joker rolled the ball towards him, he let it run through his legs and spun away from his marker, earning appreciative shouts from his side. After laying off the ball to a teammate, Luiz noticed a small brunette wearing a pink halter top smiling at him shyly from the sidelines. She blushed as Luiz grinned at her, her friends bursting into giggles.
MC Livio jogged up to Luiz, his football shirt dark with sweat stains, and nudged him in the ribs. ‘Looks like you’ve got a fan there.’
‘Maybe.’
‘Well, you can play with Marie later. For now, keep your mind on the game. It’s all square and I’m not losing to these pretty boys.’
Livio jogged off again, waving his arms and calling for the ball. Luiz had to admit, he had been amazed by how at ease the roly-poly MC was on the pitch. Despite his size, Livio had fast feet and a surprisingly nimble touch. He was right too: given the amount of good players on their side, Luiz’s team should have been winning comfortably. The fact that they weren’t was down to one reason alone: Stripe.
Ruthless and efficient with a gun in his hand, with the ball at his feet it was a different matter for the Comando Negro’s chief soldier. He stumbled around the pitch, his clumsy touches sending the ball spinning out of his control. Unwilling to accept the fact that he might be at fault, Stripe raged at his teammates for supposedly poor passes or lack of support. Were it not for the furious expression on his face, it would have been funny.
With the ball at his feet, Joker checked his watch and shouted, ‘Next goal’s the winner!’
He knocked the ball smoothly to Livio, who held the ball up before returning the pass. With the move building up on the other side of the pitch, Luiz slipped past his marker and made for the right-hand corner of the penalty area. Spotting his movement in one glance, Joker stroked an inch-perfect ball beyond the defence and into his path.
As Luiz bore down on the goal, the opposition keeper came racing from between the posts to narrow the angle. Luiz shaped to shoot, only to step over the ball and knock it towards the byline. Caught off balance, the keeper crashed into Luiz, but not before Luiz had squeezed the ball across the face of the empty net, where Stripe was charging in to smash it home. As Luiz went tumbling to the ground, he looked up, expecting to see the winning goal flying between the posts.
Instead, he watched in disbelief as Stripe screwed the ball wide.
For a few seconds there was a shocked silence. Then Joker threw his head back and roared with laughter, clutching at his sides.
‘I don’t believe it!’ he cried, pointing at Stripe. ‘You missed an empty net! Man, you suck!’
Stripe whirled round and glared at Joker.
‘Are you blind?’ he shouted back. ‘The ball bobbled up! Lousy pitch!’
He kicked the goalpost so hard it shivered. As Joker continued to point and laugh, Luiz saw a look of concern cross Livio’s face. Stripe didn’t have a sense of humour at the best of times and he was being humiliated in public here.
‘Cut it out, Joker,’ the MC called out. ‘The ball did bobble – I saw it.’
The boy ignored him. ‘Don’t worry, Stripe. Football’s not your game, that’s all. Why don’t we stop and play net-ball instead?’
No one else would have dared to mock Stripe in this way. But then, Joker was Angel’s kid brother. Touch him and the dono of the Comando Negro would come after you with his shotgun. Not even Stripe was crazy enough to take Angel on.
The opposition had stopped playing and were milling around nervously.
On the other side of the pitch, Dog clapped his hands together. ‘Why have we stopped playing? Next goal the winner!’
Stripe paused, then broke away from the group and stalked towards his goalkeeper, ignoring Livio’s attempts to call him back. As Stripe closed in on him, Dog waved his hands in the air.
‘Hey, Stripe, come on! What are you doing?’
Saying nothing, Stripe walked right up to Dog and head-butted him in the face. The younger boy squealed with pain, clutching his nose as he collapsed to the floor. Following up, Stripe kicked Dog viciously in the ribs. There were horrified murmurs from the crowd; one of the girls buried her face in her friend’s shoulder and started to cry.
‘We’ll start playing when I say so!’ Stripe bellowed. ‘You hear me, you little shit?’
They cast two dark silhouettes against the blazing sunlight: one lying on the floor, the other standing threateningly over him. Luiz watched in horror as Stripe reached down to his sock, pulled a miniature .22 pistol free from its strapping and took deliberate aim at Dog’s head.
‘Hey!’ Luiz cried out. ‘Leave him alone!’
Racing over to Stripe, he grabbed hold of his left arm and pulled him away. For a second a look of astonishment passed across Stripe’s face, as though he couldn’t believe anyone would dare to stop him. Then he spun around and pointed the .22 at Luiz, his hand shaking with rage.
‘You don’t get to tell me anything,’ the boy spat. ‘Joker’s got Angel to protect him. That fat MC has got friends all over the favela. Even this little shit Dog probably isn’t worth the bullet. But you, Luiz? I don’t care what anyone says – you aren’t Comando Negro. I wouldn’t think twice about putting a bullet right here.’ Stripe pressed his index finger between Luiz’s eyes. ‘In fact, I’d enjoy it.’
‘It’s just a game of football, Stripe,’ Luiz said softly.
Stripe looked around at the crowd watching him.
‘Forget it,’ he muttered, stuffing the miniature pistol into his shorts’ pocket. ‘Game’s over.’
He stomped off the pitch, barging his way through the group of girls. The pitch had plunged into silence. Though everyone in Santa Marta had witnessed violence at one time or another, the suddenness of Stripe’s explosion had still been shocking. Even Jo
ker looked taken aback.
Luiz crouched by Dog, patting him on the shoulder as the little boy sobbed uncontrollably, his face drenched with blood and his nose twisted out of shape.
Livio walked towards them, shaking his head.
‘Pretty brave, getting involved like that,’ the MC said. ‘Stripe’s not going to forget, you know.’
‘I know,’ Luiz nodded, watching Stripe disappear into the favela. ‘Neither am I.’
13. Room Service
An uncomfortable silence hung over Santa Marta.
Luiz was sitting in the small favela square outside Angel’s shack with the leaders of the Comando Negro, the sunlight beating down on the back of his neck. Livio had disappeared off on a mysterious errand and Dog had been in hiding since the football game, presumably licking his wounds. That left Luiz with only Angel, Joker and Stripe for company – and he didn’t feel comfortable with any of them. The two brothers spoke to one another in low murmurs, while Stripe ignored Luiz, wrapped up in checking his new gun: a chrome-plated AK-47 assault rifle. The blond-haired boy had stopped speaking to Luiz altogether, apparently content with shooting him the occasional murderous glance.
Luiz was relieved when the quiet was finally broken by a beeping horn. A battered Chevrolet rounded the corner and pulled into the square. Through the dirty windscreen, Luiz saw that Livio was in the front seat, his tongue poking out with concentration as he peered over the steering wheel.
‘What’s going on?’ asked Luiz, as the car rolled to a stop in a cloud of dust.
It was Angel who replied. ‘The Doctor’s set up a deal in the Zona Sul. We need wheels.’
‘You’re dealing outside Santa Marta?’ said Luiz in surprise. ‘Bit risky, isn’t it?’
‘It’s worth it,’ replied Angel. ‘Some big-shot businessman staying in the Hotel Real wants to buy a load of blow. It’s going to make us a fortune.’
Stripe shrugged, brushing his fingers across his nostrils. ‘Inside the favela, outside the favela – who gives a shit? We’re Comando Negro. If anyone gets in our way, we open fire.’