by James Quinn
“I like your beard. It suits you,” said the girl. Gorilla stared into her deep brown eyes as she studied him in the rear-view mirror.
She told him her name was Maria and she was proud to be one of the few women drivers operating in Rio de Janeiro. So far, he'd only seen her eyes in the mirror and the back of her thick black hair, which was tied in a ponytail and fell down onto her slim shoulders. She wore a cloth cap, perched on her head at a jaunty angle which made her look like a revolutionary and also managed to give her an air of vulnerability. It was only when she turned around to look at him and asked “Where are we going, Señor?” that he finally got to see her completely. She looked to be no more than twenty, maybe twenty-two at the most and she had that lithe, beautiful quality of many young Latin American women. Gorilla thought she should be modelling the latest fashions in Paris or Milan, rather than driving hired killers around the streets of Rio.
Gorilla drew his eyes away from her face and studied the address he'd been given and which he'd copied onto a small sheet of paper from his hotel room. “What did they tell you about this job?” he asked. Her eyes met his in the rear-view mirror again. Gorilla thought they resembled pools of dark chocolate.
“That I was to take you wherever you wanted to go and then take you back to where I picked you up this morning,” she said.
“Is that all? Nothing about what I'm going to be doing?”
She shook her head and remained silent. Then as an afterthought she said, “I will not sleep with you, Señor. It is not who I am.”
Gorilla smiled sadly. “The thought never crossed my mind.”
“And you are not going to hurt me?”
He heard the tension in her voice and he shook his head. “You have my word that I will treat you with respect.”
She considered this for a second or two. “Then I believe you, I have the word of an English gentleman. So where would you like me to drive you to?”
* * *
Enzo Marcello, the technician, sat at a pavement bar in the 'City of God' favela, enjoying a cool glass of the local beer and watching the world go by. It was his usual seat in his usual part of the bar. He came here once or twice a week, to meet up with his contact, the emissary of the Raven.
The locals had come to know the face of this swarthy Italian, knew his ways of leering at the young girls was harmless enough, and had come to accept that he wasn't a police spy or a threat to them. He kept to himself and always tipped well. In truth, the technician hated being stuck in this cesspit of a country and hated having to come to this bar just to be given his expenses like a peasant worker. But when the Raven says that you keep a low profile for a couple of months, you do as you're told. He was resigned to his fate… for now.
Sometimes his contact showed, and sometimes he didn't. Today was obviously going to be a day when he was otherwise engaged. No matter, Enzo Marcello was being well paid to sit in a bar in Rio and drink as much as he could manage. He had just enough time for one more drink, before he made his way back to his apartment for the evening. Back to counting off another day in exile, another day nearer to his return to Europe where he could spend the reward the Raven would give him for his services.
It was when he was taking his last swig from the bottle that he heard the beep of a car horn. He looked up to see what the commotion was and saw a short, stocky, blond-haired and bearded man heading straight for him from across the street. He looks so angry, thought Marcello. Who has upset him! He looked around and not seeing anyone else paying attention to the furious man, Enzo Marcello came to the very rapid conclusion that it was he who the blond man was on a direct course for. He saw the man's hands move – one lifted up the flap of his shirt and the other dug deep into the waistband where the handle of a gun could just be seen jutting out. Enzo Marcello didn't know how he knew the gun was meant for him. He just did. It was as much information as he needed. He'd worked for the Raven long enough to know how these things worked, so he pushed himself away from the bar, hurled his half empty bottle of beer at the angry man, and ran as if the devil was on his tail.
* * *
Gorilla had the technician in his sights for a good ten minutes before he made his move. He'd left the girl, Maria, at a junction about five hundred feet away. The last time he saw her she was happily lazing back and listening to the radio as he walked toward his target location.
He'd stood at a similar bar across the small street from his target, biding his time, sipping at a small glass of rum, watching for an opportunity and blending into the crowd of men who were standing around, talking noisily. From his basic smattering of Portuguese, he could make out bits of the conversation around him; talk of working in a factory, this man's bloody wife cheating on him, the kids, the bills. They were working class people with real life problems. It was background noise for Gorilla, whose eyes flicked regularly across the street to the stick thin Italian slouched against the bar.
Then he was off in a straight line, a direct attack. It was Gorilla's way. He knew what to do; get there fast, pull the weapon and one shot to drop the target then melt back into the crowd. It was nothing difficult and he'd done similar hits dozens of times before. He knew once the gun had been fired, the noise would send the busy street into chaos and the locals would scatter like cockroaches when a light shone on them. He would scatter as well; 'shoot and scoot' the old timers called it. He was halfway across the road when he started to access the gun tucked in the waistband holster. He dodged an old truck which blared its horn at him impatiently, and then the gun was in his hand, kept low, still concealed beneath his palms. A quick flick of the safety with his thumb and the Beretta was live and ready.
He locked eyes with the target. The man, seeming confused, looked around to see what Gorilla was focused on. And then the inevitable happened, the Italian realised that it was a hit and he did what anybody with survival instincts did – he bolted! Gorilla tracked him as the lanky Italian pushed his way past the other barflies and was away. He picked up his own pace, first as a fast walk and then, as he cleared the edge of the bar area he broke into a trot and finally, by the time he'd reached the corner he was sprinting. Gorilla was no runner, had never claimed to be, so if he had any chance of catching this racing snake of an Italian he would have to work bloody hard! He had the target's back in his sights, about twenty feet away. Not any great distance really, but in this type of enclosed environment full of right angles, hidden doorways and alleyways, it might as well have been a mile. He knew where the target was heading. He was running towards the maze-like alleys of the favella, the infamous slums of Rio. The walkways, already packed closely together, were getting smaller and smaller, with sharp turns and steps leading ever upwards. Gorilla's feet pounded on the stone steps as he struggled to keep up with his target.
They reached the base of a road which led steeply upwards and at the end of it was a wall. A wall that the lanky Italian could probably scale comfortably, but Gorilla, for all his strength, would struggle. The track up was hard going and both men's legs were growing weary. There was a gap of over ten feet between them… enough to matter between the hunter and the hunted and the Italian had almost reached the wall. He jumped, desperately groping with his hand for the lip which would have assured his escape. But there was no escaping on this day. The jump was far short of what was needed and Enzo Marcello fell back into the road, landing on his back, utterly exhausted. It was all Gorilla needed. He pushed himself those extra few feet and when he was within range, he launched a vicious kick which connected with the Italian's jaw. He saw teeth and blood explode outwards in a spray of white and crimson.
Gorilla grabbed the target one handed, by the scruff of his shirt collar and pulled him up to a kneeling position. A quick look to ensure no one was nearby and then he pushed the muzzle of the gun against the technician's temple, pressing it hard so that it wouldn't skid off the man's skull when he fired. He took up the pressure on the trigger, leaned into the shot and pulled. Nothing. Just a dead man's cli
ck. Fuck! A misfire, thought Gorilla. What could he expect, it was a poor version of a Beretta and appalling ammunition. He knew he needed to clear the jam from the weapon quickly, but first… he tightened his grip on the man's collar and swung his knee around to strike him in the face, busting his nose and stunning him. Then he moved the inert weapon down to his waist and hooked the rear sight onto the rim of his leather belt, furiously pushing down once, twice, three times, causing the slide to move and retract and clearing the jam in the process. He watched as a dud bullet flipped out and onto the ground, rolling down the gutter and into the drain.
He returned the gun to the technician's temple and pulled the trigger again, watched as the gun bucked, spitting out the bullet into the man's skull, shattering it. The technician dropped like a sack of potatoes into the gutter, rolling onto his back, blood flowing from the head shot. Gorilla took a step forward, levelled the gun with both hands and fired four consecutive rounds into the man's chest, splintering his torso. It looked as if someone had hacked at his silk shirt with a blunt knife. Gorilla took one final look to confirm that the bullets had done their job and then he walked away, slowly at first, but then picking up the pace. No one met his eye; the locals, such as they were, made way for him. There were no challenges and no five second heroes waiting to arrest him or take him down in a fit of bravery. He tucked the gun back into the waist band holster and walked free.
It took him another twenty minutes to backtrack down onto the main street again and a further ten before he was satisfied that he was clean. Only then did he make his way to the edge of the favela and locate the VW Beetle. He opened the door and climbed in, checking that the gun was concealed in his waistband. Maria was still listening to the radio when he returned, her feet up on the dashboard, tapping along to some kind of Samba music. “Was everything to your satisfaction? Is your business completed?” she asked.
Gorilla smiled, trying to calm his breathing. “You did well, thank you.”
“And your business… there were no problems?”
“Everything went fine, thank you Maria,” he said politely. “Can we go please?”
They drove back to his drop off point in silence. Gorilla watched the streets as the car passed through them, playing over the shooting in his head, mentally checking for anything he could have done differently. It was a messy situation and the fact that the whole planning for the hit had been taken out of his hands didn't sit easy with him. Still, too late now to worry about it. He just hoped that tomorrow went without a hitch… tomorrow was the 'important' one.
Several minutes later the car was back where they'd begun earlier that day on the Rua Tonelero. Maria pulled into a parking spot and turned the engine off. She took a sip of water from an old army canteen she kept at her feet. “What type of business are you in, Señor? You are a businessman? An important businessman like you must have better places to be than the favelas.”
He thought it was better to tell her something; to say nothing would arouse her suspicions even more. “I work in the construction business. I sort out labour problems for work gangs. The company I work for is hoping to get the contract to rebuild certain quarters here in Rio.”
She met his eyes and nodded. It seemed to be answer enough for her. Whether she believed him or not, he had no idea. “So… tomorrow?” she said, raising an inquisitive eyebrow at him. “Here? Same time, same place?”
He nodded and smiled at her through their medium of communication – the rear-view mirror. He liked this girl, liked her streetwise ways and blunt and to the point conversation. “I look forward to it, Maria.”
“Me too Señor, me too,” he heard her say as he climbed out of the car and disappeared into the streets.
Chapter Four
Okawa Reizo, the chemist, was irritated.
The thin, grey haired and aging chemist was irritated, because his courier had failed to show at the regular time. This was most unusual and for someone like Okawa Reizo, it set off alarm bells suggesting perhaps something had gone wrong. The couriers were never late. It was the rule.
He had paced the floor of his villa, out in the affluent Impanema area of the south zone of Rio. In the distance he could make out the sandy curve of Impanema beach and see the tanned bodies carousing along the shoreline. He'd looked at the pool, thought about having a swim and instantly dismissed the idea. What if he missed the courier at the front door? So he'd paced some more, made some tea and sat. Sat and waited for hours… more hours than was sensible. The couriers, a different one every time but always Japanese, were his lifeline to home. They brought news, money, and letters from what was left of his family… even food from his favourite store in Tokyo. In truth, he had not taken well to living in exile in Brazil. But when the Karasu spoke, Okawa Reizo knew better than to complain.
The fate of the Karasu and Okawa Reizo had been entwined for many years. Over the years, the Karasu had encouraged him, protected him, and given him the power to achieve his greatest creation – the Kyonshi. All was fine in the world of Okawa Reizo. Except… except for the missing courier. And it was as he was about to give up for the day and do the mundane chores of his confinement here in this luxury villa when he heard the most beautiful sound he'd heard all day.
It was the doorbell.
* * *
The courier was not Japanese. Odd.
Okawa Reizo was confused. He was staring at the man through the glass window in the front door. He was a European. Stocky, bearded, sunglasses, light coloured suit, shirt open at the neck. Not the Karasu's usual type of employee. For a moment, there was an impasse as both regarded each other through the glass. The bearded European just stood there impassively, not moving, merely watching. Finally, he'd apparently had enough and raised one fist and rapped directly on the glass in front of Okawa Reizo's face. “Open up. I'm your new courier!” he shouted.
Reizo flinched, taking a step back from the glass. His hand nervously snaked out and reached for the handle and turned the lock. He pulled back the door and was in the process of saying “What is your name? Where is Saburo?” Unfortunately, he only got the first part of the sentence out when the angry, bearded man pushed his way in and punched Reizo in the face with one meaty fist. The man watched as Reizo crumpled and hit the floor, blood pouring from his nose.
Gorilla closed the door behind him and drew the gun from the holster. The Japanese man tried to get back up and Gorilla hit him again, this time with his left fist. Not as good a punch as the first, but it got the message across and Reizo went down onto the floor once more.
Gorilla grabbed Reizo by his shirt collar, dragging and pulling him into the lounge area, before he shoved him onto a leather sofa, smearing blood from his busted nose along one of the cushions. It was a fantastic place with modern furnishings and decor and Gorilla quickly closed the blinds, in case anyone from the adjacent villas happened to catch a glimpse of what was going on. He reached into his back pocket, removed the newspaper clipping that he'd ripped out of that morning's paper and handed it to the bleeding Japanese man on the floor. Gorilla's gun never wavered an inch. “Read it,” he said. He watched as the man glanced down at the face in the picture and the secondary photo of the dead body lying sprawled in a gutter. “You know this man?”
“Yes, I know him,” stammered Reizo, his eyes drinking in the picture of the bullet-riddled corpse of the Italian Marcello.
“I thought so. I put five rounds into him yesterday. He's very dead,” said Gorilla.
“And are you going to do the same to me?”
Gorilla shook his head. “I'm going to offer you a deal, a once in a lifetime deal, so listen to me carefully. You give me the information I want and I let you walk out of here. You will be met by a man; he can get you out of the country, get you false papers, make you disappear and reappear anywhere in the world that you want to be.”
“What is it that you—”
“Information about the Raven,” Gorilla interrupted. “Who he really is and what you've been
doing for him.”
The Japanese man suddenly became wary and a sly smile passed across his face. “This is a test, a test of my loyalty. But no, the Karasu and I, we have been through too much. He has no need to test me!”
Gorilla shook his head sadly. “This is no test. You saw the picture of the man you knew and what I did to him. The Raven has decreed that you'll go the same way before the day ends… that's what I've been sent here to do, to kill you and tie up any loose ends. This is no test, no game; it's about your survival now.”
The Japanese chemist stared at the gunman in horror and shook his head. “No, I would be found and killed… the Karasu would find me anywhere I went.”
Gorilla growled under his breath. “He already fucking has you, idiot… I'm here! At least this way you have a chance of surviving. You help me, you go free. You don't and I end you right here, right now! My people can give you a head start. You run fast enough, he'll never get to you.”
Reizo stared at the gun held inches from his face and then at the furious bearded man behind it. He breathed in deeply once – he was a man of logic, and understood the need for pragmatism. He looked one more time from the gun to his would-be assassin and spoke clearly.
“His name is Yoshida Nakata. He is the Raven.”
* * *
The chemist told him everything. Gorilla suspected it was the man cleansing his soul, unloading all the guilt he'd brought upon himself over the years. He was a mass murderer, a torturer and sadist. He told of his work with the Kempeitai, his meeting with Nakata during the war, his life in exile and finally, his recruitment to the Raven clan. He'd effectively become a mercenary, selling his knowledge to the highest bidder. Then of course, there was the Raven's greatest secret, the thing he kept buried above all else and the thing that he, the chemist, had helped bring to fruition… the Kyonshi – the 'living dead' – the ultimate weapon of terror for the modern age which was the Raven's doomsday device.