by Logan Ryles
Wolfgang crossed his arms. “Let me guess . . . Rose’s tracker necklace is pinging from one of these lawless favelas?”
“Bingo,” Lyle said, still not looking up from his computer. He passed a sheet of notebook paper to Megan, and she scanned it before leaning over the map and resting the pencil tip over a hillside portion of the city deep within the North Zone. “Here, I think. That’s outside of Rocinha. I think that’s…shit.”
Megan grew quiet, and Wolfgang wanted to ask, but knew to wait. Megan didn’t withhold information to build drama. She was computing, even now, reviewing the data she’d already consumed about Rio and confirming her suspicions.
“That’s inside Vila Cruzeiro. I read about it a little while ago. It’s currently under the disputed control of a gang known as the Comando Vermelho—the Red Command. They’ve been around for decades. Back in the eighties, they were something of a far-leftist revolutionary group, fighting to spread communism into Brazil. According to my reading, most of their ideology has faded, and they’re pretty much just another drug gang at this point, albeit a brutal one. The Brazilian police have been combatting them, of course, trying to drive them out of the favelas, but that’s only caused more violence. There’s been over fifty homicides and two dozen gunfights in Vila Cruzeiro within the last sixty days alone.”
Megan settled back into her chair, and Wolfgang turned to Lyle. “You sure about the location?”
“I’m sure that the necklace is pinging from that location, as of ten minutes ago.”
“That doesn’t mean she’s still there,” Wolfgang said.
“I never said it did,” Lyle said.
Wolfgang looked back at the map, focusing on the pencil mark Megan left in the heart of Vila Cruzeiro. It was situated on a mountainside, north and west of Guanabara Bay. The map featured little in the way of topographical detail, or even precise street routes beyond those of major highways, but he imagined the shantytowns Megan had described, built along the sides of the mountain and overlooking the bay.
“So, it’s a warzone.” Wolfgang said.
Lyle slid out of his seat, walking over to the table and setting down his laptop. It featured a zoomed-in satellite view of Rio’s North Zone, mostly black but illuminated in places by streetlights and what appeared to be open fires built between shacks.
Wolfgang frowned. “This doesn’t look like Google Earth.”
“It’s not,” Lyle said. “This is a live view of Vila Cruzeiro, minus a ten- or fifteen-second lag.”
“A live view?” Wolfgang asked. “Does that mean you hacked another satellite?”
“Don’t ask,” Lyle said, but his smirk betrayed the truth.
The three leaned over the computer, and Wolfgang saw what he’d previously only imagined: houses—shacks, really—built of sheet metal and wooden pallets, nailed and tied together and lining the hillside. They were stacked on top of each other, some dug into the side of the mountain and reinforced with stakes, while others clung on with no more apparent foundation than a hope and a prayer.
Dirt tracks, barely visible under the low light, ran in between the houses, winding up and down the hillside. An occasional battered car was parked amid the houses, half of which were crushed or burned down to little more than blackened masses, rusting away on top of Brazilian mud. Dense tangles of wire ran between the shacks, winding back and forth throughout the shantytown with no apparent design or pattern.
“Siphoned electricity,” Megan said. “And phone lines.”
“This is unreal,” Wolfgang whispered.
Lyle zoomed in on the streets and panned around the hillside, leading them deeper into the favela and farther from the bright lights of downtown Rio. “The signal is coming from someplace in the core of the favela . . . near this building, I think.” He adjusted the focus with a few clicks of the mouse, then attempted to zoom in again. Suddenly, a flash of orange lit up the roof of a flat-topped building adjacent to the street, followed by a similar flash from across the street. Then orange flashes lit up the night from multiple rooftops, blinking like fireflies in a silent night sky.
“Is that what I think it is?” Wolfgang said.
“Automatic gunfire,” Megan said.
Lyle zoomed the camera out, exposing a wider view of the favela. The entire core of the shantytown was alight in flashing orange lights, blinking on and off, and moving in a wave around a single building.
Lyle sat back and folded his arms. “Welcome to Rio.”
3
The Gulfstream touched down just as the sun sank over the Brazilian mountains, bathing the Atlantic and the city of Rio in golden glory. Wolfgang had slept only seven hours, broken by interruptions of Edric holding a planning conference and Kevin cooking hotdogs in the plane’s microwave. When he first joined the team, Wolfgang had been deeply impressed by the opulence of Charlie Team’s private jet, but his honeymoon phase was now resolved. The jet might’ve been expensive and elite, but that didn’t change the fact that it was much too small for five smelly, unwashed bodies to live in for twenty-plus hours at a time.
“Remember,” Edric said as the plane taxied off the private airstrip, inland of Rio, “don’t talk to the driver. Don’t talk to the locals. Until we get outfitted and oriented, the last thing we need is to draw attention.”
The plane ground to a halt, and the stairwell descended automatically. The moment Wolfgang stepped into the growing sunshine, he felt better than he had in days. Rio was warm—infinitely warmer than Moscow had been, despite the time of year. He tasted salt as he sucked in a deep breath of South American air. Just being outside the plane, enjoying fresh air that wasn’t tainted with body odor and Kevin’s hotdogs, was a miraculous relief. Wolfgang stretched and turned toward the sun, squinting as bright light poured over the mountaintops and bathed his face in warmth. He couldn’t see the coastline or hear the waves, but he imagined the ocean washing over golden beaches, and already he understood why Rio was a tourist destination.
Edric called from across the tarmac. “Wolfgang, let’s go!”
Wolfgang turned to see a black SUV pulling toward the plane. Its windows were tinted as dark as night, and there were dents in the hood and bullet holes in the fender.
Is this for real?
Wolfgang hurried to follow the others, shelving his trepidation. If three missions had taught him anything, it was that bad things were going to happen. No use worrying about it.
Kevin held the back door of what turned out to be a Chevrolet Tahoe, and he jerked his head impatiently. Wolfgang slipped inside, maneuvering into one of the back seats next to Lyle and Megan. As soon as the door slammed shut, the engine roared, and the driver turned away from the airfield. Wolfgang couldn’t see him from the back seat, but could make out the fingers of his right hand resting on the side of the steering wheel. They were dark and small, reflective of South American and perhaps Brazilian heritage.
“Who is he?” Wolfgang whispered.
Megan held a finger to her lips, motioning for him to keep his voice down.
“Local contractor,” she mouthed. “SPIRE hired him.”
“He has weapons for us?”
Megan nodded. “And a safe house.”
Charlie Team’s mission in Moscow had been a Code Yellow operation—no weapons, even on the plane. Because they hadn’t had time to land anywhere between Moscow and Rio, they hadn’t had time to refit, and that meant that everybody on the team was completely unarmed. It was a foreign experience for Wolfgang, and one he was altogether uncomfortable with.
He looked out the window and watched as tree-covered foothills drifted by. The airfield was far enough inland from the city that there weren’t any houses or much infrastructure to look at—just mountainsides and dense vegetation. Not quite jungle, but certainly not manicured, either.
He turned his attention away from the windows and scanned his team. Edric sat still, splitting his attention between the driver and the left-hand window. Lyle tapped his left foot, chewing a wad
of gum and pushing his glasses back up his nose every few seconds, his laptop bag and a duffel bag full of God-only-knew-what-kind of electronic gear riding at his feet.
Kevin sat in front of Lyle, his back tense, his gaze darting from one object to the next through the window. The space beneath Kevin’s left arm where his handgun usually rode was conspicuously empty, and Kevin kept fidgeting in his seat. Wolfgang leaned forward and studied a little closer, noticing dark sweat stains beneath Kevin’s arms growing a little larger by the minute.
Wolfgang leaned back, then whispered to Megan: “Is Kev okay?”
Kevin was something of a rival for Wolfgang. Stubborn, obstinate, and a little meatheaded, Kevin also happened to be Megan’s half-brother, a fact Wolfgang only recently discovered. What he first interpreted as rival romantic interest in Megan turned out to be the somewhat brutish protective instincts of a little brother. Wolfgang’s initial irritation with this primitive behavior was subdued when he learned that Kevin had also been best friends with James, Megan’s boyfriend and Charlie Team’s fifth member prior to a mission in Damascus where James was killed. Wolfgang ended up taking James’s place on Charlie Team, and he assumed that Kevin probably felt the pang of James’s loss every time he saw Wolfgang, adding to the tension between them.
Megan watched her brother with calm eyes, but Wolfgang saw the concern edging into them. She said nothing for a while, then looked out her window and spoke in a voice barely loud enough for Wolfgang to hear. “There’s something you should know about Kevin.”
Wolfgang leaned closer. “What?”
“Prior to working for SPIRE, he was a soldier.”
Wolfgang wasn’t surprised. Kevin looked like a soldier—tall and broad with a stiff back and a squared-off haircut that only a soldier would submit himself to.
“What kind of soldier?”
“U.S. Army Ranger.”
Wolfgang blinked. It didn’t surprise him that Kevin served, but he hadn’t expected him to be former spec ops. “Really?”
“Don’t let him fool you with his childishness,” she said. “Kevin is, or was, a hell of a soldier. He served one and a half tours in Afghanistan.”
Wolfgang raised an eyebrow.
One and a half. Why only a half?
Megan shrugged. “We all have our backstories, Wolf. Kevin never told me what happened over there, but he returned home early, and he was medically discharged from the Army shortly thereafter.”
“He was injured?”
Megan hesitated, studying her brother. “Not visibly.”
Wolfgang thought about all the times he’d been sarcastic and condescending with Kevin. All the times he’d underestimated him and been irritated by him. Kevin could be a real pain in the ass, but had he known about Afghanistan . . .
“Don’t tell him I told you,” Megan said. “There’s a point to what I’m saying.”
“Which is?”
“When shit goes down, you can trust him to get you out. He may be a pain in the ass, but Kevin is a trained fighter. Edric will probably put him in operational control, and you need to submit to that. He’ll keep us alive.”
Wolfgang studied Kevin, noting a bead of sweat running down his neck and further staining his T-shirt. He watched Kevin’s right hand twitch on his knee and suddenly wondered: If he has issues, how did he make the team? He chewed on the question for a minute, then decided it didn’t matter. If Megan would vouch for Kevin’s expertise in the face of open combat—something it seemed they were cruising right into—then that was good enough for him.
The SUV lurched over a pothole, and Wolfgang looked back outside as they topped a hill. Rio came into view all at once, spilling out beneath them from the feet of the mountains all the way to the edge of the ocean. Wolfgang gasped, shielding his hand against the sun as he swept over the massive city. Mile after mile of buildings were packed together around tall skyscrapers next to the bay, spilling out into condos next to the beach and smaller houses on the outskirts. It was unlike any city he’d ever visited, at once crowded and immense. As waning daylight shone over the ocean and brought the city to life, he saw cars surging back and forth along packed highways and narrow streets, while ant-like pedestrians filled the sidewalks.
Wolfgang turned back to the foothills. A moment later, he made out the Redeemer Statue standing at the top of Corcovado Mountain with its arms spread wide over the city. Sunlight radiated over the figure, and Wolfgang felt a strange warmth in his chest as he stared at the distant face of Christ. He’d seen pictures of the statue before, and he’d never really thought of visiting it as a bucket-list item, but now that he saw The Redeemer perched high on the mountain, basking in the sunlight, the awe and grace of the moment were overwhelming.
His gaze drifted down the statue to the mountainside below, and then he saw the favelas. Clinging to the hillsides in jumbled tangles of packed shacks, painted in multicolor and hanging on to the side of the mountain as if they were glued there, the shantytowns stretched for miles. He couldn’t make out details of construction, or even individual structures from this distance, but the mood of the slum communities was already clear: crowded, makeshift, impoverished.
The Tahoe turned and wound its way down the mountain and toward the city. The roads were bumpy and rutted, causing the Tahoe to jerk left and right, but the driver kept them out of the ditches as small farms and houses appeared on either side of the road. Wolfgang saw Brazilians gathered around pens containing goats and pigs, while others hauled water or hoed small vegetable gardens. As they drew closer to the city, the farms faded, and the houses grew more frequent. They turned off the dirt path onto a paved highway, which was only a little less rutted, and the driver sped up.
Wolfgang continued to study the passing houses, marveling at the mixture of rundown cottages and fenced-in mansions. Occasionally, police cars zipped past, mostly without sound, but a few with their lights flashing. Other cars joined them on the highway, all crushing in as the city drew closer.
Half an hour later, the driver turned down a service road and drove another mile before stopping the Tahoe in front of an abandoned warehouse; it was small, about fifty feet square, with another similar building next to it that was already caved in and overgrown with jungle growth.
The driver grunted, and Edric passed him a roll of American twenty-dollar bills without comment. The driver accepted them, then Charlie Team exited the Tahoe and stepped back into the Brazilian warmth. The salt air was more prominent there, and Wolfgang could hear the rush and roar of the city not far away, a blend of car horns and tires on pavement.
The Tahoe drove back down the path, leaving them standing in front of the warehouse alone. Wolfgang scanned the faces of Charlie Team and felt a universal solemnness he wasn’t accustomed to—a sort of foreboding hanging over all of them like a cloud.
This won’t be like the other missions.
Edric led the way to the warehouse. Twin metal doors guarded the way inside, with a thick chain wrapped through their steel handles. But on closer inspection, the chain wasn’t actually locked. Edric snaked it out of the handles and then pushed a door open.
The inside was dark and musty, with little beams of light streaming in through holes in the metal roof. Wolfgang walked in wondering if drug gangsters or Brazilian police were waiting in the shadows, ready to spring out and apprehend or shoot them. The warehouse remained silent, and he followed the others farther into the dusty interior.
The warehouse was completely empty, save for a dilapidated Chevrolet Impala parked in the center, with a small pile of nondescript black bags on the busted concrete floor in front of it. Charlie Team gathered around the pile, and Wolfgang recognized the same sorts of duffle bags and equipment containers he was used to being outfitted with prior to leaving Saint Louis.
Kevin leaned down and tugged out a long, flat black bag about the size of an ironing board. He unzipped it and reached inside, withdrawing a matte-black FN SCAR 16S assault rifle with a red-dot optic mounted on to
p. Kevin held the gun, and Wolfgang noticed that his hand had stopped trembling. The muzzle of the weapon didn’t so much as twitch.
Charlie Team stood silent for a moment, then Edric grunted. “Okay. Let’s gear up.”
4
Charlie Team spread out around the pile of equipment and unpacked. Lyle quickly identified the bags and boxes he deemed to be his own, which were pretty much anything electronic in nature. He pulled these to the side and dug through them while Edric snapped together a folding table and everyone else organized equipment in piles on top of it.
Whoever had ordered their supply dump was expecting an all-out war. There were three rifles, and next to them, Wolfgang unpacked two H&K UMP submachine guns chambered in .45 ACP.
There were also five handguns, body armor for everyone, some emergency medical kits, ten fragmentation grenades, three smoke grenades, a case of water bottles, some MRE food kits, and short-wave radios with earpieces that could link up with Lyle’s computer system.
Wolfgang surveyed the stack of gear and cast an uneasy look at Edric. “This feels like a job for the Marines more than SPIRE.”
Edric unfolded a map of Rio on the floor next to the gear and beckoned for everybody to gather around it. “Lyle, where did the necklace last transmit from?”
Lyle leaned over the map, tracing the outlines of city streets into the North Zone of the city, to a point where most of the streets vanished, leaving what appeared to be vast sections of undeveloped foothills.
The favelas . . . where the roads are too random to map.
“Around about here,” Lyle said. “We’re still getting a strong signal, so we can use a handheld unit to bring us right to it.”