The Games (Private #11)(43)
Chapter 48
THE BEAR ADJUSTED his knapsack, pulled on the helmet, and made the sign of the cross before climbing onto the motorcycle behind the driver. Urso hated taking motorcycle taxis, especially the ones in Vidigal favela, south of Leblon. The Vidigal drivers were insane.
The motorcycle engine revved. The driver let out the clutch and gunned it. They shot straight up the hill. Fifteen seconds into the ride they almost collided with tourists coming down out of the slum. That was the new thing: wealthy foreigners coming to Rio and staying in hostels in the favelas.
Why would anyone willingly vacation in a slum? the Bear wondered. Would they do the same thing in South Central or Compton?
The narrow tarred road turned supersteep and switchbacked. Shack shops that sold everything from cigarettes to plumbing supplies crowded the street, which meant people and motorcycles crowded the street, which meant people and motorcycles often smashed into each other on the street.
By the time they reached the top of the favela, Urso was soaked with nervous sweat. He handed the driver his fare and the helmet and hesitated at a path that led past the highest shack, which was right up against the jungle and in the shadow cast by the more eastern of the Dois Irm?os Mountains.
The Bear climbed past the shack and continued on into the jungle. Even in August, the dead of winter in Brazil, since there was no sea breeze penetrating the canopy of trees, the late-day heat was oppressive.
But the heat felt good to Urso. He followed the path through roots and along rock ledges. He could feel the towering cliff of the mountain’s east flank above him, and through holes in the jungle canopy he caught sight of the sheer gray rock face.
He passed a few other travelers coming down the mountain, always seeing them before they saw him, which gave Urso the chance to study them, evaluate their threat. Rio’s jungles were spectacular places, but given their remoteness right in the middle of a city, they could be utterly lawless.
The Bear was not a regular on this path. Not by any means. But he knew enough about these woods to understand that any smart gangster would hide in a ravine just beyond where the path buttonhooked along the flank of the hill. If the men were in the jungle, they’d be waiting above the pinch point.
By the agitated expressions of two young women who passed him a few minutes later, Urso knew for sure gangsters were up there collecting tolls, or worse. He reached around under his loose shirt and removed an old but well-cared-for .45-caliber Remington Model 1911 pistol. It was a heavy thing, but effective.
The Bear reached into his pants pocket and got out a crude, homemade suppressor, which he screwed onto the threaded muzzle. Even though the police rarely came into the jungle, he didn’t want to attract unnecessary attention.
Urso slid the suppressed gun into the front of his pants and let his loose shirt drape over it. He walked on confidently into the pinch point, eyes straight ahead but picking up movement on the slope above. He exited the narrow chute and found a kid, maybe seventeen or eighteen, standing there in the path. Two others, one above, and one below, revealed themselves.
“What are you doing here, man?” the one on the trail asked.
“Taking a walk,” Urso said. “Seeing old friends up in Rocinha.”
“What’s in the knapsack?” asked the one above and to his right.
“Groceries,” Urso said. “We’re having dinner.”
“Let’s see,” said the one below and to his left.
None of them displayed weapons, but the Bear knew they had them.
“Can’t we just make this a cash-and-go thing?” he asked. “I’d hate to see unwanted and unnecessary bloodshed.”
A long moment of silence unfolded, during which Urso’s decision was made for him. Catching a flicker of the uphill man’s hands, he dropped to one knee, drew the gun, and shot the man high in the chest. Then the Bear twisted and put one through the downhill man’s throat. He had the kid in the trail in his sights before the boy could even tug his old revolver out.
“No, Senhor,” the kid said. “Please. I was just following orders.”
Urso considered leniency, but in this case it just wouldn’t do. He shot the kid in the face.
It was so steep there by the ravine that it took the Bear less than two minutes to drag the dead bodies over and push them off the side. He watched them tumble, fall, and disappear into the jungle below.
There’d be a stench at some point, and birds circling and rodents gnawing, and maybe they’d find bones. But as Urso picked up his spent bullet casings, he knew there’d be nothing to connect him to the deaths.
Chapter 49
AN HOUR LATER, the Bear emerged from the jungle in the Rocinha favela. He nodded to the gangsters watching this end of the trail. They would think of him when their friends did not reappear, but by then it wouldn’t matter.
He wandered with purpose through the Rocinha slum, still a ridiculously dangerous place, as the sun began to set. He spotted the ruins of a mansion that a drug lord had built and that the BOPE had firebombed. He passed through the saddle on the west flank of the Two Brothers and dropped downhill toward the tony enclave of Leblon.
The new top 1 percent of the 1 percent—Russians, Chinese, Europeans, and the odd American—lived down there in flats that cost sixteen million dollars U.S. and more. With the great wealth of Rio below him, the Bear cut back to the eastern edge of the slum and started once more into the jungle. Monkeys scattered. Parrots going to roost scolded him.