Page 48 of Redeeming Violet

We were almost out of one area when a boy stepped out of a building. He was filthy dirty, ill-fitting clothes, and no shoes. He pulled a young girl out of the door with him. She was equally unwashed, and her hair was in tangles.

“Hey mister,” the boy called out. “You have any money?” The boy’s English was broken but still understandable. “My sister. We have no food.”

Bile rose at the condition these children lived in. I quickly swallowed and shook my head. This was not my first time in the slums of Rio, but It was in times like these a man realized how impotent he was. Fury and shame mixed together as I handed the boy what cash I had in my pocket and walked away. There was nothing I could do to save those children.

“I motherfucking hate this goddamn place,” Eric seethed as we turned the corner,.

“Keep walking,” Declan advised. “Movement at our nine o’clock. I count three. Didn’t see what they were packin’.”

I quickly slipped into an alleyway where trash littered the ground and a few fifty-five-gallon metal drums were stacked against a wall. There was nothing that would provide cover. The pedestrian alley broke right, and I found what we needed - trash stacked what looked to be a mile high. Old wooden crates, mattresses, bags of the foulest trash I’d ever smelled, broken furniture, you name it - it was piled. I motioned for Eric and Declan to duck in the space between the junk and a chain-link fence and I stepped in beside them.

We didn’t need to cause a gang riot on the streets. Three white boys tussling with the locals would cause unwanted attention. We were not trying to hide our location from Ortega, the sooner he knew we were here the better. He’d send his men after us and we’d be able to use them to find him, but the local street gangs we didn’t want to fuck with. We’d quickly be outnumbered.

I lifted my left arm and made a ninety-degree angle and a fist, signaling the two men behind me to halt their movements. The three men that Declan had caught sight of could be heard, their heavy footfalls not far away. When they stopped, one said to look behind the trash pile. I opened my fist pointed one finger up and made a circle motion.

It was go time.

I stepped out from behind the trash barricade, brought my Sig P226 up and pulled the trigger. At 1,300 feet per second the man didn’t have time to react before a 115-grain supersonic round penetrated his skull. He crumpled to the ground and his two friends followed as Declan and Eric took their shots.

“We’ve got lookie loos. Second story third row,” I called out.

“Copy that,” Eric said, now standing behind me.

“Hop the fence. Hundred yards up there’s an intersection in the alley that will take us back to the main road,” Declan told us.

We followed his directions and thankfully the alleyway wasn’t blocked as they sometimes were in shanty-towns. People would set up camp wherever they could, or the gangs would block an alley to keep the flow of drugs and girls in the areas they wanted. We made it back to the main road and followed it another mile until we came to the expressway. The craziest part about Rio and the favelas was when the slums stopped, normally at an expressway or a wall, what was on the other side was paradise.

We made our way to the graffiti-filled underpass where there were men milling about. Some drinking, some standing next to the street selling produce, others sat in seats that had been ripped out of cars or trucks. Declan knew who he was looking for, so Eric and I let him take the lead, both of us steadily scanning the area. We approached a group of five men standing in a circle, three were looking at us while two had their backs to us. One of the men facing us lifted his chin to alert his friends of our presence. Both men turned to look at us. The smaller of the two men’s eyes widened before he tried to run. Declan’s much larger frame blocked his hasty retreat.

“Why so fast, amigo?” Declan’s hand on the man’s shoulder kept him in place.

“Hawk, homem. I heard you were dead,” the man answered.

“No such luck. Where’s jefe?” Declan asked. I knew enough Portuguese to understand he was asking about the man’s boss.

“Eh. Here and there. You know how he his.” Declan moved, and the man went to his knees “Filho da puta.”

“Don’t make me ask you again.”

Two of the man’s friends moved; however, before Eric and I could move into position Declan pinned them with a stare and wisely they stepped back.

“Providência,” he answered. We had just come from the favela known as Morro de Providência. If the man was there, we’d have to wait to go back.

“Try again.” Declan added pressure to the pressure point in his shoulder.

“Bairros africanus,” the man whined.

“Tell him I’m looking for him. I’ll be around his way tonight.” He shoved the man and he landed on his ass.

“Vai toma no cú.” The man hocked a loogie, the wad of mucus landing near Declan’s foot. In a swift manner of action, Declan picked up his foot and with the heel of his boot smashed the man’s face.

“Do I look like I like to take it up the ass?” The man didn’t answer Declan. Instead, he held his now bleeding face. “Which one of you have heard about an American woman being delivered tonight?” he asked the other men standing around. No one spoke but all gestured in the negative. “I find out one of you motherfuckers knew where she was being delivered I’ll be back.”

Still no one spoke. He turned his back to the men and started walking back the way we came. Fuck this could not be good.

Nothing like walking into the hornet’s nest.

Chapter Twenty-Three