That Time in Rio - Logan Ryles (fun books to read for adults .TXT) 📗

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