“Reagan didn’t think so. But surely we’ve got better things to discuss than political ideology. We both know all men are capitalists at heart. What’s it gonna take to get me and my friend out of here?”
The man stuck two fingers into his pocket and withdrew a can of chewing tobacco. He cracked it open and shoved a wad into his cheek, then chewed without averting his gaze. After a minute, he leaned down and breathed a blast of tobacco-infused stench into Wolfgang’s face. “Who do you work for, American? The pacificadora?”
Wolfgang recognized the name—the war effort of the Brazilian police against the drug gangs.
He shook his head. “Believe it or not, I’m just an innocent tourist caught in the crossfire.”
The man spat a spray of black saliva across Wolfgang’s chest. “I don’t believe it.”
Wolfgang looked down at the mess and wrinkled his nose. “I’m sorry I can’t convince you, but it’s the truth. I heard the favelas were beautiful. Didn’t know an invasion was underway.”
The man poked the tobacco can into his pocket, chewed a moment, then grunted.
“Beautiful? They are broken. The favelas are what happens when rich white men poison the minds of Brazil’s leaders.”
“Is that so? Don’t look now, Brazilian John Cena, but you’ve got a campaign slogan in there someplace.”
The man’s face turned bitter, and he spat again. “You laugh, American. You don’t know the pain my people suffer.”
“I’ll bet the drugs help,” Wolfgang said. “I mean, you snort enough crack, and anything is bearable, right? You do give the drugs away, don’t you? I can’t imagine a communist like yourself would stoop to selling them.”
The man flushed and snapped his fingers. A group of men detached from the rest and rushed forward, dragging Wolfgang and Megan to their feet. Megan’s head rolled, still unconscious.
“If you work for the police, they will want you back,” the man said. “If you are a tourist, as you say, they will want you back even more. Either way, you and the white woman will help me drive out the dogs.”
He pointed off to his left, and the soldiers dragged Wolfgang and Megan across the clearing, amid the jeers and laughs of the other troops. Fists struck Wolfgang across the back and ribs, and he twisted to shield himself. Then the hard spruce stock of an AK-47 sliced through the air and collided with his forehead.
Wolfgang didn’t know how long he’d been out when consciousness finally returned. His head pounded like a drum, sending pulsing agony ripping through his skull, down his spine, and to every end of his body.
Screw me.
He sat on a rock-hard floor made of wood planks fit close together, with his arms wrenched behind him and fastened to the wall. A metal roof blocked out the night sky, and brick walls surrounded him. So, he was inside a shack, then. Tied up and left alone.
Megan. Where’s Megan?
Panic overcame him. He sat up, and his vision cleared, then he jerked at the bonds that held his arms against the wall. His muscles ached, and his head swam, but the fear he felt overcame all of that. He imagined Megan in the mud again, pinned down by the Red Command, stretched out and—
“Wolfgang! Be still, dammit.”
Wolfgang froze and shook his head to clear it. His mind still felt fuzzy, but he recognized the voice. He turned toward the voice and saw Megan sitting directly beside him, her hands tied behind her in similar fashion.
“Oh God,” he said. “I thought they had you.”
Megan smirked. “I’d say they do.”
“You know what I mean.”
He leaned back, resting his pounding head against the bricks. The best he could tell, his hands were bound with wire ties to some kind of metal ring or maybe a pipe—something mounted to or running out of the masonry.
“How long have we been here?”
“Few hours. The Lego dude had them throw us in here, then they all left.”
“The Lego dude?”
“I believe you called him Brazilian John Cena.”
Wolfgang forced a little laugh. “I thought you were unconscious.”
“Faking it. It’s not a lot of fun to rape an unconscious woman.”
Smart girl.
“You have to admit,” Wolfgang said, “the dude kinda looks like a Brazilian John Cena.”
“Sure. But I like John Cena.”
Wolfgang grinned. “And I like Legos.”
“Ha. You never despair, do you?”
Wolfgang shrugged. It wasn’t much of a gesture with his hands bound. “What’s the point of that? Anything could change.”
“Right . . . but it doesn’t look good.”
No, it doesn’t. It looks like we’re neck-deep in quicksand.
Wolfgang decided to change the subject to a slightly more hopeful topic. “I wonder if Edric and Kevin got out okay.”
“I’m sure they figured something out. I’ve been thinking about that, and I think I figured out why our radios failed. When the Brazilian police stormed the favela, they must’ve run some kind of radio jammer to inhibit the Red Command. It locked us up, too.”
“Makes sense. Which makes you wonder . . .”
“Wonder what?”
Wolfgang sat up. “It makes you wonder if this whole thing was a setup. Whoever kidnapped Rose had to know we’d make a play to recover her. By setting the deadline for their demands to be met, they established a window wherein they could predict the time of our rescue attempt. Assuming they knew about the GPS tracker in Rose’s necklace, they could also predict the location of our attempt.”
Megan nodded slowly. “Right. All they had to do was plant the necklace someplace where we’d be caught in the crossfire. That building Edric and Kevin infiltrated had a red roof, remember?”
“Yep. I’ll bet that was some kind of headquarters for the Red Command. The kidnappers set us up to be trapped at the heart of the conflict. What better way to wipe out Charlie Team?”
Megan cursed and twisted at her bonds.
Wolfgang watched and felt a wave of guilt overcome him.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “This is my fault.”
“Say what?”
“The kids in the alley. You told me to leave them. I should’ve listened.”
Megan stared at him, her grey eyes as still and calm as a
