Dark Redemption (David Rivers Book 3) Read online

  As we rolled past a stoplight and onto another street, I looked about for any sign of surveillance. There was no way to tell if the handoff had succeeded in confusing our watchers. Regardless, our situation was rapidly deteriorating beyond the ability of any security measures to save us—reduced from a full delegation to four unarmed individuals likely untracked by any protective forces employed by the Handler.

  We cruised into a short tunnel cutting into a foothill. The far-right lane was blocked by another black Suburban, its four-way flashers blinking rhythmically against the arcing tunnel roof. We pulled up behind it, and our driver activated his flashers as the other truck accelerated forward into traffic.

  “North into Botafogo?” Micah asked.

  “Correct,” Gabriel replied. “This is a popular tourist area. No problem.”

  After a half-minute of cars whooshing past to our left, the driver pulled forward and we passed into the waning sunlight of a major city center.

  Two turns off the main road took us into a private parking garage with a manned guard station, the striped barrier rising automatically as we approached. I tilted my head to see a small white access device clipped to the driver’s folded sun visor—at this point, anyone left from the surveillance team would have to follow us on foot, and the security guard wasn’t about to let that happen.

  The driver guided our truck down a spiraling path to the third sublevel before speeding forward to an elevator, where a bearded man waited.

  The Suburban came to a stop and our driver said, “You are to enter the elevator, please.”

  As soon as we stepped out of the vehicle, the driver pulled forward and headed for the exit, surely to continue distracting any remaining surveillance assets.

  The bearded man greeted us formally, gesturing to the elevator.

  “Ms. Parvaneh, gentlemen, thank you for coming and welcome to Rio de Janeiro. If you care to come with me, the meeting will begin shortly.”

  He was well-built, with a dense beard that stood in contrast to his attire—slacks with a razor crease, dress shirt pulled tight across his flat stomach. No place to conceal a weapon, and no wardrobe for someone who intended to cause harm.

  “Obrigado,” Parvaneh said, “for receiving our party.”

  “Madam, it is no trouble at all. First let me apologize for the security measures— in the past days there has been greater intelligence reporting than is normal. My employer has taken additional precautions in order to attend the meeting as planned.”

  The elevator doors closed behind us with a pleasant chime as the interior lights glowed to life.

  We began our journey upward as Parvaneh replied, “Of course we understand. Your employer’s intimate knowledge of this land is what brings us here to discuss a closer alliance, senhor.”

  The two continued exchanging polite banalities until our elevator halted at the top floor. We disembarked to a private suite with wraparound windows.

  The protective security detail was visible immediately—eight men arrayed across the suite, short hair, earpieces, and vigilant gazes matched by Micah as he took three steps into the suite and scanned the scene.

  So too was the protected party apparent at once. Advancing to meet us were two men and a woman led by a rotund Latino man easily in his sixties. His smile was fixed below glasses, his watery eyes magnified by thick lenses.

  “Bem-vinda, senhora!” he exclaimed, extending his hand to Parvaneh.

  She accepted his handshake, her diplomatic response muffled as he pulled her close to kiss both of her cheeks.

  As he released her, she managed to say, “Obrigada, Senhor Ribeiro. We are honored to represent our organization in your presence…” As she spoke, Gabriel began chattering in Portuguese.

  Ribeiro’s eyes remained fixed on Parvaneh’s, but he nodded in cadence to Gabriel’s translation.

  When Ribeiro responded, Gabriel translated, “First, let us eat together as friends. Then we may speak as businesspeople. We have had some of the finest chefs in Rio prepare dinner for your party.”

  Our collective group was ushered forward to a set of double doors, beyond which was a wide table beautifully arrayed with vases of flowers and exquisite banquet plates of food, the place settings lining the table before high-backed chairs. An extravagant crystal chandelier guarded the preparations, sparkling with dazzling rays of light and color.

  As the group filtered in, Micah placed a hand on my arm and said, “Wait out here.”

  I stopped in place and one of the guards closed the double doors behind the party, separating the insiders from the outsiders, literally and symbolically. The guard turned to me and gave a curt nod to his side, where I saw a buffet table holding steel food pans of the continental breakfast variety.

  Scraps for the commoners, I thought. I took a step toward it, but my advance was barred by half the bodyguards descending on the food, piling their plates high and moving to a scattered arrangement of coffee tables and lounge chairs. The rest paced throughout the suite, remaining on duty as they waited their turn at the consolation table.

  In the next hour I ate two plates of food alone, the bodyguards murmuring among themselves as if I weren’t there. After I couldn’t stomach any more fried plantains, I deposited my plate in a stack with the others and strolled to the window.

  From the penthouse vantage point, I looked upon the early evening view of Rio de Janeiro, the city a glistening gem nestled between sapphire sea and emerald mountains. Structure gave way to jungle when the elevation became too steep to build on, the alternating mishmash of man and nature descending until it vanished altogether into the Atlantic.

  I thought of grabbing Parvaneh’s wrist and telling her not to get in the truck. After Afghanistan and Iraq, after my time with Boss’s team and Caspian in Somalia, had my constant exposure to danger finally gotten the best of me? Perhaps I’d been pushed to the edge of near-death circumstances one too many times. Considering what I’d seen, my judgment could have understandably been warped into a flawed paranoia.

  My mind resisted this dismissal: I had seen Karma’s dead body in the seat of the Suburban, just as surely as I’d seen it the moments after her death.

  Then I remembered what Caspian told me. Survivor’s guilt is a motherfucker, David. And there’s no outliving that.

  “What do you think of our Redeemer?” a voice beside me asked.

  I turned to see the bearded man from the elevator looking intently out the window.

  “Excuse me?”

  He pointed to a perilously steep rock face rising to a craggy summit overlooking the kingdom below. At its peak was the whitewashed figure of Christ with arms extended, an iconic symbol of Rio that I recognized even at a distance.

  “We call him Cristo Redentor. Christ the Redeemer. He has watched over Rio for seventy-seven years. Last year he was struck by lightning, but still he stands.”

  “I wish I were so resilient.”

  “Yes. Yes, as do I. What is your name, my friend?”

  “David.”

  “I am Agustin. You seem to have injured yourself.”

  Turning to him with a quizzical glance, I realized he was looking at the welt on my shorn scalp. I’d almost forgotten it was there, though the event was clear enough in my memory: Racegun bringing the leather sap over my skull before I was strapped to the electric chair.

  “I fell down some stairs,” I said flatly.

  “I also noticed you were not allowed into the meeting, which makes me wonder why you were brought here in the first place.”

  “That’s an excellent question.”

  “This is life, no? You work as diligently as you can, you try to earn the trust of those above you, and sometimes the door closes nonetheless.”

  “I suppose so.”

  His brow was furrowed, chocolate eyes intense with thought. “And here we are, you and I, cast out by the masters. But I tell you, we are the lucky ones. The room in which our employers toil over profits and numbers, over kilos and gra
ms, does not have a window. Here we are, sharing this view in the moment, the only time we have.”

  He took a contemplative step back from the window, then reversed the movement to scrutinize the landscape once more. “You have not yet told me what you thought of our Redeemer.”

  I raised my eyes upward to Christ’s figure on the hill. “It’s magnificent. Truly. Your whole city is…beautiful. Truly beautiful.”

  He released a quick breath, his eyes fixed on the distant statue. “I am not from Brazil originally. I came here when I was eight years old, without money, without a family. On that first night, terrified, I saw him on that mountain, glowing white and watching over me. And I knew at that moment that I was home. He has guided my life ever since, and I have been more fortunate than I ever dreamed of. Are you a man of faith?”

  I shook my head slightly.

  He said, “Perhaps one day.”

  “Perhaps.” I pointed out the window. “What about the space between the city and mountain?”

  He glanced at a craggy line of irregular salmon-colored roofs crawling uphill, dividing lush jungle from civilized urban sprawl. The ramshackle buildings looked unspeakably grotesque next to the clean beige structures of Rio, like trash accumulated in the corners of an otherwise spotless civilization.

  “Santa Marta.” He nodded. “One of our many favelas. The result of soldiers and slaves who could afford to live nowhere else, and a problem my government has never remedied. Many think of them as dangerous places. And it is true—violent drug traffickers live within, desperate young men high on their product who battle over territory. Much senseless death. But that is not the truth of the favelas.”

  “What is?”

  “Aside from this criminal minority, the residents of the hills are humble, hardworking people. For over a century they have thrived without any government assistance—indeed, even the buildings themselves are built upon solid rock. If you lived among them for a time, you would see a culture, resourcefulness, and resilience unmatched by the grandest privilege of Rio. They have bonded in life more than most ever will with their neighbor. This makes them family, so they have everything. You understand this bond, yes?”

  I thought of those I’d bonded with in life—my ex-fiancée and the best friend she had an affair with. Then Remy from the Army, my BASE jumping mentor Jackson, Boss, Matz, Ophie, Karma, Caspian—all dead.

  “Of course.”

  “Then you have all the family you need, and more. A man who lacks that is very poor indeed, no matter the success he achieves elsewhere in life. Tell me—”

  His phone chimed in his pocket, and he looked at it quickly with a mournful grimace. “Ah, the meeting draws to a close. I must see that your vehicle is prepared to return you to Le Chateaux Mer. These security precautions are…tedious. But necessary. If I may offer you one piece of advice?”

  “Please.”

  “Remember that Rio de Janeiro is like life, David.” He touched my arm, and I was surprised not to find myself angered by the gesture as he nodded out the window. “If you ever get lost, you can always look to Christ to find the way.”

  “Indeed. It was a pleasure meeting you, Agustin.”

  “I feel the same. And I must tell you”—he lowered his voice—“it is unlikely we shall ever meet again. But if we do, know that you may call on me for anything. Anything at all.”

  “Perhaps one day it will be us behind closed doors together.”

  He smiled at the thought, but then his expression sobered as he nodded solemnly. “Perhaps one day.”

  We shook hands for the first time. His grip was brief but powerful, matched by a respectful bow of his head before he released my hand and disappeared within the elevator.

  Upon his departure, the bodyguards in the suite lapsed into silence and stood, virtually in unison. They swiftly assumed their places in the array that had met us upon our arrival to the suite, a cast of characters taking their places on a stage that they didn’t question.

  The double doors of the conference room swung open as Ribeiro and Parvaneh led the procession back into the suite. They were conversing easily now, their words exchanged as if Gabriel weren’t translating between them, traversing effortlessly from Portuguese to English and back again.

  I waited on the periphery of the exalted class as they swept toward the elevators, Ribeiro boarding one with four of his bodyguards while the other three members of his party entered the second.

  The light above each set of doors indicated that both elevators were headed up, not down.

  A bodyguard stepped before us and said, “Um minuto, por favor.”

  “Why?” Micah asked.

  Looking irritated, the bodyguard spoke quickly to Gabriel.

  Gabriel nodded and translated, “He says we must wait until his people have departed.”

  He hadn’t yet finished his sentence when I heard the steady drum of rotor blades. Looking to the window, I saw a white helicopter approaching from the early evening sky, lit by a red and green light on either side of its fuselage as it crested the roof overhead. We heard the thundering hum of it touching down above us, muting the suite to a hushed silence for a full minute as conversation became impractical over the vibration of churning rotor blades. The noise lifted suddenly as the helicopter took off in a different direction, remaining absent from our view inside the suite.

  The bodyguard’s head ticked sideways for a moment before he raised a finger to his earpiece and said into his cuff, “Afirmativo.” Then he pressed the down button, and the steel doors slid apart to reveal an empty elevator.

  He looked to us with a brightened expression. “Entrem, por favor.”

  We stepped into the elevator and he entered behind us, illuminating the third parking garage sublevel button with a touch of his finger.

  The doors slid shut, and we began our descent.

  The bodyguard led the way into the parking garage, signaling us to wait as we left the elevator.

  We stopped in place as he proceeded toward the idling black Suburban, the window lowered eight inches to partially expose our driver’s face. Given that it was an armored vehicle, I thought, that was probably as far as the ballistic glass window would descend.

  As the bodyguard leaned against the door to exchange words with the driver, Parvaneh spoke quietly to Micah.

  “Speak the truth.”

  With a lowered voice, he said, “I’ve been accompanying delegations since you were only a child. And that was the most gracefully handled negotiation I’ve seen.”

  Gabriel nodded. “Senhor Ribeiro was very pleased with the arrangement.”

  “But what about—”

  Micah stopped her. “There must always be a concession, Ms. Parvaneh. You’ve forged a powerful new alliance. Our employer will be very proud upon your return.”

  The driver’s voice cut off Parvaneh’s response.

  “Por favor,” he called, “you may load the vehicle now.”

  The bodyguard stepped aside as we entered. Micah took the passenger seat and I slid behind the driver again, completely unnoticed by Parvaneh. She seemed lost in thought, oblivious to Gabriel and me flanking her.

  The Suburban pulled forward, and our driver addressed us as he ascended the ramp spiraling upward to ground level. “We will arrive at Le Chateaux Mer within twenty minutes. A second vehicle will deliver your possessions once we arrive. I am sorry for the inconvenience, but this is how our employer prefers to receive his visitors.”

  “We understand,” Parvaneh said, “and trust in the protection of your organization’s security plan.”

  We reached the street level and pulled into a gap in traffic, cruising easily with the row of cars between stoplights. The streets looked different now, storefront lights coming on as windows glowed against the waning sun. People circulated freely among the sidewalks, carrying shopping bags as bicyclists zipped between them.

  We reentered the same tunnel, though rather than returning to the ocean road we turned southwest
. Eventually I caught sight of the enormous lake I’d circumvented with Reilly that morning—we were passing back into Ipanema, with Leblon and our hotel now minutes away. Turning to the south, we crossed back into the upscale shopping district.

  Suddenly the twirling reflection of red lights blazed across the store windows.

  A rush of flight instinct hit me, forged over the course of a hundred illegal BASE jumps that remained fixed in my system no matter the setting.

  Micah asked, “Is this a problem?”

  “Routine,” our driver replied. “We have an arrangement, as you must imagine.”

  I looked between them at two police vehicles parked on the curb three cars in front of us. A single officer stood in the street, checking the identification of a driver before waving him forward.

  Micah slowly unfastened his seatbelt and pulled it off his lap, and I followed his lead as the car in front of us was checked. After the officer waved us forward, our driver rolled his window down. The thick plate of ballistic glass descended eight inches before it stopped in place.

  The officer seemed annoyed at this irregularity. “Identificação, por favor.”

  The driver seemed to be no stranger to random police checkpoints. One hand remained on the steering wheel in a nonaggressive posture while his other had opened a billfold by the time he was asked for identification.

  “Boa noite, oficial,” he replied, holding his identification still. “Missão diplomatica. Por ordem do governador.”

  The police officer peered in through the partially open window, glancing over the identification before his eyes settled on Parvaneh in the center back seat.

  Instead of waving us forward, he called, “Saia do carro.”

  Gabriel murmured quietly, “He says to get out of the car.”

  Our driver held his billfold back up. “Não há problema. Chame o escritório do governador.”

  “Call the governor’s office,” Gabriel continued.