With Regan gone, Petrovich and I undress swiftly. The guard who left to get the woman comes over and pats us between our legs. I’m not sure how many people can hide a weapon up their asshole—and I don’t think I even want to know—but the guards here are more invasive than a TSA agent. I hope Regan isn’t suffering the same kind of inspection.
“Kind of overkill, don’t you think?” Petrovich is a good shot, and there are a lot of weapons in the room even if we are naked. The guy on his knees in front of me could have his windpipe crushed by my leg.
I hope it doesn’t come to that. We’re handed loose shifts made out of coarse cloth. It’s kind of like wearing the metaphorical burlap sack. With our hands secured behind our backs with modern zip ties that look suspiciously like the ones we used in the army, we’re escorted out of the little room and onto the street. I can see now that the main road into the favela has been blocked off with a row of three houses. They serve as guard gates. Whoever is in charge here is paranoid and kitting out this patch of land like it’s a fortress ready for an epically long siege. Regan is waiting for us, wearing a similar loose-fitting sack that extends down beyond her knees. The length of the sack is fairly ingenuous because it doesn’t allow for much movement. You’d have to lift the material to run or topple over from the restraint.
As we climb up the steep winding road, people peek out of windows and doorways. We’re a pale imitation of the Carnival parade. No floats, only nearly naked foreigners with armed guards in the front and to the rear. I resist the urge to wave. At the top of the hill, the houses fall away and there is a large gravel expanse interrupted by burn marks on the ground. A huge granite slab sits like a sacrificial altar in between burn marks. There is lumber to the right, stacked in precise piles of varying lengths. There were rumors about this favela—that they burned their enemies at the stake. Right now I’d like to drop kick Petrovich in the balls for bringing us up here and placing Regan in danger.
A man comes out, simply dressed in a cotton button-down camp shirt, the sleeves rolled up to show tattoos on both arms. He’s wearing loose-fitting cotton pants and is entirely weaponless. The sun’s rays blot out his face until he comes closer.
“Jesus Christ. Rafe Mendoza? What the fuck?” I’m stunned to see one of the members of my old Delta unit standing in front of me. Mendoza’s apparently just as dumbstruck because he says nothing for a moment and then reaches out to grab my hand. When he realizes that I’m trussed up like a Thanksgiving turkey, he awkwardly thumps me on the back.
“Hays, what the hell are you doing in my little fiefdom?”
I jerk a shoulder toward Petrovich, who is silently watching the whole exchange. “I’m with the freak show there. He says you owe him a favor.”
Mendoza studies the Russian. “Don’t know him.”
“Not you, a lieutenant. I rendered him aid during a melee over in Dubai six months ago,” Petrovich explains.
He nods and then turns to a boy, barely out of puberty based on his size. “Confirm with Fetler.” The young boy runs off, and Mendoza turns back to me.
“And the girl?” Mendoza asks.
“She’s with me,” I answer.
“Merry band, you have,” he jokes.
“Every gang needs at least one Russian and one hellcat.” I stretch to ease the tension in my back. We aren’t going to die today. There’s no need to make more small talk because the young boy returns and whispers something to Mendoza.
“Fetler vouches for you,” he says to Petrovich, “which means I castrate him if you do harm to anyone who belongs to me.”
Petrovich nods stiffly. “There will be no harm to your people from my hands.”
We follow Mendoza past the burn marks and an open field, up to the last building on the hill before a wild bramble of trees and jungle foliage takes over. From the exterior, it looks squat and but inside I see that it is much larger than I assumed. There are a dozen people in here. In one room it appears that they are folding and stuffing envelopes. In another is a bank of computers.
Mendoza leads us to a back room which appears to be some sort of office. There are several wooden chairs around a rectangular table and a desk at the very end. “Cut them loose,” he orders the guard who has followed us from the front gate all the way up. The ties around our wrists are sliced open, and Mendoza gestures for us to sit.
“What brings you to our beautiful city?” he asks. I tell him the entire story. When I get to the part where Regan is at the brothel of Gomes, Mendoza stops me.
“Silva, go and bring Gomes here.”
He waves for me to continue.
“There isn’t much more. Gomes works for Hudson, who must have sixty men guarding him at all times. Petrovich’s hacker is in there.” I don’t say what I know must be true, what I haven’t been willing to acknowledge since I stood on Monkey Hill hearing Regan read the email from the snitch’s phone. Naomi must be the Emperor—the hacker that Petrovich is desperate to get his hands on and she’s likely the same one controlled by Hudson. I don’t want Petrovich to know that his hacker is a woman and my sister. That fight will be for later. I just need her out of there.
“We do not have the manpower to have a shootout with a U.S. government contractor who provides security services to the Embassy,” Mendoza admits grimly. “I’ve lost one of my own to him. We’ve sent men in to find our lost dove, but they’ve come up empty. Where the girls are stored, I do not know. We’ve not acted because of his military ties but . . .”
“It’s time to take him down,” I declare, and Mendoza gives me a short nod. Mendoza’s power is in question here. Hudson must go.
“Perhaps we do not need the manpower,” Petrovich suggests. “We simply need to get inside, Daniel and I. From there, we can extricate one woman and one man.”
“Vasily is right. Finding Naomi in is our biggest challenge. We can fight our way out.”
“What do you know of Hudson, then?” Mendoza asks.
“He is a wealthy U.S. military contractor with a thing for North American blondes. Likely has control over the Emperor.”
At this Mendoza starts. “The Emperor? Of the Emperor’s Palace?”
Petrovich nods stiffly. “He is mine.”
I try not to hit him. Naomi belongs to herself. To the Hays family. Not to some Russian madman.
Mendoza whistles. “He must be making a fortune with all the illegal money he’s moving through that network.”