Total pages in book: 117
Estimated words: 109286 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 546(@200wpm)___ 437(@250wpm)___ 364(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 109286 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 546(@200wpm)___ 437(@250wpm)___ 364(@300wpm)
But then there’s Regan. She’s evidence that things can go to hell and something good can still survive. It’s my job, then, to not fuck this up. I need—no, want—to keep her safe.
“I’m not mad at you. Don’t got time for that. What I am is worried. You need to follow my instructions at all times. If I say jump, you jump. If I tell you to eat, you eat something. If I say stick with me, that means there’s no more than a paper’s width between us. Our getting out of here depends on you listening. Got it?”
She nods, and a glimpse of the agreeable, sweet self that she referred to earlier peeks out. The whole situation is a clusterfuck, and I’m not even talking about taking Regan deeper into the slums. It’s my stupid attraction to her and her need to see if she can wrangle some response out of me. I’m torn between wanting to tell her that if I were any more attracted to her that I wouldn’t be able to get up and walk and not traumatizing her even more with my attention.
“Ouch,” I hear Regan say, and I realize that this time I’ve squeezed her fingers too tight.
“Sorry.” Letting her hand fall, I pick up the pace. The sooner we’re out of here, the better.
The streets are narrow and curved here on Monkey Hill. There was no city planner to lay out roadways in strict geometric patterns. Instead, the people of the favelas have built this neighborhood by placing redbrick and rusted corrugated metal shacks on top of each other like a child stacking empty SPAM cans into a tower.
This high up you can see the Maracanã Stadium, where they are gearing up to host the World Cup and where Olympic soccer will be played in two years, at the base of the hill. Its gleaming new walls shine like a great false white hope.
Rio has tried to clean out the slums, raining down a barrage of bullets like a shield. The drug lords retreat but don’t die. There’s still an acrid smell that lingers here in the streets, the smell of spent bullets, burnt flesh, and grief. Down in Ipanema or Leblon, everyone has a smile for you. Up here, walking out your door is an act of courage. Smiling at a stranger signals your willingness to be shot down for being stupid.
Three-quarters of the way up, the community square becomes visible. At one time the large square compounds housed a daycare, swimming pool, and soccer field for the people on Monkey Hill. The drug lords won’t allow the pool to be filled for no good reason. I’d think they’d like to bring people here to drown. The soccer field is devoid of grass except around the edges. Instead, it’s one giant oval of dirt. This is where true footballers were once born. One thing that everyone up here agrees upon is that those that are Pelé-blessed shall pass through untouched. Drug lord or slum dweller, they all love their soccer gods. Edson Arantes do Nascimento and Manuel Francisco dos Santos, better known as Pelé and Garrincha, are more revered than the Virgin Mary.
A quick perusal of the field reveals no one. I lead Regan over to the brick half wall that’s been tagged and retagged by small-time gangs trying to show their muscle to the ADA, the main gang that runs Monkey Hill. “Lean against the wall,” I tell her, but I don’t sit beside her. Instead I stay crouched, sweeping the grounds in a systematic pattern, ready for action. I’ve palmed my Ruger almost reflexively.
“Should I be holding my gun?” Regan asks.
“Your gun?” My attention is momentarily distracted as I swing toward her. Her blond hair has lost its luster and her face has dirt on it, some on the forehead and some around the edges of her cheek. She’s dirty, kind of smelly, but I don’t think I’ve seen anyone more appealing in my entire life. It’s then that I realize my desire to leave Regan behind had little to do with the danger she presents to my body. I wanted to leave her with Pereya not because I’m really concerned that I couldn’t protect her, but that the more time I spend with her, the less I want to let her go.
She pats the holster on the vest that holds the gun we took off our midnight visitor. “Yeah, I’ve decided this one is mine.”
“Not yet, Annie Oakley, let’s save that for when we’re in real trouble. Right now the most I’ve got to be worried about is missing my informant.” I return to my visual sweep.
“How will you know who it is? Are they wearing a red flower in their buttonhole?”
Smothering a laugh, I say, “I’ll know.” No one but snitches and patrols are up this early. “Pereya gave me the tip and described the informant. Five feet seven inches. Slim.” Probably going to try to shank us after delivering the tip. I don’t tell the last part to Regan.