Redeemer (9 page)

At last he emerged into a dome of secondary jungle. He wiped grime away from his eyes and, taking a look over his left shoulder, got his bearings. He’d entered the jungle at the north-west tip of Barbosa favela. When he’d inserted into the slum, he recalled, the jungle tapered north-west up a steep mountain to a summit several hundred metres above sea level. Six hundred metres to the south lay Corcovado mountain, its hunchback shape jutting against the skyline. If he adjusted his route westward and carried on for a couple of hundred metres, he’d be in line with the coded coordinates Bald had given him.

Fuck, Gardner thought. That phone call seemed like a year ago.

His stomach echoed like a cave. He hadn’t touched a morsel of grub since the previous night, but, juiced up with the knowledge he was nearly upon Bald, he got a second wind. He turned down the volume on the hunger, forgot about the aches and pains in his calves, and pounded on through the understory of the jungle.

He didn’t make as much progress as he would have liked, his pace hindered by the fact that the jungle floor was a dense mess of overgrown weeds, thorns, ferns, canes and shrubs. In primary jungle and deciduous forest, where tall canopies cut out much of the sunlight, the undergrowth is limited. But in this secondary jungle, where the canopies had been chopped down, sunlight had a clear run to the ground, and the vegetation flourished into a greasy tangle, as if the plants were knotted at the roots, forcing Gardner to concentrate on his every step. He wished he had a knife to hack through the overhanging vines and thickets. He just had to use the stock of his Colt to push aside spiky bushes.

In a way, Falcon had done Gardner a favour with his disappearing act. He’d served his purpose in leading him to the edge of the jungle. Still, something ate at him. Why the hell was Falcon so desperate to avoid his BOPE muckers?

Another thought scratched at the base of his skull: who kitted out the Messengers with hi-tech PP-2000s? The Russian-manufactured sub-machine-gun was the darling of elite forces and special police units, not the kind of firearm that was easy to buy on the black market – and he doubted they came cheap whatever the source.

Gardner stopped. He’d managed to get himself hooked up on the edges of a rattan bush, known in the Regiment as the ‘wait-a-while’ bush, on account of how long it took to free yourself from one. All I fucking need, he thought, as he began to work loose the needles from his clothing. Millions of the fuckers, it seemed.

No sooner had he untangled himself than his ears pricked. He paused.

A campfire crackled. Thirty metres ahead, the thick vegetation retreated, giving way to a small clearing. A sweet smell greeted him, fruity and toasted. He instantly recognized that smell as belonging to the Cohiba cigars Bald was so fond of smoking.

I’ve found him!

Gardner stared ahead at the camp, and saw that, although he’d come out to Rio to help the mucker who’d once saved his life, this had also been a personal mission. About proving a point to the pen-pushers in Whitehall: that he still had the skills and the balls to be a Blade. They’d given him the boot because of his injuries. Flying here, negotiating the favela, rescuing his mate: he could still cut it.

His bowels roiled. He approached the clearing, listening and looking out for any signs of human habitation. John might be there, he reasoned, but a Messenger might have trailed him and could be lying in wait.

Ten metres from the clearing, he planted a boot in front of him and felt something squelch underneath and hiss like a deflating car tyre. His eyes shot down – and he jumped back. Boa constrictor. The snake’s head shot forward, mouth wide open, teeth snapping at his ankle. Darting to the left to avoid its bite, he paced around the side of the vicious fucker, all seven feet of it. It hissed at him again, its blue tongue tasting the air, and slithered on.

Heart pounding, flies swarming around his face, Gardner entered the clearing.

The camp was empty. Signs left around the camp told him that whoever had been here recently bugged out. Damp smoke drifted off a doused fire. A makeshift A-frame, set up at the northern end of the clearing with split atap vines thickly layered across the roof, was also empty. A latrine had been dug up twenty metres to the east of the A-frame. It was brimming with shit and piss that flies feasted on. Gardner spotted a half-full bottle of water hanging from a tree by a rope, and, next to the fire, the stub of a Cohiba cigar. He kneeled and picked it up. The leaves were wet at the mouth end.

The cigar, the fresh shit, the water. John must’ve bugged out less than an hour ago. An uneasy feeling clawed at his guts. The camp didn’t feel right. Bald had the reputation of a vigilant Blade, the kind of bloke who was expert at covering his tracks, right down to bagging every last drop of piss. But the guy who’d lived here was lazy and hadn’t made any effort to cover up his tracks.

Gunfire shattered his thoughts.

To your six o’clock, he figured.

He turned. Silhouettes. Ten of them, forty metres away. They sliced through the rattan bushes with machetes, chopping vines and shouting. He saw a figure point a shotgun at the understory.

Boom!

Birds fluttered. The tail end of a boa constrictor was tossed into the air.

Messengers.

Gardner went into contact mode. He fell back to a caroba tree and knelt down behind the trunk, giving himself a clear line of sight, above the undergrowth, to the targets. Thirty metres to the Messengers. They were heading straight for the clearing. Bugging out was a non-starter; in this terrain he couldn’t pick up speed, and they’d soon be on his case. So, time to give them the good news.

Fifteen rounds left in the Colt. He waited until the first target was ten metres from the edge of the clearing, and opened fire, single-shot. The target dropped, and his mates went batshit, spraying rounds in every direction. Gardner was partially concealed between the A-frame and the caroba tree, but he knew it was only a matter of time before they spotted him. He unleashed four rounds, two into the torso of a tall, gangly target, the others for his friend beside him, his body jerking like some weird street dance.

He was winning the fight. The Messengers couldn’t get a fix on him. They were shitting themselves. Any minute now they’ll fucking do one, he thought.

Splinters showered his face, throwing him on to his back.

He looked at the shredded caroba trunk. The shots hadn’t come from the group to the east. Then another two rounds splashed into the soil around him, and Gardner was displacing to a shallow scrape behind the shit pit, cursing his bad luck.

A hundred metres north-east the jungle crested up into a ridgeline, where the undergrowth was stripped away, as if someone had given the ground a Brazilian. Rocky soil jutted out like a series of knuckle joints. And, exposed on the ridge, stood seven Messengers, taking pot shots at Gardner.

Bullets flung maggot-riddled shit into the air. Gardner kept his head down, desperately thinking of a plan B. The Messengers to the east burst into the clearing, twenty metres distant. He chopped the first two down with his Colt, ducking to avoid the gunfire from the guys on the ridge.

You’re pinned down and on your last eight rounds, he was thinking. Any second now you’ll be overrun.

Three more gangsters raced into the clearing, thirty metres ahead.

The light, rapid crack of a Colt Commando silenced their shouts.

‘Come to daddy,’ a voice called out. ‘You know you fucking want it.’

It was full-on cockney. Not Scottish, not John. Dry and hoarse, as if he’d necked a pint of sand. But unmistakable all the same.

Gardner peered out from the scrape. A rangy guy in a loose black T-shirt and grey combats, Bergen strapped to his back, raked gunfire down at the Messengers in the clearing. Their bodies formed a pile at the clearing mouth. He sliced up the final guy and slid over to Gardner’s position.

‘Well, say something, you silly cunt.’

Topped by Brylcreemed hair, the face had pockmarked cheeks and the rough horseshoe that was always the front-runner for the annual Credenhill shit tache competition.

‘Dave?’

‘Don’t act so surprised, lad. It’s me, not fucking Bono.’

‘But what the—?’

‘I’ll explain it all, mate, soon as we’ve sent these wankers over to the dark side.’

Dave Hands was right. No time for questions. Hands vittled a few rounds over the top of the scrape, at a couple of injured Messengers trying to take cover.

‘Reckon we need to pepper-pot back to a baseline.’

‘All well and good, mate, but I’m down to my last few rounds.’

Hands nodded, fishing out a fresh clip from his utility belt. ‘Don’t ask, don’t get. How many on the ridgeline?’

‘Seven, total.’ Gardner peered over the top, sighted a Messenger cross-graining the ridge on a downward slope towards the camp. Two taps on the trigger: slotted. ‘Six. See that ditch just short of the ridge? Make that the baseline.’

‘Bit of the old fire-and-move, yeah? Read my mind better than my ex-fucking-wife.’ Hands checked his Commando. ‘Right then. Thumbs out bloody arses.’

‘Covering fire!’

Hands displaced from the scrape while Gardner concentrated the last six rounds of the clip on the Messengers on the ridge. The distraction worked. The Messengers returned fire on Gardner, ignoring Hands as he railed the western edge of the clearing, lying up at the ditch twenty metres ahead of Gardner. Now he went into contact mode, and Gardner sprang out from the shit-splayed scrape, racing diagonally across the clearing as fast as his tired leg muscles could carry him. Rounds smacked into the soil around him, flinging dirt into the air like geysers. Gardner hit the ditch.

As soon as he reached the baseline he saw Hands, down on his knees, spraying the Messengers. Gardner slapped in a new clip. The Messengers sought cover, but there was none. They must have realized the mistake of attacking from the ridgeline too late, as Hands sprayed arcs of lead mayhem along their position. Gardner fixed his eyes on Hands. The moment he eased his trigger finger, indicating he needed to reload, Gardner stood up and picked off Messengers with his remaining rounds. One, two, three: they dropped like Lehman Brothers’ shares. Two final targets legged it.

‘Fucking showed them the time of day,’ said Hands, spitting.

‘Let’s break out of here before their mates get the scent. Millions of those bastards in the favela.’

But Hands didn’t move. He stood up, propped his rifle against a tree trunk and fetched a pouch of Cutter’s Choice baccy from his pocket. ‘Relax, Joe. They ain’t coming back. You know what they’re like?’ He lit the end of his Rizla paper. ‘Catholics practising safe sex. First sign of trouble, they pull out.’

Gardner surveyed the carnage. Smoke mist clung to their legs. The air tasted of hot metal, cordite so thick he could chew on it, like gum. I wouldn’t be so sure, he thought.

‘What the fuck are you doing here anyway?’ he said.

‘Nice to see you too, mate.’ Hands caned on his cigarette. ‘I could ask you the same question. Suppose the two of us could waffle on for fucking ages, but you know what? Be easier if you hear everything from the man himself.’

‘You mean—?’

‘John’s up the hill. He sent me to get you.’

1512 hours.

Weiss traipsed up the street. Towards the sound of gunfire. In the favela, if you wanted to find out the truth you followed the bullets.

But the cramps in his stomach and the convulsions in his legs had reduced his pace to a shuffle. He inched forward with one hand pressed against the bullet-flecked walls of the surrounding homes. It had taken forever to make his way from the torture house.

A hundred and fifty metres from the firefight now. Smoke clogged the air. The soft pulse of a helicopter. Hot ash parched his throat.

Son of Mary and Joseph, for a sip of water.

He stooped, and vomited. The fourth time in the past hour and his guts had no chunks left to hock up, just bitter yellowish liquid. He looked down. He’d puked on a chicken pen. The rainbow-coloured birds cawed their disgust.

As he drew near to the top of the favela the street inclined sharply. He wasn’t sure if his legs could carry him much further. He stopped to catch his breath. His temperature had rocketed. The corners of his lips had cracked open, like paper cuts. Something is badly wrong, he thought. Maybe I’ve contracted a fever.

His mind cleared for a second. Fifty metres away, a blurred face came into focus, and he realized he’d hit the jackpot.

Roulette faced west, giving his back to Weiss. He’d not yet seen the Mexican. Roulette was barking orders at three goons. His voice was rasping, frantic. Weiss hushed his rapid breathing and hunched up against the wall.

‘How many left?’ Roulette asked.

‘Alive, boss, or just the ones who can fight?’

‘If they’re alive, they’d better fight, or I’ll fucking kill them myself.’

The goon hesitated. ‘Twenty. They had the helicopter, we had nowhere to hide—’

‘Son of a bitch,’ Roulette cut in. ‘And BOPE got the Russian guns from the bodies too. Which means that we’re fucked, because they’re going to understand where we got them from. Forget it. We can kill two birds with one stone. The guy who sold us the guns, he’s the one who was going to rob us. We find him, it’s done.’