Джеймс Паттерсон - The Games

She nodded, and shuddered. I wrapped her in my arms, kissed her temples, said, “You did what you had to. We both did.”

“I couldn’t get my gun drawn,” she said.

“Happened too fast.”

“They didn’t try to rob us.”

“Just went for the kill.”

Tavia turned stony. “So they were gangsters. On assignment.”

We returned to Spirit favela and that same spot against the retaining wall high in the slum, up against the jungle. Urso was there, eating and drinking with four or five of his homeboys.

Tavia marched up to him with the bandages on her arm exposed and a .380 in her hand.

“We had an agreement, Bear,” she said, aiming at his head. “Does your word mean nothing?”

Urso’s hands flew up. “Hey, fuck, Reynaldo! What you talking about? The Bear’s word is gold.”

“We got attacked on the Alemão gondola. Street trash with knives. They targeted us.”

“That’s nothing to me,” Urso said. “I can’t keep freelancers from moving into Alemão. That’s the BOPE’s job.”

Tavia was still mad and skeptical. “You saying those weren’t your boys?”

“Hello?” said the Bear. “We got a deal, right?”

“So why aren’t you out looking?” I asked.

“Been looking all day, L.A.,” he said. “You’re getting your money’s worth.”

“So what have you heard about those girls?”

“People saw them dragged into a gray van down the hill from all the shooting. No license plate, so that doesn’t tell us anything, but we’re working out from the point where they were put in the van.”

“Narrow your search area,” Tavia said, and she told him that the girls were being held within hearing distance of train whistles and close to barking dogs and wind chimes.

“Trains?” the Bear said. Then he nodded. “Okay. That helps. But chimes? Shit, man, everyone’s auntie got chimes. Different size, shape, tone. And there are dogs everywhere.”

“We can send you a digital file of the exact sounds,” I said.

Urso brightened. “That works. After we eat, me and the boys will go down by the tracks, listen for chimes and dogs barking. We good?”

Tavia studied him critically again for several beats before saying, “Okay, Bear, we’re good.”

Dressed to kill in heels, a tight black leather skirt, and a black silk blouse that showed off her ample figure, Luna Santos was in her mid-thirties with lush black hair and a gorgeous olive complexion. Her heart pounded with anticipation as she exited a taxi by the aqueduct, two stories and eight hundred feet of stark white arches in the heart of Lapa, an edgy entertainment district in Centro.

On one side of the aqueduct, fans were already lined up to get into a sprawling outdoor music club. The square on the other side of the arches was jammed with revelers. Seven days to go until the Olympics, and already the city was packed with people ready to bust loose and celebrate. Luna was more than ready to party with them.

She bought a caipirinha, a potent cachaça rum drink and sort of Brazil’s national cocktail.

Luna walked on, sipping the minty, sweet booze, feeling the alcohol fire through her, aware of but not acknowledging the men who openly admired her as she passed. The fact that Lapa could be a little dangerous after dark only added to the general thrill.

I want fear tonight, she thought. I want drama and passion and sweat.

Her brain began to imagine the forbidden pleasures the night might bring, and she felt herself tremble with excitement and—

Luna’s cell phone rang. She stopped on the crowded sidewalk, dug her phone out of her evening purse, checked the number, and felt the anticipation drain out of her.

Cupping her hand around the mouthpiece, Luna answered. “Antonio?”

“I’m sorry, baby,” her husband said. “I have to work late.”

“I figured,” she said. “Sleeping at the office again?”

Her husband, defensive, said, “Just a few more days, Luna, and I’ll be—”

“Gone for the next sixteen.”

Exasperated, Antonio said, “You understand what I’m doing is important?”

“Sorry, but I’ve got to go. My movie’s about to start.”

Luna hung up and then turned the phone off.

Tonight is not about Antonio and his career, she thought. Tonight has zero to do with the Olympics. It’s about me. It’s about the needs of Luna Santos.

That decided, she set off again toward the entrance to Rio Scenarium, a famous samba club, trying to imagine what her new lover had planned for the evening. He’d said that after drinks and dancing he would take her someplace gostosa, someplace hot.

Luna hoped it was a first-class love motel. Rio was peppered with facilities that catered to couples in need of a discreet meeting place. Some of these were spectacular, just like the finest suites in the finest hotels in Copacabana and Ipanema, except you paid by the hour.

The year before, with her old lover, Luna had been in one that had its own pool, sauna, and all sorts of accoutrements that made her... well... very satisfied.

The bouncer at the samba club leered at Luna as he opened the door for her. She didn’t give him a hint of encouragement. She would never cheat on Antonio with such a man.

Luna had a high standard for lovers. They had to be educated, well spoken, and within ten years of her age. They had to be physically fit and more than capable in bed, and a sense of mischief and daring helped immensely.

Her new lover met all these requirements and more. He was frankly gifted in affairs of the flesh. Luna shivered as she entered the club. Pounding samba music played. Lights flashed over a packed dance floor. The ceiling soared two stories up. The second floor was more like a balcony where partyers drank and commented on the skills of the writhing bodies below.

Luna sniffed at the sweet smell of sweat and raging pheromones in the club and got even hornier. She scanned the eclectic interior, paying scant attention to the suits of medieval armor on one wall, clock collections on another, and mirrors and paintings on a third. She wasn’t seeing her man.

Luna got a double caipirinha this time, sipped at it, loving the way the mint, ice, sugar, and rum slid down her throat and made her feel like someone else indeed. She moved closer to the dance floor. In the strobe light, the mob of dancers looked like one sensual creature and—

Luna felt strong hands on her hips, felt a man press himself just hard enough against her bunda that she knew he was as aroused as she was. Purring with pleasure, Luna threw her arm up, back, and around his neck, delighting at the way he nuzzled her.

She gasped softly at his slow, grinding embrace and then pivoted to press her breasts and hips against him.

“Doctor,” she said, pouting. “I was beginning to think you weren’t coming to see me tonight.”

Dr. Castro let his eyes go dreamy, kissed her passionately, and said, “How could a man ever stay away from a woman like you, my little orchid?”

As the music beat faster and the dancing became more and more frenzied, Luna throbbed in his arms. Doctor was a master of samba, of offering and denying, of sweating and sliding against her until she was drunk with wanting him and then changing to cold and removed, which drove her passion to flames.

Doctor was a mystery and that made him all the more alluring to Luna. She had no idea what his name was; she called him Doctor, and he called her Orchid. They’d met two weeks before at another dance club and there’d been this immediate physical connection that didn’t require details like backgrounds and names.