That Time in Rio

on their hands and knees and smelling like gasoline.
What the heck is going on here?
Wolfgang struggled beneath a particularly low home, barely squeezing beneath the floor joists before finally seeing the light of a streetlamp leaking through a hole in the brick wall directly ahead. He was sure they hadn’t progressed in a direct line away from the start of their journey, but had instead switched back and zigzagged, probably to take a path that kept them sheltered beneath a house at all times. The voices of the Red Command had grown distant, but if Wolfgang lay still and listened closely, he could still hear shouts.
Finally, he pulled himself out from beneath the house and onto a dusty favela street. He was now covered in mud and God only knew what other gunk, but the fresh air tasted so wonderful he didn’t care. Megan crawled out behind him, also covered in mud. Wolfgang remembered his earlier speculation that she would look gorgeous even in this state, and was gratified to find he was right.
He scanned their surroundings for signs of the Red Command, then looked for the boy. He found the kid squatting next to the house, looking back in the direction they’d come. Before Wolfgang could speak, the boy held up a hand, then poked his head back into the hole they had emerged from and shouted. Three seconds later, a ground-shaking boom erupted from deeper in the favela, back in the direction of the Red Command. The first boom was joined by a second, then a third, and plumes of fire illuminated the favela as panicked screams filled the air.
The boy stared at the rising flames with a self-satisfied grin on his face, and Wolfgang put a hand on his shoulder. “Nice work, kid.”

10
Only minutes after the explosions rocked the favela, three of the kids Wolfgang had seen earlier emerged from the hole, all covered in mud and the smell of gasoline. They ran around the circle of Brazilian teens and tweens, trading high-fives and whooping at the sky. Wolfgang stood in stunned silence, watching them celebrate as smoke rose from the heart of the favela. Most of them were barefoot, but it didn’t stop them from jumping and throwing fists into the air.
Wolfgang found their rescuer and offered his hand. “Thank you. I’m indebted.”
The boy said something in Portuguese, and the girl in the orange clogs appeared.
She let the boy finish, then turned to Wolfgang and spoke in halting English. “Luiz thanks you for saving his sister. She is with the doctor and will be okay.”
“Thank him for saving us,” Wolfgang said. “And thank you, also.”
She mumbled to Luiz, who made a waving motion back toward downtown Rio.
“Luiz says you should not be here. It is not safe in the favelas. We are at war.”
“We’re not tourists. We’re looking for someone. Maybe you can help . . .” Wolfgang dug into his pocket and then handed him the photograph of Rose. “Have you seen her?”
Luiz examined the photo, then muttered something dark. He shoved the picture back at Wolfgang and turned away.
Wolfgang put a hand on his shoulder. “Wait! Have you seen her?”
Luiz stared at Wolfgang with a searching intensity, then he said something to the girl.
“Luiz wants to know why you ask,” she said.
Wolfgang hesitated, evaluating what angle Luiz might be playing. The boy clearly knew something, but he didn’t want to share it.
“We’re here to save her,” Wolfgang said, deciding to put all his cards on the table. “She was kidnapped.”
The girl seemed to struggle with the meaning behind the words. She asked for clarification, then haltingly translated for Luiz.
Luiz took a step forward until he stood only inches away, then tilted his head back and folded his arms. There wasn’t an ounce of fear in his face—only iron.
Finally, Luiz spoke to the girl.
“We have seen her,” the girl said. “She is in the next favela, kept by white men.”
Kept by white men.
Suddenly, Wolfgang understood Luiz’s hesitation. He probably thought Rose was being kept by child traffickers, and he was unconvinced Wolfgang and Megan weren’t in league with them. Apparently, the staring contest had assuaged his fears.
“Will you take us?” Wolfgang asked. “Please. We want to help her.”
Luiz shouted an order to his compatriots as a commotion came from the Red Command section of the favela. Wolfgang guessed it would only be a matter of time before retaliation was underway. The kids dispersed into the buildings like smoke, vanishing almost as quickly as they had appeared, and leaving only Luiz and the girl behind. Luiz walked to a nearby shack and opened the door, calling something over his shoulder.
“He says he brought your jacket and your gun,” the girl said.
Wolfgang’s heart leapt at the thought of his abandoned submachine gun. Right now, pretty much nothing short of a battalion of Marines sounded more helpful.
Luiz emerged from the shack carrying the torn jacket. Wolfgang didn’t see the UMP, and Luiz held out his hand, presenting him the flare gun.
Wolfgang’s heart sank, his shoulders dropping with it. Defeat pass across Luiz’s face, and Wolfgang accepted the flare gun with a small smile. “Thank you, Luiz. I appreciate it.” He cast Megan a sideways look.
“Don’t worry about it,” she said. “Let’s get Rose and get out of here.”
He jammed the flare gun into his pants and turned back to the boy. “Okay, buddy. Show us where she is.”
Luiz took off like a jackrabbit, the girl in the orange clogs not far behind, and Wolfgang and Megan broke into a run to keep up. He led them along narrow paths that wound in and out of shacks, moving westward in a gently curving arc. As the houses flashed by, Wolfgang thought he saw more signs of inhabitants than he had before. An occasional dog or potted plant or clothesline was visible amid the shanties, as well as more hints of light behind the windows. Whatever part of the favela they were navigating through, he guessed they were moving out