That Time in Rio, Logan Ryles [i have read the book a hundred times txt] 📗

it from her stomach. The restraint left rusty bruises patterned after the links, and Wolfgang’s stomach turned.

“Give us a minute, Wolf,” Megan whispered.

Wolfgang stepped out of the room, running a hand over his mouth. He wanted to hit something. Break something. Or somebody.

Who does that to a girl? What kind of sick bastards . . .

Wolfgang forced the thoughts into a mental vault and closed it. He didn’t have time to be righteously angry. He still had to get Rose and Megan out of this mess alive. They’d need transportation—a way out of the favela.

The bikes.

The motorcycles were parked in the back. Wolfgang searched the shack for the keys, and after five minutes of finding nothing, he remembered Megan had found the padlock keys outside—probably in a kidnapper’s pocket.

He hurried outside and slid to his knees next to the man he’d knocked out with the golf club. The man lay still, but his chest rose and fell slightly with each breath. Wolfgang dug through his pockets and located a pair of keys, one of which was labeled with a Yamaha logo. He crawled the five feet to the next man and found the second key almost immediately. As he pocketed it, the man twitched and coughed.

Wolfgang withdrew the pistol and placed his finger on the trigger. Kneeling next to the man, he watched as his eyes flickered open and saliva bubbled from his mouth. The rage inside Wolfgang’s vault boiled, and he pressed the gun against the man’s head. “You got something to say?”

The man blinked, then twisted his head until he saw Wolfgang. He licked his lips and coughed a couple times, then a strange grin spread across his face. “You’ve got . . . no idea who you’re screwing with.”

Wolfgang bent down, driving the gun into the man’s temple until he grunted. “Likewise.”

The man tried to pull away but couldn’t under Wolfgang’s pressure. His breaths came in ragged snatches, saliva running down one cheek.

Wolfgang kept the pistol in place, his finger on the trigger. He wanted to pull it and blow the sick sack of human shit into Hell. It wasn’t difficult to imagine the recoil of the gun and the instant explosion of the man’s head. Wolfgang pictured his face vanishing as successive shots tore through his skull, and the image brought a strange hunger to his soul—something he’d never felt before: a lust for blood.

Wolfgang blinked, chilled by his own feelings, and relaxed on the pistol.

The smug grin returned to the man’s face. “Don’t have the balls?”

Wolfgang gritted his teeth. “Don’t have the time of day.” He lifted the gun and smashed the butt squarely into the man’s forehead until his body went limp again.

What a waste of humanity.

The distant pop and rattle of machine guns arrested Wolfgang’s attention, and he looked toward the heart of the favela. From so far away, the guns sounded as innocuous as slamming doors, but he knew better. A moment later, he recognized the grind of a Brazilian armored vehicle crushing its way up the street, taking and returning fire.

The attack has resumed.

Wolfgang grabbed the motorcycle keys and dashed back into the house, where he found Megan helping Rose put her shoes on. “Time to go!” he said. “They’re coming this way.”

12

Wolfgang led Megan and Rose through the door as the first rays of a Brazilian sunrise crested the horizon. “I’ve got the keys,” he said. “The bikes are in the back.”

Megan looked toward the fallen men. “What about them?”

“Leave them for the dogs. Let’s go.”

He hurried around the corner of the house to the two dirt bikes. Both were old and muddy but appeared serviceable. He selected the larger of the two and swung his leg over it, then kicked the starter. The motor rumbled to life as the gunshots coming from down the hillside grew steadily louder. He could hear truck engines, also. Then a man screamed.

“Megan, put Rose with me!” Wolfgang said, motioning to the seat behind him.

Rose blanched at the sound of the gunshots, but she didn’t object as Megan helped her onto the rear of the bike. There were no helmets lying about, which didn’t surprise Wolfgang. The favelas didn’t seem like a safety-conscious sort of place.

Rose wiggled in close behind him, then he felt her tentative hands wrap around his sides.

He looked back and gave her a reassuring smile. “It’s okay, Rose. We’re gonna get you out of here.”

Megan slid onto the second bike and caught the keys Wolfgang tossed her, then her motor roared to life.

“We stick together,” Wolfgang called over the buzz of the engines. “We find our way out of the favela and locate the Brazilian police.”

Megan kicked the bike into gear and gunned the motor. The wind tossed her red hair as she circled the house. Wolfgang twisted the throttle and raced to follow, slinging mud and rocks in a spray behind him.

As soon as they reached the front of the house, they were blinded by the rising sun. Wolfgang squinted and ducked his head, narrowly avoiding collision with Megan as she struggled to find the trailhead. He took the lead and crashed through the undergrowth, finding the trail a moment later and rocketing downward like a kid on a snow sled.

In the distance, smoke rose from the favela, and somehow Wolfgang didn’t think it was from the fires Luiz and his friends had set. The Brazilian military had returned to Vila Cruzeiro, and this time they were there to finish the job.

Wolfgang reached the bottom of the trail and slowed to negotiate a turn onto the footpath Luiz had led them up. Rose clung to him from behind like a tick on a dog, tucking her head into his side so close that it was difficult to move his left arm without elbowing her in the face. The bulk of Rio lay to his left, but between him and it was a cloud of smoke and the roar of urban combat. They’d have to circle the outskirts of the favela at the base of