maybe those former squatters could teach the clowns in the Presidential Palace how to run a democracy and an economy. Maybe that’s why they were kicked out.
They followed Raúl to a stairwell that had no outer wall and no banister to keep people from falling to their deaths. It was hard to imagine that this place used to house thousands of residents, including children. Brodie said to Raúl, “You first.”
From this height, Brodie could see that they were on the opposite side of the tower, out of sight of the entrance gate. The concrete security wall extended around to this end of the complex, though no other gates were visible.
They descended to the base of the stairs and followed Raúl toward the wall. Brodie looked around. It was oddly tranquil here, as they traversed the overgrown weeds, littered with stray chunks of broken concrete and tangles of rusty rebar. The moon hung bright and almost full, and the chirps of nighthawks pierced the soft rustle of palm trees in the wind.
“This way,” said Raúl in a whisper. He led them along the outer wall toward a section where someone had broken a hole large enough to crawl through.
Raúl said, “I will leave you here.” He added, “You will tell Mr. Hunt I was very helpful to you.”
“You will get a good performance review.”
Raúl seemed to be processing that.
Taylor said to Raúl, “If this information is good, we’ll be seeing you again. If it’s not good, we’ll be seeing you again.”
Raúl looked at her. “Perhaps you should go to Petare with this gentleman.”
Brodie thought that was funny, but suppressed his smile. “See ya around, amigo.”
“Buenas noches.” He walked away.
Brodie said, “Not a bad guy for a pimp.” He motioned to the hole. “Ladies first.”
Taylor drew her Glock and crawled through the hole in the wall. “Clear.”
Brodie followed and emerged into a dead-quiet street. Across the street was a row of dilapidated single-story buildings faced with crumbling stucco. There were steel bars on every window, and coils of razor wire snaked along the edges of Spanish tile roofs.
Brodie pulled out his cell phone and dialed Luis as Taylor scanned the street with her Glock at her side.
Luis answered after half a ring.
“We’re ready to go,” said Brodie.
“You are okay?”
“We’re great. How about you?”
“Yes, but I can see the men with guns—”
“We’re on the opposite side of the tower from the entrance.” He hung up and said to Taylor, “You want to go to Petare?”
She hesitated, then replied, “I think we should scope it out in the daylight first.”
“Mercer could be there right now, in his favorite brothel, playing skip-rope with a twelve-year-old.”
“That’s disgusting.”
“Beyond disgusting.”
She thought a moment. “Why’s he here, Brodie?”
“Don’t know.”
“Sex tourist?”
“Bangkok is better and safer.”
She glanced at him but didn’t respond to that. “He could have just been passing through.”
“Simpson said he looked like he ran the place.”
She nodded.
“Let’s go to Petare. If we get lucky and see him, we’ll shove a gun in his ribs, march him out, and stuff him hog-tied in Luis’ trunk.”
“Then what?”
“Then we’ll call Worley, who will arrange our transportation out of here.”
“Where would we keep Mercer while we’re waiting?”
“In Luis’ trunk.”
“I think we need a better plan.”
“Right. Okay, how about a drink at the hotel?”
“That’s what I need.”
Luis’ Dart turned a corner and crawled down the street toward them, with only his parking lights on. He pulled up to them and they jumped in. Luis turned on his headlights and sped off. He kept looking at Brodie in the passenger seat as if he was surprised to see him alive. “Hotel. Yes?”
Brodie looked down the dark street. Part of him still wanted to make a night run into Petare. But that was the same part of him that had almost got him killed in Baghdad.
Taylor said, “Back to the hotel.”
“Sí.”
Luis made a U-turn, explaining that they needed to go a little out of their way to take Avenida Boyacá, which ran east-west along the southern foothills of the coastal mountain range, to avoid driving through too much of the city at night.
They drove at high speed through a desolate neighborhood. No one was on the street, and all the streetlights were out. The only light came from the residential tower blocks, where people continued their private lives amidst a city of two million people on lockdown.
They reached Avenida Boyacá, a four-lane highway skirting the base of the pitch-black coastal range. There were no other cars around as they headed east.