Back in Slowly

By Grant Patterson

The sequel to Southern Cross: A Will Bryant Thriller.

Rio de Janeiro. Underneath the tanned bodies, the scorching beaches, the sex and the sounds: a seething discontent and ever present violence. While the postcard city preens as the Olympics approaches, a struggle for control
erupts in the favelas.

This isn't Will Bryant's city, and it's
definitely not his fight. But if he wants to
save his family from financial ruin, he has no choice but to team up with his unpredictable Brazilian cop partner Edilson again.

The mission: retrieve a former colleague now missing in action. And everyone's coming to the party; a ruthless drug gang, a vigilante force, and the legendary BOPE commandos.

Rio. Sometimes it's just too damned hot.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Grant Patterson
• Release date: Aug 28, 2017
• ISBN: 9781773700359

Grant Patterson

Grant Patterson is a native of Vancouver BC. In 1995 he graduated from Simon Fraser University with a Bachelor of Arts in Criminology. He recently retired from the Canada Border Services Agency after seventeen years in law enforcement. He is currently working on his fourth novel, entitled Good Time Charlie. Grant lives in Brazil with his wife and children.

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Contents

Prologue

1

2

3

4

5

6

7

8

9

10

11

12

13

14

15

16

17

18

19

20

21

22

23

24

25

Epilogue

Copyright

Prologue

Vila Aliança

West Zone

Rio de Janeiro

The gringo was out the window before he really knew what was happening. He hit hard but got up running. The night he ran into was a starless black. But not black enough to preclude a realization. He realized he was in a favela. Jesus Christ.

He ran in bare feet across rough, uneven stones, down dark and winding streets. Shouting, behind him; he dared not look back. He ran towards noise, people, witnesses.

The first shot fired over his shoulder. He ducked down an even narrower lane, praying to a God he hadn’t spoken to in many years. Praying there was no dead end.

He was naked, save a pair of boxers, his feet no doubt bleeding from a dozen cuts but adrenaline kept him going. He didn’t feel drunk anymore but curiously elated as the voices receded behind him and no more shots came his way. He had lost them. He stopped, sucking in desperate breaths.

Greg Bonham looked around him and realized his escape was going to be a very brief triumph. He was practically naked, spoke almost no Portuguese, had no money, and no clue where he was. He tried to shrink into the shadows, hugging the wall of a farmacia tight. Voices were coming his way.

A trio of girls, impossible heels clattering on rough stone, high pitched carioca accents and laughter, rounded the corner. They stopped cold and looked at him. He looked back, locking eyes with a tall black girl. She stared at the naked white man as her friends pulled her away, back the way they had come.

Greg Bonham was all out of options now. Maybe he should just ask for help? He paused, indecisive. How the fuck had he gotten into this? He ran his fingers through his hair in alcoholic panic. Booze. Booze and pussy, always his downfall.

He hadn’t wanted to stay at the hotel bar like his partner. Too tame, Rick, he had said. It’s fuckin’ Rio, dude! So, somehow, after a shitload of caipirinhas, he’d wound up somewhere more to his liking, courtesy of a taxi driver who had promised to show him Rio Verdade, whatever the fuck that meant. A rough neighbourhood, sure, but Greg Bonham had had some of the best times of his life on the wrong side of the tracks!

Still, there was that voice in his head. Remember Bogota?

Actually, he didn’t. That was kind of the point. But fuck Bogota. This was Rio. And Rio meant music, heat... women. The Baile Funk he wound up at had it all. Pulsing, driving beats. Round, gyrating, dark asses. Soon, he was in the middle of it, his silver hair, fit body, and charming smile attracting interest.

More interest, in retrospect, than was healthy. If Greg Bonham had known that this particular Baile was a neighbourhood party put on by the local chapter of the Terceiro Comando Puro, the so-called Pure Third Command, he might have turned around and gone back to the hotel bar.

The TCP was a drug gang that controlled the north and west of Rio de Janeiro’s sprawling favelas. It was the worst possible place for an unarmed, intoxicated and soon to be naked gringo cop to be.

Even worse if you took home a gangster’s girlfriend.

Greg Bonham didn’t know shit about the TCP. He didn’t know Fernanda’s boyfriend had killed an even dozen people for them, either. Hell, he didn’t even know she had a boyfriend... not that it would have stopped him. All he knew was that he was in the middle of some of the craziest sex in a life full of crazy sex, when it all went sideways. The pounding on the door required an answer, clearly, and Greg’s drunken fog began to slowly part as Fernanda pulled her ass off his cock and rushed to the door. He had looked at the window, grabbed blindly for his shorts, and jumped out just as Fernanda began to take punches.

He felt a surge of drunkard’s remorse. He hoped she was still alive. But the more pressing problem right now was keeping himself alive. Greg Bonham took a deep breath and stepped out of the shadows.

He walked around the corner, hands outstretched. Look at me, I’m not a threat.

The music seemed to get louder. How had he not heard it before? It seemed dimly familiar – an open, flat-roofed bar, tables spilling into the streets, light, noise, hundreds of people dancing.

Men stood at the edges, hard-faced, assault rifles at the ready. Goddamn, they were bold. Armed to the fucking teeth and not a cop in sight. Clearly, Pacification hadn’t gotten here yet.

He froze as he realized why it was all so familiar.

Goddamn it, I’ve run in a complete fucking circle. This is where I met Fernanda. So her boyfriend’s friends must be here. Which means I am dead.

The hard men were edging towards him now. Catcalls he didn’t understand came from the crowd, barely heard over the copulating beat. He felt a hand on his arm. The voice was low and steady.

Come with me. Don’t look back.

For some reason the hard men kept their distance as the Dutchman led Greg Bonham to his van. The second he got inside he stopped functioning and remembered nothing more.

1

Restaurante Mocoto

Zona Norte

São Paulo

Will Bryant sat in the brightly painted restaurant, savouring his caipirinha and staring down at his fresh, steaming, Atolado de Frango.

This was his Goodbye Brazil ritual now; his way of appreciating his last moments in this impossible, impossible not to love, country. The smells of slow roasted chicken, tomatoes, olives... blended with sadness and uncertainty. Eating and drinking his feelings might not cut it today. Still, that chicken was pretty fucking good. And nobody made better caipirinhas.

But Will was looking at larger issues now. Things he hadn’t had to worry about in a long time – since he’d stolen a million dollars from industrialist/mass murderer/blackmailer Oscar Stumpf and several dozen rich pedophiles.

One year of coasting. The way life ought to be. He wasn’t the only one enjoying himself lately.

The man sitting across the table from him had been living unaccustomedly large, too. Thin, wiry, scarred, half-black, all brave. Edilson Lopes da Silva. Will’s face might have been a mask of doubts. Sargento Lopes’ was not. Typical.

Enjoy your vacation. That Cheshire Cat grin was somehow less endearing now that he’d gotten his teeth fixed on Oscar Stumpf’s dime.

I’m getting sued – it’s not a vacation. For a smart man, he could be frustratingly obtuse. Maybe that was part of the act. Maybe Will should never have told him about Lieutenant Colombo.

"You’re rich. Hidden, dirty rich. Sem problema." Edilson swigged a maracuja caipirinha and grimaced. They do have beer here, right?

Will sighed and signalled the omnipresent waiter. For better or worse, his future in Brazil was tied to this man he still struggled to understand yet trusted on some primitive, instinctual level only a chimpanzee could comprehend.

With Edilson, he suspected his death might be impossible. The events of the previous year had given him good reason to suspect this. Together, the two of them had taken on one of Brazil’s most ruthless and powerful oligarchs, and won.

Well, with the help of a shadowy network of cops and politicians, angered with Oscar Stumpf for allying with the most dangerous gang in the country. So it wasn’t really the two of them, to be fair.

But they had survived. And with the help of a powerful political ally, they had kept a sizeable reward, and had avoided prosecution for a great many less-than-approved activities. But the slime was still there. Will felt it every morning he woke up. Looking at his friend’s face, he knew he was the only one so troubled.

Edilson beamed back at him. You gonna meet Angie?

How do you know about Angie?

You talk in your sleep.

Jesus.

Don’t worry. Nothing so bad. Shootout stuff... mostly.

Will had spent a lot of time with his friend on their last case. The relationship was as intimate as would be expected. Maybe he felt freer to talk in his sleep with his partner than his wife? More homoerotic cop bullshit. He figured as a millionaire he ought to be past this.

Look, about that shootout.

I know, I know. If they ask, you are ‘livin’ in a van, down by the river. Edilson grinned.

His colloquial English was coming along fine. Will felt a perverse teacher’s pride. Look after them, will you?

As if you have to ask. That his family was safe with this man ought to be unspoken. He had insisted that Silvia, Lucas, and Gabi not see him off from Guarulhos. Too much. He allowed himself a taste of frango. Low and slow cooked. Disintegratingly soft and olive/tomato tart. A swig of caipirinha to top it off. There was nothing like it back home.

Home. Was it, anymore?

He hadn’t planned on addressing the issue of home anytime soon, but events had a mind of their own. Last month, his mobile rang when he was walking the kids around the Horto Florestal, one of São Paulo’s few oases of calm. A troop of macaques shrieked at him as he took the call.

"Fala."

Huh? Will, it’s Jack.

Oh shit. Jack Turner. His Canadian lawyer. He’d been playing a stalling game for two years now to keep him from his day of reckoning. The day he would have look at that kid in the wheelchair, rolling up to the witness stand.

He’d put that kid in the wheelchair. At a Tim Hortons in South Vancouver. He hadn’t wanted to, but intentions were not what this case was all about.

He had been off the reservation when he had shot it out with two robbers in that coffee shop. Officially supposed to do nothing. Ludicrous, but there it was. That technicality had allowed the Agency to throw him and his fellow officers under the bus.

Criminally, what he did was fine. Even the kid in the wheelchair. Bullets do funny things. Sometimes, not so funny.

But the shoot was out of policy. For Will, his supervisor Pete, and Angie, that meant firing. Worse, it meant facing a multi-million-dollar lawsuit filed by the kid and a couple of whiners who caught fragments, with no guarantee they wouldn’t be left wearing barrels at the end.

Out of policy meant you paid for your own lawyer. And any judgement resulting.

Mind you, the Agency wasn’t off the hook. They had deep pockets, so of course they’d be in the dock. Ought to be pretty tense at that defence table. He wondered what Gail Adams would have to say to him. The last thing she’d said to him was Your employment is terminated, so that ought to be a fun reunion with his old boss.

His head throbbed every time he thought of it so he just ignored it. Besides, events in Brazil kept him preoccupied. But now he knew from Jack’s voice that the wait was over. He couldn’t hide from that stray bullet anymore.

Jack’s voice was quiet. Will had to move away from the shrieking monkeys, promising Gabi he’d come back. She loved the Horto’s monkeys. He stood beside a pond, watching Lucas ride a BMX too fast through a knot of joggers.

Will, it’s time. No more delays. Trial in three weeks.

Will thought about skipping the whole fucking mess. He just as quickly rejected it. He didn’t skip.

Okay, Jack. I’ll book a flight.

So now he sat, nervous, contemplating his first trip back since he’d fled in disgrace.

I can’t exactly tell people what I’ve been up to down here, now can I?

Edilson chuckled. Don’t worry so much, Willao. They think you are just a broke-ass loser teaching English. Jesus, his colloquialisms were coming along. "They know nothing about Oscar Stumpf or Soldado Ferguson. So if you lose, they get what?"

Soldado Ferguson. His ridiculous, yet never challenged, Brazilian police alter ego. Ferguson allowed him to carry a gun in this country with the pretence of legality. It was a necessary precaution when you’ve killed members of the country’s most powerful gang.

Edilson was good at seeing the escape hatch in any scenario. Will figured being a cop in Brazil made that a necessity. This morning’s Folha showed two more cops killed overnight in Zona Leste. So what was he worried about?

It wasn’t the money. It was the kid in the wheelchair. And maybe going into a shitstorm for the first time in a long time without Edilson Lopes by his side.

Gonna miss you, buddy. Will raised his caipirinha.

"Saude! Let’s hope you at least get to keep your underwear."

Nice. Any last-minute advice?

Keep it together. Forget your guilty conscience, everything that matters to you now is here. Do it, and come home, brother.

Twenty Hours Later

Over Vancouver

Will left it to the last minute to wake up. He came to with a start, as he always did when waking somewhere unfamiliar, his head pressed against the window, drooling. Sunlight bathed his face as his eyes adjusted. The pilot banked the wing just in time to give him a sweet view of the Coast Mountains, peaks barely dusted with snow in mid-summer.

His hometown was compact at the core, the real estate he could never afford now, in a sea of Chinese money, packed in snugly under the guarding mountains.

The landing gear locked down with a thunk as they passed over playing fields. They were over Richmond now, the same flat suburban fields where he’d learned to throw a spiral. He craned his neck down in a fit of nostalgia. The fields were full now, kids running passing plays and tackling dummies. The season was just around the corner.

That was him, once.

But his old school was a boarded-up wreck now. Kind of like him. Throwing a football was a perishable skill. When you were spent, your body a rusted hulk, your brains turned to slush from all the concussions, what did you do?

Live off past glories, if you had them. Sell real estate, or Toyotas. Become a cop. Now, he wasn’t even that anymore.

The Airbus hit the tarmac, half-empty, the ex-quarterback taking up half of Row 23 lost in thought.

Welcome home, Will Bryant.

2

Grant McConachie Way

Vancouver International Airport

Stuck in traffic, Will looked around. The airport traffic was what you’d expect anywhere – lots of cabs and shuttle buses, frustrated fliers who only wanted to get home, now facing one last hurdle. And a hell of a lot of luxury German cars.

Luxury outlet mall. Mark Gavin offered an explanation. Gotta keep the new landlords in Prada and Guess. Mark had picked him up at the airport, to his great surprise. He didn’t think an ambitious young comer like Gavin would be around somebody as radioactive as he was. But they did have a history.

Huh? Here? Brilliant. Will Bryant believed that in the chase for quick money from China, Vancouver had lost its collective mind. He mostly kept that thought to himself, lest he sound like a racist crank.

Gavin was dressed down, a tall, movie-star-handsome cat with a sardonic grin and a paper-dry wit, dressed in a sweaty undershirt and cargos, no doubt a bunch of armour and hardware in the trunk. He ran a hair through wavy hair before continuing. Yeah, as if airport traffic isn’t bad enough. I know, let’s build a mall here! Assholes.

Will chuckled and looked around. It was hard to believe he had grown up here. Only the mountains and the sea hadn’t changed. Maybe Edilson was right. Home was somewhere else, now. A lawsuit wasn’t much of a homecoming parade, anyway.

The gorilla in the room needed to be addressed. Mark, why are you here?

Gavin cranked up the AC. Fuck, it’s hot. It was warm, even for summer. But not that warm.

Answer the question, Marky.

This is what I get for giving you a ride?

Listen, partner, I like you. I know you’re good in a scrap. I like your wife. But I also know you are an ambitious son of a bitch, even more so since the kid came along. So, you wouldn’t be seen dead with me unless something had changed. Because I don’t remember you offering to help me to the car with my shit two years ago. In fact, you kinda just disappeared...like, poof! So what’s changed, Marky?

Mark Gavin squirmed in his seat, cranking the AC dial to max. Will put his hand on Gavin’s arm. This isn’t a climate-control issue, buddy. Come on, it’s just you and me.

Jesus, Will, you been playing detective down there?

A moment’s panic. No. Why, what have you heard?

Nothing, buddy, that’s just it. You haven’t exactly been stalking me, you know. Nobody else either.

It was true. He had shut down his old world almost completely. Weakly, he offered his excuse. My lawyer suggested it.

And Adams ordered us to stay away from you. Bet you read the email, am I right?

Yes. Can’t believe she put that on the record. Access to Information requests were a wonderful thing when you were on the other end of the computer. It was the first thing Jack Turner had suggested when the Agency had jettisoned him. He got to read a lot of ill-considered critiques of his actions which were now permanent records.

She doesn’t give a shit, Will. She figures blowing you up will send her to Ottawa. But something has changed.

What?

Danny Mulvaney.

That name rang a bell. One year ahead of him at Steveston High. Fistfights with half the starting lineup of the Packers. A skinny, artsy kid, but angry, too; never willing to back down. When he’d heard the former stoner was now in the Agency, he couldn’t figure it out, except when he remembered Danny’s old man was a cop. Over the years, they had mostly avoided each other, but the man had a reputation. Bull in a china shop, to put it mildly.

What did that fucking psycho do now?

Easy, Will. Gavin looked uncomfortable again, but the AC was at max already.

Sorry. Forgot you guys were pals.

Pals might be overdoing it but I trust him, Will. Like I trust you.

Then you’re a dildo. From what I hear, that guy fucks up everything he touches, including his marriage.

Just a few degrees to the right of you, Will. An Asian woman with a mammoth sun visor and a death grip on the steering wheel cut in front of them, her head never moving. Where did you buy your fucking license, bitch! Gavin let out his tension, then gave her a couple of whoops on the siren for emphasis.

Way to buy a suspension, Marky. Tell me more about Mulvaney. What did he do? And what does it have to do with me?

Ahead of them, the sun-visor woman behind the wheel of the Porsche Cayenne now sat, terrified by Gavin’s siren, blocking the traffic trying to flow onto the bridge to downtown. Goddamn Asian Invasion. Gavin’s carotid throbbed visibly.

Nice, Marky. You have frozen her like Queen Elsa. My daughter will be impressed. Tell you what. I buy you dinner and maybe I can pry that Mulvaney story out of you?

Gavin sighed. Why not. Crazy fuckers like you and Mulvaney, your star is on the rise.

That’s a first.

Vancouver

The Sylvia Hotel

Will felt like a cheesy tourist, but was still enjoying the patio view of English Bay. The second Negroni was going down nicely. He looked up the ivy-enwrapped walls of the old Vancouver landmark. He’d always wanted to stay here, but until recently it hadn’t seemed cost-effective. Until now, he’d always had a place to stay.

But now his condo was sold, his Dad was long dead and his Mother in a care home.

His mother. Gonna have to deal with that one.

Callously, he thought, What’s the point? She is so far gone she wouldn’t know if it was me or the nurse.

But this was his mother. And maybe there was something there he could reach. What kind of son of a bitch comes back to his hometown and doesn’t see his own mother? And more importantly, how would he explain that to Silvia? Was that why he was staying here, on the other side of town from his mother? So it would be too inconvenient to visit more than once?

He told himself to relax. Enjoy the hotel. The Zumpano song drifted into his head.

Was I the only one there?

There on top of the Sylvia Hotel.

Maybe, was it just the fact that now he could afford to be a tourist, finally, in his fantastically expensive home town? Probably more like it. Plus, it was cool. And right close by the Law Courts.

That part could wait till Monday.

Speaking of waiting, where the hell was Mark Gavin?

As if summoned, he strode in through a side door, ducking his head as he always did even if there was lots of clearance. A lifetime of slamming your head will do that to you.

Sorry. He pitched himself onto a chair. Had to have a shower. That armour is hell in this weather.

I dimly recall.

Sorry.

No need to apologize. I like my life now. No assholes to answer to.

Sounds nice.

You have no idea. What are you having?

What’s that? Gavin peered curiously at his drink. Looks a bit swishy, but we are in the West End. Hey, it’s not gay if you’re out of the country...

There you go again, Marky. Projecting. It’s a Negroni. You don’t know you want one, until you’ve had one. He held up his glass.

Okay.

The sun was setting over the anchored transports and sailboats out in the bay before Negronis and time loosened Mark Gavin’s lips. Will was nothing if not patient. And his size and drinking experience let him wait most men out.

You seriously didn’t hear? Mark’s speech was slurring now. Mental note: take his keys.

No, I told you, I’ve been avoiding it for the last few days. It made the news?

Gavin chuckled darkly. You could say that. Look, you’ll never believe me if I tell you. And you have enough on your mind, so...

Will dropped the old pal routine and shifted into Brace the Shitrat mode. Tell me, Mark. I insist.

The slow lean in, the hissed declarative, they worked as well on cops with guilty consciences as they did with junkies itching for their next fix. But Gavin’s whispered gossip only raised more questions. Somebody died?

So, Mulvaney fucked up. Does he need Jack’s number? And who died? Anybody I know?

Brian Russell. Damn you, Mulvaney. Gavin stared into his Negroni. Yeah, Brian was...

A sweetheart. I knew him, not well though. How’s his wife?

Gavin gave him a dumbshit-for-asking-that look. How do you think, Will? Anyways, funeral is in a few days.

I’ll be there. It was out of his mouth before he realized the implications. But how does this affect me? You said that this was a game changer. So?

Gavin drained his Negroni. You asked me what Mulvaney did. Okay, I told you. Worse, or better than what you did? No collateral damage, but all intentional. He went off the reservation on purpose. Not like you.

Shit. What about the Mounties?

Too little, too late. Mulvaney had a hard on for the lead Mountie on the case and froze him out. He went City instead.

Off the reservation, tramping on RCMP turf, a trail of debris, including a dead officer to boot. He had gotten fired for much less.

So, Mulvaney needs a job?

Gavin was quiet, looking down at his newly arrived Negroni. Mulvaney still has a job.

What the fuck? He exploded, looked around, realized he needed to turn it down. What the fuck, Marky? Whispered this time.

I know, I know... it’s a bitch. But if he goes down, a lot of us go down with him. Gavin looked at him. Including me, Will.

You?

I helped him. I wasn’t there at the end, but...

Don’t say it. I don’t want to know. His friend was in full confessional mode now and he wanted no confessions. He wasn’t drunk enough to forget them. But why aren’t they frying him? They couldn’t wait to hit the eject button on us. The bitterness came though, he knew, but who gave a shit? He was entitled.

Politics, man. Can’t have two straight Agency shootings in a row ruled ‘out of policy,’ can they? The people who pay the bills will start asking questions. Easier to hand out medals.

And the RCMP signed on to this?

They do what the Minister of Public Safety wants, like the rest of us. And this comes right from him.

Suddenly his Negroni tasted like the piss it was on its way to becoming. Will set down his glass and decided to switch to beer. How does this affect me?

It’s why I came to pick you up at the airport. The Agency may be having a change of heart about you. Because the Minister asked about you. So, if you keep your mouth shut...

Maybe I get a pass. After almost two years. He looked out at the bay as the last light faded out on the horizon. Two years. What might have been. Both men went quiet for a long while.

Look man, you know how it is... Gavin seemed suddenly sober.

Yes, I do. Events happened to people like him. His power to make things happen ended with his trigger finger. In every other respect, he was strictly cargo. Whether damned or