“I’m not mad at you. Don’t got time for that. What I am is worried. You need to follow my instructions at all times. If I say jump, you jump. If I tell you to eat, you eat something. If I say stick with me, that means there’s no more than a paper’s width between us. Our getting out of here depends on you listening. Got it?”

She nods, and a glimpse of the agreeable, sweet self that she referred to earlier peeks out. The whole situation is a clusterfuck, and I’m not even talking about taking Regan deeper into the slums. It’s my stupid attraction to her and her need to see if she can wrangle some response out of me. I’m torn between wanting to tell her that if I were any more attracted to her that I wouldn’t be able to get up and walk and not traumatizing her even more with my attention.

“Ouch,” I hear Regan say, and I realize that this time I’ve squeezed her fingers too tight.

“Sorry.” Letting her hand fall, I pick up the pace. The sooner we’re out of here, the better.

The streets are narrow and curved here on Monkey Hill. There was no city planner to lay out roadways in strict geometric patterns. Instead, the people of the favelas have built this neighborhood by placing red brick and rusted corrugated metal shacks on top of each other like a child stacking empty SPAM cans into a tower.

This high up you can see the Maracanã Stadium, where they are gearing up to host the World Cup and where Olympic Soccer will be played in two years, at the base of the hill. Its gleaming new walls shine like a great false white hope.

Rio has tried to clean out the slums, raining down a barrage of bullets like a shield. The drug lords retreat but don’t die. There’s still an acrid smell that lingers here in the streets, the smell of spent bullets, burnt flesh, and grief. Down in Ipanema or Leblon, everyone has a smile for you. Up here, walking out your door is an act of courage. Smiling at a stranger signals your willingness to be shot down for being stupid.

Three quarters of the way up, the community square becomes visible. At one time the large square compounds housed a daycare, swimming pool, and soccer field for the people on Monkey Hill. The drug lords won’t allow the pool to be filled for no good reason. I’d think they’d like to bring people here to drown. The soccer field is devoid of grass except around the edges. Instead, it’s one giant oval of dirt. This is where true footballers were once born. One thing that everyone up here agrees upon is that those that are Pelé-blessed shall pass through untouched. Drug lord or slum dweller, they all love their soccer gods. Edson Arantes do Nascimento and Manuel Francisco dos Santos, better known as Pelé and Garrincha, are more revered than the Virgin Mary.

A quick perusal of the field reveals no one. I lead Regan over to the brick half wall that’s been tagged and retagged by small time gangs trying to show their muscle to the ADA, the main gang that runs Monkey Hill. “Lean against the wall,” I tell her, but I don’t sit beside her. Instead I stay crouched, sweeping the grounds in a systemic pattern, ready for action. I’ve palmed my Ruger almost reflexively.

“Should I be holding my gun?” Regan asks.

“Your gun?” My attention is momentarily distracted as I swing toward her. Her blonde hair has lost its luster and her face has dirt on it, some on the forehead and some around the edges of her cheek. She’s dirty, kind of smelly, but I don’t think I’ve seen anyone more appealing my entire life. It’s then that I realize my desire to leave Regan behind had little to do with the danger she presents to my body. I wanted to leave her with Pereya not because I’m really concerned that I couldn’t protect her, but that the more time I spend with her, the less I want to let her go.

She pats the holster on the vest that holds the gun we took off our midnight visitor. “Yeah, I’ve decided this one is mine.”

“Not yet, Annie Oakley, let’s save that for when we’re in real trouble. Right now the most I’ve got to be worried about is missing my informant.” I return to my visual sweep.

“How will you know who it is? Are they wearing a red flower in their buttonhole?”

Smothering a laugh, I say, “I’ll know.” No one but snitches and patrols are up this early. “Pereya gave me the tip and described the informant. Five feet seven inches. Slim.” Probably going to try to shank us after delivering the tip. I don’t tell the last part to Regan.

“How come they don’t fill the pool?” she asks.

“A sign of control. Filling the pool would be an act of defiance and a mark that the ADAs are losing their hold over the people here.”

“ADAs?”

“Amigos de Amigos. Each favela has its own gang overlord. Monkey Hill is run by the ADA. They move guns and drugs, not really into women, though.”

Regan snorts. “Wow, so pious of them.”

“Everyone has their hard limits.” I shrug.

“Why don’t the people revolt? You said everyone was armed here.”

“The gangs provide structure and some sense of stability. The cops are crooked, so a gang with a lot of power and the right kind of leader can provide a better life for these people than the government. If your daughter is raped, the gang will enact justice on your behalf. Monkey Hill is one of the better places. The real danger to the people who live here is from the rival gangs who are pressing in on either side. Turf wars kill more people here than anything.”

“Sounds like you approve of the gangs,” she says.

“I was in the Army before this, and I can tell you I killed a lot more people under the blessing of the U.S. government than I have on my own. I guess there’s something about the ability to protect the people you care about without rules or regulations that I appreciate. On the other side, there’s a favela called Tears of God, and it’s been run for the last few years by a shadowy figure by the name of the Knife's Hand. There, the pools are filled and the soccer field is a deep green. They’re experimenting with local crops and shoring up the existing structures and tearing down dangerous ones. The residents of the favela wear a medallion hammered out of local granite. They say that if you harm a member of the TG favela, you and your family and everyone else will be killed in retribution."

“That's harsh.”

I think of what I'd like to do to the people who took my sister, the ones that have hurt Regan, and shake my head. Those fantasies might scare her off more than my sexual ones. "Maybe, but I’ve not heard of one turf war there, and the people don’t walk around armed to the teeth, and the police aren’t running through there with a tornado of bullets and hand grenades.”

A lone figure appears on the opposite end of the soccer field, and I’m up and moving before Regan can respond. She’s listened to me, though, because I can hear her footsteps close behind mine. And her hand rests lightly on the back of my shirt, not so tight that she’d hold me back or restrict my movements, but enough so that we aren’t separated. I suspect her other hand rests on the butt of her gun.

The informant spots me and turns to walk down toward what looks like an old, abandoned grocery. The letters are mostly rubbed out, but at least of one of the windows declare that there once were frutas e legumes inside. When we duck into the building, it’s empty of even the metal shelves. Those are probably in several of the homes nearby serving as storage. The tile floors are chipped and there are dark stains, blood.

My informant walks toward a doorway in the back, and I hug close to the exterior wall. We don’t trust each other, but we’re strangers forced to do business. The killing won’t start until after the transaction has taken place. The snitch is wearing a hoodie and baggy jeans, the universal attire of a teenage hoodlum, no matter the country. Except for maybe East Asia. Those guys tend toward skinnier jeans.