I ditch it in a parking lot near the emergency room entrance, but towards the back, so the bullet holes won't get as much attention.
I step onto the asphalt and have a look at the van. Holy crap.
Even with the damage, giving it up isn't easy. Twenty minutes ago I was on a moped, riding through the streets of Rio without a care in the world — except the potential threat of Russian kill teams and spending my life in prison — now I'm a pedestrian with a real kill team after me.
Right now my biggest concern is having the cops stop me on the street or someone recognizing me from the news.
I zig-zag down several blocks away from the hospital then finally catch my breath under a tree next to a side street.
I take out a phone and check twitter for any update from Capricorn.
Nothing.
I get the feeling I'm not going to be hearing from him in a timely manner. I need to figure this out on my own.
It's getting dark and I figure I have a couple hours before people start watching TV and seeing my face. That gives me only a small window of time to make sure the guy they see on the news clips and the description of what I was wearing at the stadium don't match up with what I look like.
The phone tells me where to find a big box store that sells everything from breakfast cereal to lingerie.
I've got about six hundred Brazilian bucks on me and have no idea what that's worth. With any luck I'll be able to buy a suit and some hair products. If not, maybe a magic marker to draw a mustache and an eyepatch on my face.
27
Shopping
Making it to the men's section meant running a gauntlet, getting greeted by half a dozen people eager to help me — which only makes me even more anxious.
At any moment I expect someone to make the connection and nervously back away. Nope, all the salespeople in their orange polo shirts are super-friendly.
I just nod and grin and keep the fact I can't speak the language to myself. Every time someone stops me, I point towards another section and smile.
I find a cheap dark suit and white shirt that'll take up half my money. I decide to stay with the sneakers because they're more agile than dress shoes. Although I do spring for some athletic socks. Blisters are already starting to form on my feet.
In the personal grooming section I take a look at the different hair dyes and realize I have no idea how to use them. I'm just as likely to bleach my eyebrows as I am my brown locks. I grab a razor instead.
It's a scientific fact that all well-built bald guys in sunglasses look alike.
For the last step, I find some artificial tanning spray. Brazilians come in a wide spectrum of colors and I don't really stand out all that much. But I could stand out a little less if I had a more tropical shade to my skin.
I pay for my disguise in cash and find the nearest bathroom at the other end of the mall.
My biggest regret is not getting deodorant. I can still smell Rockthrower's stench on me.
I do my best to wipe my body with toilet paper — man is it thin here — then start to use the spray tan and stop myself when I realize I should probably shave my head first. Wouldn't that be hilarious. Christ, I'm not cut out for this.
Using the razor, I shear myself over the toilet and flush my curls. The bathroom is empty for the moment, so I sneak out of the stall and have a peek in the mirror and fix a few patches.
Satisfied that I am indeed bald, I go back into my little office and use the spray tan in very light touches, checking in the mirror as I go along, making sure that I don't give myself some kind of skin disease.
The instructions say to wait for the tan to set, so I have a seat on the toilet and check my phone — I've decided the stolen one is mine now.
Somehow I manage to fumble through the settings and change the language to English.
I open up Twitter and check @CapricornZero again for any updates.
Nothing.
Fantastic.
Meanwhile, the Brazilian news is covering my landing on the front page. There's no mention of the stadium fiasco, but that was just fifteen minutes ago.
There were too many people there who weren't part of the hit squad. Sooner or later somebody is going to make a connection.
Meanwhile, THERE'S A FUCKING RUSSIAN KILL SQUAD AFTER ME.
This is the first moment I have to take a breath and let everything sink in.
Jesus. Christ.
The smart thing would be to find my way to an American embassy.
Yes… but if I were the Russians, I'd be staking that out, waiting for me to do that.
I could call them…
But @CapricornZero said that a highly-placed mole would rendition me.
What if he's lying? Maybe he's some Chinese spy trying to play the two sides against each other?
This is all very confusing.
I create a Twitter account of my own so I can follow him and send a direct message without using my own Twitter — which I'm sure newsrooms around the world are watching to see if something happens.
There's a thought…
I could post something and explain it's all a big misunderstanding.
Right, David, you'll clear this up in 140 characters. Meanwhile, you'll let the whole world know that you're alive and in Brazil.
But if I just give up the square then the problem is no longer mine.
It's tempting.
It's so god damn tempting.
Right now I'm running on the advice of an anonymous voice and Bennet's last words to me.
The choice is simple, David.
If you trust Bennet, then you keep moving.
If you don't, then you call iCosmos or the embassy and tell them you don't want to play this game anymore.
I think about it real hard.
Bennet saved my life once in a training exercise.
Would he have risked his life, Peterson's or my own if it wasn't worth it?
I have to act on faith right now. There's also the nagging suspicion that turning myself in won't be as easy as I think.
It's decided, my primary goal is to secretly get the hell out of this country before it kills me.
No passport.
No money.
Finally, this is one problem I might actually be able to solve.
28
The Frat
I spot my prey from across the street as they get out of a van laughing at some inside joke. Dressed in navy blue suits with their jackets over their arms or tucked into their small suitcases, they enter the Hotel Solara as a pack.
It's a nice place, not too touristy. It's more of an executive hotel close enough to all the good bars and restaurants. It's exactly the kind of location where I knew I would find them: An international airline flight crew.
I know their ways. I know their language.
Sometimes the pilots mingle with the flight attendants, sometimes they don't. This looks like a mixed group, which is good for me.
Infiltrating them is tricky. If you just go straight at them, they'll assume you're trying to screw the hot redhead the co-pilot has a thing for. You'll run into the alpha male, almost always the pilot, and get shut down right away.
Worst is when the most senior flight attendant, a woman who stopped getting passes before this century, decides to cock block you out of jealousy. She'll make you a pariah and signal to the group that you're some desperate loner that shouldn't be approached. Even if the redhead liked you, she doesn't want to risk fifteen hours trapped with a woman implying every way possible that she's a slut.
This takes a delicate approach. I learned this when I was an eager college student desperate to fly in the jump seat or get free travel to other parts of the world.
I learned the master approach to these tribes and how to become one of them.