Chapter 4

“Is there still a long way to go? "I asked, feeling my legs throbbing.

I've always been very athletic. I had enough muscles in my thighs and calves not to let myself be shaken by any walk. But either I wasn't in my best shape, or I didn't think that such a steep climb could leave me with my lungs on fire and my legs oscillating with trembling knees.

The second option should be the most sensible, because Mariana practically ran up the hill, while I crawled with my backpack on my back. Several times I had to regulate the buckles of the bag, wanting to find a position that didn't leave me so stiff, but the spine already hurt enough for me to know that it would take days before I felt normal again.

As expected, as soon as Mariana and I started the climb, we were intercepted by some boys on the corners; known by the pejorative term "Campana". Not that they were selling anything and were too insistent for us to buy.

They were just doing their job, as one of them said. When I asked who I was and what I was doing there. I knew that the job of those teenagers was to know the time of the police arrival and prevent them from going up.

The boys didn't use weapons, but they had their means to delay the police's work. But Mariana was very shrewd in saying that I was a relative and that I was coming to live, and that she would ask Picasso for permission so that no misunderstanding would occur again.

I didn't understand your position inside the hill very well, but the boys accepted the excuse so easily that I was afraid to follow Mariana.

She had been undercover in that place for a year. What couldn't have happened in so long? She could very well already be on the opposite side of the police. I could be trying to lure myself into the same ambush that killed Private Oliveira. Nothing would stop her from that.

The woman rarely attended the battalion, now that she had her means of reporting everything she discovered. And even so, no one saw her as a target of betrayal. Only I saw it.

"There is still a good part of the hill for us to go up," said Mariana, happily greeting an elderly lady who was coming down with a thorny teenager. My annoying co-worker watched me. “Wow, Juju, for someone so amazing, you look pretty tired, huh?”

"I'm not tired," I spoke in a hoarse tone, desperate for a sip of water. I coveted a popsicle that I saw a child sucking on the sidewalk, and I thought I would get into too much trouble if I attacked her in search of some relief from that excruciating thirst. Right next to the child, as if he were not doing anything, a d*** d****r who I understood to be the infamous "Vapor", was negotiating some d*** pins with a resident. They both spoke softly and in a conspiratorial way, but they saw me looking and decided to go down the alley. I looked away. "I can go up and down this hill all day if I want to.”

"Uh" mocked Mariana, giggling. I took out the backpack and pushed it up, trying to hit her back. Mariana easily dodged, making a point of hitting my suitcase in the middle. "Ah, Juju, stop being so grumpy. We are already drawing too much attention just because we are innocently going up the hill.”

"What happened to be so attentive? "I questioned, feeling my throat swing.

Mariana took a few steps back, leveling our bodies. It was clear that she wanted to tell everything in the most sneaky way possible, even if her expression persisted in that mask of debauchery.

On the sidewalk, just as she opened her mouth to speak, two men went down the hill. The slippers they wore produced shrill and echoed sounds all over the street, making it very clear that they were arriving and were not in a shred of humor.

The men watched us only once, before continuing to descend toward the boys in their eternal vigil. The men all had that shameful appearance of the favela residents. Short hair, scratchy eyebrows, thin shorts, and wide shirts. Not to mention the numerous tattoos on the face, fingers, and neck.

It was very easy to identify those people in any other medium. Mariana, I noticed only at that moment, she also had a tattoo on her wrist.

I never noticed the drawings very well, because, inside the battalion, she wore long-sleeved shirts. They were flowers around a skull with an open mouth, but because of the size it could not reach more than an egg, it was very discreet and easy to hide. There in the favela, the tattoo seemed to shine like a mark of pride.

"Last night, some members of the rival militia invaded the hill," said Mariana in a conspiratorial tone. She practically whispered. "There are rumors that they tried to kill someone at the top level and he was intercepted. The guy disappeared. No one knows where he was taken, but I would bet on the criminal court. Anyway, after yesterday, surveillance is much more fortified. And it's not even because of the police.”

"But why would someone from another favela be coming in here? “I questioned. “Don’t you know that the police are very committed to capturing the high echelon of this community?”

"Yes, of course, but nothing prevents them from trying some benefit from using the police," she said, watching carefully if anyone would be approaching. "Not to mention that it is almost a miracle when Picasso leaves the comfort and safety of his residence to attend a party, and last night was the perfect opportunity for him to be caught. It's a shame they sent someone so unprepared. The boy just fell in front of his security guards... It's a miracle if you're still alive.”

I didn't even consider that possibility. I had felt in my skin that the criminal court did no justice at all. The boy should be dead by now. The chances of capturing Picasso have only decreased even more. And I was extremely angry for not having arrived the night before. Nothing in the world would stop me from capturing Picasso with my own hands if he was unlucky to come my way again.