Jian Carlo cursed as a crowd of costumed locals swarmed down the steep, cobbled road and surrounded his Mercedes. Their ragged costumes and drunken behavior disgusted him, as did the ugly whores who yanked open their tops and pressed their saggy breasts against his windows.
“Run them over if you have to, just get us out of here.”
“Sim, chefe.”
Roga jolted the car forward, which caused the bare-breasted women to shout and the indignant drunks to pound on the car as it drove past.
“Keep the pace. I don’t want any more delays.” If he missed this opportunity with Serafina, he would not get another chance.
He braced himself in his seat as Roga sped over the rutted asphalt between leprous buildings and graffiti-tagged retaining walls. With every turn, the streets grew more treacherous and crowded, forcing Roga to slow lest he plow into a person or a shack. Soon, the slum ended and the forest began.
Roga snapped on the high beams and slowed the Mercedes to a crawl. Aside from the headlamps, the forest was black without so much as a glimmer of moon or starlight to penetrate the dense canopy.
“Where does she find these places?”
“Que, chefe?”
“Não importa. Just drive.”
Roga negotiated their way over and around whatever he could see and stomped on the brakes when he could not. It would not do to bust an axel or puncture a tire in the middle of a jungle with God knew who or what waiting to attack. A sudden stop threw Jian Carlo forward into the back of the front seat.
“Sorry, boss.” Roga shifted into reverse, backed down the rocky road, then turned onto even rougher terrain.
Jian Carlo gripped the door handle and the seat back until the jarring lessened and the trail flattened. Between the trees and the night, they could be headed for a cliff. Hopefully, Roga’s eyesight was keener than his own.
When the road widened, they passed a pickup truck parked along the berm, motorcycles wedged between the trees, and cars slanted against the slope. Off to the side, a cabin sat in a clearing, reminiscent of another cabin in another forest.
Jian Carlo shook away the memory and pointed over the front seat. “Park over there by the trail.”
Roga did as he was asked then cut the engine and lights. A distant bonfire shone through the trees. Jian Carlo opened the door to the sound of atabaque drums and animal hoots, trills, and caws.
He got out of the car and tapped on the driver-side window. “Let’s go.”
Roga shook his head.
“What? You can’t be serious. After all we have been through, this is where you draw the line?” He smacked his palm on the glass. “Come on.”
Roga turned the ignition enough to lower the window a few centimeters then shut it off. “Sorry, chefe. I would do anything for you, you know that. But not this. Not Quimbanda.”
Jian Carlo slammed his palm on the roof. “You fucking coward.”
He stomped away from the car but slowed as he approached the narrow trail. Was Roga right? The former gangbanger had faced death more times than Jian Carlo. If he was afraid, maybe the trail led to something truly evil.
Jian Carlo gripped the bloodied knife and headed toward the drums.