The Panic Zone by Rick Mofina

people like you, Mr. Gannon,” Viana said. “A year ago, a Brazilian TV crew doing interviews in the favelas was taken hostage after the narco chiefs accused them of being police sympathizers. They were tortured for days, their agony recorded with their own TV cameras.”
    â€œI recall reading about that case. They were killed?”
    â€œExecuted,” Viana said. “No one was arrested. Then just last month, a reporter and photographer from Spain went into Céu sobre Rio. No one heard from them for five days—that is when their bodies were found in a Dumpster behind a Zona Sul police station. The drug bosses had suspected them to be undercover international police posing as foreign journalists. They were tortured, their torment recorded on a disk left on their bodies. It shows their killers, their faces hidden under bandannas, warning other ‘foreign police rats’ to stay away. It was on the TV news.”
    â€œI understand,” Gannon said, taking a few moments to ponder Viana’s advice. Then he asked a few minor questions before closing his notebook and thanking him.
    The taxi trip back to Centro was a long, silent one until the cab neared the bureau and Luiz turned to Gannon.
    â€œYou did some good digging, Jack, finding out Maria Santo was Gabriela’s source and everything else we learned today.”
    â€œWe got lucky there.”
    â€œI guess we’ve reached a dead end at the favelas.”
    â€œI’m not sure where we go on this story next,” Gannon said.
    â€œThe others are due back the day after tomorrow. It doesn’t leave you much time.”
    The taxi had stopped in front of their building.
    â€œIt’s been a long day, Luiz, thanks for your help. Send a news status update to New York, say that follow-up stories to the bombing are in development, then go home. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
    â€œOkay, thank you.”
    After Luiz entered the building’s lobby Gannon said to his driver, “Do you speak English?”
    â€œA little.”
    â€œTake me to a restaurant that is as close as possible to the entrance for Céu sobre Rio.”
    â€œCéu sobre Rio?” The driver raised his eyebrows, shifted his transmission and eased into traffic. “Okay.”
    After negotiating heavy late-day traffic, the driver came to a collection of boutiques and shops bordered by rising hills. The taxi stopped at a small restaurant called the Real American Diner, where Gannon got a table outside on the patio and ordered a burger made with beef from Argentina. In making awkward small talk with his waiter, Gannon confirmed that ascending beside him was the favela, Céu sobre Rio, an explosion of clustered shacks, jutting at all angles, piled on top of each other as they clung in defiance to the steep hill. While the sun sank behind the hill, Gannon asked his waiter if any of the staff lived there, or if he knew anyone who lived there.
    After several minutes, Gannon was invited into the darkened restaurant, to the end of the bar where some of the staff had gathered. A man in his thirties, who bore a friendly face and spoke English, nodded to the youngest in the group, a teenager wearing an apron over jeans and a white T-shirt.
    â€œAlfonso, our dishwasher, lives in the favela.”
    â€œI am a journalist from New York City.” Gannon showed them his laminated WPA ID, then the clipping about the bombing victims. “I need to find the family of this woman.” He tapped Maria Santo’s picture. “Pedro and Fatima Santo. I need to visit them in the favela and talk about Maria.”
    The older man translated and Alfonso began nodding.
    â€œHe knows Maria’s family.”
    â€œWill he take me to them? Will he be my guide? I will tip him.”
    The older man asked the boy, who spoke for a moment.
    â€œYes, he says. Meet him out front of this restaurant tomorrow at noon.”
    â€œCan’t we go