Station Breaker

22 High Ground

I do my fourth pass down the street that runs next to the stadium. At the north end there's a small parking lot. It's nothing like the vast acres of pavement that surround most American sports complexes.

However, there's a massive walkway that connects the stadium to a train station on the other side of a highway. I assume that's what everybody uses when they go see a game.

Right now, there's not a lot of "everybody." The parking lot has a dozen school buses and I see some high school-aged kids in soccer uniforms walking back and forth, but other than that, the stadium is kind of dead.

While that should make it easier for Capricorn's contact to find me, it also makes it a cinch for anyone else. With my name and face all over the news, a thin crowd is probably worse than a dense one.

I park the moped next to a row of motorcycles at the west end of the street.

I'm getting an even more anxious feeling than my already impossibly-high level of anxiety. Walking straight into the parking lot feels like a bad idea.

I don't know who or what I should be on the lookout for or how to spot a Russian sniper from a Brazilian giving me a longing look across the street.

Survival training didn't prepare me for any of this. I can use the fishing line in the crash kit to make a rabbit snare or catch a salmon, but I don't know how to garrote someone's neck or tell if I'm about to step on a booby-trap. That's why I need to take it slow and stupid.

The guard at the west gate doesn't even ask me for a ticket and just waves me through.

I'm not quite sure what his job is, other than to keep out anything on more than two legs.

Instead of going straight to the parking lot, I get the sudden inspiration to take a look at things from higher ground.

I take an elevator all the way to the top deck, glad I don't have to make my way up or down the ramp when ten thousand soccer fans are flooding in.

The top section is a ring that opens to the outside on one side and the massive open-air stadium on the other.

The players on the huge green field look like miniatures from all the way up here, but it's still pretty easy to follow the ball as it's being kicked across the field by high school teams. The first few sections are filled with other teenagers cheering them on.

An announcer is calling the game over the PA as if it were a major sporting event, adding to the excitement.

There's a near miss and everyone is on their feet screaming and cheering like only Brazilians can do. Even from here it seems pretty thrilling.

I leave the seats and head towards the far end of the level that overlooks the parking lot. Maybe from here I can spot my contact in a trench coat pretending to read a newspaper as they look out from under their fedora.

There's a long wall in this area with a few closed food stands and some doors leading to the stadium and others to closed sections. Even out here, the announcer and the roaring kids still manage to echo all the way through the corridor.

But other than the noise from the stadium, everything is dead. The only other person is a workman on a break leaning on the railing looking at the ground below.

The announcer lets out a scream in Portuguese as something very riveting must have happened and gives an energetic play-by-play of the game in progress.

I'm kind of worried about my life right now, but he seemed to make it sound like this was the play of the millennium, causing me to turn and look towards the nearest set of doors.

Curiously, the workman doesn't move.

He doesn't even flinch at the sound of the announcer's yelling.

He keeps his gaze on the outside of the stadium.

To be more precise, he's watching the parking lot.

Sometimes you have to make a split second decision. It's better to look a fool later than not be looked upon at all.

I turn on my heel and walk the other way.

Probably too quickly.

I make a bee-line for the nearest set of doors and enter the stadium.

Okay, David, you're probably just overreacting. Don't be a racist, not everyone in South America loves soccer.

Hah, who am I kidding? Of course they do.

I walk down to the landing and make a sharp left on the next deck and keep going until I reach the ring that separates the upper and lower levels.

I drop into a chair and try to look as inconspicuous as a man can when he's the only person in a sea of eighty-thousand empty seats.

I glance back towards the entrance and see the workman — who is probably not a workman — stepping into the stadium and looking for someone.

Looking for me.

Part of me wants to think this man is Capricorn's contact and we're only minutes away from drinking a couple of cold cervejas together in a bar before calling a press conference and explaining that it was all a misunderstanding.

One look at his face tells me otherwise. It's unflinching, serious, and staring right at me.

If this was Capricorn's contact I think I would have been greeted by a smile or a wave.

Not this man. He eyes me then checks to see if there's anybody else nearby.

I'm at the lowest part of the upper deck and have nowhere to go. If the man is about to pull anything other than a sandwich or a set of binoculars out of his suspiciously tactical-looking backpack that I should have noticed before, I'm fucked. Seriously fucked.

There's no place to run.