The Panic Zone Read Online Free

leads. This is how we will honor the dead.”
    Adrenaline surged through Gannon as his taxi fought traffic and Rio de Janeiro rose before him. He exhaled slowly, marveling at the sprawl. Rio’s skyline stood in contrast to its favelas, which ascended in wave upon wave of ramshackle houses shoehorned into crowded slums, notorious for drug wars and gun battles. The shanty towns clung to the hills that ringed the city and overlooked the South Atlantic.
    Was Wilson right? Could he handle this story?
    The taxi’s open windows invited warm salty air. He saw azure patches of Guanabara Bay and the map he’d studied on the plane came to life as he recognized landmarks during the drive to Centro.
    The bureau was in a tall glass building that reflected the clouds.
    The guard in the lobby studied Gannon’s passport and business card, made a call and minutes later a man barely out of his teens emerged from the elevator to buzz him through and greet him.
    â€œWelcome to Rio, Mr. Gannon, I am Luiz Piquet. Come with me, please.” He took Gannon’s bag and in the elevator he asked, “You had a good flight, sir?”
    â€œCall me Jack. Yes, Luiz, it was fine.”
    The elevator was slow. Gannon turned to Luiz.
    â€œAre you a staff member with WPA?”
    â€œI am the bureau news assistant. I recently received my degree in journalism from the Federal University. I will be helping you.”
    The elevator stopped on the tenth floor. The brass plate across the hall said Aliança da Imprensa do Mundo —WorldPress Alliance. Luiz opened the glass door to a large room that was lit only by daylight from the floor to ceiling windows at one end.
    It was typical newsroom decor, an open office with half a dozen desks, each with a monitor and a keyboard; each cluttered with phones, newspapers, file folders, documents, coffee cups.
    Gannon noticed the far wall: two large TV screens were suspended from the ceiling and tuned to news networks. The sound was turned low. The wall had large news photos of children in slums, a SWAT team and shooting victims on bloodied streets, the pope waving to crowds at a stadium, girls in bikinis on the beach.
    The only other person in the office was a man finishing a phone call.
    â€œFrank Archer em WPA. Você tem o número!” he said before slamming down the phone and cursing in English.
    With his back to Luiz and Gannon, he doubled over in his chair, set his elbows on his knees and put his bald head in his hands.
    Not certain he was aware of their presence, Gannon said: “Frank Archer?”
    The man swiveled in his chair.
    Like Gannon, Archer was in his early thirties. He was wearing jeans and a white shirt. His face was sullen.
    â€œJack Gannon. I just got in from New York.”
    After an awkward silence the man stood; he was about six feet tall with a medium build, like Gannon.
    â€œFrank Archer.” The two men shook hands. “Gannon, I’m going to be blunt. I don’t know why you’re here.”
    â€œOn the call yesterday, you said you needed help.”
    â€œAnd we’ve got it. Our people from our bureaus in Caracas and Buenos Aires have flown in and are out on the story. We’ve got stringers on it, too. Everyone is fluent in Portuguese and Spanish, all experienced. Wilson said you’re from where? Rochester or something like that?”
    â€œBuffalo.”
    â€œRight.”
    â€œFrank, I was sent down to help. Let me help.”
    Archer flipped through some papers then rubbed his face.
    â€œGabriela and Marcelo were my friends.”
    â€œI understand that.”
    â€œI was with John at the hospital last night when they told him Gabriela had died. Marcelo died in the ambulance. I’ve been through a lot of shit but that was one of the worst moments of my life.”
    Gannon nodded, letting Archer go on.
    â€œJohn met Gabriela in Miami when she was a correspondent there for Reuters. I went to their wedding.