The Rio de Janeiro mission office, a small yet inviting suite, provided a cool haven within a bustling office building, a true respite from the thick, humid Brazilian heat. The air-conditioning sighed as a handful of missionaries worked with hurried reverence at their desks.

A soft whisper broke the silence. “Did you hear if the Copacabana spot is opening up?”

Another elder quickly shushed him, but the question hung in the air.

Transfer time was near. The thought echoed in every corner of the office. Every phone ring made heads turn, every footstep from the president’s office caused a collective, indrawn breath.

By the entrance, a small administration desk offered a polite greeting to arrivals. A whiteboard along one wall presented a gallery of dedication—passport-sized photos of each missionary paired with their companions. A large map of Rio de Janeiro, bold and colorful, commanded attention, a powerful visual echo of the vibrant city just beyond the pale walls and the deep sense of purpose that resonated within the office. Religious texts and filing cabinets lined another wall, their presence a quiet testament to the devotion and dedication that permeated the space.

In a small waiting area, slightly removed from the administration desk, sat a couple from Utah, their eyes fixed on the door. Sarah smiled with anticipation, smoothing the front of her modest dress. Beside her, Jason, solid and quiet, held a small bouquet of brightly colored flowers. They had arrived early, the two years of waiting feeling like an eternity in these final moments.

Then, the door opened, and a figure stepped in, wrestling with two large, well-worn suitcases. He was taller and broader than they remembered, his white shirt wrinkled from the journey, but his missionary tag was still crisp. He looked around the old office, a familiar, kind smile spreading across his face. It was Elder Rockwell Barnes, arriving from a crowded public bus, just another missionary finishing his service.

“Rockwell!” Sarah cried, her voice breaking with emotion. She surged forward, navigating around a stack of boxes.

Rockwell dropped his bags and met her halfway, wrapping his arms around his mother. He buried his face in her shoulder, a scent so familiar and comforting after so long. Tears streamed down Sarah’s face as she held her son, murmuring his name like a prayer.

Jason joined the embrace, his strong arms enveloping both Sarah and Rockwell. It was a silent, powerful hug, conveying years of missed moments and unspoken pride.

Rockwell pulled back, looking at his stepdad with affection. “Jason,” he said, his voice thick with emotion.

“Welcome home, son. Well, almost home.” Jason clapped Rockwell on the back, a gesture of deep approval.

Rockwell’s smile softened, his gaze growing distant. “This is home, Jason. Being together again. I imagine this is what heaven feels like.”

Sarah pulled back, holding Rockwell at arm’s length, her eyes shining. “Oh, Rockwell, look at you! You’ve grown into such a handsome young man.”

Rockwell grinned. “Two years of walking everywhere and…well, let’s just say the members here are excellent cooks.” He chuckled, looking between them, his heart full. “It’s so good to see both of you.”

They stood there for a moment longer, a small island of pure happiness in the bustling office. The mission was complete. They were together again.

A moment later, a voice boomed from across the office, cutting through the gentle hum of activity. “Elder Barnes! And the proud parents, I presume!”

Mission President Peterson, a man whose rotund frame seemed to fill the doorway of his office, waddled toward them, his face beaming. He wore the standard white shirt and tie, but on him, it looked less like a uniform and more like an extension of his personality. His soft features were set in a smile that reached his eyes.

“President Peterson,” Rockwell said, stepping forward to shake the older man’s hand. “It’s good to see you, sir.”

“Elder Barnes, my boy!” President Peterson clasped his hand. “You’ve done a magnificent work and a wonder here. Truly magnificent.” He turned to Sarah and Jason, his smile widening. “And you must be Sarah and Jason. It’s such a pleasure to finally meet you. We’ve heard so much about you from Elder Barnes. It’s always a joy to see fellow Utahns, especially after being down here for four years.” He gestured toward his office. “Please, come in. Let’s get out of the thoroughfare.”

He led them into his spacious office which, despite being a workspace, had comfortable chairs and a large window offering a view of the city. Once they were settled, President Peterson leaned back in his chair, a twinkle in his eye.

“Now, Jason,” he began, his tone jovial, “just because Elder Barnes is finishing his mission doesn’t mean he’s off the hook just yet.” He paused for effect, a smile playing on his lips. “According to mission policy, a missionary still requires a priesthood-holder companion until they’re officially released back home. And since you’re here,” he gestured to Jason with a flourish, “I’m officially transferring Elder Barnes to be your companion for the journey home. Congratulations, Elder Taylor! You’re the senior companion.”

He chuckled at his own joke, and Sarah and Jason smiled, appreciating the man’s lightheartedness.

“Seriously, though,” President Peterson continued, his voice softening. “We’re incredibly proud of Elder Barnes. He’s touched many lives here. To celebrate his faithful service, and to welcome you to Rio, we’d be honored if you’d join my wife and me for dinner tonight. We’re having a small gathering at our home. Nothing too formal, just a few close friends and some of the other missionaries who are finishing up. It’s a little ceremony to honor those who are heading home soon.”

He paused, looking at them expectantly. “Our place is…well, it’s got a bit of a view. A penthouse on Lagoa de Freitas. We’d be absolutely delighted if you could make it.”

“A penthouse on Lagoona Gee Fritos?” Jason repeated, a puzzled look on his face. “I know what a penthouse is, but…Lagoona Gee Fritos? I’ve been to Lagoona Beach. Is it like that?”

Rockwell and President Peterson exchanged a subtle smirk. Rockwell quickly stepped in. “No, Jason, it’s not a waterpark. It’s a beautiful lake in the middle of the city. I’ll help you with the pronunciation later.”

Jason shook his head sheepishly. “Can’t say I’m not disappointed there won’t be waterslides. But we happily accept your invitation and look forward to meeting some of the people from Rockwell’s mission.”

Rockwell smiled, happy to see his parents so pleased.

After gathering Rockwell’s well-traveled suitcases, they said their goodbyes to President Peterson and headed out of the mission-office building toward the parking structure. The steamy air hit them as they stepped outside, a stark contrast to the air-conditioned office. Along with the heat, the air carried the city’s less pleasant aromas, a mix of exhaust fumes, the distant scent of street food, and something sharper, like stale urine and the acrid tang of burning tires.

“All right,” Jason said, jingling a set of keys, “got us a rental. Even got upgraded to the American-sized car—for free! What a day.” He led them toward a sleek, black SUV with dark-tinted windows.

Rockwell whistled softly as they approached the vehicle. “Wow, Jason. Haven’t been in a car this big since you dropped me off at the airport back in Utah.” He ran a hand over the cool metal. “It’s going to feel weird not walking everywhere or hopping on a bus. I swear, I don’t think I know how to navigate this city unless I’m on my feet.”

Sarah smiled, linking her arm through Rockwell’s. She couldn’t take her eyes off him, just wanting to soak in his presence, to talk to him and hold him and make up for two years of missed hugs.

As Jason navigated the rental car out of the parking structure and into the flow of Rio traffic, his gaze was drawn to the stunning, yet sometimes unsettling, landscape. He pointed toward the hillsides cemented with tightly packed structures. “What about those, Rockwell? The…the slums?”

Rockwell followed his gaze, his expression becoming more serious. “Those are the favelas, Jason. They’re…complex. A lot of people live there, often in really difficult conditions. Homes built right on top of each other, a maze of narrow alleys.” He paused, choosing his words carefully, minimizing the danger for his mother’s sake, though he had seen and experienced things in the past two years that would have terrified his parents. “There can be issues with gangs and safety, but the people themselves are often just trying to make a living, raise their families.”

“Fascinating,” Jason murmured, his eyes scanning the hills. “Quite the difference, seeing this next to that. These incredible beaches, the fancy buildings, and then…this. Right on top of each other.”

“So,” Rockwell said, turning back to his parents with a brighter smile, eager to shift the topic. “Before dinner, I was really hoping we could go see the Christ the Redeemer statue. I’ve seen it from a distance a hundred times, but I’d love to go up there with you guys.”

Sarah squeezed his arm. “That sounds wonderful, honey. Anywhere with you is perfect.”

Jason chimed in, captivated by a row of shining shops. “Check that out, Sarah! It’s stunning.”

But Rockwell’s eyes were drawn to a side street where a group of young men with hard eyes watched their black SUV pass. He saw one of them subtly touch his hip, where the bulk of a pistol was visible beneath his shirt. Rockwell said nothing, not wanting to alarm his parents, but a familiar coil of caution tightened in his gut. He quickly turned his attention back to his mother, forcing a smile. “You’ll love the view from the statue, Mom. It’s…peaceful up there.”

They spent the afternoon visiting the iconic Christ the Redeemer statue, taking in the breathtaking views of the city spread out below. It was a peaceful and memorable experience, a moment of shared beauty before the evening’s events.

***

Later that evening, the black SUV pulled up to a gleaming, modern apartment building overlooking the serene expanse of Lagoa de Freitas. The contrast between the bustling streets they had driven through and the polished elegance of this address was striking. A doorman in a sharp uniform greeted them with a polite bow, his smile welcoming.

“Boa noite,” the doorman said in Portuguese, switching to excellent English when he heard their accents. “Good evening, may I help you?”

“We’re here for President Peterson,” Jason replied. “The dinner this evening.”

The doorman’s eyes lit up with recognition. “Ah, sim! The president is expecting you. Welcome. Please, allow me.” He buzzed them into the building, providing clear instructions to the penthouse suite.

As they walked through the lobby and waited for the elevator, Sarah and Jason couldn’t help but marvel at the building’s opulence. The architecture was sleek and modern, unlike anything they were used to seeing in Utah. Stone-clad walls met polished granite floors, and large windows offered glimpses of the city lights beginning to twinkle as dusk settled over Rio.

The elevator ascended smoothly and silently, opening into a private foyer on the penthouse level. A moment later, a friendly housemaid, dressed in a neat uniform, greeted them. “Welcome,” she said with a kind smile, gesturing for them to enter. “Please, come this way. The president is in the salon.”

She led them into a grand room that took their breath away. Floor-to-ceiling windows spanned the entire length of the space, offering a panoramic view of the lagoon and the city beyond, a glittering tapestry of lights against the darkening sky. The room was furnished with high-end, comfortable pieces, arranged around a long, beautiful stone dining table that could easily seat a dozen people.

And there, near the balcony, stood President Peterson. He was holding a small plate of mini-corndogs and, with his mouth slightly full, waved them over. “Ah, if it isn’t Elder Taylor,” he said, a warm smile spreading across his face, a hint of playful formality in his voice, “and his junior companion, Elder Barnes! Come in, come in! Don’t just stand there!”

Elder Barnes smiled and approached, his parents following closely behind. As they entered the spacious salon, Rockwell’s eyes scanned the room and landed on a few familiar faces—missionaries with whom he had started his journey two years ago. There was Elder Watts, his good friend and MTC companion, looking a bit thinner but with the same earnest expression. And over by the window, looking slightly bored, was Elder Wendt, the one everyone knew spent more time in the mission office as a secretary because proselytizing just wasn’t his forte.

While Rockwell exchanged nods and quiet greetings with the other departing missionaries, Sarah and Jason engaged with President Peterson.

“This is a beautiful home, President Peterson,” Sarah commented, taking in the stunning view.

“Thank you, Sister Taylor,” he replied, finishing his mini-corndog. He wiped his hands on a napkin held by the housemaid. “We feel very fortunate to be here. It’s quite a change from Utah, as I’m sure you can imagine.”

“It certainly is,” Jason agreed. “If you don’t mind me asking, President, what did you do back in Utah before your call to serve here?”

President Peterson chuckled, a deep rumble in his chest. “Not at all, Jason. I always tell people I mess with the dead.” He paused, letting the humor hang in the air before his smile returned, softer this time. “I own and operate one of the largest mortuaries in Utah County. Been doing it for over thirty years.”

Sarah and Jason exchanged a brief, surprised glance but quickly recovered, nodding politely.

“It’s…a demanding profession,” Jason offered.

“It has its moments,” President Peterson conceded. “But it’s also a service. Helping families through difficult times. Much like the work these young men do,” he added, gesturing toward the missionaries. “Though their focus is on a different kind of eternal life. Don’t get me started on the advancements of chemical embalming.”

“Trust me, I won’t,” Jason joked.

“Ah, and here’s my better half,” President Peterson said, turning as Sister Peterson entered the room. She wore a long, flowery dress that swished around her ankles, and the scent of her overpowering perfume—a mixture that could only be described as lilac and bottled grandmother—reached them even before she did.

“Oh, Bem-vindos Elder-eeees and Sister-eeees!” she exclaimed, her voice pitching high like a cheerful preschool teacher greeting her class. Clapping her frail hands in welcome, she declared, “Isn’t it just a lovely evening? The view here is pretty good, but I’d trade it for a Walmart within walking distance any day.”

Amused glances passed between Jason and Sarah, and Rockwell couldn’t suppress a chuckle.

“You’re absolutely right, Sister Peterson,” Jason said, a smile playing on his lips. “This view pales in comparison to downtown Provo—Walmarts as far as the eye can see.”

Sister Peterson’s eyes sparkled with aloof warmth as she focused on the Taylors, yet her gaze still seemed distant. “And you must be Elder Barnes’s parents! It is so truly wonderful to meet you.” Turning her kind gaze to Rockwell, she added, “Rockwell’s been a real ray of sunshine in our mission. I recall one time he actually found a box of newborn stray kittens abandoned by the train tracks and absolutely insisted we find them a home before we could even begin our Zone Conference.”

Rockwell smiled at the memory. “They did find a home,” he confirmed. “A lovely couple in my area took them in and named the two surviving kittens Elder Barnes and Elder Lesueur, after my companion and me. I’ve never felt more honored.”

President Peterson clapped his hands. “Well, shall we get started? We have a few other guests arriving shortly, but I wanted to begin with a little program to honor our departing elders.” He looked around the room. “Perhaps we could begin with a word of prayer? Jason, would you like to offer our opening prayer this evening?”

Jason nodded. “Certainly.”

After the prayer, President Peterson smiled. “Thank you, Elder Taylor. That was lovely. Now, for our opening hymn… Is there anyone here who might be willing to accompany us on the piano?”

A silence fell over the room as the few missionaries present looked at each other.

Then, Sarah, a shy smile on her face, tentatively raised her hand. “I can play the melody, President,” she said. “Any song from the hymnbook. I just… I can’t do the bottom hand anymore.”

Rockwell’s eyes met his mother’s, an air of understanding passing between them. He remembered the hours spent at the piano as a child. “Remember, Mom?” he chimed in, stepping closer. “When we used to sit on the bench together, and I’d play the bass notes for you so you could do the melody? I can’t play all the notes on the bass clef, not like you could, but I can at least read one or two at a time. We could do it together.”

Sarah’s smile widened. “Oh, Rockwell. I’d like that very much.”

They moved toward a beautiful grand piano in the corner of the salon, a stark contrast to the keyboard Sarah had at home. Sarah sat on the bench, carefully positioning her left hand, which lay still and slightly curled in her lap, a silent testament to the injury she had suffered years ago. Rockwell sat beside her, his larger hands hovering over the lower keys. President Peterson announced the hymn, and as the others in the room opened their hymnbooks, Sarah began to play the familiar melody of “Be Still My Soul” with her right hand, her fingers moving with a grace that belied the stillness of her left. Rockwell, concentrating, found the simple bass notes, adding a foundational harmony. Together, mother and son filled the luxurious penthouse with the simple, heartfelt music of a hymn, a poignant blend of Sarah’s enduring talent and Rockwell’s loving support.

As the final notes faded, a comfortable silence settled over the room, broken only by President Peterson’s warm smile. “Beautiful,” he said, looking at Sarah and Rockwell. “Simply beautiful. Thank you, Sister Taylor, Elder Barnes.” He cleared his throat, his demeanor shifting slightly as he prepared to address the departing missionaries. “Well, elders,” he began, his voice carrying a tone of sincere appreciation, “it’s been a privilege to serve with each of you. Two years is a significant portion of your young lives, and you’ve dedicated it to something truly meaningful.” He paused, looking at each of the missionaries in turn. “I’d like to say a few words about each of you who are heading home this week.”

He started with Elder Watts. “Elder Watts,” President Peterson said, his smile warm, “I remember when you first arrived, full of enthusiasm, perhaps a little green. But I’ve watched you grow over these two years, become a dedicated and dependable missionary. You’ve faced challenges with faith and perseverance, and you’ve touched many lives through your quiet example and diligent work. You became a missionary I could always depend on.”

Moving through the group, President Peterson offered heartfelt acknowledgments to a few more missionaries, recognizing their unique talents and dedication to the work.

He proceeded on to Elder Wendt. President Peterson’s smile held a wink of amusement. “And Elder Wendt. Well, Elder Wendt has a unique talent for organization. The mission office has never been quite so…streamlined since you took on those responsibilities.” He chuckled. “Whether that’s because you truly loved the work, or perhaps,” he winked, “because you appreciated the air-conditioning, we may never know. But your efforts behind the scenes have been invaluable to the smooth operation of this mission.”

Finally, President Peterson’s gaze settled on Elder Barnes, his smile returning, deeper this time. “And then there’s Elder Barnes,” he said, his voice full of warmth and appreciation. “Rockwell. You have a gift, son. A sincere and genuine way of connecting with people that is truly remarkable. I knew from early on I could trust you with our new missionaries, the green ones, the discouraged ones. After spending just a few weeks as your companion, they would learn what true, charitable mission work was. You became a teacher, a mentor, a counselor to the young men who arrived here.” He paused, as if swept away in a fond memory. “You were a senior companion from the time you were here only three months. We called you the ‘Baptizer of Kings.’ It seemed every area you went to, you baptized a King Lamoni.” He chuckled. “But it was never about the numbers for you, was it? It was about bringing full families, families that could be together forever, to the one and only true Church of Jesus Christ.”

He looked at the small group of departing missionaries, his expression turning more serious. “Each of you has contributed in your own way. You’ve served faithfully, and you’ve made a difference. As you return home, remember the lessons you’ve learned, the growth you’ve experienced, and the love you’ve shared with the people of Brazil. I say these things in the name of Jesus Christ, amen.”

A sense of warmth and contentment settled over Rockwell and his parents as they left President Peterson’s stunning apartment building. The evening had been perfect, a beautiful capstone to Rockwell’s mission and a joyous reunion. They were filled with more love for one another than they had experienced in years. The week ahead promised an exciting journey, a chance for them to visit all the areas of Rockwell’s mission.

***

As Jason drove, the city lights of Rio blurred past. They were heading back to their hotel when the screen on the GPS flickered, displaying a garbled map before going dark.

“Well, shoot,” Jason said. “Guess the free upgrade didn’t include a reliable satellite connection.” He squinted into the darkness, confident. “No matter. I’ve got a pretty good sense of direction. I think it’s this way.”

He turned off the main thoroughfare. The smooth asphalt gave way to uneven cobblestones that jostled the SUV. The streetlights grew sparse, then disappeared, replaced by the dim, yellow glow from a few scattered windows. The buildings, once separated by sidewalks and air, now pressed in on them, rising like canyon walls of unpainted brick and corrugated tin. A tangled web of illegally tapped power lines hung overhead like thick black spiderwebs.

“Huh,” Jason murmured, slowing the vehicle. “Looks like I took a wrong turn. I’ll just find a spot to turn around.”

Rockwell, however, felt dread wash over him. The air seemed thicker here, heavy with the smell of charcoal, damp earth. He recognized the specific style of graffiti on a wall—a symbol he recognized. Then he saw the entrance ahead, a narrow constriction between two redbrick sentinels. His breath caught in his throat. It wasn’t just a favela. It was Morro Diabólico, English translation: Devil’s Hill.

Rockwell had spent two years in Rio, walking miles each day, spreading his message in neighborhoods that ranged from the wealthy to the destitute. His latest and last mission area covered a wide swath of the city, including the Morro Diabólico, but he’d always avoided this particular section. Missionaries were given explicit instructions to never, ever proselytize in the Morro Diabólico due to its reputation for danger. It was a no-go zone, a place whispered about with an edge of fear and respect.

As the car crept further into the maze-like streets, Rockwell’s unease grew. He had never seen this part of his area at night or from the inside of a car. It was alien and hostile in its unfamiliarity. He noticed the crumbling brick walls and the narrow alleyways where shadows seemed to stretch longer than they should. His heart pounded.

“Jason.” Rockwell’s voice was tight, barely a whisper. His hand shot out and gripped the seat in front of him. “Dad, stop. Please. You have to back out. Right now.”

Jason glanced at him, his brow furrowed in confusion. The black SUV with its tinted windows was a symbol of authority here, of police. Rockwell knew this. “Relax. It’s just a neighborhood. We’ll be quick.”

“No!” Rockwell shouted, the sound raw in the confines of the car. “You don’t understand! This car…they’ll think we’re polícia! They’ll think we’re BOPE! Dad, please, turn around!”

But as they entered the narrow street, the brick walls closing in, it was too late. The car was committed. High above, on the rooftops, figures moved. Young men, barely more than boys, perched like birds of prey. Jason noticed them, a slight smile on his face. “Look at that,” he quipped, misreading the situation. “Isn’t it a little late for them to be flying kites?”

Sure enough, Rockwell saw what looked to be a nine-year-old boy sending a blue kite into the air. By that time, it was too late. “We either need to back down or get down.”

Almost at the same time, large traffickers moved in behind them with big truck tires and placed them behind the SUV, making it impossible for them to back out. Rockwell heard a commotion of screams and shouts that sounded like tactical maneuvering. He heard the words “Policia,” “BOPE,” “FBI,” “CIA” being passed around outside. Normally, those words would have been comforting to him, knowing that there was protection around, but in Devil’s Hill, the police were powerless. The traffickers were the police of the Hill. They had been in an open conflict with law enforcement for years, with dozens dying each day from the all-out war between the drug traffickers and the police trying to keep them out of their beautiful city on the ocean.

Then, a shot rang out.

The windshield shattered in a spiderweb pattern around a single bullet hole on the driver’s side. Jason’s right shoulder slumped down, and material from the seat behind his shoulder exploded into the air. Jason looked over his shoulder, aghast. “Golly,” he said, his voice filled with disbelief. “I think he fetching shot me.”

Rockwell grabbed his mother, covering her body with his own as best as he could and diving toward the floorboards to shield her. For Jason, it was already too late. A hail of gunfire erupted, riddling the car with bullets from AK-47s, handguns, and shotguns. Jason didn’t have a chance to form another thought as a high-powered bullet tore through his head, creating a wound that Rockwell’s older brother, Angelo, in his grim line of work, would have recognized instantly: a “JFK.” The top of Jason’s head flopped to the side like a soft-boiled egg being cracked open for eating.

Thankfully, Sarah never had to see this. She screamed in terror, a raw, piercing sound, and Rockwell rumbled in fear, his words a jumble of desperate prayers and reassurances.

He felt searing stabs in several parts of his body—his legs, his chest. It felt like he was getting the crap beaten out of him, but all he could think about was protecting his mom. He worked his hands onto her head, his fingers fumbling, trying to give her a blessing.

As he did this, Sarah’s eyes found his. Her lips formed his name in a silent, desperate prayer: “Rockwell.” It was the last thing she did.

Another shot rang out, a distinct, heavy-caliber sound, and he could see, through the shattered glass and chaos, that this one had hit her directly in the heart. He felt the impact simultaneously, the same bullet piercing his side after passing through her. He finished giving the blessing to her lifeless corpse, his voice barely a whisper amid the fading echoes of gunfire, and whispered “I love you to the moon and back” over and over.

As Rockwell lay in the back seat, gasping for air, bright-red blood bubbling from his lips, he prayed for the people committing the atrocity. He knew the dire circumstances they came from; he knew this was a case of mistaken identity, a tragic misunderstanding fueled by the brutal reality of the favela. In a moment of clarity, amid the pain and the fading sounds of the attack, he prayed to God for their forgiveness. In his mind’s eye, he could see another reunion, a heavenly one, with Jason and his mom—a tight hug, a feeling of home even greater than he had experienced that morning.

The car door was wrenched open. A large, strong figure loomed above, silhouetted against the dim light of the favela street. He had tattoos snaking up his arms and a terrifying presence. It was Rogerio Da Silva Fogo. He was the general on the scene, and he pulled Rockwell out of the wrecked SUV.

“Shit,” Fogo spat, his eyes scanning the scene, taking in the white shirt and name tag. “These motherfuckers are with Jesus, not the fucking police.”

Fofinho, chubby and sweating, despite the cool night breeze, scurried up beside him, his eyes wide with alarm. “Whoopsie,” he squeaked, the word sounding absurdly out of place amid the carnage. “They’re not American, are they? Please say they’re not Americans. We don’t need this shit.”

“Of course they’re Americans, look at them!” Fogo snapped, gesturing toward the car and its occupants. “They’re Mormons.”

“Old missionaries, though,” Fofinho mumbled, looking bewildered. “I’ve never seen such old ones. How was I supposed to know? I saw that guy with the salt-and-pepper hair, the tinted windows…so I told the little lookout to set up the kite. I was just following protocol.” He gestured back down the street. “We all thought they were police. They crossed the line. This isn’t my fault.”

Fogo’s gaze fell back on Rockwell, who was still alive, gasping and mumbling under his breath in Portuguese. “This saint is still praying,” Fogo said, a hint of interest in his eyes. He leaned closer, listening, expecting to hear the familiar pleas of the dying. A look of surprise, then perhaps a glimmer of something akin to confusion crossed his face. “No,” he said, straightening up. “He’s saying, ‘Forgive them, for they know not what they do.’”

Fogo stared down at the dying missionary, a strange expression on his face. “We may not have known who you were,” Fogo said, his voice low, a chilling finality in his tone, “but I know what I’m doing now. I have to finish it.” He pulled out a sawed-off shotgun, the metal gleaming in the faint light. He pointed it into Rockwell’s chest.

Rockwell, his eyes fluttering, heard the words. He saw the shotgun. His lips moved, a faint whisper against the foaming blood. “In the name of Jesus Christ, amen,” he said.

Fogo paused for a fraction of a second, a glint of penitence flashing in his eyes. Then, he bowed his head, crossed himself, and muttered, “Amen.”

He pulled the trigger.