Hermes

Five years ago

I arrived at the GARRA base around six-thirty in the evening and headed to the room where the teams gathered for the briefing, a routine before going out to patrol the streets.

Each twelve-hour shift, a team of five patrol cars was on standby to support the São Paulo police stations and the DEIC (State Department for Combatting Organized Crime), which was headquartered in another building in the Santana neighborhood.

GARRA’s role was to provide operational support in search and seizure warrants, arrests, or incidents involving armed robberies. That’s why we patrolled the streets of São Paulo, alert to any call.

Each team had a responsible delegate and a chief of investigators, and that night, Delegate Oscar and Chief Paulo were seated behind the table, waiting for the rest of the team to settle in.

Even at that hour, it was possible to hear fireworks bursting in the city’s sky, anticipating the New Year’s countdown.

I sat next to my partners Rafael and Marcos, hearing them complain about being on duty for New Year’s Eve. I wasn’t happy either; I wanted to spend the celebration with Nanda, but even if I weren’t on duty, it wouldn’t have helped, because she had agreed to spend New Year’s with her parents at an exclusive resort party in Florianópolis.

When she told me her father had almost forced her to go, I can’t deny I felt upset and almost asked her to stand up to him, but I didn’t want to make their already tense relationship worse by imposing my will—not to mention it wouldn’t be fair to ask another partner to switch shifts with me.

The night before, we had said goodbye at my apartment and even popped open a bottle of champagne from an expensive French brand she had chosen for our special moment.

“Gentlemen, let’s split the teams,” ordered the delegate, starting the briefing.

“All right, GARRA 42 will patrol the south and west zones, 44 will cover east and north, the doctor in GARRA 40 will be with me, and GARRA 46 and 48 will concentrate downtown near Paulista Avenue, to support the New Year’s party,” explained Paulo, the team chief, referring to the New Year’s event that had long been an icon on the city’s most famous avenue.

“Gentlemen, stay alert. Many criminals take advantage of the parties to commit crimes. I don’t want to hear about anyone flying around,” warned the delegate. “Now, let’s go and good luck to all.”

We went to the floor where the patrol cars were parked and soon descended the spiral ramp, heading to the downtown streets, which at that hour were busy with people heading to Paulista Avenue, where soon the show with various artists would begin.

“Shit, duty right on New Year’s, last year was the same,” Marcos complained from the passenger seat.

“At least I spent Christmas with my wife and kids,” Rafael resigned, who was married with a six-year-old boy and a four-year-old girl.

“And you, Hermes? Where’s your girlfriend? Doesn’t she complain?” Marcos asked, turning back.

“She went on a trip with her parents; we had our New Year’s celebration last night,” I replied, unable to hide the smile from the memories of the previous night.

“And your parents?” Rafael asked without turning, focused on driving.

“My dad is a retired delegate, you know that; my mom’s used to it,” I answered, looking out the open window at the illuminated city streets.

We continued moving at patrol speed, attentive to reports over the radio.

Around ten p.m., we stopped at Rafael’s house so he could see his wife and kids, who were gathered with her parents preparing the dinner.

They served us pieces of pork leg and soda after he insisted we sit on the living room couch. I watched his family and found it hard not to think about how good it must be to have a wife and children to come home to after a tiring shift.

We left his house around 11:15 p.m. and soon were cruising through the west zone streets. The night was quiet; we stopped four cars but found nothing illegal with their drivers or passengers.

“I think even the bad guys must be celebrating the countdown,” Marcos grumbled for the thousandth time.

We stopped at a convenience store at a gas station five minutes before midnight; the fireworks started to explode more frequently.

Rafael called his wife, Marcos called his parents who lived in an interior town, and I took the chance to call Nanda. I missed hearing her voice and wanted to wish her a happy New Year before midnight.

“Nanda?” I asked as the call connected.

“Hermes!” I heard her voice on the other side.

“I called to wish you a happy New Year!” I almost shouted so she could hear, because besides the sound of fireworks exploding in São Paulo’s sky, I noticed she was in the middle of a party.

“To you too, handsome!” she replied, trying to make herself heard over the loud music and fireworks.

“Attention all units, explosion at Pró-valores security company, QTH on Avenida dos Meirinhos, proceed with caution, report of heavily armed men with rifles!”

The call came over the patrol car radio and the HT I carried clipped to the ballistic vest I was wearing.

“Garra 42 in the vicinity,” Marcos quickly responded.

“Let’s go, it’s not far from here,” ordered Rafael, getting into the car.

“Nanda, I have to go, love you, I’ll call you tomorrow,” I said hurriedly, jumping into the car.

“Hermes…” I still heard her voice before I ended the call.

“Let’s go, let’s go!” Marcos shouted.

“Cepol, this is GARRA 40, all units proceed to QRU,” Delegate Oscar’s voice barked over the radio as the car sped off with tires squealing, sirens wailing, and the rotating lights flashing.

“Turn right at the next street,” Marcos yelled from the passenger seat, navigating by GPS.

“Shit!” Rafael yelled. “Hermes, get the submachine gun ready!”

I grabbed the weapon from a mount on the floorboard—a TAURUS SMT40, with a thirty-round .40 caliber magazine. It was light and compact and could be used in burst mode—three shots at a time—or single fire.

As the patrol car sped through the streets, I inserted the magazine and checked if the selector was set to burst fire.

“Weapon hot!” I shouted, pulling back the bolt to chamber a round, leaving it locked.

“Pass me the 12!” Marcos asked, turning and extending his hand from the passenger seat.

I took a .12 gauge shotgun with an eight-round capacity from its mount, checked it was loaded and safety engaged.

“Weapon hot,” I warned handing it to him.

The radio screamed frantically; several units were heading to the robbery site.

“Attention all units, shots fired, military police on site engaging criminals!” The voice on the radio sounded excited.

“Fuck, it’s just around the corner,” Marcos warned.

“Get ready; I’ll stop before the curve,” Rafael warned.

Accelerating, he sped down the avenue and slammed the brakes, causing the car to jolt and the tires to screech on the asphalt while I finished fastening a ballistic helmet my dad had given me.

“Let’s go, let’s go!” Marcos shouted, opening the door.

I followed my partners, unlocking the safety on my gun and aiming it forward, finger ready on the trigger.

Adrenaline rushed through my body as I heard the remnants of fireworks mixing with the crack of heavy-caliber gunfire. As we turned the corner, we saw the company—hundreds of meters away—seemed to be on fire, with gray smoke pouring out.

Ahead, two military police patrol cars blocked the street; four officers hid behind them, trying to return fire against several men sheltering behind cars near the armored transport company.

“Shit! Lay down the steel on those sons of bitches!” Rafael shouted, running toward a dumpster parked on the curb in front of a construction site.

Marcos followed immediately, pointing the shotgun at the men and firing multiple shots, while I followed, noticing small flames coming from the barrel caused by the explosions and ejection of rounds.

I ran to one of the military police vehicles and took cover behind one of the wheels—thankfully it was a large truck. The officer hiding behind the other wheel looked at me tensely.

I heard rounds pinging off the metal and the explosions of gunfire. I rose up, aimed the submachine gun forward, and pulled the trigger, feeling the burst of three shots fire from the barrel before dropping down again.

The HT clipped to my ballistic vest screamed nonstop when suddenly I heard a scream and looked aside—Marcos fell in the middle of the street, curling into a fetal position.

“Fuck!” I shouted to Rafael, who kept firing his .40 pistol. “Cover me!”

“Cepol! Priority on the network! Officer down!” I heard Rafael’s voice in my HT.

I switched the submachine gun to full burst mode, which would empty the magazine with one trigger pull. I stood up, aiming forward, and angrily pulled the trigger.

I felt the recoil of the stock resting on my shoulder while holding steady for the shots to go in one direction, then heard the bolt click, signaling the weapon was empty.

“Shit!” I dropped it, tossing it behind my back, letting it hang by the sling, and ran crouched toward my partner.

I heard the rounds breaking asphalt, the explosion of rifle fire, Rafael’s pistol shots, and the whistle of bullets flying past me, mixed with the shrill sound of sirens approaching the scene.

“Fuck!” I shouted in anger, grabbing Marcos by the rear handle

of his ballistic vest, trying to pull him behind the metal dumpster.

Suddenly, I felt a strong blow to my chest and spun my body, falling to the ground on top of my partner.

“What the hell!” I murmured in surprise, trying to sit up.

That’s when I felt another hit, this time to my forehead, and immediately my vision darkened.

“Fuck! I’ve been hit!” I thought as I plunged into darkness.