Rio de Janeiro!
The revolving door of the Copacabana Palace Hotel had long been welded shut, with a sign in red paint by the Red Command drug traffickers reading "Happy City Entrance" on the glass. A few traffickers holding AK-47s leaned against the door, their eyes scanning the sporadic pedestrians in the street like hungry wolves.
At 10:50 a.m., a commotion suddenly erupted on the hotel's second-floor terrace.
In the Red Command, Carlos, who was in charge of beheading, stepped in muddy military boots, pushing a French tourist in a suit to the edge of the terrace. The tourist's tie was askew, his hands tied behind his back, a rag stuffed in his mouth, only able to make muffled struggling sounds as tears welled up in his eyes.
Carlos grabbed him by the back of the neck, grinning at the camera by the balcony: "My friends, please aim the camera properly!"
