1

  In the locked office, the driver felt a pang when the woman recoiled at the touch on her shoulder, backing against the bookshelf. The spine of a heavy, bound volume pressed against her arm, interrupting her escape with an explosion of pain in her wounded wrists. When the professor turned, the face that looked at him was a colorless mask. There was fear in her eyes, but her chin rose in defiance.

  "I know I'm the last person you wanted to see. I know I didn't do anything to help you."

  Greta wouldn't simplify his participation in the story so much, but she kept her mouth shut. To be fair, she couldn't leave out the gentle treatment the man had given her earlier. Her fingers, however, unconsciously sought the edge of the dark desk, seeking a real anchor point for the decision to lower her guard.

  "At first I thought it was just a job, extra cash. No kidnapping, no violence. Just driving," he spoke, his eyes stubbornly checking if the door remained locked. Something or someone out there scared him. "I don't have time to go into details now, but that's it. You need to listen to me. They're not kidding around. It's going to be a bloodbath."

  Motionless, the woman listened.

  "I'm in danger now, ma'am. But you're at much greater risk. These men aren't kidding around. They're here to kill you. Cooperate with me, please. I'm your only chance. And if you die, I'll carry this with me for the rest of my life."

  The professor didn't move. She waited. Her posture wasn't one of submission, but of analysis. A shadow passed through her eyes, the same that appeared when a flaw emerged in a thesis. When she spoke, her voice was calm and emotionless, the one she used to speak at examining boards.

  "I'd rather die than go anywhere with someone who works for a worm like the dean."

  2

  Inácio began receiving image and sound transmission a few minutes after Daros entered the house. Great. Acting like a sentimental old man, sending the operator's data to his friend, had borne good fruit after all. He followed attentively on the phone screen. When the group went to the second floor, the voices got lower. He let out a snort of frustration.

  He took the moment to read the message sent by the Imbituba detective. The body found was that of a civil police officer from the city. On one hand, that made sense, since Daros was alive and kicking. On the other, he couldn't understand what a police officer was doing at the cabin. The mystery would have to wait for later.

  Shortly after, the dean descended the stairs beside Pablo. Inácio recognized that despicable one immediately. The scoundrel had entered the house less than an hour before. The rascal had entered the police force right when Inácio moved to internal affairs. He wasn't chubby at the time, nor was Inácio bald.

  To him, everything about the rookie reeked of corruption from every pore. The pig-like expression, the way he disguised while peeking over his shoulder. He wasn't the least bit surprised to find that Pablo had ended up on the dark side of the force, in the end.

  It was at this point that the conversation between the men descending the stairs became clearer, and more disturbing. The plan was to finish off the professor first and then kill the husband. That wasn't good at all. Upon leaving the kitchen and crossing the living room for the last time, the dean reached the residence's pedestrian gate alone, leaving Pablo behind to do the dirty work.

  Inácio let the dandy enter through the back door of a luxury car with driver and leave. That scoundrel deserved to think he was getting away with another one, only to be caught by Lurdes with his pants down in the following days.

  When Donaldo's car disappeared from view, Inácio got out of the vehicle and looked for a safe observation point. Everything indicated he'd have to take action before reinforcements arrived.

  Alone. In the dark. Like in the old days.

  Well, not that alone.

  3

  As soon as the guard lowered the garage latch, the memory hit Isaías like an electric shock. The trigger had not been the red delivery uniform jacket, standard, generic. The trigger was the damn cap buried to the eyebrows. He'd never seen Greta's protector's face, but had watched the guy move in so many hours of video that he recognized some of his mannerisms. He caught the choreographed way he dodged obstacles, arms slightly flexed, always ready to react.

  A cap... That had appeared from where? It was the most absurd accessory for someone who works wearing a helmet.

  Isaías's body reacted before his brain. His left arm pulled the jacket hem, his right hand dove into the internal holster, his fingers touched the rough grip of the pistol. In less than a second, he'd turned around, the weapon in low guard position, his eyes fixed not on the motorcycle in the garage, but on the door he'd crossed minutes before, the door that separated him from the target.

  The thick-necked giant fitted the radio at his waist, reacting with the skill of a former military cop. His hand rested on the holster at his waist. The dry click of the bolt being cocked reverberated through the garage walls. The barrel of the .40 pointed at Isaías's head.

  "Lower your weapon. Now," the guard's voice simulated an authority that admitted no discussion. His eyes, however, were wide, the jaw muscles tensed to the point of pain.

  Isaías didn't even blink. His mind continued scanning the motorcycle, the door, blind spots. When he spoke, the warning came out low, forcing the guard to listen carefully.

  "It's not me you should worry about. It's the fucking pizza delivery guy."

  "Last warning," the guard advanced half a step, stabilizing the arm that aimed. The distance between them was mere three meters. A shot that couldn't miss.

  "Idiot! There's an intruder here!" Isaías finally diverted focus for a fraction of a second to shoot the guard with a look. "Look at the damn motorcycle! Just alert the others. Let me take care of the guy."

  4

  This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

  Inácio concluded the man shouting in the garage was young, and certainly part of the gang. He was demanding the rest of the team be alerted to the presence of an intruder. An alarm would be triggered, and that was inevitable. But Inácio needed to ensure Greta and Daros also received a warning.

  He didn't want to kill someone so young, even someone on the wrong side. He unlocked the pistol and aimed at the bigger guy.

  5

  Confused, the guard brought the radio close to his mouth, his thumb searching for the button. A dry bang interrupted the action. Before the giant had time to speak, the top of his head exploded. Blood and brain matter hit the floor and painted the wall. The body stood for two seconds, supported by the commandless spine. Soon after the knees bent and the rest of the man collapsed.

  Isaías went into motion before the body hit the ground. His brain processed the trajectory: low shot, probably from across the street. He threw himself sideways, against the wall, spinning in the air. As he fell, he pulled the trigger three times in rapid succession toward the street, not to hit, but to remove visibility from whoever was there.

  He didn't see the camouflaged shooter, but didn't try to find him. He slammed the gate, cocked the weapon, and went hunting for the old enemy.

  6

  The driver was extending a pacifying arm to the professor when the first shots echoed. The shock interrupted the peace invitation.

  She ran to the desk and grabbed the first thing she reached: a large silver letter opener.

  "We don't have time for this, ma'am!"

  "Don't come near me," she growled, wielding the object before her.

  Not knowing how to approach the woman without getting hurt, he gave up. He looked around and saw a heavy piece of furniture beside the door, a writing desk or something similar. He pressed his back against the wood and pushed with all the strength he could muster.

  The thing barely moved. The driver cursed and tried again. This time there was progress. Small, but still.

  Greta observed, motionless, the man's effort. Her nails had dug into her palms while squeezing the opener's handle. Another burst, closer, shattered a vase in front of the house. The sound of shards scattering was decisive.

  The equation was simple: the threat outside was urgent and deadly. The stranger inside with her was, at least, trying to block the door.

  She opened her fingers. The letter opener bounced on the desk and ended up on the carpet.

  Greta approached, not the driver, but the other side of the furniture, an old oak writing desk with six drawers. Her shoulders met the solid wood, and she groaned just imagining the pain the effort would bring to her wrists. She had no choice. Then she made eye contact with the man.

  Overcome with relief, the driver instructed:

  "I'll count to three. Then we push. Ready?"

  7

  The moonless sky covered the well-maintained backyard with irregular shadows here and there. Daros slid along the wall. His hands sought support from time to time on the cold concrete, his steps being cushioned by the trimmed lawn.

  The modern residence displayed wide windows, now immersed in the yellowish penumbra of external lighting. The sensation wasn't that of just any mission. There were too many men there, and this made him fear for Inácio and Greta's safety. The restlessness that dominated him put the hacker inside him to sleep, with the soldier taking control.

  He crouched beside a post, studying the cables that snaked to the construction. The quietest option would be to invade the electrical system, but that would take time he didn't have. The direct method was riskier, but also more effective.

  He'd gotten rid of the flashy red jacket as soon as he left the garage. From his pants pocket, he pulled a thin, malleable copper wire, which he bent for the task. With precise calculation, he swung his arm and threw the wire over the power cables. The impact was immediate: a dry electrical crack, followed by the flash of sparks crackling in the dark.

  The transformer on the street roared, like an entity suddenly summoned, and then a crash announced the overload. The house lights blinked once, twice. Then went out for good, taking with them the lighting from the nearest posts. The street plunged into absolute darkness.

  Daros didn't waste time watching the result. He was already walking to a window at the back of the residence, taking advantage of the seconds when surprise would work in his favor. Inside, the gang was about to discover it wasn't just a blackout and, when they realized it, it would be too late.

  Time to hunt.

  8

  Pablo thought the Juliet abandoned by Romeo had already had enough time in that library to say goodbye to the world as she knew it. So the cop climbed the stairs to fulfill the dean's orders. A figure emerged at the top of the steps.

  Pablo took the gun from his waist, but didn't shoot. He recognized the man. It was the commander. Brito moved the radio from his mouth, revealing a haunted face.

  "Pablo... The guy from the road, the one with the cap. The woman's accomplice! He... he's here." Brito's wide eyes matched the desperation in his voice.

  The succession of shots from outside had barely ended when the house lights went out.

  Pablo took the radio from his pocket and instructed the team:

  "Everyone who isn't one of us has to die, fuck! Shoot to kill."

  9

  Upon finding Pablo climbing with the weapon pointed at the office, Brito knew he wouldn't have time or conditions to reach the house entrance. He'd already received all possible warnings that none of this would work. The coup de grace had been the dean's escape. It was always like that. Those with more money left first, and the plebs left last. If they left. It wasn't a matter of lamenting his place in the social hierarchy, it's just that, this time, the feeling was terrible.

  Without Donaldo to hold Pablo's leash, the cop would be free to do what he loved most. If before the commander merely lamented the woman's murder, now he feared a real bloodbath.

  The only chance of getting out of this alive would be to return to the office and lock himself inside. He could make a barricade or something.

  He'd opened a bathroom door before reaching the right door. He pushed the wood with his shoulder, in case it was just pulled to. The door hadn't opened. Brito's hand closed on the handle, raising and lowering the metal several times without the door moving a millimeter. Shit. The woman had locked herself in there. But she wasn't alone before: she was with the driver.

  Had the rookie changed sides? Why the hell would he do that?

  He decided to keep watch. And when Pablo fired down the stairs after the blackout, he had no desire whatsoever to share his suspicion with him. At least, for now. Sometimes privileged information is enough to save a life.

  10

  Right after protecting the entrance, Greta ran to the window. She needed air, wanted to shake her throbbing wrists in the fresh night air. The lights went out as soon as her hands touched the wooden frame. Sparks stirred in the night air, looking like fireflies in a secret celebration. Under the dancing points of light, she saw a familiar figure approaching the back of the house.

  Her first thought was that the ghost of the man who'd protected her had returned to fetch her. Knowing he continued existing somewhere would be good enough. But then, as if sensing her presence, the man looked up, finding the woman who spied on him from the window.

  Under a new, brief flash, his face became entirely visible amid the pitch black of night. Daros looked directly into her eyes, a half-smile playing on his lips.

  He had returned to fetch her, yes, but he wasn't dead. And that was even better. He pointed to a spot on the ground near him and made an OK with his thumb and index finger of his right hand. Then he disappeared from view, returning to the shadows.

  Greta couldn't contain herself with happiness. The danger, the men downstairs, the dean... Everything had lost importance. Daros was alive, and nothing could compete with the joy of this discovery. When the urge to scream and laugh passed, she returned to a state of alert.

  Leaning her body through the window, Greta assessed the landscape, trying to decipher the message, that OK sign. She saw the pool below, free and unobstructed. The angle, however, made the jump risky. On the other hand, it also wasn't safe to remain there, with one of the men pounding on the door like crazy.

  With her index finger, she called the driver closer.

  11

  Enraged by the sudden blackout, Pablo fired twice at the ceiling. Shards of cement and plaster rained on his head, increasing the man's anger.

  A figure entered the ground floor living room below him. Pablo narrowed his eyes, trying to adjust his vision to the dimness. The figure was leaner than his men, didn't wear a visible bulletproof vest, and wasn't holding a rifle. Pablo raised the weapon, aimed, and pulled the hammer.

  Isaías's voice cut through the silence, firm:

  "Killing the ally with the best aim is a terrible idea."

  Pablo lowered the weapon. Finally some good news. The sniper was still in the game.