1

  The driver examined the scenario out of habit. The men were well distributed across the residence's central courtyard. A whole gang of professionals armed to the teeth against a single woman. It would be comical if it weren't a perfect reflection of the world of the powerful he'd come to know so well. An army was always ready when it was necessary to silence a single voice.

  Isaías got out the passenger door and stretched his muscles in the private garage, further from the entrance gate.

  The driver hurried to disembark from the Civic and announced:

  "Let me get her."

  His mission was to serve as driver for Isaías, the sniper. And that's it. Technically, he could leave already. But his protective instinct ordered him to escort the woman, instead of Isaías.

  He headed toward the trunk. He'd seen Isaías's irritation grow before, when they were on the avenue awaiting instructions. Pablo had warned that the client demanded delivery of the woman to the husband's address, no longer to the dean's house. Another change of plans.

  Isaías had raised his hands, exasperated. The driver wasn't the type who asked many questions, but the constant twists intrigued him too. The case was becoming exhausting for the shooter. Apparently, the guy was a fan of well-defined routes. Nothing seemed very defined in that mission.

  As if reading the driver's thoughts, Isaías said to a man he couldn't see from that angle:

  "No more surprises." And walked off toward the house.

  Relieved by his travel companion's departure, the driver carefully opened the trunk, feeling the weight of two armed guys' gaze on him.

  He found the prisoner in a different state than he expected. Instead of a body struggling to free itself, what he saw was a figure with empty eyes staring at nothing. The woman just squeezed her eyelids to protect herself from the sudden brightness. The absence of emotion on her face was more disturbing than any resistance. It was like looking at the cocoon that once housed a butterfly. He wondered if he'd chosen the right side of that battlefield. He thought he already knew the answer, but received no sign confirming it.

  He grabbed the hostage's arms with as much gentleness as he could, and even so she trembled when he picked her up. The driver assessed the handcuffs on her wrists after leaning her against the car. The woman blew on the point where her hands met to relieve the burning. A dark red groove circled the region rubbed by the plastic, evidencing the skin's swelling. He took out a box cutter from his pocket to cut the ties, but was interrupted by one of the guards:

  "Leave it as it is, man. She might try some funny business."

  "But she'll barely be able to walk with the pain," the driver argued.

  "Leave it as it is. Just release her legs," the man ended the discussion.

  The driver turned his back to the guard to cut the plastic around her ankles. Only seeing the professor's face up close when he stood up did he realize how strong Isaías's blow had been. The swollen face must be hurting a lot, but she didn't seem to care. She didn't seem to care about anything. He remembered her earlier request and spoke over his shoulder:

  "Bring some water for her."

  "Negative."

  "Right. If she faints from thirst, that will be on you."

  The guard grunted and looked around. There was a faucet on the wall.

  "If you have a cup or a bottle, hand it to me."

  The driver returned to the wheel and grabbed the coffee cup he'd had at the gas station. He handed it to the grumpy giant, who washed it carelessly, filled it with water, and returned it to him. He made a point of avoiding touching the woman, as if she had leprosy.

  Putting the cup to the professor's mouth, the driver waited for her to drink, relieved.

  — Want some more?

  She confirmed with her head. The guard rolled his eyes and went to fill the little cup again, which was quickly emptied.

  "Come on, ma'am, this way. There are people waiting for you," the driver said, guiding her by the elbow.

  And what did these people want to do with her?

  The driver made the decision right there, without even realizing it. He wouldn't leave. He couldn't live with himself if he did.

  2

  Daros Fischer wasn't surprised when he was led along the immense garage to a side door that gave access to the house. Long before working with codes and software, he'd been trained to memorize building plans in minutes, counting steps and calculating angles. He'd accessed satellite images of the region and investigated the residence. He couldn't find the property's floor plan, but the orientation he had would work well.

  Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit.

  The garage had capacity for six luxury cars, or some trucks, with a small area reserved a bit further away. From where he was he couldn't see what it contained, but he bet it was a private parking for one or two more vehicles. He'd heard the soft purr of an engine coming from there a little earlier.

  The guard walked glued to him like a tick, checking his watch minute by minute. Daros assessed his chances. The man was a well-trained professional and evidently armed. Neutralizing him right there would be easy, but there was the risk of triggering a premature alarm when the guy's body was found. If something went wrong, Greta and Inácio would pay the price.

  "The pizzas are getting cold," Daros warned, pointing to the thermal bags. "The people inside won't like that. Cold cheese looks like rubber."

  The guard grumbled something in response and opened the side door without taking his eyes off him. Beyond the threshold, a stone staircase stretched across the well-maintained lawn, leading to the main access.

  That was interesting. He doubted a guy like Valério had the habit of receiving service providers through the front access. This could only mean one thing: someone much more important than him was entering through the back: Greta.

  "You go that way." The man pointed up the steps, incisive. "Someone's waiting at the door."

  Daros nodded and began climbing the stone staircase unhurriedly. Reaching the portico, he saw another guard positioned on the left side. This second man watched him with evident distrust, his hand close to his pants, where a holster had been attached.

  "Right there," said the guard, indicating with his head.

  Daros knocked on the door with his knuckles, balancing the pizzas with his other hand. He was gripping the handles too tightly. The door opened to reveal a middle-aged man with graying hair and accentuated dark circles. He wore a dark dress shirt under an open jacket. The jeans ended in leather shoes. The guy must have some high rank in the police.

  He had a tired air. In uniform he might seem more imposing or threatening. An authority figure only to those who had blind faith in the integrity of institutions.

  "Finally," said Commander Brito, making room for the newcomer.

  After entering, Daros waited.

  "Put them there on that little table," he gestured with authority. Giving orders was natural to him.

  The coffee table Greta dragged herself to before hitting her shitty husband's head, Daros concluded. Actually, where was the professor?

  The entrance hall was a sanctuary of academic vanity. Shelves covered with books, some with Valério's name on the spine. Framed certificates spread across the walls, with broken glass. Someone had had a fit of rage right there. An imposing dark wood desk lay on the other side of the room, covered with papers and with an open laptop.

  Daros deposited the pizzas on the table, his back to the door. Simulating carelessness, he let the helmet fall to the floor. As he bent down to pick it up, he slid a small magnetic camera under the furniture's top. A green light blinked quickly, indicating the device was active and transmitting.

  "Sorry," he murmured, picking up the helmet. "I just need the code."

  Brito frowned, irritated with himself for having placed the order by app. He was so nervous he couldn't remember the last four digits of his own phone. After a tremendous effort, he recited the code.

  Daros nodded and typed the numbers into the delivery guy's phone. They didn't match, and he knew why. They'd placed the order through the residence's landline, otherwise Daros couldn't have intercepted the call. He didn't want to cause unnecessary commotion, but pretending that was the right code could raise suspicions either at the pizzeria or from the person who placed the order. So he warned, doing his best to sound servile:

  "Wrong code, sir."

  "You think I don't know my own phone number, you idiot?"

  "No, sir, but perhaps you ordered from another phone."

  "What other fucking..."

  The commander remembered. The problem was he didn't know the phone number of that damn house. He walked to the nearest landline and dialed his cell phone. He memorized the last four digits that appeared on the screen and informed the delivery guy.

  "Happy now?" he challenged.

  Daros nodded, putting the device in his pocket afterward. He observed the portraits on the sideboard in front of the large mirror on the wall that separated the two environments. In some photographs, Valério appeared alongside the dean or other equally important figures, all smiling at the camera. Only one photo showed Greta with a discreet smile beside her husband, who was making a toast.

  "Any problem?" asked the commander, after assessing where the delivery guy was looking.

  "No... sir. Can I let the guard know I'm ready to leave?" He kept his tone docile, even while his eyes calculated the best exit route when things got busy.

  Because it was only a matter of time before they did.

  3

  To Brito, there was something wrong with that delivery guy. He had an atypical posture, almost indifferent. Even so, he got interested in the couple's photos. Just common photos of people, when there were rare books, awards, and art pieces scattered all over the place.

  The guy said "sir" without hesitation, fine. It just sounded... too mechanical. It could be in his head. He was nervous.

  The strangest point of that uncomfortable interaction was when the guy asked to use the bathroom. Just like that, out of nowhere. It was hard to believe an employee wouldn't see anything wrong with the request.

  Brito just led the man to the side door, which led to a covered space between the house and the garage. A spark of alert lit up in his memory when he paid attention to the cap hanging from the delivery guy's waist, but it went out soon after. The commander decided to put the man in his place:

  "You can pee on any tree on the street. There are plenty. Now, do me the favor of disappearing from my sight."

  The delivery guy obeyed without saying a word. When he vanished from the world's eyes is when his magic happened.

  4

  Under the night sky that opened when they reached the backyard, Greta was led in the dark across the all-too-familiar lawn. They were walking toward the back of the residence, where the pool and the kitchen's back door were.

  Even the moon's meager illumination seemed too bright for her after spending so much time locked in the trunk. The driver, who was no more than twenty years old, maintained a loose grip on her arm, and the gentle way he treated her hadn't gone unnoticed. When she lost her balance, the young man offered support. When their eyes met, he always found a way to look away, as if he felt ashamed to be there. Greta thought he shouldn't feel that way. In the last hours, he was the only person who treated her with a bit of humanity. They soon reached the veranda with large glass windows, which formed a winter garden perfectly attached to the residence.

  The kitchen door was open. They were received by a corpulent man with sparse beard and protruding eyes.

  Pablo.