1

  Greta approached Daros, sitting beside him on the floor and taking his hand. Suddenly, everything made sense. That man had never stopped searching for his friend's killer: he saw his face in every other unpunished criminal. He followed news reports, intercepted official investigations. He located the guilty alone and executed his own version of justice. It was a brutal and solitary existence. Even understanding his motivations, Greta couldn't comprehend how Daros had reached the point of giving up trying to lead a normal life in the name of fighting forever against a dead enemy.

  And where did a normal life lead you, Greta?

  Maybe everyone had to face a monster or two along the way. She pushed the thought away and turned her attention back to the man before her, who stared at a distant point of the sunset coming through the window.

  "I'm sorry for your loss. Truly. When someone so young dies…"

  She thought of the child lost still in her womb, but didn't want to talk about him again. This was the time to listen, without comparing pain. She spoke again, this time focused on Daros's account.

  "Your friend didn't get the chance to grow up, to become an adult. He didn't go to college, didn't get married, didn't have children. I can't even imagine the anger you feel."

  Daros shook his head, but said nothing. Greta wanted to ask about his training too. Everything in that story was fascinating. The travels, the foreign languages, the courage to put himself in the line of fire to learn. However, the figure of his grandfather kept returning to her mind, a suffering man who hadn't bowed under the weight of trauma.

  "What's your grandfather's name?"

  Daros's face lit up, a combination of affection and pride showing in his voice as he answered:

  "Arthur. He's past eighty now, but he's still strong as an ox. Does everything by himself, even cooks all his own meals. In fact, that's who taught me how to cook."

  "Wow! Go Arthur. Well, it shows. You're an incredible cook, like a real chef, I'm not kidding."

  Daros lightly squeezed Greta's fingers, pleased with the compliment. Massaging his index finger with her thumb, she continued:

  "But I still don't know the answer to the second question. Why did you decide to take me with you?"

  "Capture, you mean. I have no idea. I've been thinking about how to answer for a while. I can try."

  He took a deep breath before speaking. He didn't really know. He'd thought a lot about it. First, he theorized that he couldn't let a witness leave the crime scene freely without first checking what she intended to do about it. He soon discarded that hypothesis. If he was honest with himself, he'd have to admit he knew Greta was running from someone the moment he first saw her. Fear and distrust alternated in her eyes, but deep down hope still shone to find a safe harbor. So, imagining she might go to the police was a mistake. Deep down, it was something else that motivated the decision to take her with him.

  "Pity? You felt sorry for me?" she ventured, interrupting the explanation.

  "No way. I don't usually feel sorry for anyone."

  He searched for the right words before continuing. His most frequent conversation partner, Inácio, rarely asked questions as complex as Greta's. Instead of feeling intimidated, Daros decided to take the chance to develop his expression skills. He hadn't lied. He hadn't felt sorry for her. He felt something else: identification. Like himself, the stranger he met at the gas station was a survivor. The black eye, the bruises on her wrists, everything indicated a fight. Her husband hadn't simply decided to stop hitting her, Daros now knew. She had prevented him from continuing. But even before knowing what had happened, her refusal to passively surrender to a perverse fate had already been evident.

  From experience, he knew that recognizing the value of an equal was fundamental to survival. It guaranteed choosing the best ally for the trench. Or a good plan of action against a relentless enemy.

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  "I shouldn't use so many war terms, but it's kind of natural for me. You heard my story, you know."

  Greta nodded, and he continued speaking. He told her he didn't want to leave a woman who had already won one battle at the mercy of a new combat on that road. However, there was more than that. It took him a while to understand because it was an uncommon feeling in his life. The truth was he'd felt attracted to her. Even if he'd recognized the feeling the moment it arose, he doubted he would have known what to do with it.

  "That's it. I know it wasn't a direct answer, but it's as close as I can get to the truth. I think it was a more modern version of primitive men's conquest. I hit you on the head with my club to drag you to my cave."

  As horrifying as the comparison was, Greta couldn't help but laugh.

  "That version works for me," she declared. "And you know what else? If we're going to continue this together, I imagine you want to know something more."

  "I want to know who's after you, Greta. And I want to know why. We need to be ready. Now that your name and image are being broadcast, it's only a matter of time before they get here. I can protect you from them. But I have to know who they are."

  "It's not my husband. I don't know where he is, I don't know why he's missing, but I know he wouldn't come after me. Not after everything that happened. Besides…" she stopped, not quite knowing how to continue.

  "Besides what?"

  "One of the reasons Valério didn't want the divorce, maybe the biggest one, was the negative exposure and the effects of separation on his circle of friends, social status, and his position of respect at the university. It makes absolutely no sense that he would have allowed the media's involvement in the story. He wouldn't want a circus, you can bet on it. I'm only sure of one thing."

  "What?"

  "It's not him who's after me. It has to be someone who's after him. You need to believe me."

  Daros didn't know why Greta remained in a phase of denial, unable to deal with the idea that the monster she'd married was still on her trail. But there was firmness in what she said. And it made some sense.

  If it were her husband, in fact, why not simply approach Greta? The guy could flash his lights on the road, could ram his car into his wife's, make her stop. Being aggressive was his nature. But the truth was he hadn't tried anything like that.

  Whoever was after her didn't want to reach her, just discover where she was going. Still, the question remained: why?

  2

  The sniper had sat cross-legged on the hotel room carpet. He'd released the driver to take a walk, stretch his legs, or take a nap. No route had been sent yet. For his part, Isaías decided to meditate while he waited. Meditation wasn't quite the name, it was more silencing the mind and connecting with the Lord.

  Born into a religious family, his own name was a praise. That's why he'd known since childhood that God had special plans for him. His father, who had been a pastor before suffering political persecution and being demoted to catechism teacher, had been the one who most encouraged him to attend shooting clubs. He claimed the institutions were being led by infidels and heretics. It wouldn't take long for God to tire of so much blasphemy and start the holy war. Good men should be prepared to defend their families.

  Although citizens were increasingly corrupt and without Christ in their hearts, the holy war hadn't arrived. Isaías had invested so much in his preparation that he decided to invest in a military police career, where he went through a rigorous selection process until starting specialization courses. Unfortunately, however, his father was right about the infidels. Unjustly described by superiors and colleagues as an unstable individual with sadistic conduct and moral deviations, he suffered the persecution of God's chosen ones firsthand. He was never assigned to official missions.

  However, it soon became clear that the unjust can do nothing against divine plans. A police committee soon recruited him for confidential services. And the best part was he earned a generous amount for each one. God was a father.

  The laptop beeped: the images Pablo had requested arrived. Isaías didn't like that policeman one bit. The protruding belly was irrefutable proof that the man had succumbed to the mortal sin of sloth. Fat takes time to accumulate, whether in the abdomen or any other region. This indicated a lot of time dedicated to idleness and vices. You don't build good character that way. The most important thing wasn't even character: it's that it became impossible to trust the judgment of a man who doesn't even honor his body as a temple.

  After clicking on the file, the computer screen displayed the recordings from cameras in downtown Florianópolis, with special focus on the route between the rental agency and the bus station. He leaned forward to analyze the material, while a hunch strengthened in his head.

  Observing the images of the man in the cap indicated by Pablo, the pieces began to fall into place. It was obvious the guy could have remained in the capital of Santa Catarina, but something didn't add up. If he was really helping the fugitive—and everything pointed to that—why hadn't she arrived there with him? The answer couldn't be simpler: the woman must be waiting somewhere.

  The killer crossed his fingers and cracked them, one by one. Sometimes, the prey leaves its hiding place when it thinks it's most protected. The woman didn't worry him at that moment. The thorn in his shoe was the damn stranger under that cap. The man wasn't a fan of leaving loose ends. At services with his family, he'd learned that even Solomon, the wisest of God's men, had succumbed to three capital sins: pride, lust, and greed.

  He only needed to wait for the adversary to succumb to the first sin. And he didn't intend to wait sitting down, unlike the lazy one who preceded him in the mission.