1

  Brito reached the living room almost at the same time Isaías kicked open the side door. The shooter was dragging the driver by the neck.

  Isaías shot a look over his shoulder and ordered:

  "Get out of the way. Get off the stairs."

  Brito obeyed. There was no alternative.

  2

  Motionless behind the kitchen door, Daros listened. Greta's ally had been captured.

  He paid attention to every noise, consulting the mental map of the living room. When he entered, he couldn't miss.

  3

  The grip on his neck was suffocating. The driver thought, after all, that he would die among people who didn't even know his name.

  It was the price for having started the game on the wrong side of the board.

  He was dragged to the stairs, where his foot was forced to climb a step. Then another.

  4

  In the center of the room, the commander raised his hands:

  "Let's calm down. I'm sure we can reach an agreement."

  In the dark, he couldn't see Pablo crouched in front of the door. But Isaías saw. He also saw the discreet nod the cop made toward Brito.

  In the end, it was the grease stain at the corner of Commander Brito's mouth that sealed his fate. The grease stain from the pizza the bastard had feasted on. The fucking pizza that had opened the gates of hell for a legion of demons to enter. The civil cop gritted his teeth when he saw the feast's mark. That's why he made the sign to the killer.

  Isaías aimed between the target's eyes. And hit. The commander fell with a dull thud. No mess. A trickle of blood flowed announcing Brito's shift had come to an end. Disguising his satisfied smile, Isaías announced:

  "Attention, everyone. There's only one deal, Inácio. I'm going to trade this piece of shit here for the little woman upstairs. And neither you nor your henchman in the kitchen are going to do jack shit."

  Isaías whispered in the ear of the driver he carried:

  "A bonus lesson for you, traitor. The coward always chooses the wrong side. These guys are here for the woman, not for you. End of the line, you piece of shit."

  5

  Inácio advanced along the side of the house, keeping crouched below the window line. His finger remained on the trigger, ready to act. The shots from the back had ceased a few minutes ago. The absence of voices was a sign Daros had won the battle.

  He stopped by the door that gave direct access to the living room. It was the most discreet entrance, less obvious than the main door, previously guarded by the surrendered men. He pressed his ear to the wood, trying to catch any sound.

  Sparse movements, probably from the guy with the hostage.

  That's when he remembered.

  In the heat of action, he'd completely forgotten the transmitter. Daros had installed the equipment inside the house, and the images should still be being sent to his phone. How could he forget such a valuable tool?

  He grabbed the device carefully, muffling the screen's brightness with his hand cupped. The connection was still active. The image shook, but showed a partial view of the living room.

  Everything dark. And then he saw something that made his blood freeze.

  A figure moved near the front door.

  It wasn't a common guard: members of that group were already far from the property or dead. The figure moved cautiously, taking advantage of the shadows, waiting for something. Or someone.

  An ambush.

  Inácio swallowed hard. If he entered through the side door as planned, he'd be walking straight into a trap. Whoever was inside knew he would come. The person was waiting.

  He zoomed in on the image on his phone, trying to identify the figure. The camera angle didn't allow seeing the face clearly, but revealed the physique: medium height, overweight. Pablo.

  Inácio stepped back from the door, mentally reviewing the options. Entering would be suicide. Waiting, a death sentence for the hostage. And Daros might not arrive in time. Actually, what was he doing in the kitchen? Breaking plates to make a fucking omelet?

  He looked at the phone screen again. Pablo had positioned himself behind an overturned sofa, with perfect angle to the side door and the stairs.

  Definitely an ambush. At least now Inácio knew where the enemy hid.

  He took a deep breath. If he couldn't enter through the door, maybe he could lure the adversary out.

  Or maybe he needed to be more creative.

  He fixed his eyes on the side window. The glass was intact and distant, but there was a half-open blind. If he could get a shooting angle from there...

  Inácio approached, crouched, the window, each step calculated not to make noise. The hunt had become a deadly chess game. If he wanted to live to tell the story, he needed to be one move ahead.

  6

  The hostage struggled, and Isaías tightened his arm even more around the guy's neck. The pistol barrel remained firm against the driver's head, ready to explode his brains at the slightest wrong step.

  "Listen to me, professor," Isaías shouted, raising his voice to reach upstairs. "I know you're listening up there in your hiding place, little mouse."

  The driver tried to speak, but only a gurgle came from his throat. Isaías relaxed the pressure slightly, allowing the man to breathe.

  "If you don't come down here right now, your little traitor friend is going to pay for it," he continued roaring. "And if he pays, no problem! Nobody told him to be an idiot and switch sides!"

  He made a dramatic pause, waiting for some response from the second floor. There was no sound whatsoever.

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  "But you're going to have to take responsibility for that, princess." Isaías's voice distilled contempt. "Someone else dying because of the golden rosemary. More blood on the good professor's hands!"

  He waited. Seconds dragged on.

  Nothing. Not a whisper from the lady.

  "Up to you," Isaías shouted, letting out an affected sigh of disappointment.

  He lowered the weapon, aiming at the driver's right leg. The man noticed the movement and writhed, but the pressure on his neck kept him firmly in place.

  "Don't..." he managed to whisper.

  "Should've thought of that before, backstabber."

  The shot reverberated through the walls, making the stairs tremble. The bullet pierced the driver's thigh, penetrating muscle and tendon. Blood gushed immediately, staining the carpet.

  The cry of pain that escaped the man's throat was inhuman, primitive. The young man tried to fold over himself, but Isaías pulled him back, keeping him erect like a shield of skin and veins.

  "Free sample!" The shooter shouted up again, his voice ricocheting through the entire house. "The next one's going in the head! Time is running out, professor!"

  7

  Daros's phone vibrated. His arm, rigid with tension, grabbed the device. On the screen, Inácio marked the position of an enemy near the front door of the room.

  8

  "The countdown has started, professor!" Isaías warned, raising the weapon to the driver's head. The man moaned quietly, blood increasing the dark marks on the steps.

  "Ten."

  The voice traveled through the air like a bell announcing a funeral. Isaías kept his eyes fixed on the second floor corridor, awaiting any sign of movement.

  "Nine."

  A hoarse whisper escaped through the driver's lips. The grip kept his throat compressed. Each breath was a painful effort.

  "Eight."

  Outside, Inácio remained immovable, torn between the impulse to act and logic. He had no shooting angle. A hasty move could result in the hostage's death.

  "Seven."

  The house seemed suspended in time. Only the sound of blood dripping on the carpet broke the sepulchral silence.

  "Six... Five..."

  Isaías interrupted the countdown, tilting his head like a cat hearing a distant noise.

  "Where are you, princess?" he yelled. "I'm getting to zero."

  That's when everything changed.

  A silhouette appeared at the top of the steps, gentle even blooming in chaos's heart. The weak light from some window outlined her slender contour against the upper corridor's dimness.

  "I'm here."

  The voice was serene, like a small wave without foam dissipating on the sand. There was no fear or despair. The gentleness in that cadence bordered on supernatural. It sounded like full acceptance of what was about to happen.

  The woman began descending the steps, one at a time. Her steps were firm, determined. First the toes found support, then the heel firmed up. She didn't seek escape routes. She walked directly toward her destiny.

  With each step down, her features became clearer. Pale but calm face, eyes fixed on the executioner. She didn't observe the wounded driver, showed no emotion seeing the blood spilled on the floor.

  She was a lamb sliding gently to the altar of her own sacrifice.

  "Very good," Isaías murmured, impressed. For a moment, he had the impression of seeing the Virgin Mary's face materializing in that woman's features. "I knew you wouldn't disappoint me."

  The shooter threw the driver down the stairs and encircled the professor by the waist, pulling her close. The woman raised an arm over his shoulder, like a lover about to embrace her companion, at the exact moment he inhaled her perfume.

  9

  From his hiding place, Pablo watched, hypnotized, the movement on the stairs.

  He saw when Isaías threw the hostage down the steps. He observed, perplexed, the woman surrender.

  And, though too late, he also saw the metallic gleam of the object the professor held and that she buried in Isaías's neck. Not under the chin, where the unwary aimed, but in the region below the ear, as if the damn woman knew exactly which vein ran there. Pablo raised the weapon toward her and fired.

  10

  Right after the first shots, Pablo's body was shaken by the impact of a hail of bullets. Daros opened fire first, bursting through the kitchen door. Soon after, Inácio's shots arrived from the side door kicked open.

  Daros ran toward the stairs. He stopped before the driver, who was trying to stand. The man signaled he was okay, and Daros moved ahead. Soon he spotted the fallen bodies on the steps. One of them was still moving.

  11

  Greta clung to consciousness. Dazed, she searched for a support point, but her fingers slipped on accumulated blood. She didn't think she'd find strength to insist.

  There was no need, however. Firm hands held her, and she recognized that warmth. Daros supported her back with one arm, bearing her weight.

  As she was lifted, Greta's gaze sought his face, but everything was an unstable blur, a kaleidoscope of fragments that refused to stay in place. Gradually, she couldn't see even that anymore. She used her fingers to see. She touched the stitch marks on his chin, the thin scar at the corner of his eyebrow... The details she'd fought to memorize now escaped, dissolved in an acute pain that was becoming distant and an irresistible urge to fall asleep. No, stay, she silently begged her own consciousness. Remember him.

  There was a warm, viscous liquid on his face. Frightened, Greta pulled the man by the arms, her hands sliding in search of wounds. She found none. Then she dispelled the fog before her eyes and saw fear in Daros's. She slowly ran her hand over her own abdomen, watching her fingers afterward. They were covered in blood.

  She was the one who was wounded. When Daros's features firmed again, everything went dark.

  12

  "My God, kid... What did you get yourself into?"

  Inácio took off his jacket and carefully placed it over the driver's body fallen at the foot of the stairs. The detective's expression now was one of regret, his face stripped of the usual ironic shell.

  "What's your name, kid?"

  The young man struggled to breathe. Each breath seemed to hurt, but there was relief too. Someone asked. Someone there would know his name, after all.

  "Fff..." he stopped to pull in some air. "Fernando."

  Inácio was without action at first. For some time, the smell of gunpowder and blood disappeared, giving way to the ghost of an old pain. Grief is like a broken bone, which goes back in place but never stops hurting. The veil of the lost son threatened to obstruct his vision, but the detective dispelled it quickly. He buried his nails in his palms, the pain functioning as an anchor in the present.

  It had to be that name. Tragic coincidences serve to reopen wounds.

  "Right, Fernando," Inácio murmured more to himself than to the young man. "I'm going to stop this bleeding."

  He placed the weapon beside him, on the carpeted floor. He tore the sleeve of his own shirt and improvised a band, which he tied around the driver's bloody leg.

  "You just need to stay quiet until..."

  But Fernando wasn't listening anymore. A flash of alert replaced the clouded look. Extracting a last reserve of adrenaline, the young man's hand trembled as it groped on the floor, fingers finding the rough grip of what Inácio had discarded beside him.

  "Hey, hey, calm down..." Inácio tried to hold the hesitant wrist rising, but the young man's skin was slippery and soaked with blood. The contact was useless.

  The weapon's barrel rose, passing close to the internal affairs officer's head, and fired. Inácio recoiled feeling the air displacement.

  The bang echoed through the room, followed by the smell of something scorched.

  Inácio turned back, alarmed. At the top of the stairs, Isaías swayed to one side, then to the other. His body understood before his mind what had happened, falling to his knees and trying in vain to grab the handrail. Soon after, the shooter toppled, limp, with a small red dot beginning to expand on his chest.

  The detective remained motionless. Protecting his nose from the smoke with the back of his hand, he looked at Fernando again.

  The young man had lost consciousness. But his face displayed the pride of mission accomplished, debt paid.

  Inácio passed his hand over the driver's cold, damp forehead.

  "Good one, kid. Good one."

  After leaning Fernando's inert back against the wall, Inácio shouted to the figure of the man standing by the sofa:

  "How is she?"

  "I can't see all the wounds. It's too dark," there was tension in Daros's voice.

  The sound of squad cars appeared faintly, the acute howl of sirens getting closer.

  "Turn on the lights, Daros. It'll help. Help is coming," Inácio tried to sound upbeat.

  "I can't. I didn't have time to hack the system. I had to overload the transformer."

  "Shit. Well, then... Get out of here. The police are coming. Not even I could get you out of this one. What would I say?"

  Daros didn't move an inch. He held Greta's increasingly cold hand. Inácio ran there.

  "Get out of here, Daros. I'll take care of her. Go, damn it! You'll find a way to show up at the hospital later."

  "I can't. She told me to stay away."

  "What the fuck?" panic threatened to take over the detective.

  He'd never seen Daros in that state. His friend seemed not to know what to do. Or, what was worse, not to care what could happen to him.

  "Son..." he began, giving up. The other was beyond any conversation.

  So Inácio tore Daros from the sofa by the arm, pushing him toward the kitchen door, not letting his friend return to the living room when he tried. He shouted they had no more time. Daros stubbornly resisted. A succession of images paraded through his mind in disorder. The feeling that someone was waiting for him, the impression he was about to have a real life. All this was losing its outline. All this was starting to seem impossible again, leaving with Greta.

  He wasn't enough, after all. He'd been just an arrogant idiot who trusted himself too much.

  The shrill sirens buried the words the detective shouted. Inácio saw his friend in shock finally give in and move away to the back of the house, his eyes fixed on the motionless woman.

  Daros assessed the high wall at the back of the house, then the corner of what had once been a barbecue grill. He turned back one last time. Blue and red lights danced across his face, overcome with defeat. Then he took impulse on the brick wall and returned to the darkness he knew so well, empty and hollow once more.