1

  "Have a good trip?" asked Pablo, assessing Greta with clinical eyes. The professor didn't seem so full of herself now, with one eye that barely opened and a split lip. Anyone who saw that fragile, downcast little thing would hardly say she could give so much headache.

  The hostage remained silent, showing little or no interest in his figure. Pablo shot a surprised look at the driver.

  "Interesting. I hope my friend didn't cut out your tongue. The dean is eager to talk to the lady."

  Lowering his voice, Pablo informed the young man:

  "You’re free to leave. I'll settle the service later."

  Greta was pushed into the kitchen, where a second man grabbed her arm. This one was very serious, and she thanked God for his lack of desire to say anything. She was led to her husband's office, which was on the second floor.

  The driver hesitated. He opened and closed his mouth, rehearsing what to say, before addressing Pablo:

  "I want to help however I can. I'll go with them."

  Pablo shrugged. If the boy wanted to show initiative, he wouldn't get in the way. If he wanted to earn an extra penny for it, better wait sitting down. He waited for the three to move away before focusing on Isaías, standing with his arms crossed in the dimness. The man seemed to have materialized there, a spirit summoned from the depths of hell.

  "Very well, Mr. Shooter. You'll receive a Pix transfer later regarding your valuable services. Including the takedown at the cabin. Impressive."

  Pablo pretended to clap, but his hands emitted no sound.

  "I see. Did they find out who that guy was?" Isaías needed to know.

  "Oh, yeah. That. A cop from the region. Pretty mediocre résumé. Apparently decided to play hero at the end of his life to compensate for a shitty career." Pablo yawned.

  To Isaías, the account didn't add up. It explained the movement of squad cars on the road, sure. But it didn't explain the guy's skills. No way. And it made even less sense that the guy's record was, in fact, mediocre. Anyway, it wasn't his problem anymore. Nor would the guy be anyone else's problem. Never again.

  Pablo commented that the client was satisfied with his performance and promised a generous extra amount for the inconvenience, for the frequent plan changes and everything else. Isaías was, therefore, free to leave. Pablo added:

  "I'd be very grateful if you left discreetly through the garage. One of the guards will open the gate. It's not good to make much noise, you know how it is. There's already quite a bit of movement here, there's no reason to attract even more attention."

  Isaías gestured in agreement and said goodbye with a slight nod of his head.

  2

  Valério's office had the air of a library, with bookshelves covering the distance from floor to ceiling and wine-colored leather armchairs. Behind the oak desk, the older man stood up when she entered. Donaldo Santana de Castro, the university's dean, had a much older and more tired air than she remembered. His physiognomy, normally austere and noble, had finally bowed to the weight of years, with creases sinking into the yellowed skin here and there.

  "Professor Greta," he greeted, in a clear effort to compose himself and smile. "What a regrettable situation. I'm very sorry we've involved you in men's business."

  The torpor in which she was immersed gave way to the dean's absurd description of the affairs in which he was involved with Valério. Men's business.

  Nothing that came out of the mouth of a creature as sordid as that should be a surprise. Still, it was shocking to realize how incapable the dean was of perceiving the brutality of his acts.

  "I've always liked you, Greta. Truly. You're a young, talented, dedicated woman. You've always been admirable. I understand you're confused and frightened," Donaldo continued. "But believe me, all this is for your own good."

  "My good?"

  The question came out as a weak, drowned laugh. Greta felt her lips pull back, rehearsing a growl. A red wave of hatred began to swell in her chest, ready to turn the world upside down. Donaldo's words were as honest as a bank's recorded message, robotically stating that "your call is very important to us."

  "Your henchman beat me," she said, the volume rising a note, firm. "I'm almost getting used to violence. I understand. It's the only language people like you know how to use."

  She paused, swallowing the knot of anger and revolt and fear that threatened to lock her throat. It was hard to draw air.

  "But... how? How can you claim my good by ordering the murder of the person I..." her voice failed, not from grief, but something worse: the desperation of articulating the unthinkable.

  She stopped abruptly, choking on words she hadn't said. What kind of person was Daros to her? A protector? A valuable friend? The man she'd fallen in love with? It didn't matter now. The creature before her had no condition whatsoever to recognize the value of someone like Daros.

  For fractions of seconds, the image of Daros balancing packages on a bicycle blinked in her memory, so vivid she had to contain the impulse to reach out to touch. And then the memory was replaced by another. The way he opened just one eye to peek when he was relaxed. But everything was soon replaced by the emptiness of loss.

  "Ordering a murder?" The dean frowned, looking at the door behind the woman, where Pablo had just arrived, standing there quiet as a blank page. "What is she talking about?"

  "A setback," replied the newcomer, making a vague gesture with his hand. "Nothing you need to worry about. It was the cop who was helping her escape."

  Cop? Greta fought an internal battle not to show her shock. Daros was a cop? He'd said something different, something about working with computers, information technology or something like that.

  In fact, though, what did she know about him? That his last name was Fischer, that he had a house in Germany, and that he'd lost his best friend tragically. She'd doubted him once already, and the worst had happened. She decided not to doubt again.

  Stolen content alert: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.

  "I was forced to interfere when I learned you'd departed so abruptly," the dean continued, oblivious to Greta's silent battle. "Valério must have been devastated. You're the great love of his life, but I think you already know that."

  "That could never be called love," Greta responded, assuming the monotone when she disconnected. "It would never deserve that name."

  The dean had the decency to feign embarrassment, but soon composed himself.

  "Don't be so harsh. Being a person of books, you surely know that even Nietzsche recognized there's always some dose of madness in love."

  Greta thought about counter-arguing with Goethe's quote, that love doesn't dominate, but cultivates. However, she considered the dark nature of that man and his twisted soul. Debating the notion of love with a figure like that... well, it would be as absurd as playing violin and waiting for applause from a deaf audience.

  "Moments of passion can lead to excesses. I'm sure you two can leave all this behind."

  "Why are you doing this?"

  "Well, I believe in love and the tradition of a lifelong marriage."

  "I'm not talking about that. Why did you bring me back?"

  "Because you took something that doesn't belong to you," Pablo interrupted from behind her. "And because your husband disappeared. And because you, now, know as much as he does."

  The dean shot an irritated look at Pablo before returning his attention to the professor.

  "I'm sorry. My new friend is a primitive man. What he meant is that you took important documents from your husband's safe without realizing it. Confidential university documents. Material that needs to be returned."

  So that was the story: important documents. Greta had no intention whatsoever of confessing she knew the real nature of that package's contents. It would be pulling the trigger of a gun pointed at her own head.

  A heavy silence oppressed the room. Donaldo waited in vain for the woman to speak about the matter.

  "It's a shame our excellent relationship has been tainted by this great misunderstanding," the dean finally said. "Really a shame. On the other hand, I'm an optimistic man. I like to believe we have time to correct any discomfort between us. By the way, your husband should be on his way. For all our sakes, we hope he arrives soon."

  Greta's heart filled with terror as Donaldo left the room in the company of the man who looked like a wicked goblin. The air became denser when she heard Valério's name. So that was it? They expected her to serve as bait?

  Donaldo's idea was absurd. Valério would never appear to rescue her like a knight on a white horse, which meant she was the end of the line. Then she heard footsteps of someone approaching from behind. Half a second later, the door closed with a bang.

  The next sound was even more familiar: that of a key turning. She was locked in there. She didn't find the necessary courage to look back and discover with whom.

  3

  Isaías had just crossed the private garage and almost bumped into the delivery guy passing through. He was a tall guy, wearing a red jacket from the delivery app and a cap of another color. The guy was walking hurriedly toward the door leading to the back of the house.

  "Oops!" said the delivery guy as he dodged. "This is my last delivery, I'm already screwing up. I left my bag in there, can you believe it? Never happened before. Time to go home. Sure thing."

  Isaías said nothing. He continued ahead. He should be feeling better now that he'd completed the job. But upon entering the more spacious area of the garage, the feeling that something was wrong crashed over him.

  He took his phone from his pocket and saw the notification on the screen. His payment had already been made. The premonition had nothing to do with that. Money was a bonus in that type of work, not his objective. The hairs on his arm had started standing up when he saw the delivery guy's red jacket. The flashy uniform was becoming the standard for those who delivered food, nothing unusual there. So why had the sight triggered an alert in his head?

  The mission was complete, he just had to get out of there. The burly guard observed him fixedly upon noticing his approach. The granite block in human form wore a gray blazer, the clothing struggling to keep its seams intact. The warm, yellowish light coming from the garage ceiling didn't favor the man's drooping bulldog cheeks.

  "Hi. Just a minute. Verification."

  He kept his gaze fixed on Isaías while his other hand, large with chubby fingers, pressed the transmitter button. Through the radio, he investigated:

  "Release of visitor 1, confirm?"

  And waited for the response.

  4

  On the stairs, the pace of descent was dictated by the older man, with slow, cautious steps. Pablo maintained a delay of a few steps, one shoulder almost brushing the wall from time to time. He fought the impulse to drum on the handrail or fidget with the keys at his waist to dissipate anxiety.

  It was the cop who broke the silence. The whisper emerged from the landing's shadows.

  "And what are the next steps?"

  Donaldo didn't rush the answer. He stopped in the middle of the stairway, the tall, angular silhouette highlighted by the weak light coming from downstairs. He took the opportunity to catch his breath. The day had demanded much greater physical efforts from his old body. He sniffed the air in search of traces of the new plan. The aquiline profile, the graying eyebrows, and the impeccably erect posture gave the man the air of an aristocrat evaluating his domains, even in that cramped space.

  "Well," he began, the grave, firm voice filling the stairway's void. "I truly believe in love. I want to believe Valério will find the balls and come save his beloved wife."

  The dean's hard gaze fixed on a point on the wall, as if the future were being projected there. He concluded the thought:

  "But with each passing minute, I'm more certain that won't happen. Valério has always been a coward. So I'm leaving."

  "And after you leave?" asked Pablo, his chubby fingers going out of control and drumming on the handrail.

  Donaldo resumed his descent, speaking over his shoulder, unconcerned:

  "Kill the professor. But without hurry. Be creative. Film everything."

  At the last curve of the stairs, he stopped and turned slightly. The kitchen light, now closer, illuminated half of his thin lips, creating a light and shadow effect. His dark eyes gleamed when he continued.

  "When love fails, fear convinces. Let's see if Valério continues playing hide-and-seek after hearing her first scream. Send it to the professor's phone."

  Pablo nodded, sweat from his nape dripping down his shirt collar. His hands, always in motion, clamored for an escape for the contained energy.

  "Right. I'll send it as a temporary message. Then the evidence deletes itself. And after?"

  "Well..." Donaldo concluded the descent and began crossing the room, giving space for Pablo to descend the last steps. The dean continued walking to reach the kitchen, his long hands with marked veins crossed behind his back. "He won't turn himself in, but he'll come out of wherever he is."

  The two entered the kitchen. Pablo soon leaned against the counter and crossed his arms in front of his chest, observing two technicians from Commander Brito's team working on laptops at the long dining table. The busy environment contrasted with the dean's tranquility. The noise of the keys was incessant, with bluish light coming from the screens and the smell of old coffee.

  Donaldo contemplated the kitchen, a bony index finger brushing his neckline.

  "A team from Commander Brito started working on tracking Valério's phone."

  The dean made a contained gesture with his head, indicating the technicians in front of the computers.

  "We expect the discovery to happen any moment..."

  Finally, he faced the cop. He puffed out his chest, revealing the perfect tie, the impeccable jacket. His figure exuded absolute authority even in the ordinary scenario.

  "When the rat leaves its hiding place, it's his turn to die. And this one deserves to suffer even more."

  He paused. Not to search for words, but to process the anger he felt. He interlaced his fingers forcefully before explaining.

  "I've lost many nights of sleep because of this petty traitor. It's not even a matter of revenge, but of guarantee. I refuse to lose more time, which is even more valuable to me, with a crawling creature like this."

  It was true. Instead of being content with the generous amounts he received, Valério had never stopped. One day he wanted a new position. The next, more power in the department. Then, more influence in the entire university. When Donaldo decided to put a stop to it, the professor disappeared, taking what he could—a petty withdrawal, unworthy even of the betrayal he'd committed.

  The dean just didn't expect, however, that the greedy blackmailer would use his wife as a shield. Even from cowards one expected at least a bit of decency. A pity. Greta didn't deserve any of this.

  Deserving, however, was an abstract concept, a hope nurtured only by the most simple-minded souls. Fate never took deserving into consideration. It was like a plane falling, indifferent to the virtue or vice of its occupants. Deserving didn't count for good or bad.