1

  He'd counted twelve armed men. But Daros no longer saw numbers.

  The world lost its contours and gained pressure points: the half-open door, the vase on the left, the reflection in the broken glass. Daros saw prey.

  He grabbed a bulky stone from the flowerbed beside the house and advanced with it in his hands toward the back door. He thought about peeking through the veranda, but soon discarded the stupid idea.

  He remembered what had hurt most in what Greta had said before sending him away. She'd asked if he would hit her, implying he was a violent man. He wouldn't hit her, that was a fact, but the accusation that he was a violent person shouldn't have hurt so much.

  He threw the stone through the open door and crouched down. He was violent. Period. And he was about to become even more so.

  The nearest guard raised his revolver, blowing out the glass still clinging to the frames and causing a rain of shards. The man went out into the night air with the weapon before him. Daros advanced in a leap and grabbed the adversary's wrist, feeling not just the arm, but the cold metal of the watch and the tense tendons beneath the skin. He twisted the flesh forcefully until the bone's crack echoed in the night, followed by a howl.

  Without hesitating, he pulled the weapon from the second man who'd approached and fired at his chest.

  The third guard reacted quickly, drawing his pistol, but Daros was already in motion. He rolled on the ground, the acrid smell of gunpowder and damp earth invading his nostrils, and dodged the shot that flew millimeters from his leg. He threw the weapon he was holding at the target's forehead, stunning him long enough to yank the knife from the sheath of one of the fallen guards.

  The blade slid into the sweaty flesh of the third adversary's throat. Hot, viscous blood gushed onto his hand. He raised the body before him, using the warm flesh still in spasms as a shield. He could feel the impact of projectiles from the kitchen tearing through the dead man.

  His breathing stabilized. He was reaching the state of torpor that continuous action awakened in him. And then he advanced, jumping over the steps to enter the house.

  He pulled a heavy wooden chair from the veranda, throwing the furniture at three men coming in his direction. Without wasting time, he crossed the door and entered the kitchen.

  The largest of the adversaries moved to flank him, but Daros spun his body and threw the knife. The blade buried itself in the giant's thigh, who gave in to his own weight with a cry of pain. Supported on one knee, Daros took the weapon from his waist and finished the job on the men trying to get up.

  Then he crouched behind the marble island and waited for the frequency of shots at the front of the house to diminish until stopping completely. He heard two more shots in the living room, followed by hurried, muffled steps. The next targets.

  While waiting, he pulled one of the laptops from the counter onto his lap using the charging cable. The wire disconnected when the device landed in his hands. Daros assessed the device. A browser window showed Valério Galvani's photo. Another had just tracked the professor's phone location. Analyzing the data, he realized the man was closer than everyone imagined.

  2

  Greta and the driver remained crouched before the open window. On the ground floor, another firefight had begun.

  "My friend is here," Greta explained to her new ally.

  "The guy from Santa Catarina?"

  "Yeah."

  A cry of pain downstairs made them both shrink. The driver broke the silence:

  "I thought he'd died."

  "Yeah, me too."

  "Good thing we were wrong." The driver smiled, relieved. "Who is this guy?"

  "He works with IT."

  The young man looked at her, trying to figure out if she was joking. Since he saw no trace of humor in the professor's expression, he let slip:

  "I really doubt that."

  She shrugged.

  Outside, the backyard took shape in the dimness, the pool reflecting the pale glow of an almost starless sky. The fall to the ground floor wasn't deadly, but the impact of a poorly calculated landing could break a good number of bones.

  The driver searched the room for something useful. He grabbed a heavy lamp and checked the cord. The material was resistant, but the porcelain piece itself was fragile. If he attached the lamp somewhere it wouldn't hold his weight.

  The tumult in the hallway scrambled his thoughts. There were fast, determined footsteps from one side to another. And there were the shots. Lots of shots.

  "Listen..." he said. "You'd better stay here. I'll go downstairs to help your friend."

  "I'm going too." Greta grabbed the man's shirt, desperate.

  "No way. You're the guys' target. Stay here. No matter what happens, don't open the door until the dust settles."

  The driver pulled the curtain and wrapped the fabric around his hand. The fabric could shorten the distance to the floor a bit. He sat on the window frame, turned his body and threw his legs out. A piece of plaster came loose and fell, tinkling as it hit the pool's edge. If he fell there, the sound would be much louder.

  He heard the doorknob move. Someone was trying to enter. The writing desk in front of the handle was already starting to give way, being dragged forward. Greta ran there and leaned against the furniture, using her own body as a barrier. She doubted she could hold on much longer.

  With no more time to think, the driver grabbed the parapet and began sliding down to the end of the curtain. The cold concrete made his skin crawl, his legs swinging in the void. His arms trembled with the effort of holding on. One false move and he'd fall from the wrong height, straight onto the solid slab.

  There was a crash when the office door collided with the furniture. The driver took a deep breath and released his hands, diving into the throat of night.

  The wind swallowed all the sounds of the world. Then came the impact, and air fled from his lungs. Everything spun. The shock with the pool's icy water exploded around him, drowning his scream.

  3

  After sending the data on the screen to his own email, Daros didn't think about manuals or procedures. He thought about erasing.

  He grabbed the laptop by the edges, feeling the plastic and aluminum casing give under his fingers' grip, and raised the device in the air. With a concentrated movement, he brought the laptop down against his raised knee.

  The sound was satisfying. The screen cracked, black and silver, but the main structure split in half, exposing the intestine of wires and circuits. The battery emitted a low hiss.

  He stuck his hand in the breach, ignoring the cuts from plastic fragments, and searched by touch. He located what looked like a thick, rigid credit card, held by a single tiny screw. The SSD. He ripped out the piece, twisting until the connectors bent and the board came loose with a crack.

  Without even looking, he threw the laptop's mutilated carcass on the floor and grabbed the second, identical one from the counter. This time, the blow was even more brutal. The device split immediately against his knee, the screen bent backward like a broken neck. He repeated the process, rummaging through the guts with his wounded fingers until finding and ripping out the second SSD, his war prize.

  Now he had two silicon rectangles in his palm, warm and light. The machine's physical memory. The evidence.

  He looked around. Fire? Too slow. Water? Insufficient. He faced the kitchen sink, next to the wall through which he'd entered. When he approached with three wide strides, he saw a powerful faucet and, more importantly, a garbage disposal built in under the drain.

  Without hesitating, he opened the faucet to maximum. Water gushed, strong and cold. Then he turned on the disposal. The electric monster under the sink awoke and roared, the metal blades emitting a discreet hum.

  He threw the first SSD into the water whirlpool.

  The first disappeared down the drain. The sound went from a liquid hum to a metallic screech, a short, violent cacophony of circuits being ground, silicon pulverized, alloys disintegrated. A fleeting smell of ozone and burned plastic rose from the drain.

  He repeated the process with the second. Another wave of destructive sounds, followed by the clean hum of the disposal running empty, occupied only by water and air.

  Daros turned off the machine and faucet, hearing water dripping on metal for an instant. In the sink, only a flow of dirty water remained, carrying iridescent, microscopic dust, the digital powder of what had once been memory. Impossible to recover. Impossible to read.

  He dried his hands on his pants, cleaning blood, water, and war dust. He raised his wrist to rub his sweaty face on his shirt. It was done.

  This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

  4

  Inácio advanced along the sidewalk, keeping crouched behind parked cars. He held the Glock in his right hand, the cold metal contrasting with the sweat running down his fingers. Each shadow was an observation point; each streetlight, an obstacle to be circumvented.

  He stopped behind a dark SUV and studied the house. The ground floor windows displayed occasional movement—figures moving hurriedly. He counted at least three different surveillance points. A professional organization, or almost. He knew Daros was somewhere in the back, probably already inside the residence.

  The plan was simple: wait for reinforcements, surround the house, negotiate surrender. Cautious. Safe. A hymn to protocols.

  The first shots echoed from behind the property. Inácio gritted his teeth, and the plan went tobogganing to hell.

  He left the vehicle's protection and ran toward the garage entrance, his body slightly bent. Adrenaline ran through his veins, awakening reflexes he thought forgotten. His knees protested: he was no longer twenty years old for at least... well, forty years. But his legs responded. That was enough.

  He reached the automatic gate. His heart was pounding. He didn't hesitate. He raised his right leg and delivered a precise kick to the lock. The metal structure burst open with a crash that echoed through the garage. Without waiting to see the result, he dove to the side, pressing his back against the wall.

  He took a deep breath and shouted, his voice competing with occasional shots fired from the back:

  "This is Inácio Mancini, Civil Police Internal Affairs!"

  He paused, letting the weight of the words settle. Then he continued, raising his voice even more:

  "Game over! There are squad cars on the way. There'll be a helicopter in the air. Everyone's going to be surrounded!"

  A burst of shots from who knows where made plaster pieces rain on his head. Inácio shrank, but held his position. He waited for silence and shouted again:

  "There's still time! I know some of you are cops. I haven't seen any faces yet, I haven't identified anyone. Anyone from the force comes out the front door now. Drop your weapon and come out with your hands up. I won't do anything to stop you. I won't even look."

  Dead silence. Only the echo of the confrontation in the back.

  "I just want the woman alive..." Inácio shouted. "Enough blood."

  He heard voices whispering in the side yard. A quick discussion. Then footsteps approached the main entrance.

  The first man appeared in the threshold, hands raised, face tense. Young, private security uniform. He wasn't a cop. Then three more came, all placing their weapons at their waist and walking toward the gate with their hands up.

  "Good choice!" Inácio shouted to the four men crossing the front garden.

  The next shot came from a side window.

  The projectile passed so close to his ear he felt the air displacement. Inácio threw himself to the ground, rolled, and fired three times toward the window. The wood split in a rain of splinters mixed with glass.

  He crawled to the protection of a concrete column and reloaded his weapon. His ears were ringing, but he could hear the sounds of the battle continuing at the back of the house. Daros was still alive. After all, the party showed no signs of ending.

  Inácio peeked around the edge of the column. The house was quieter at the front, but he knew there was still movement inside. Those who stayed were the real danger. Pablo, for example. People who had nothing left to lose.

  He checked the weapon's magazine, the boxes in his pocket. He still had enough ammunition.

  He advanced toward the side door.

  5

  Crouched behind the sofa, Pablo followed the symphony of shots to map the chaos trail. An intruder had arrived from the back and was attacking his men in the kitchen. In the garage, another intruder's weapon was triggered, and more bodies fell to the floor. He was just one. He'd have to choose which one to shoot down.

  The commander was dead weight. He just pounded on the office door like an idiot. The professor was the least of their problems now. So he bet that shit just wanted to hide and save his own skin.

  The screams indicated the attack that had started first, there in the kitchen, was much more brutal. Better, then, to bring down the garage intruder as soon as he appeared in the living room.

  He heard the stranger identify himself. Inácio Mancini. Shit. It was always that shitty detective sticking his nose where he wasn't called. The old bastard's reign would end today.

  Crouched, Pablo began moving behind the wall that separated the two rooms. There he waited.

  In the midst of chaos, he lost sight of Isaías.

  6

  Brito remained crouched in the middle of the stairs, trying to decipher recent events. The voice that had shouted downstairs was muffled by the chaos installed in the kitchen, but the tone of authority was unmistakable. Cop. And from the way he spoke, someone of high rank.

  Internal Affairs? Had he heard right?

  The word echoed in his head like a death sentence. If internal affairs was involved, the situation had completely spiraled out of control. It was no longer just any dirty job, but an operation that had drawn the attention of internal control agencies.

  Leaning on the handrail, he watched four of his men march across the veranda toward the main entrance, hands raised in surrender. He recognized the faces: they were the newest on the team, those who weren't yet buried in mud up to their necks. Lucky guys.

  The crash of broken wood came from the front of the house, followed by more shots. Whoever it was, was coming to bring everything down. Literally.

  Brito descended a few more steps, trying to get a better view of the living room. Someone was committed to destroying the kitchen. Pablo had camouflaged himself somewhere on the ground floor, probably trying to figure out who to attack first.

  Four men less just at the front. Judging by the shouting, a dead layer in the back. A shooter inside the house. At least one officer on duty at the entrance. And he was stuck in the middle of all that, not knowing how many others might be surrounding the property.

  He needed to make a decision. Fast.

  He descended the rest of the steps, stepping carefully to avoid making noise. A whirlwind might as well have passed through there: overturned furniture, glass scattered on the floor, bullet marks on the walls. Two men were rehearsing their exit to the side door.

  If they really were surrounded, staying there was suicide. But going out the front meant surrendering, and Brito knew very well his record with internal affairs wasn't clean. He had too much blood on his hands to simply raise his arms and expect clemency.

  Going out the back wasn't an option. Too risky. The shots had stopped in the kitchen, but there was something worse. Sounds of things being violently broken.

  Maybe... maybe he still had a card up his sleeve.

  The professor.

  If he could get to her before Pablo, there might still be a chance. He could use her as bargaining chip. Internal affairs wouldn't risk an innocent civilian's life. At least, that's what he hoped. On the other hand, Pablo would shoot the woman as soon as he saw her.

  But what about him? Did he want to worsen his image even more before the officers on duty?

  Brito looked at the top of the stairs, then at the front door, where moonlight entered. He made his decision and began descending, one step at a time, the weapon slipping in his sweaty hand.

  7

  The impact on the icy water was more painful than the driver had imagined. He emerged gasping, spitting chlorine and struggling to orient himself. His soaked clothes weighed like lead, sticking to his skin like a layer of ice. His teeth chattered uncontrollably.

  He ignored the cold that reached his bones and swam to the nearest edge. He rose from the water in an awkward movement, tense muscles protesting against the temperature shock. Each step he took left a dark puddle on the stone floor.

  That's when he saw the first body.

  The man was lying face down near the back door, a pistol beside his outstretched hand. Dark blood formed a halo around his head. The driver approached slowly, his eyes scanning the area for movement. He shook his head to get rid of the water dripping from his hair and crouched down.

  The weapon was a Taurus PT 92. Ready. Loaded. He checked the magazine, which was heavy, almost full. Fifteen shots left? No, eleven or twelve, if he had to bet. His wet fingers slipped a bit on the metal, but he finally managed to firm his grip.

  The sound of fighting came from inside the house. Someone was moving with lethal speed, disarming resistance effortlessly. They were no longer desperate shots or blind bursts. It was professional work.

  The driver approached the back door with cautious steps, pressing his back against the wall. He peeked through the frame and saw the devastation: broken dishes, at least three bodies scattered, glass fragments and blood stains on the ceramic floor.

  And there was a man standing in the hurricane's center.

  Tall, confident. He held a pistol with the naturalness of someone born with a gun glued to his hand. His cold gaze swept the place, calculating angles, identifying threats. It was him. Greta's protector. The IT technician or something like that.

  IT technician, right. It was easier to believe in the Easter Bunny.

  The driver took another step toward the door.

  Without being altered, without any indication he'd detected his presence, the man spun his body with agility and pointed the weapon directly at the driver's head.

  The eyes that stared at him had no emotion whatsoever. They were predator's eyes.

  The driver quickly raised the weapon he was holding, pointing it at the ceiling, and raised his left hand palm up asking for calm.

  "Who are you?" The other's voice was solid, unwavering.

  "A friend of the professor's," the driver answered, trying not to stutter.

  The man studied him for a long moment. The weapon's barrel remained steady, pointed at the newcomer's face. Then, slowly, his shoulder muscles relaxed.

  "Well, 'friend,'" the word came out dryly. "Provide cover for the officer in the garage. His name is Inácio Mancini. I'm going to invade the living room."

  Without waiting for an answer, the IT guy moved toward the door ahead, disappearing into the shadows as if he'd never been there.

  8

  Isaías stopped by the door leading to the garage, pressing his face into the gap between the frame and the wood. He could see practically the entire extension of the space: two concrete columns, an imported car parked in the center, bare walls.

  And two men on opposite sides of a war.

  Airton, one of Pablo's most experienced guards, was entrenched behind the right column. His companion lay ahead, shot down. The rifle in Airton's hands moved with precision, looking for a clean angle for the shot. On the other side, crouched on the floor, his back against the concrete, was the guy who'd appeared uninvited.

  This Inácio guy seemed exhausted. He was breathing heavily, sweat running down his face, but his hand still firm on the weapon. He had blood on his shirt—a superficial wound, from what Isaías could see. Nothing that would take him out of combat.

  Airton adjusted his aim, the rifle barrel finding the target. The detective was cornered, with no angle to dodge. It would be a clean, accurate shot.

  Isaías smiled. At least one of the intruders would be eliminated now.

  The bang came from the back of the house.

  Airton's head transformed into a red cloud, blood and bone fragments spreading across the wall beside him. The body collapsed like a sack of potatoes, the rifle sliding against the concrete floor.

  "What the fuck...?" Isaías murmured, narrowing his eyes to identify the shooter.

  A figure emerged from the shadows, the weapon still smoking in hand. Wet hair, soaked clothes stuck to the body. It was the driver. That cowardly son of a bitch who'd abandoned his post.

  "I'm an ally, Mancini!" The traitor shouted toward the detective. "Don't shoot!"

  Isaías felt rage darken his vision. The idiot had turned coat. Probably bought by the internal affairs officer, or maybe had always been an infiltrator. It didn't matter. What mattered was now there were two enemies in the garage.

  His first instinct was to raise his weapon and blow that pig's head off right there. But then he had a better idea. A smile tugged at his lips. Why kill one when you could kill more?

  He waited for the driver to approach the door, making no noise. The young man walked cautiously toward the detective, who had started to stand up, without abandoning the cement shelter. When the man passed exactly in front of the entrance, Isaías acted.

  He opened the door in a brusque movement and his arm shot forward like a snake striking. His fingers closed around the traitor's throat, pulling him violently into the room. The man tried to resist, but the element of surprise worked in Isaías's favor.

  In a second, he was dragging the traitor with the pistol barrel pressed against his temple.

  "Look who decided to show up... A cockroach," Isaías shouted toward the detective, his voice echoing through the garage. "The game just turned, detective. Drop your weapon."

  The driver tried to move, but Isaías tightened his arm even more around his neck in a chokehold.

  "Breathing is a privilege, traitor. Enjoy it while you can."

  9

  Whoever was in the hallway... disappeared. Out of nowhere. Greta didn't know if this was good, but didn't have much time to think about it.

  She ran to the door and peeked through the gap behind the writing desk. There was no one there. With her back against the furniture, she placed her legs on the nearest wall and pushed.

  She couldn't scream. If she could, she might be able to apply more force. The weight was too great. The writing desk advanced only a few centimeters with each thrust from her.

  She cursed quietly, forcing her shoulders even more while seeking support for her feet. She needed to go down. She needed to fight alongside Inácio. She had to do her part.

  The desk shifted a bit more. Maybe three centimeters. It wasn't much, but it was enough to renew her spirit.