1

  An hour earlier, Daros had parked the HB20 with the windows already closed in front of the rental company in downtown Florianópolis. He adjusted his cap still inside the car, an automatic gesture of precaution. Only then did he descend the access ramp to the underground garage.

  During the vehicle inspection, he maintained a relaxed posture while the employee searched for damage or pending issues. There were no irregularities, and the attendant smiled. Then he offered coffee.

  Daros didn't want it, but accepted anyway. It was advantageous to remain in the large glass-fronted store longer than necessary, discreetly observing the flow of customers entering and leaving. Each additional person in the camera images meant more work for anyone trying to track him later.

  Satisfied with the calculated exposure time, he adjusted his backpack and left on foot toward the bus station, a few blocks ahead.

  There was something about that city that was quite rare in capitals: even the most hurried people dedicated some time to appreciate the landscape. That's what he was doing now. Of all the central places he passed through, that was where he liked to linger. He did it so frequently that he knew the bus station like a native of the island.

  He went straight to the ticket counters for the south. He bought a ticket to Criciúma, making sure the bus would make numerous stops before reaching the destination. It would take longer, but that was fine. That way he could get off at a point near Imbituba without drawing much attention. He chose a seat number toward the front of the vehicle, from where he could access the door in less time.

  Settled in his seat, he waited for departure while assessing the people on the platform. They traveled in family or friend groups, and there were many couples. The solitary ones fixed their attention on their phones. Perhaps they exchanged farewells or arrival announcements with someone. Waiting scenes weren't new to him.

  After the initial selection for the French Foreign Legion, which didn't reach six months, the selected recruits received letters from family, friends, girlfriends. He wasn't at all surprised to discover no one had written to him. Years later, when the German platoon colleagues opened correspondence, someone thought it was a good idea to give Daros the letter that had arrived for a dead soldier. It wasn't to make a joke or anything like that: it was just that no one knew what to do with the envelope.

  Daros had kept the letter like a treasure, not letting the paper get wet or crumpled over the following months. He finally received discharge from the German army in spring. He dragged his suitcase from the barracks to the first sunny square he found in Berlin. He took the envelope from the side pocket of his luggage and held it with reverence, as if the letter had been written for him.

  He felt again the warm bench under the denim fabric, the wood heated by hours of sun he hadn't had the chance to contemplate for a long time. The paper had softened at the folds, kept against his body for months. His fingers, still trained to disarm or assemble rifles in the dark, hesitated before tearing. The square pulsed around him: a tram creaking on the tracks, a child's laughter, a warm wind bringing the smell of linden. He unfolded the sheets slowly, a modest bundle. The feminine handwriting of a stranger finally taking shape before him, and he began to read as if each word had been meant for him.

  He'd tried to guess the news all that time, but imagination didn't come close to the truth. He read with a tight heart and blurred vision. When he finished, he collapsed against the backrest and sighed, thinking about what to do next. He ran his fingers over the addressee's name: Michael Jones. The ink didn't smudge. Perhaps waiting had the power to preserve things as they are until the time comes to change. He made the decision almost without hesitation: he put the letter back in his pocket, and never stopped carrying the envelope with him.

  The only letter he'd received wasn't even for him. He didn't usually maintain close relationships, and no one depended on him. Until then he'd considered his own isolation a social advantage. Looking at other people's lives through the window, he questioned his own lifestyle for the first time.

  The farewell or reunion hugs were the worst. He had no idea what it was like to be involved in one of them. That's why the sight hurt more.

  Someone had once said that the present is the result of past actions, and the future is determined by present actions. He wasn't doing anything to change his future. The thought bothered him.

  He felt his phone vibrate in his jacket pocket and pulled the device to his lap. It was a WhatsApp message, and it wasn't from Inácio.

  This content has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

  Are you coming?

  The sender's number wasn't in his contacts yet, but he knew who it was, because it could only be one person. He felt unexpected relief and typed the response.

  On my way.

  When he clicked send, the bus started moving, and Daros lost interest in the scenery outside and in distant memories. For the first time in years, he was going to meet someone who wanted to see him arrive.

  2

  Night had already fallen and Pablo fidgeted, restless, inside the black Civic. Something just didn't add up. The woman continued without leaving the motel, and that made no sense. If she'd driven straight from Porto Alegre, he'd understand the fatigue. But that wasn't the case.

  The two nights she'd spent off the radar in Torres bothered him more and more. Where had she stayed? His sources guaranteed she only knew a family of caretakers in the region, but he'd checked the address, you bet. She hadn't looked for that couple. In fact, she hadn't even come close to their house. She also hadn't looked for the family house at the Lagoon. So where had she been?

  And now this. This sudden disappearance at the motel. He'd bet his right arm she wasn't sleeping. Nobody sleeps that much with the adrenaline of escape running through their veins. He thought about taking a look at the station parking lot, seeing if the Creta was still there. But he couldn't risk it. What if she chose exactly that time to leave?

  Doubt has the effect of acid on the human mind. And he needed external help to resolve the conflict. He searched his contacts for the central number and requested access to the station's surveillance system.

  "I want an analysis of the side parking lot camera. It was right in front of the target's SUV," he typed.

  Confirmation came immediately, asking him to wait a moment. Waiting was what he'd done all fucking day, but it wasn't like he had a choice. He didn't know the IT team, but imagined they'd do a quick sweep of the images with AI detection of the woman's features. And that's what happened.

  The report took a bit longer than usual to arrive. It didn't look good. It didn't look good at all. It stated there was no suspicious movement and that the car remained parked there, without occupants. It added that transmission had been interrupted for half an hour around noon, probably due to a technical circuit failure.

  Technical failure my ass. That was sabotage, someone had their finger in it. Someone smart. Someone who was making a fool of him. He punched the car's dashboard to vent his frustration. Already knowing the answer, Pablo made a new request. He asked for remote access to the Vip Motel's registration system. He wanted to know Greta Salles Galvani's status. He waited while the department checked.

  The information that filled the message field simply couldn't be real. Checkout had been automatically processed by the motel at 6 PM. The guest's payment had occurred in cash in the room.

  This couldn't be happening. He turned the key angrily and went around the block just to confirm what he intuitively already knew. There was no way she could have left through any other place, unless she had exceptional wall-climbing skills. Nothing in the target's history suggested that. The woman had left through the only entrance. Left right under his nose. But how?

  He pressed his lips with his closed fist until they hurt. How wasn't the right question. The right question was with whom. Someone was helping that bitch escape.

  He grabbed his phone again, this time selecting the commander's contact.

  TARGET NOT ALONE.

  THERE IS AN ACCOMPLICE.

  AWAITING INSTRUCTIONS.

  He rubbed his forehead while waiting. Again. That day, that mission... everything was too far from over for his taste. He saw the blue marks next to the message indicating the text had been viewed.

  MISSION ON HOLD.

  IDENTIFICATION PROCEDURE

  FOR NEW TARGET INITIATED.

  Good news. At least until the next day he'd stop being the fugitive's babysitter. With luck, a cold beer and a local whore would work very well as anesthesia. Before focusing on that, he sent one last update.

  AWAITING INSTRUCTIONS FOR NEW TARGET.

  The response didn't take long.

  ON HOLD.

  3

  When the bus entered Imbituba, Daros was alert. Observing the passengers' movement, he got off with the largest group of travelers, who disembarked at a large local wholesale supermarket. From there he got a clandestine trip driver. They were people who had cars too simple for app standards. The good side was they didn't keep passenger records. Daros got out of the car in front of a pizzeria, where he went in to get dinner. From there to the cabin facing a lake was a walk of less than a kilometer. The pizza would arrive almost cold, but it was better than nothing.

  The trail leading to the cabin had access delimited by a chain painted green. Daros went around it along the edges so as not to drop the pizza box. The property's lighting was still weak, but increased gradually, as if the house also awakened with his approach. The gate between the walls covered with vines was open, and you could see the Jeep parked in the distance. Opening the door, he found Greta asleep on the sofa. He moved in silence so as not to interrupt the woman's sleep.

  Part of him preferred she was awake. It would be good to hear her voice. But it was better to stop with that sentimentalism. He didn't need distractions.

  He returned to the gate armed with the keys he'd grabbed from the counter where he left the pizza. He closed the padlock, turned off the yard lights, and locked the house. He inspected the ground floor to discover where he could sleep. The suite at the back had no sign of her belongings, so he decided to spend the night there.

  He stacked two slices of pizza in his hand before returning to the room with his backpack. Taking one last look at the sleeping woman, he said quietly:

  "Good night, Greta." The farewell was worth a promise.

  She stirred on the sofa, her sleep heavy. Daros liked what he saw in her countenance. It was tranquility. He closed the bedroom door so as not to interrupt such well-deserved rest.