I curse my bad planning and swing the plastic bag into the air, taking a beat to watch it hurtle like a grenade and land on top of a busted wood pallet. It disturbs a nesting rat from beneath folded cardboard boxes. The scurrying rodent draws my gaze to a metal fire escape almost touching the building opposite.
In the dim light, I notice movement further ahead. Silhouettes dressed all in black, holding monster machine guns, their backs flanking graffiti murals. A dog barks in the distance. Its repeated yap is muffled by a sudden loud crack of iron walloping plaster.
The neighboring door flings outward and a ruthless tornado explodes from within, busting the hinges in its wake. A manly figure storms free, arms long by his side, and hands balled.
He dodges a puddle. “Fuck!” the man snarls, his tone so harsh it could singe skin with flames. “I’ll fucking kill that boy one of these days.”
I freeze, caught out in the open with nowhere to hide other than a shallow doorway. I’m just about to hightail it away from the stranger preparing for a war I want no part in when an ear-splitting crack stops him in his tracks. His body soars backward, the force of gunfire hitting him like a raging bull. He lands on the ground with an almighty thud.
I press my spine into the wall, blinking, swallowing, and disoriented by the sight of his convulsing body. He’s been shot right in front of me.
The sound of retaliating gunfire from the street echoes like fireworks. The men who guarded the doorway are now on the ground, either dead or injured. I’m alone with the angry man who’s grappling with his throat.
It’s unknown to me why I still possess empathy, how it wasn’t completely obliterated by bullies. Nevertheless, I’m drawn to him. It’s in my psyche to help the weak and injured. Having been there before myself, I feel it’s my moral obligation.
I land with a crash by his side, my bare knees splashing in a shallow puddle. Hot blood spews like a burst dam from his neck, the flowing fluid draining beneath him. Under the silvery sheen of moonlight, I meet a rain-soaked face and the whites of eyes belonging to a man I had prayed I’d never meet again.
Elias Souza.
Murderer.
Father of my single-minded obsession.
It’s chaos behind us. Men are firing in every direction with innocent people screaming amidst a street siege. The ticking hands of time speed up as Elias’ blood drains.
The hostility fades as I study the Colombian drug lord, a simple man… not a god, vulnerable and dying in a grim alleyway—and I should let him. I should run away and keep going until I reach Manaus.
Confused by my rash decision, I quickly press down on the leaking artery and apply pressure. He’s Tomás’ father, after all. Even if helping him sends a sickly shiver of fear down my spine at the thought of what he had wanted to do to me, I owe Tomás.
The hairs on my scalp prickle when a bloodthirsty roar steals my attention away from the fragile life slipping through my fingers. I look up to the silvery sheen washing the wet cobbles and witness another man pounding stone with designer shoes. His son. My nemesis, Tomás Souza.
His ebony suit jacket flaps open as he runs, midnight satin catching the moonlight. The crisp white shirt close to his torso is almost opaque from lashing rain, the downpour now heavier as warfare unfolds.
“Papá!” he yells, his deep voice menacing like the god of the war, ready to extinguish the city. “Get the fuck away from him.”
I suck in sharply, lost in the swell of horror his violent storm exudes. Without hesitation, I scurry into the adjacent doorway, my hands covered in Elias’ blood. When he slams to his knees and bows over his father, I almost cry out. My heart hammers against my lungs, so they burn with every quick breath.
A horde of daring droplets caress his cheeks and roll from his pointed nose. They plunge into the bloody horror where his hands smother the bullet hole. For a second, his fierce expression morphs to childlike. Searching fingers slip and slide until the movement turns slow, almost frozen. Powerful shoulders rise and fall with every lungful of air he sucks in through clenched teeth.
“Papá… Christ.” He arches over his father, listening to the rattle of a man choking on his own life source. They both know Elias will meet his maker tonight. “You should have stayed at home, Papá.” His voice strains, the hoarse tone hinting a sorrow so bleak it could shatter any second.
Elias retches and convulses—powerless to communicate, his suffering gravely ugly. As if the moon decides to hide, a sinister veil blankets the narrow alley. There’s a hiccup of stillness where Tomás freezes. It’s a heart-stopping beat of paralysis. His thick lashes are set like daggers and his limbs are cast in concrete. The untamed hunter has been snared in his own trap.
I huddle on my haunches and watch a sudden insurgence of oxygen fill his lungs. Barely visible tremors in his gory hands eerily cease. He slams the heel of his palm into his temple and growls low in his throat. The predatory sound is so evil it makes my skin ice over, ready to shatter under the weight of vengeance. His stillness of mind erodes, leaving only glacial control.
Methodically, he wipes his hands down his thighs, then removes the ruby red ring on Elias’ finger. Tomás unfurls from his kneeling position, straightens, rolls out his shoulders, and pulls a golden revolver from under his jacket. In silence, he aims at his father’s forehead.
Fear makes me quake. He looks demonic, like every scrap of humanity has drowned in a slick oily pool, covering his character with an evil residue.
“Love is death, Papá. Tell Angelo I miss him.” And then, without hesitation, he snaps the trigger.
I crumble within, thoughtlessly padding my lip and holding a breath to catch the terrified scream I’d be foolish to let escape. Machine gunfire from the street beyond is constant. The galloping pulse inside my skull thunders like the hooves of the four apocalyptic horsemen are nearby. I squeeze my eyes shut and wish for the pandemonium to fade. For the darkness surrounding us to swallow me whole, so I’m hidden from him.
My inner chant prays the fatal calmness of his next move would blur my presence.
I’m a mess. Disheveled, wet tendrils are stuck to my face. The stain of death pastes my trembling hands, blending with tears when I wipe at my eyes.
It's too much.