Within the hour, Carlos had been informed, calls were made, and the four of them were boarding a plane bound for Curitiba.

Alice. Alice. Alice. Clayton mentally repeated her name for the hundredth time, like a mantra. He was restless, his knee bouncing against the leather seat, hands gripping the armrests with a tension that made his knuckles white. He wanted—no, needed—a cigarette. Anxiety mixed with anger surged through his veins, an unbearable cocktail of emotions threatening to spill over. To steady himself, he began making a mental list.

One: Alice, his green-eyed nymph, was everything—the love of his life, eclipsing anyone who came before her.
Two: This was his last open season before retirement. The hunt had to count.
And Three: Philip had royally screwed up. Time was up for Philip. For the first time, Clayton had a reason to kill him—and he welcomed it. The hunt was on.

Clayton shifted uncomfortably as a flight attendant passed by. Beneath his shirt, he now wore a bulletproof vest—a precaution that made sense but stirred memories of his military years. Oddly, it steadied him, the vest's presence restoring a faint sense of structure amid the chaos.

He traced the turquoise stone on his pinky ring with his thumb, the cool surface grounding him. It was a piece of Alice, and he clung to it like a lifeline. Her sage-green eyes hovered in his mind—stunning, unusual, and brimming with kindness. He imagined her smile, so genuine, so loving, and for a fleeting moment, his breathing calmed.

"Clayton?" Claudia's voice pulled him back to reality, her face projected on the video screen as all eyes turned to him. He softened slightly, her debriefing evoking a sense of the old days. He never really listened back then—but now, her words held weight.

"The plan is in place," Claudia said. Her office in Washington was visible behind her, a government seal framed above her shoulder. "Don Luis has agreed to help. Frankly, Curitiba might just be the safest place in the world with him involved. You could drop a million reals in the central square, and no one would touch it."

Clayton's subconscious grunted in wary approval. Claudia continued, her tone sharper. "Alice will get the best medical care possible when we retrieve her. Thermo imaging confirms she's still in the compound with Philip and three others. Arrest warrants are ready."

All the air seemed to leave Clayton's lungs when Claudia hesitated. "Clayton, are you okay?"

His grip on the armrest tightened, but he swallowed the wave of panic threatening to take hold. Burn the whole city down if that's what it takes, he thought grimly. All he could do was nod. Quick and straight to the point.

"Ruth?" Claudia addressed his cousin seated beside him, legs crossed, her nervous energy unmistakable. "I'm sorry he did this to you. Philip's time is up."

Ruth flinched, but she held her composure. Years of abuse had etched fear into her, but now something shifted. She was letting him go—finally letting Philip go.

"Let him go, Ruth," Claudia urged softly, her voice breaking through years of accumulated silence.

Clayton saw Ruth's resolve harden. Philip had done a number on her, and yet here she was, reclaiming her strength.

Fucking daffodil, Clayton's subconscious growled.

The screen blinked to black, and for the first time in hours, Clayton shut his eyes, letting exhaustion pull him into a restless sleep.

*****

The compound loomed ahead, its concrete walls sturdy and imposing, with only one road in and out. Guard-post. Electric gates. Barbed wire. Clayton remembered the place from his early days—the shadowed corridors where he worked for Carlos, slipping the whores and even his own sisters past his suspicion. Time had overtaken it, though; trees and wild pigs claimed the land now, turning it into a rusted jungle

"Alright, let's move," Don Luis commanded, flanked by his loyal men. Clayton stood silently beside him, Ruth at his other side—arms crossed, her expression unreadable. Dusk painted the horizon in muted amber while the shrill chorus of crickets sang their songs.

Don Luis turned toward the group. "I want Senhorita Alison alive. No harm comes to her. Clayton would insist on that, I think. He's pretty protective. But the rest—no survivors."

Clayton caught a shift in the air as some men glanced nervously at each other, betraying their unease.

"Antonella, Leya," Luis barked at two women perched by their battered dirt bike. "Go ahead. Play with the guards. Distract them—then take them out. No mercy. Watch their movements as the rest of us roll in."

The women, thin and worn by their years, stood up. Their dirty clothes hung on them awkwardly. The dirt bike roared to life, its shrill rumble splitting the night as they causally disappeared down the country road toward the compound.

Clayton's world always slowed before moments like this. He felt it—the strange, hollow quiet just before a storm's fury unfolded.

"Clayton," Daniel called out, folding his arms. "You ready?"

"Always," Clayton replied, climbing into the truck beside Luis.

The truck idled a few miles out. Clayton gripped the handlebar tightly, his knuckles pale against the fading light. Then came the crack of a gunshot—familiar, yet always sharp. A second echoed, then three, four, five. The night exploded into motion.

"Vamos!" Luis shouted, slamming his foot on the gas. The truck's engine growled as it lurched forward, and Clayton braced himself for the chaos ahead.

The convoy rolled forward, Don Luis's vehicle leading, its wheels grinding over the lifeless forms of the guards sprawled across the road. Beside him, Clayton sat rigid, his gaze fixed ahead, refusing to acknowledge the muted thuds beneath the tires. The car trembled slightly with each bump, but he didn't flinch—his focus was razor-sharp, his silence carved from something far darker.

In the faint glow of the rearview mirror, his reflection startled him. His face staring back was gaunt, bruised, and weathered by desperation—a man barely hanging on. It wasn't a face he wanted to claim as his own. But beyond the exhaustion, in his eyes burned a quiet, feral resolve. He didn't care how broken he looked. Alice was out there, and no matter how many miles of danger lay ahead, he would claw his way to her if he had to. This wasn't fear; it was survival sharpened into a weapon.

***

As they arrived, an eerie silence cloaked the compound, thick enough to smother even a whisper. Clayton tightened his vest as he stepped out of the car. He glanced at the others, their grim expressions mirroring his own unease. He didn't trust the quiet; it felt like Philip was waiting, somewhere just beyond the shadows.

The four of them moved through the iron gates, heavy as if dragging the weight of the dead. Clayton's boots crunched against blood-streaked pavement as the macabre scene unfolded: men clawing at each other in savage brawls, the futile cries for mercy snuffed out one by one. Public executions stood as grotesque monuments to power, while shattered buildings bore witness to the chaos.

He didn't have to lift a finger; others did the dirty work for him. For once, he welcomed the distance, though his trembling hands betrayed him. He hid them as best as he could, clenching and unclenching his fists in a futile attempt to regain control.

Looters rifled through the corpses of the fallen, adding layers of grotesque absurdity to the carnage. The Don had been waiting for an excuse to crush Carlos for years, and this was all-out war. Clayton tried to convince himself he should be grateful Luis had chosen the right side. Yet the dissonance between gratitude and revulsion gnawed at him as his eyes wandered skyward, searching for clarity he wouldn't find there.

Then he saw her.

Helena, suspended from a steel beam in the courtyard. Her mutilated face was both unrecognizable and unmistakable, and the sign around her neck screamed louder than the chaos around him:

T R A I T O R O U S    W H O R E.

—Philip's handwriting, scrawled with calculated malice.

Guilt churned in his stomach. Rage followed, then sadness, then a strange hollowness. She wasn't a bad person, so calm and playful. Desperate, from a poor Brazilian family. She was easily manipulated by him and didn't deserve it.

"Cut her down," Daniel's voice cut through the din like the snap of a whip. "No one touches her. She needs to be returned to her family in Taubaté"

Clayton's throat tightened as he backed away, scanning the courtyard through the haze of smoke and screams. The exits were barricaded with burnt-out cars, their skeletal frames warning him that escape wouldn't come easily.

It can't be that simple, the thought whispered through him like a specter. He answered himself aloud, "It's not," his voice catching Ruth and Daniel's attention.

Moving quickly, they navigated the compound, following the intricate network of pipes Clayton knew all too well. The stench of mildew clung to the air, mingling with the tang of blood and fear.

"Alison!" Clayton's voice cracked, raw and desperate. They found her submerged in a steel tub, water lapping just below her nostrils. Her hands were bound, and her body was eerily still.

Philip, Vanessa, Martha—none of them were in sight. But Clayton could feel their presence like a weight pressing down on his chest.

He lunged forward, plunging his hands into the icy, bloody swirled water to pull her free. She was limp in his arms as he staggered back, collapsing onto the concrete. Tearing the duct tape from her mouth, he swept the soaked strands of hair from her face.

"Babe?" His voice was barely a whisper. "Alison. Breathe. Please. Allie!" He shook her gently, panic clawing at his composure.

Her eyelids fluttered as Ruth knelt beside them, fashioning a makeshift pillow from her jacket. Sam and Daniel standing by, guarding. Clayton's voice broke again. "Ruth—what's wrong? Is she okay?"

Alice's hands were torn and bloodied, her fingernails cracked and ripped away. Her pale skin seemed almost translucent, with dark veins branching like black ink beneath the surface. Her emerald eyes were hauntingly vibrant, fixed on something beyond him.

For what felt like an eternity, she didn't move. And then, finally, her head tilted toward him, and she whispered, hoarse but with unmistakable defiance, "What took you so long?"

Laughter bursted around the room—even Ruth cracked a smile.

"He's... still here," Alice panicked, gaining the attention of all four eyes. Then two shadows appeared in the doorway, and boots echoed against the concrete. Clayton straighten, squaring his shoulders.

The storm wasn't over, but he was ready to face it.