85

Callahan.
The private jet lands in Rotterdam a few hours later. The flight was tense, to say the least, my brother quiet. He knows he did wrong. But I can’t forgive him. Not yet.
Two cars wait for us at the airfield. Antonio, Dante and I climb into one, Antonio sitting in the passenger seat.
“House is in the city. About thirty kilometers from here.”
“You’ve got eyes on it?”
Dante nods. “Only for the last couple of hours though. There are definitely two men inside and a woman.”
“Portia?”
“Not sure yet.”
I shift my gaze out the window.
“We’ll find her, Callahan,” he says.
I watch passing cars as we merge into traffic.
She got Nathan out. I’m glad she got him out. But she should have gone with him. Why didn’t she? Was she waiting for me to return?
“Does she think I’m dead?” I ask. Dante knows I’m talking to my brother.
There’s a long silence. “I told her you were because I thought you were,” he pauses, turns in his seat. I see him in my periphery. “She was upset to hear it.”
I don’t let myself feel anything at that. I can’t. I need to focus now. The stakes are too high for emotion. For weakness.
“And my uncle?” I ask, only turning back to Dante when I’ve schooled my features.
He’s typing something into his phone. Dante has contacts everywhere. And throughout this, I’ve learned that I can trust and rely on him.
“I’m just following up on a lead. He was at the house too, We know that.”
“We need to get Portia back first. I’ll deal with him after.”
The rest of the drive is silent, and I watch the busy streets of the city as the driver weaves his way through dense traffic to a seedier looking part of town.
There are three possible entry and exit points. Front door, side and back door. Downstairs windows are boarded up. The side door leads into an alley. The street itself is fairly busy so we’ll have to keep a low profile. No busting in doors and no gunfire if we can help it. Not on street level at least. We’ve got half a dozen men in place. “Your uncle used the side door to go in and out. We’ll use that one too.”
“I’ll go in first,” Antonio says as the driver parks the car a block away and we climb out. He checks his weapon before tucking it out of sight.
“You’ll stay with me,” I tell him.
“This is my fault. I owe – ”
“You’ll stay with me or you’ll stay in the car.”
“You know I’m not a kid anymore.”
“With me or in the car. Decide.”
“Fine.”
We walk down the street weaving into the crowds. When Dante points out the house, I look up at it, at the dimly lit rooms upstairs, at the attic window. Rain drizzles overhead, steady and cold. Someone moves behind one of the windows, a shadow crossing the room.
I nod to Dante and we move. I catch sight of our men as we near the alley where someone stands taking a piss against the dumpster. He’s humming and when he sees us, he looks up. His smile vanishes instantly. Even stinking of alcohol, he must sense danger. He hurries to put his dick back in his pants and stumbles away.
Once he’s gone, we head in. I take my pistol in hand and make my way to the side door. Maybe being a little less careful than I should but feeling anxious.
If Portia’s in his place, I need to get to her. Get her out.
The door is locked, as expected Dante touches my arm as he twists a silencer onto his weapon before he shoots out the lock. It’s not as silent as I’d like but given the noise in the street, I’m hoping we’ll still have the element of surprise.
I step in first followed by Antonio and Dante. The house must have been split into apartments at some point because the door we just broke in through opens up to a staircase and some storage areas. It’s unused though, cobwebs and junk piled in every corner.
No welcome party. That’s good.
Unless they’re waiting to ambush us upstairs.
I take the lead up the old wooden stairs which creak beneath our boots and hear the sound of a television coming from behind the, closed door. The volume’s turned pretty high. This could be good for us or bad for us, but we won’t know until it’s too late.
Here too, junk and forgotten furniture take up parts of the hallway. Dante slips around me and walks to the second door which stands open. He gives the signal that it’s clear.
I turn to my brother who moves into position on the opposite side of the door. “Ready?” I mouth.
He nods.
Without another moment’s hesitation, I kick the door in, the wood splintering as it crashes against the far wall.
A woman screams and men curse, the tv still going in the background as a table is knocked over and weapons are drawn, the men clearly surprised.
I know in that moment Portia isn’t here. Maybe she was at one point, but she’s gone.
I know it as a gun battle breaks out. So much for no gunfire. I know it as the tv is shot out, as the woman dives to the kitchen floor, as the men take bullets that knock them back and down.
I know it when all the sound that’s left in the place is that of our breathing, of the TV short-circuiting, of the woman whimpering on the kitchen floor.
“We’ll need to move fast,” Dante says as I make my way down the hallway to check the rooms. I find them empty although there were people here at some point. Handcuffs hang from the headboards of the beds and the stench of fear clings to the walls.
“Upstairs,” Antonio says.
I turn back to find him holding the woman who is pointing up. I move, weapon ready, hurrying up the narrow, winding stairs to the attic room. Its door is left open, the bed empty, no handcuffs on this one. Just a bucket, a camera with its red light still blinking and one of Portia’s shoes. Those ballet flats.
“She was here,” I say, tucking my gun away and picking up the shoe. It’s so small. She’s so small. And on her own. No match for the men of our world.
Antonio and Dante walk in behind me as I push a few buttons on the camera to play back the recording. I see her then. Portia carried in. Unconscious. Dumped unceremoniously on the bed. Handcuffed to it. My uncle giving the orders from the sideline obvious even though there is no sound.
Antonio stands beside me as we watch Portia wake. As I see her take in the surroundings. As I see her decide she’ll fight even if it’s impossible.
And when she gives the camera the finger, I give a half-hearted, bitter smile. “That’s my girl.”
“She’s tough,” Antonio says, and I realize I said that out loud.
I push the button to forward through the footage until I get to Felix Perez walking into the room. I watch them have a conversation. I watch her spit in his face. I watch him slap hers so hard he almost knocks her out. When she opens her eyes, she’s dazed. She rights herself and I see the cut on her cheekbone, see blood stain her face.
That’s the breaking point for me.
I close my hand over the screen, my throat tight, jaw tense, everything inside me wanting to break. To kill. To demolish.
I take the camera and smash it against the far wall the way I will smash both my uncle and Felix Perez.