Page 4 of Final Approach

Between the long flight paths between South and Latin America’s largest cities, and a general dislike for meeting new people, that wouldn’t be happening anytime soon.

“Next trip, I’m getting you laid.”

Luisa’s determined declaration was as familiar to me as the curve of my identical twin’s smile, a promise she made me every other week. Biting my lip to control my grin, I acquiesced like I always did, knowing it wouldn’t make a lick of difference.

I picked up the medication bottle on my dresser and scrutinized its contents. Did I need to pack extra for this trip? It was a turnaround — twenty-four hours at most if we didn’t encounter any schedule changes in Mexico City. I’d had my medications stolen before, and requesting a refill too soon was a massive headache.

I had enough headaches. I counted three pills into my open pillbox and thrust the rest back into my drawer. Three would be more than enough.

“Alright, Luisa,” I said, my tone as soothing as shea butter. “Next trip, you can get me laid. No tech bros, please.”

As I shrugged on my jacket, I glanced at the one piece of my father I still owned: an analog compass watch used in mountaineering. The masculine relic was worth a small fortune, chunky and clunky against the smooth, tailored lines of my uniform, but just like him, the timepiece continued to haunt me with its presence.

And fuck it, I was late.

“Gotta run, talk to you soon.” Without waiting for her reply, I grabbed my phone from the bed and ended the call, stuffing it into my bag alongside my wallet and keys. I scanned my apartment quickly, seeking out anything missing before I left my home for four days.

The single-room flat was easy to skim: bare beige walls, save for a large crack in the plaster the landlord kept insisting would be fixed “by Friday.” The small kitchen counter was as barren as the day I moved in. Surviving off takeout and airport food, I didn’t even own basic utensils.

Satisfied with my once-over, I shoved my pillbox into the side pocket of my airline-issued carry-on. I locked the door and pulled the luggage across well-worn carpeting to the ancient elevator. My scheduled driver would arrive any minute, and we’d face the nightmare of São Paulo’s traffic together for the next two hours.

It was a good day to fly.

72 hours before takeoff …

“On your feet, inmate.”

The guard — my least favorite — rattled the bars of my cage, as if loud sounds and the scent of his presence could frighten me.

My lips, still tasting of the sweet treat Ira had smuggled to me late last night, cracked into a dry and dangerous grin. I put down the tattered book I was reading — an English translation of Tolstoy — and sat up from the metal slab they called my bed, mocking him with my smile.

“Good morning, senhor.”

The man was easily bought once I’d discovered he secretly sucked off the head guard in his spare time, despite a wife and three children at home. I was the keeper of secrets in this prison, for a price. Penal Agent Lucas Silva’s price was higher than most.

Standing, I unfurled my bulky frame in the tight quarters, taking up all but two feet on either side of the walls keeping me in. I caught Silva in my gaze, glaring at his watery pockets of soulless mud. He held my stare, then shrank in his boots, the stench of his fear hitting us both.

Weak, foolish, Puxa-saco. Bootlicker.

“Turn around, inmate,” Silva barked, voice shaking just enough to tell us who was in charge here. “Hands on your head.”

Sighing, I released my irritation at being interrupted. I’d have more time for reading while the daylight still made its way into my cage. The guards knew not to steal my books.

Tolstoy was not as interesting as Marcus Aurelius, but better than Shakespeare. Frankenstein was my favorite. Men who became monsters — I knew them well.

“Of course, senhor Silva,” I answered back in Portuguese while playing his little game, shuffling around to face the darkness of my room. The three walls of concrete cubes, with no light except for what came from outside the bars, and a single steel slab to sleep on. Twenty-three hours a day of rotting, with one hour to raise a little hell.

Unlike hundreds of inmates, I had my own cell. Two decades in Brazil’s harshest penitentiaries made mountains or mice out of men. I was the mountain, the leader of Clube de Morte. Silva was the mouse.

The familiar rattle of the mechanical pulley echoed behind me, its taunts of freedom no longer of interest. I’d given up on escaping long ago, once the idealism of my youth had worn off. Now, I focused my fight inward, on my gang, on their survival.

Running my gang had become my purpose. Gang wars were constant in a prison the size of a small town. Men scurried around like rats while power changed hands with the simple slip of a shiv. Joining a side gave these men purpose. My right hand had chopped off the head of the Anjos do diabo, our rival crew, in recent weeks. Retaliation was imminent.

I ignored the clammy, grubby fingers touching my skin as Silva pulled them down off my head and into the cold metal cuffs behind my back. He regularly abused his power with other inmates, tearing shoulders and slicing skin, but he knew better than to try that with me, or my enforcers.

After a gentle tug on the cuffs, he barked, “Turn around and walk.”

I rolled my wrists behind me, testing their confines. Loose — just as instructed. Good. Silva wasn’t getting so cocky as to forget the requirements of our arrangement. He gave me a little leeway. I let him live.