The Perreira fort was more guarded than usual. His henchmen were also placed on the roofs. They smoked like bad chimneys.

They would take the cigarettes. They rekindled others.

All ancient children of hunger and despair, paid by the weight of punches, broken bones, intimidating looks. Bad people. Carriers of adverse and merciless luck.

They watched over any bad idea that could come to Brandon, Dylan and Perreira himself.

B and D were badly searched at the entrance and this made Dylan very nervous.

Brandon tried to stay calm to try to hold the reins of Dylan's restless spirit but it was complicated for him too. Much more than he wanted.

"Mr. Mckay!" Perreira exclaimed down the stairs of his fort. He came up holding a stretched cigar between his teeth and widening his arms to welcome them in a nefarious grip.

Dylan struggled from punching him. He just wanted Sammy to come home and until he was so sure any of his movements was a lit fuse that went forward and consumed.

"Where is my son?"

Perreira laughed "he's fine, you have something I want, I give you back you ed."

"We had a deal," Dylan replied.

Perreira began to laugh and his yellow tobacco teeth stepped forward like deer and sharp soldiers.

"It's true," Perreira replied, " but you had to give me the money right away, I don't have to wait for you, Mr. Mckay."

"Here's the money," Dylan said, pointing to the briefcase he was holding in his hand, "I want the certainty that my son is at home."

"But the price has changed," he said that.

"The price is the right one," Dylan replied, who had accounted for that beast's original proposal. Two of his gallops approached the bag at a nod to Perreira. They open it. They looked inside. They started counting. Slowly. They were exhausting.

"Where is my son," Dylan said, who was on the back of the no return. He tried to snap up but a semi-automatic platoon of caliber 38 and 9 appeared in front of him.

Perreira was amused.

Brandon watched around him the heavy looks that guarded them. He saw the weapons shimmer under the reflection of a pious sun.

Suddenly a flash hit Brandon in his right cheek. A Perreira reverse aimed at Brandon's face that lost his sight, lip and balance. He fell face to the ground under Dylan's astonished eyes.

It was a quick move. Sharp.

Brandon spat a mixture of blood and saliva. He touched his lip with his shirt crawling it bright red, his eye was pulsating. He heard the sound of broken capillaries opening.

"You don't give orders to me McKay," Perreira said very hard, "when my men are done checking and counting you'll have your son."

Brandon stood up. The lip was cut and spit out grudge. He had hit him for the sake of it alone. There was no reason. Brandon had not answered. He hadn't spoken. It wasn't taller or lower than the others. He was just the first one who had happened to him.

An evil gesture.

The two henchmen finished counting and checking the money. All regular. They were not marked.

"Better that way," Perreira replied and then made a quick nod to one of his men who rushed over to the phone.

"As long as you wait, dear guests, do you want a cup of something?"

Dylan didn't answer, Brandon nodded no. His lip had begun to swell and blacken.

They waited sitting side by side. They had no escape, those guys could even kill them instantly and take the money, but none of them wanted Sammy and anyway in their code you couldn't hurt a child; nor did they want to have to dispose of the corpses of two dead Americans that probably one day someone would look for.

"How's the lip going?" Dylan asked him.

"What lip?" Brandon replied, "I don't have my lip anymore."

Dylan hinted a smile for the joke "This, Brandon, is the craziest thing you've done for me" he looked at him with honest eyes "thank you."

"One day we will tell our grandchildren," smiled Brandon, "if I ever have any.. ," then he got more serious "sorry if I've been away," he told him.