Rushed(121)

In the relative silence after the two turbofans wound down, Dad raised his hand. "Guillermo Mendosa, I’m Carlo Bertoli, and this is my son, Tomasso. Thank you for such a warm reception."

I had to give it to him. He was smooth and a bit sarcastic. It clearly wasn’t a warm reception. He was acting as if we were being greeted by the Brazilian women's volleyball team instead of stepping out onto a runway faced with at least four men armed with automatic rifles. Even the other man with Guillermo, who I took to be Eduardo Mendosa, had to smirk at Dad's comment.

One of the gunmen, however, wasn't as amused and started to bring his rifle up. I reached for my coat when Guillermo held up his hand. "Vincente, put it away. I didn’t tell you to raise your weapon.” He turned to us. “Welcome to Porto Alegre."

Luisa stepped forward as Dad and I approached but shook her head when our eyes met again. “I’m supposed to translate so there’s no miscommunication," she said, giving me a measured look that said play along a little bit.

Dad nodded, getting her meaning, and smiled broadly. "Of course, Se?orita Mendosa. My son has something he’d like to say. Tomasso?"

I stepped forward, squaring myself up and looking Guillermo Mendosa in the eye. "Sir, it was never my intention to offend you or your daughter. I apologize. I’m here so that we can put this to rest and not have to resort to violence. I don’t think either of us wants that.”

He looked at me with a pissed off expression that seemed to run in the Mendosa family and shook his head. "This isn’t a simple matter of a broken piece of furniture or maybe a bit of hellraising. This is my daughter, and an apology isn’t going to make it go away.”

I nodded and turned my attention to the man next to him. “You're Eduardo, then? You're the one who is challenging me to a duel?”

"I am," the taller man said, his voice flat and emotionless. "Inside the hangar, and the rules . . . well, we’ll stop when one of us can’t go any longer. Agreed?"

I nodded. "When?"

"Now," Guillermo Mendosa said, interrupting. He looked at my father, then at me. "Then your welcome to Porto Alegre is officially revoked."

Dad's lip lifted, and he had that look on his face, a look that everyone who knew him was terrified of. I held up my hand, speaking up before things got more out of hand. "Okay. But give me ten minutes to change clothes?"

I looked to Eduardo, who simply nodded. A serious man of few words.

I turned and walked away, Dad following me until we were next to our jet. With it being just the two of us, he was able to let his true feelings show through some, and he was pissed. “I’d love to slit that man's throat and feel his blood run over my fingers," Dad seethed, angry.

"He's pissed, prejudiced, and scared," I said lowly. “He’s probably even more mad with how Luisa looked at us—he knows she'd rather be with us than stay with him. That's got to hurt a man's pride."

He gave me a look and seemed to calm down a little, knowing that I had a point. He walked over to me and patted me on the shoulder, and his next words took me by surprise. “When the time comes, our family is in good hands."

I stood there, shocked for a moment before I resumed pulling my jacket off and handing it to the pilot. "First, I have to survive this. I doubt the ref is going to respect if I tap out."

"Agreed. Fight dirty if you have to," Dad said.

I sat down on the steps of the plane and looked back at the pilot. "This isn't going to take long, so get on the radio with the tower. You're going to want fuel, and quickly. How much do you guys have left?"

"Only a couple of hundred miles, Mr. Bertoli," the crew member said. "A thousand, if we're lucky.”

I nodded and undid the first strap on my brace. "Get what you can. I'd prefer to not have to set down for fuel in South America if we can help it."

The man nodded and headed for the cabin while I finished unstrapping my brace, setting it aside. I'd tested the ankle after talking with Luisa, and while there wasn’t much pain, it was stiff.

"Time to strap up," I muttered to myself, reaching into the bag that had contained my shorts. We managed to scrape together enough tape on the plane from the emergency and medical kits that I could do something with my leg. Slowly, I wound layer after layer of tape around my ankle, starting with, of all things, electrical tape before moving on to duct tape and finally some white bandage tape. "Should have brought my other shoes."

“Maybe remember that the next time you fly down to Brazil to fight someone.” Dad chuckled as he looked me over, his anger appearing to fade. "How's the circulation in your toes?"

"Not great, but it won’t be for long. You can cut the tape off afterward," I replied, wiggling the already numbing digits. "You ready to pull me out if they go a bit overboard on extracting their pound of vengeance?"

"You'll get out of here," Dad said, "no matter what. Now go kick this guy's ass."

I grinned and slid my pants off, thankful I'd decided to wear briefs that day instead of going commando. I pulled the shorts on and tied the drawstring, standing up. I looked over where the Mendosa group except for Eduardo stood watching me. I saw the one named Vincente tapping his rifle, murder in his eyes. I looked at him closely and figured him for another of Luisa's brothers, most likely the middle one. He looked like a punk more than anything else, and I wish I could have been fighting him instead.