The wood of the door didn’t just splinter; it groaned under a heavy, coordinated force that told me these men were professionals. They weren’t looking to slip in unnoticed. They knew exactly who was inside, exactly what they wanted, and they knew that the storm outside would swallow any screams.
“The closet,” Alejandro hissed, his teeth gritted against the sudden, agonizing pain of me hoisting his dead-weight lower body forward. “We don’t have time for the chair, Sofia. Drag me if you have to.”
I didn’t drag him. Adrenaline is a strange, monstrous thing; it turns bone into iron and fear into a cold, calculating machine. I threw his left arm over my neck, digging my shoulder into his armpit, and hoisted his frame forward. His legs trailed uselessly behind him, his bare feet scraping against the cold Mexican tiles of the hallway, leaving a faint streak of water and old dust.
The bathroom behind us was still steaming, a ghostly sanctuary we were abandoning for a dark house that had suddenly become a labyrinth of predators.
We made it into his bedroom just as the first set of heavy footsteps reached the living room. The layout of the old Guadalajara estate was a blessing and a curse: it was sprawling, with high ceilings that echoed every sound, but it also had thick adobe walls that muffled our movements if we were careful.
“The bottom right,” Alejandro whispered, his breath hot and ragged against my ear as I lowered him onto the hardwood floor beside his closet. He collapsed against the wood paneling, his face pale, sweat mixing with the residual shower water on his forehead.
I dropped to my knees, my fingernails clawing at the base of the drywall. The paint was cracked, a seamless illusion to anyone who didn’t know it was there. My thumb caught on a small, recessed lip. I pulled. A rectangular section of the wall came away with a dry crack, revealing the dark, hollow insulation space within.
My hand plunged into the dark. My fingers brushed against cold, heavy steel first—the unmistakable, textured grip of a firearm—and then a small, rectangular plastic case.
I pulled them out. The Sig Sauer felt impossibly heavy in my hands. I had never held a gun before. In my world, problems were solved with patience, with medicine, with a quiet sigh over a sink full of dishes. This metal object was a completely different language.
“Give it to me,” Alejandro said, his hand extending. His fingers didn’t tremble. The moment the weapon touched his palm, something in his posture shifted. The vulnerability of his naked, scarred torso seemed to vanish behind the authority of his grip. He checked the chamber with a practiced, fluid motion—a sharp clack-clack that sounded like thunder in the small room.
“The flash drive is in the case,” he murmured, pointing with his chin toward the small plastic box I still held. “Put it in your pocket. If we get separated, that is your life insurance. If you show it to the right people at the embassy, they will protect you. If you show it to the wrong people, you won’t live to see the sunrise.”
“And Carlos?” The question slipped out before I could stop it, bitter and burning. “What happens if he comes back?”
Alejandro looked up at me, his dark eyes reflecting the faint light from the window. “Carlos is already dead, Sofia. He just hasn’t stopped breathing yet. A man who sells his brother twice doesn’t have a third chance at life.”
Before I could answer, a floorboard creaked in the corridor outside.
The Shadow in the Hallway
The house had grown freezing cold. The storm had broken a window pane somewhere in the front, and the wind was howling through the high-ceilinged rooms, bringing with it the scent of wet earth and impending violence.
Alejandro dragged himself into the shadow of the bed frame, his back against the solid mahogany wood. He leveled the pistol toward the bedroom door, his breathing shallow, controlled. He signaled me with a sharp jerk of his head to hide behind the heavy velvet curtains that flanked the tall window.
I pressed myself against the fabric, the cold glass biting into my back through my thin cotton blouse. Through the small gap in the drapes, I could see the patio outside. The black SUV was parked crookedly across the lawn, its tires tearing up the manicured grass Elena took such pride in. The headlights were off now, but the engine was still ticking, a hot, metallic sound in the rain.
Then, a shadow blocked the doorway of the bedroom.
The man was tall, wearing a dark, water-resistant tactical jacket. He didn’t have a mask, which meant he didn’t intend to leave anyone alive who could identify his face. In his right hand, he carried a pistol equipped with a long, cylindrical suppressor. He moved with a heavy, rhythmic cadence—the gait of someone who thought he was searching an empty house or dealing with a helpless invalid.
He stepped into the room, his weapon sweeping the empty bed, then the open closet.
He didn’t see Alejandro hidden by the low frame of the nightstand until it was too late.
