—Don't go out —Zafir ordered.
—Don't give me orders.
He looked at her.
Just a second.
One.
And it was enough for Amira to understand that this was not a marriage argument.
It was survival.
Zafir opened the door on the opposite side and forced her to crouch through the engine smoke. The smell of burning rubber and hot metal filled everything.
Two men advanced from the shadow of the median.
Tactical black.
Covered faces.
No badges.
Zafir shot twice at the ground in front of them, not to kill, but to force them to cover themselves.
—Run! —he yelled at Amira.
But Amira was not a decorative lady.
He grabbed the tactical flashlight hanging from the seat, activated it straight into the eyes of one of the attackers, and gave Zafir the exact second he needed.
He moved like a blade.
Dry. Fast. Brutal.
The man fell.
The other backed away.
Sirens in the distance.
The attackers dispersed.
Too coordinated to be amateurs.
Too clean to get caught.
In less than twenty seconds, they disappeared.
The noise returned little by little.
Distant traffic.
The sirens approaching.
The panting of both.
Amira turned to Zafir.
—Are you hurt?
—No.
—You lie worse than me.
He looked down.
The sleeve of his shirt was darkening.
Blood.
Amira felt a frozen emptiness in her stomach.
—To the car. Now.
He wanted to protest.
Error.
She was already in Salgado mode.
And when Amira Salgado gave an order with that voice, even disaster obeyed.
V
It was in the safe house in Valle de Bravo where everything changed.
Not because of the attack.
Not because of the blood.
Not because of betrayal.
