The rain hadn't entirely stopped by the time Vincent's sleek black town car glided up to the towering skyscraper. The water, crawling down his windshield slightly distorted his view of the city, but he knew he was close to his destination.
As he stepped out onto the curb, Vincent straightened his impeccably tailored suit and ran a hand through his silky hair, ensuring not a strand fell out of place. Appearances mattered greatly, for this meeting especially. He had no idea what Mr. Salvador truly had planned, but Vincent aimed to find out.
Vincent strode through the opulent lobby with his usual easy confidence, dark leather shoes clicking crisply across the marble floors. The security guard nodded deferentially as Vincent entered the private elevator that ascended directly to the top floor executive offices.
"Mr. Mallory, Mr. Salvador is ready for you," the secretary said coolly, her eyes fixed on her computer screen.
"Please, call me Vincent," he replied with an attempt at a disarming smile as he walked toward the office door.
"Mr. Salvador is expecting you, Mr. Mallory," she repeated, still not making eye contact.
"Vincent, so good to see you," Salvador called out warmly from behind his massive teak desk. He stood and came around to shake Vincent's hand firmly.
Despite his impeccable suit and disarming smile, Salvador's shadowy reputation preceded him. Rumors of drug trafficking, racketeering and every manner of illicit activity swirled around the tycoon, though nothing stuck. His legitimate business empire gave Salvador access to the upper echelons of society and politics.
Can I offer you a drink?" Salvador smiled, a measured, practiced smile that implied ulterior motives behind the seemingly gracious offer.
Vincent reclined into the plush leather chair, crossing one leg casually over the other. "Don't mind if I do," he replied, taking the glass. He swirled the amber liquid slowly, watching the way it coated the crystal. Salvador's congenial smile revealed nothing yet Vincent sensed there was more beneath the genteel facade.
He took a thoughtful sip, the whiskey igniting a slow burn in his chest. Salvador was a man of means and motives hidden in shadow - much like Vincent himself. Curiosity drew him in, even as his instincts whispered caution. An interesting game was afoot, and Vincent aimed to divine the rules.
Vincent took an appreciative sip, rolling the smoky liquor over his tongue. "Fine stuff," he remarked casually, setting the glass down on the ornate mahogany desk. He leaned back in the leather chair, getting comfortable, yet his senses remained on high alert.
Salvador's eyes glinted like sharpened knives in the dim light of the backroom. "And should you achieve victory, I trust you would remember those who aided your...ascent?"
Vincent tensed, his polite smile frozen in place. He chose his next words carefully. "I value all endorsements from upstanding citizens."
Salvador chuckled lowly. "Let's not mince words, Vincent. You need backing from influential connections to lock up this election. Connections like mine." He let the implication hang in the air between them.
Vincent met Salvador's gaze, ignoring the twist of unease in his gut. "I'm aware of your reach in this city. And the benefits of maintaining cordial ties."
"Excellent." Salvador's lips curled. "Then as one pragmatic man to another, allow me to make my offer clear." He leaned forward, every word laden with intent. "Access to my resources would ensure your victory. And in return, I would expect an...accommodating relationship on matters of mutual interest."
Vincent wrestled internally before answering. "I believe we understand each other," he said finally, ice clinking sharply in his glass. "But we all must act within the bounds of the law, for the people's good."
Vincent nodded, his smile not reaching his eyes as he shook Salvador's hand. "I look forward to a productive working relationship."
"Excellent. Now, allow me to walk you out - it's the least I can do for the man who may soon be our city's greatest leader."
Salvador's voice dripped with oily charm. He guided Vincent to the elevator with a hand on his back, pressing the button for the ground floor.
As they waited for the elevator, Vincent felt Salvador's eyes on him. He kept his expression neutral through long practice, but inwardly his thoughts churned.
He told himself this was just part of the process - distasteful necessity. The only path to power in this corroded system. Idealists might condemn the ethical compromises, but they failed to understand how the game was played at this level.
This was simply how deals were made and influence traded among those ambitious enough to shape the future. He could accomplish so much good once in office, even if the means to get there weren't entirely pure
As they stepped into the elevator, Salvador withdrew the vial from his pocket once more. "One last opportunity before you depart - a new experience guaranteed to...broaden your horizons." His smile turned predatory.
Vincent hesitated, then nodded. The doors slid closed.
Salvador handed him the vial with a flourish. As Vincent examined the fine powder, the elevator jerked to a halt between floors.
"My apologies, this old system can be temperamental." Salvador's tone was nonchalant, but his eyes pierced Vincent. "While we wait, care to sample the wares?"
Vincent's mouth went dry. Trapped in close confines, he felt Salvador's coercive power bearing down. Still, he kept his face neutral. "A taste won't hurt, I suppose." He tapped a tiny amount onto his finger.
Salvador watched intently as Vincent ingested the drug, clapping him on the back. "There now, that wasn't so hard was it?"
Vincent awaited the effects. At first nothing seemed amiss. Then a tingling onset of dissociation, as if viewing the room through a screen. Vincent shook his head to clear it, but the feeling intensified.
Salvador's smile took on a sinister edge, his features blurring oddly. Vincent tried to speak but only garbled syllables emerged. He attempted to stand yet his muscles refused to respond. Panic clawed at the edges of his fraying mind.
Reality itself seemed to warp and melt around him. The opulent elevator transformed into a swirling kaleidoscope of blinding colors and patterns, Salvador's visage shifting grotesquely at the center.
Strange whispers reached Vincent's ears over the chaotic visual din. He strained to listen, heart hammering wildly in his chest. Salvador's voice boomed out from the deafening sensory overload:
"Listen to me now. You're allegiance is to me and me alone."
The world swam back into focus slowly. Vincent shook his head, trying to clear the thick haze from his mind. Where was he?
"Welcome back, my friend." Salvador's smiling face came into view. He pressed a cool glass of water into Vincent's hands. "Drink up, you've had quite an exhausting day."
Vincent sipped the water, each drop helping anchor him. Salvador - yes, a longtime friend and supporter. But why was it so hard to think clearly?
"Forgive me," Vincent murmured. "I must have dozed off." He glanced around the ornate office, the details of his meeting with Salvador returning in fragments. They had been discussing the campaign, and then...everything went fuzzy.
Salvador clapped him on the back. "Think nothing of it. You've been under much strain lately." His eyes radiated warmth and understanding. "But I'm here for you, as always. We will help each other rise to greatness."
Vincent nodded slowly, then more firmly. Yes, Salvador had been there since the beginning. A trustworthy ally. Any fleeting doubts melted away.
"Well, I believe our business is concluded for today." Salvador walked him to the elevator. "I trust our partnership will be quite fruitful."
Vincent hesitated only a moment before breaking into a broad grin. "Of course, I look forward to even greater successes ahead." His voice sounded strangely distant in his ears.
The elevator doors closed on Salvador's smiling face. As Vincent descended alone, scattered fragments of dreams and visions swirled chaotically in his mind. He felt a vague sense of unease in his gut. But there were preparations to be made. The people awaited their next leader.
Section 1
Splintered slivers of a broken beer bottle glinted like jagged teeth from the filthy alley floor, sparkling with Sam's distorted reflection. Sam saw a hardened warrior staring back. Fatigue ringed his eyes but resolve hardened his rugged features. Despite his rumpled clothes, his muscular frame rippled with power. Tracing the scar on his cheek, Sam embraced the sacrifices that had honed him - sharpened his senses and will, purified his vigilante purpose. He would bring justice against evil, no matter the cost.
He knew some dangerous group operated in the shadows here - he could feel their menacing presence lurking around each corner. Sam was determined to infiltrate their organization and take them down from the inside, no matter who they really were.
Rumors swirled of kidnappings, torture, and a new narcotic compound 10 times more potent than cocaine. But the organization had covered its tracks well - no leads, no witnesses willing to talk.
Except for one - a man named Reyes. Sam's former partner John had told him Reyes was merely a low-level pawn, a disposable cog in the machine. But Sam's instincts whispered that the man could still prove useful, provide the opening needed to infiltrate the core operation. Oblivious of the larger game at play, Reyes was a naive piece to be strategically sacrificed. For now, he would grant the access point Sam desperately required.
Sam knew turning a blind eye would be easier - the organization had covered its tracks well, leaving few leads or witnesses. But his conscience wouldn't allow it. However challenging, he was compelled to unravel their secrets and protect the innocent.
While John dismissed Reyes as insignificant, Sam felt the man could still be leveraged to gain access, no matter how small a player he was. Sam just needed to utilize Reyes strategically before casting him aside. The legal system had proven impotent - it would take extralegal means to dismantle this illegal empire.
Sam's relationship with his former partner John was complicated, tangled by unfinished business. Sam remembered John as the man with the gruesome scar marring his angular face. They had connected two years prior to collaborate on some murky project which now eluded Sam's memory. Details remained obscured, but Sam recalled how John would whistle eerily after their missions, seeming to take a casual pleasure in the darkness their work required.
Sam forced aside lingering doubts about John, though unease lingered. He knew John had a manipulative, obsessive interest in controlling outcomes. Sam refocused his full attention on the task at hand: infiltrating Reyes' home. He came to a stop outside the entrance, scoping for activity. From the curb, the house looked like any other suburban home, tidy and nondescript, with a red and blue flag hanging by the garage. But Sam knew not to trust appearances.
Sam carefully turned the doorknob, wincing as the hinges creaked loudly in the silence. Heart pounding, he paused just outside the threshold, every sense strained for signs of movement within. Hearing nothing, he gingerly stepped inside, softly testing his weight before shifting forward.
Sam knew going into Reyes' home unarmed was risky, but he'd had no options after leaving the police force. They had revoked his gun permit and confiscated his weapons, leaving him vulnerable. Sam knew the police had connections that would prevent him obtaining another firearm.
Reyes was gone for now.
The interior told a different story from the innocuous exterior. The clean rooms and manicured lawn were just a manufactured cover.
As Sam crept through the dim hall, his senses were on high alert, probing each shadowed corner. He moved with swift silence, nerves thrumming in anticipation. Reyes could return any moment. Sam's tactical mind raced, calculating threats and escape routes should things go sideways. He had come too far to fail now. Obtaining the right document was his sole focus now; with it finally in hand, his task could be completed.
As Sam entered the cramped living room, his eyes instinctively scanned for what he needed - Reyes’ identification documents. The sparse furnishings and peeling walls reflected Reyes' low-level status within the organization's hierarchy.
A radio on the counter softly played a Spanish news station amidst bursts of static. Sam's pulse quickened as he discerned chilling words between the white noise - "Se sospecha que Manuel Ortiz ha estado consumiendo una nueva y peligrosa droga..."
It sounded like the same potent narcotic he had been tracking, linked to this shadowy criminal network. As the broadcaster described bodies arranged like Christ, complete with symbolic wounds, Sam's jaw clenched. These grisly details aligned with the sinister imprint left by the organization at other crime scenes.
Sam's hands curled into fists. He felt the weight of responsibility heavily upon his shoulders. Too many stood paralyzed in the face of this spreading evil. And the authorities seemed unable or unwilling to act decisively.
Sam knew the odds were daunting for one man to dismantle this powerful network, but if no one else could muster the courage to fight these fanatics, then the duty fell to him. Staying on the sideline was an act of complicity.
These victims deserved justice. He would expose the rotten core behind this criminal web. Sam focused his will - he would see this through, whatever it demanded.
His gaze fell on a rusted machete lying on the kitchen counter, dried crimson flecks staining its jagged edge. Sam's muscles tensed instinctively at the sight. Reyes left his marks on this place, in more ways than one. Adrenaline spiked through Sam's veins—Reyes was unpredictable, dangerous. Treading carefully was critical for walking away intact.
As Sam stared at the stained blade, his own face reflected back distortedly in the metal surface. For a moment he didn't recognize himself, as if seeing a stranger staring back. Sam shoved the thought away. Focus on the mission, he told himself. Surviving this was all that mattered.
Yet seeing this glimpse of Reyes' capacity for violence only strengthened Sam's resolve. Whatever the risks, bringing justice to these fanatical killers would be worth it.
A faint sound came from the tattered sofa, drawing Sam's gaze. A small figure sat hunched over, dark hair cascading down slender shoulders. his breath caught as the figure shifted slightly.
From a distance, the hair appeared dark, but as she shifted into a shaft of dim light, an unnatural brassy glint revealed itself. Her roots showed through like shadows, suggesting a hasty dye job.
Sam froze, piecing together the clues. She had disguised her natural blonde hair. Why? To better blend in here? Or to conceal her identity? As Sam studied her tangled locks, doubts crept in. Was her blonde hair even natural to begin with? Or had she concealed her true colors for so long that no one really knew the real her anymore? An unease stirred in him. He knew what it was like to lose track of who you were behind manufactured personas and lies.
As Sam studied the girl's tangled locks, his observant gaze fell briefly on a silver locket hanging around her neck. It glinted in the dim light as she shifted nervously on the worn sofa.
Sam glanced at the engraved pendant and wondered idly if it contained a photo inside, or maybe a lover's note. But his focus quickly returned to assessing the immediate threats around them.
As his eyes traced the dark bruises mottling her bare arms, realization crashed over him. This must be Reyes' daughter.
As Sam gazed at the girl's hunched form, something deep stirred within him. In this wounded child, he saw flashes of a life unlived - tender moments of a daughter whose laughter echoed with innocence, who nestled safely in a father's protective embrace.
These vivid sparks felt like fragments of a dream, yet resonated with strange familiarity. While Sam had no children, in this moment, the girl's suffering felt as acutely personal as if she were his own. An innate drive to shelter her from harm welled up, momentarily eclipsing all else.
Sam froze as the girl shifted on the sofa, wincing in pain from injuries too deliberate to be accidental. His fists clenched reflexively, nails digging into his palms. Seeing the violence inflicted on one so young ignited a fire in his chest, overpowering his disciplined instincts. Reyes would pay for this, Sam vowed silently. He would make sure of it.
But just as quickly, Sam forced the rising anger back down. He couldn't afford emotional entanglements that could jeopardize the mission. There would be time to exact justice after he uncovered the truth.
As the girl began to turn toward the shadows where Sam stood, his pulse quickened, muscles tensing instinctively. His mind raced - this wasn't part of the plan.
Thinking quick, Sam stepped forward and softly asked in urgent Spanish: "¿Sabes dónde tu padre guarda papeles especiales?" Sam cursed himself right after for the bluntness.
The girl's eyes widened at the question. Sam cursed again internally. He needed to regain control before it was too late.
The girl hesitated, seemingly torn by indecision and suspicion after Sam's question. He held his breath, cursing internally. Finally, she motioned for Sam to follow and led him toward a cabinet in the corner of the living room.
Sam moved through the house with feline grace, scanning for exits and improvised weapons. The front door, the kitchen window - two ways out. Crucifix, candlesticks, cast iron skillet - all potential armaments ready for use. Sam ticked through them automatically, an ingrained habit honed from endless training.
For him, the room contained no religious meaning, only practical value for the mission. The icons were not symbols of faith but objects to employ and discard. Sam's hyperalert mind filtered everything through the lens of tactical advantage.
Some remote part of his mind registered the irony - he still believed in God, but saw the celestial bureaucracy for what it was. Angels and demons equally corrupt, playing games with human lives.
As the girl led him to the cabinet, Sam pulled open the top drawer, sifting through the contents. The girl brushed her fingers over her shirt collar absently.
Glancing up, Sam examined the replacement hinges on the cabinet - tarnished new pins already proving no better than the rusted original plates. In the metal surface, he caught a glimpse of his own distorted reflection.
Section 2
Sam's head snapped up at the sound of the front door crashing open. The bang reverberated through the walls like a clap of thunder. Heavy boots stomped down the hall, each footfall landing like the punch of a sledgehammer against the worn floorboards.
Sam's heart hammered in his chest, pulse roaring in his ears, keeping time with the approaching footsteps. It was as if the drumbeat of danger was bearing down on him, threatening to burst through the door and destroy everything in its path. Sam stood frozen, muscles coiled tight, ready to react.
The air felt electrified, charged with adrenaline. He strained to listen over the din of his quickening breath, gauging how many seconds he had left before the storm arrived. The girl's wide eyes mirrored the animal fear racing through his veins. The girl sobbed and denied it as Sam looked on helpless, fists clenched in rage.
"¡Quién estuvo aquí!" Reyes demanded.
Reyes gripped the girl's arm brutally, his fingers digging into her soft flesh as he berated her. Dark eyes glared out from beneath a heavy brow and faded prison tattoos swirled over Reyes' brawny arms. Scar tissue crisscrossed his thick, bullish neck. His sharpened widow's peak gave Reyes' angular face a predatory aspect, like a bull sizing up a matador.
Stubble shadowed his firm jawline, surrounding the gold teeth that glinted inside his sneer. As the girl whimpered before him, Sam could see her tiny, distorted reflection caught in the dull yellow metal of Reyes' grin.
Sam tensed, every instinct screaming to intervene, but he had to maintain his cover despite the anguish of watching helplessly.
As Reyes raised his meaty hand again, the girl shot a desperate, pleading glance toward Sam, eyes glistening with pain and primal fear. Sam's heart wrenched but he stood frozen, now trembling with impotent rage.
The crack of Reyes' open palm striking the girl's cheek split the air like a gunshot. Her head snapped to the side from the force, a cry catching in her throat.
"¡Quién estaba aquí!" Reyes shouted again, advancing on the cowering girl. His sheer mass seemed to fill the room, looming over her diminutive form.
"¡Dime!" he bellowed, flecks of spittle flying from his contorted face.
"¡Nadie, lo juro!" the girl sobbed, wrapping her bruised arms over her head in futile protection.
Reyes' thick fingers tangled in her dark hair before wrenching her head back cruelly. She screamed in pain, the sound piercing Sam's heart like a dagger. His breath came faster, molten fury churning inside him. Just a little longer, he told himself. Maintain the cover.
"¡Por favor, no sé nada!" the girl begged, her voice cracking.
Reyes scoffed. He grabbed a handful of her shirt and hurled her to the hard ground.
The girl landed hard on her side, biting back a cry as pain lanced through her in slow motion. She curled into a protective ball as Reyes loomed over her, his figure blurring at the edges like a living nightmare.
His boot reared back, poised to deliver a vicious kick in nightmarish slowness. The room seemed to warp around them. In sheer terror, the girl's eyes, huge and glistening, found Sam's from across the smeared room, silently pleading for mercy through the haze.
Everything felt muffled and distorted, like events unfolding in a fragmented fever dream. Sam tried to will his leaden limbs to move, to save the girl, but he remained trapped behind an invisible barrier. Her screams echoed as if from the far end of a tunnel as the kick landed.
That was it. Sam erupted into motion before conscious thought could catch up. He barreled into Reyes with the force of a freight train, tackling the larger man away from the helpless girl.
They crashed violently against the wall. Sam's adrenaline surged as he landed a solid punch to Reyes' jaw, feeling the satisfying crunch of metal filling under his knuckles.
Sam pinned his forearm under Reyes' chin. "Si la vuelves a tocar, te mataré," he threatened.
He held the choke a beat longer, locking eyes with Reyes. Then he released him. Reyes shouted angrily.
Staring up at Reyes' towering mass, Sam Barked. "Sé que estás sucio, Reyes," Directly implicating his corruption.
Rosita's eyes flashed with recognition at the mention of Reyes corruption. She had suspected his late night dealings weren't noble policing.
Out of nowhere, a piercing, burning pain lanced through Sam's side. He glanced down to see a knife hilt protruding from his shirt, blood rapidly spreading.
Staggering back, Sam pulled the blade free with a wet sucking sound, warm blood flowing over his fingers. He pressed a hand to the wound, but blood continued to pulse out between his fingers. The alley swam before his eyes.
Reyes circled slowly, eyes dark with menace. He struggled to find the words in English. "You...should not...have come here...Wilson," he growled haltingly.
Sam stood his ground, jaw clenched. Blood continued to soak through his shirt from the knife wound, but he refused to show weakness.
"You will pay for your sins against the Brotherhood," Reyes continued, his accent thick
Reyes' fist crunched into Sam's cheekbone with jackhammer force. Sam realized his opponent had the upper hand.
The metallic taste of blood filled his mouth. Sam countered on instinct, his blow glancing off Reyes' temple harmlessly.
Reyes drove his elbow viciously into Sam's nose. Cartilage crunched under the impact and Sam staggered back, blood pouring down his face.
As Sam and Reyes circled each other, Sam realized with dread what was at stake for the little girl if he failed. If Reyes won, her agony would never end - the vile shouts, drunken beatings, endless nights cowering in fear of her volatile father. Victory for this monster meant stealing every chance the girl had for happiness or safety.
But if He won this fight, and Reyes was hurt or killed...where could the girl even go? She had no one left who would take her in or protect her.
A blow to his gut forced Sam to return his attention to Reyes.
Punishing body shots cracked against Sam's ribs, each blow forcing the air from his lungs in painful wheezes. He tried to keep his guard up, but Reyes battered his arms aside before slamming brutal uppercuts into his face.
As Sam reeled from the barrage, Reyes grabbed him and hurled him across the room into a table.
The rotted wood splintered easily under Sam's weight.
Gasping in pain, Sam tried to rise. Too slow. Reyes loomed over him and drove a vicious kick into Sam's knife wound. Agony exploded through him as Reyes rained down more blows.
Through a haze of pain, Sam spotted a chunk of the shattered table. He crawled toward it, shards digging into his palms and knees. Agony blazed through his battered body but he clenched his jaw and kept moving.
Reaching the largest fragment, Sam steeled himself. With a guttural cry, he shoved to his feet, swaying unsteadily. Shard clutched like a dagger, he turned to face Reyes.
Reyes rushed him, sledgehammer fist crunching into Sam's ribs. Sam didn't feel it - he tackled Reyes with ferocious strength, driving the wood shard toward his jugular.
Reyes knocked his arm aside then smashed a knee up into Sam's face. Cartilage crunched as Sam hit the floor. Reyes grabbed a table leg, intent on caving in Sam's skull.
With his last ounce of strength, Sam ripped the embedded shard from Reyes' shoulder and jammed it into his thick neck. Blood sprayed.
Reyes staggered back, the table leg slipping from his fingers. He clawed at the mortal wound as Sam watched the life drain from his eyes. Then Reyes crashed to the floor and lay still.
Sam lay immobile as darkness crept into his vision. With his last strength, he called to the girl across the room.
"Necesito...documentos de identidad...de tu padre..."
The girl crept over hesitantly. Sam beckoned weakly.
"Por favor...ayúdame..."
The girl gave a small nod then scurried away. Moments later she returned, pressing a laminated card into Sam's hand - Reyes' Colombian national identity document.
Sam sighed with relief, clutching the precious ID card. "Dónde...lo encontraste?" he murmured.
"Debajo del colchón," the girl replied, motioning to Reyes' bedroom.
With trembling hands, Sam pulled out his and Reyes’ ID cards, finding a razor blade. He had to move fast - Reyes' corrupt allies would arrive any minute. Even Reyes didn't fully understand the dark organization he had allied himself with, lured by the drugs and power they offered to feed his vices. But Sam knew taking Reyes' identity was his only chance to infiltrate their crooked operation and expose their corruption.
She watched him warily, confused by the strange sounds. "I wasn't going to hurt him...until I saw..." Sam grimaced in pain. "How he treated you."
He continued explaining as he worked on the cards. "But your father was corrupt. Involved in bad things."
The girl narrowed her eyes, straining to understand.
"I'm going undercover to expose it all by taking his place," Sam said. Finishing the photo swap, he met her gaze. "¿Cómo te llamas?"
The girl hesitated before answering softly, "Rosita."
Sam managed a pained smile. "Everything will be alright now, Rosita."
As he spoke, the distant rumble of heavy engines grew louder. Men's raised voices pierced the night - they were close. Too close.
Sam's pulse hammered in his ears. He had minutes at most before they would be discovered.
"Rosita, we need to go. Now!" he urged.
Section 3
Helping the frightened girl to her feet, Sam limped toward the back door. He paused only to place his old ID, now bearing Reyes' photo, on top of Reyes' lifeless body.
They slipped out the back just as the front door splintered open under heavy boots. Shouts echoed through the house as men discovered Reyes.He sprinted from the house, dragging the frightened girl behind him. Spotting a motorcycle, Sam hotwired it with expert speed.
As Sam wove the motorcycle through narrow gaps between vehicles, his battered ribs screamed in protest. The jarring motion aggravated injuries sustained earlier in the chaotic escape. Sam winced. Crumbling plaster walls and rusty fire escapes raced by in a blur, hemmed in by crooked alleys. one hand instinctively cradling his side as he rode.
The girl clung tightly to Sam as the motorcycle weaved through traffic. Once or twice he felt her hand brush against her pocket, as if making sure something was still there.
As they veered around another corner, the buildings pressed in, barely allowing space for the bike to squeeze through. Rickety balconies and cracked walls loomed ominously overhead.
"¿A dónde vamos exactamente?" Rosita asked innocently, inquiring where exactly they were headed.
"Te lo explicaré todo cuando estemos a salvo," he replied simply, saying he'd explain everything once they were safe, as he zigzagged between traffic
Beads of cold sweat mingled with streaks of blood on Sam's face as he fought to ignore the pain.
As the motorcycle roared ahead, Sam's mind raced through the next steps ahead of time. Rosita clung tight to him. The vehicles were nearly upon them, trying to trap them in a deadly pincer move.
Thinking fast, Sam whipped the bike around, tires screeching as they fishtailed out from between the converging cars. The sudden swerve sent Rosita slamming against him, eliciting a pained grunt as his battered ribs crunched.
Horns blared as Sam weaved through traffic with the cars in relentless pursuit. He narrowly avoided collisions with vehicles and pedestrians at every turn. Rosita whimpered, clinging tight.
Suddenly a car pulled up alongside them. A man leaned out with a gun, firing as Sam swerved wildly. He ripped a crate loose from a passing truck, crashing it into the lead car and causing a violent flip.
The crippled car tumbled across the road in a screech of deforming metal before slamming into a storefront. Flames erupted from the wreckage as the pursuing car behind veered around it.
Sam pushed the motorcycle to its limits, weaving through narrow gaps between vehicles. But the remaining car stayed glued to their tail. Sam's eyes widened as the gunman leaned out again, taking aim.
Bullets whizzed past Sam's ear as he pushed the bike into evasive maneuvers. Ahead he spied a tractor-trailer merging into their lane. Seizing the opportunity, he accelerated towards it.
At the last second Sam twisted the bike sideways, slipping through the gap between the merging truck and concrete barrier. Sparks flew as the bike's metal screamed against the barrier. Behind them came a sickening crunch of metal as the car crashed full speed into the truck's massive bulk.
Spotting a small, ramshackle airport ahead, Sam turned onto the access road. The place looked deserted, only a few dilapidated hangars and a short runway. He pulled up to the main building, little more than a shack.
"Quédate aquí," Sam told Rosita as he dismounted painfully.
The cracked tarmac radiated heat in shimmering waves. Weathered hangars with faded signs stood wearily against the encroaching vines. The air hung heavy and humid, devoid of the sounds of aircraft or workers.
Inside, a lone man sat behind a cluttered desk. He looked up in surprise as Sam entered, battered and bloody.
Sam slammed his hands on the counter urgently. “Necesito un avión, ahora.”
The man’s eyes flicked to the door, as if gauging chances for an easy escape. Then he eyed Sam up and down, noting his injuries with detached interest.
Sam's jaw clenched. He tossed a stack of bills onto the counter. “El Cessna en el Hangar 3. Está listo para despegar?”
The cash finally pierced the man's haze of indifference. He nodded slowly, a greedy glint sparking in his eyes. “Sí, sí. El Cessna es tuyo.”
As they rushed to the plane, Sam saw SUVs speeding down the access road, closing in. He hustled Rosita into the Cessna and started the engines.
The SUVs skidded to a stop at the edge of the tarmac as Sam taxied the plane into position. Armed men swarmed out and took aim.
Sam slammed the throttle forward. As the plane gathered speed, he yanked the yoke, swiveling it back toward the trucks. Lining up his pistol, he raked the vehicles with gunfire, shattering glass and shredding metal.
The men dove for cover as Sam kept up the barrage. With the area suppressed, he straightened the Cessna and hit full throttle. The plane sped down the runway and lifted off.
Circling around, Sam made one last pass over the airport. Tracers streaked earthward as he strafed the area, driving the men back into the mauled SUVs. Then he turned the plane northwest and left the chaos rapidly dwindling behind.
Rosita crouched low in her seat during the tense takeoff. As the airport faded from view, Sam let out a breath. They were away safely and headed far from their pursuers.
Section 4
As the small plane cruised northwest, Sam glanced over at Rosita curled up quietly, eyes distant.
"Do you know any English?" Sam asked gently.
Rosita toyed nervously with the edge of her shirt collar before replying. "A leetle...I learn in school," she answered in halting English.
Sam nodded. "We're headed to the United States, to a state called Ohio. We should be safe there for the time being."
"Those men...in the cars?" Rosita asked, struggling for the words. "Who are they?"
Sam chose his words carefully. "They are part of a large criminal organization. Their headquarters is located in Switzerland. However, they have members stationed globally."
He checked the plane's instruments. "My former partner in Ohio may possess additional intelligence on their American operations.".
After a period of silence, Rosita spoke up hesitantly. "Who...are you?" she asked, looking at Sam with curious eyes. As she spoke, her hand drifted absently over the pocket of her jacket before falling still in her lap once more.
Sam considered his response. "I started as a police officer in Ohio many years ago. But I got caught up in some...compromising activities."
He checked the horizon, gathering his thoughts. "So I fled to Colombia for a fresh start. However, I became frustrated by the politics and corruption there as well."
Sam gripped the plane's controls firmly. "So I went rogue, operating outside the law to fight injustice on my own terms."
He turned back to Rosita. "I'm hoping this partner in Ohio can help me expose the criminal conspiracies.
He turned back to Rosita. "My gut tells me there's something foul at play behind the curtain. And I intend to put a stop to it."
The Cessna sputtered down the dark runway, landing Sam and Rosita safely in Ohio at last. After stashing the plane in a remote hangar, Sam hot wired an old pickup truck parked near the airfield.
He secured a room at a roadside motel for Rosita under a false name. "Lie low until I get back," he told her, then set out for his partner's house in the stolen truck.
Sam pulled up to the small weathered bungalow and killed the engine. Nothing seemed amiss outside, but an uneasy feeling gnawed at him. It had been years since he'd been in contact with his former partner John.
He walked up the cracked front path, dry leaves crunching underfoot. Clouds obscured the moon above, casting the house in inky darkness. Knocking loudly on the wooden door, Sam's knuckles rapped against the wooden door "John? It's Sam," he called out, his voice echoing strangely against the stillness. No answer except the whispering wind. Shining his flashlight through the window, Sam already knew what grisly scene he would find inside. But he forced himself to move slowly.
Sam tried the door handle, the rusted creak piercing the night as it swung open. He stepped inside cautiously, the musty smell of a shut-in home assaulting his nose. Hand hovering over his holstered gun, he strained all his senses against the heavy silence. "John?" he shouted, his voice muffled as it disappeared into the house's depths. Only silence answered, almost taunting in its opacity.
Sam moved down the hall toward the living room. His light glinted off something in the corner - a small, intricately carved wooden box. Sam crouched down and opened the lid a crack. Inside lay plastic bags filled with white powder.
As Sam entered John's bedroom, his eyes were drawn to a large poster on the wall of a Catholic saint, hands raised in prayer. Strange, given he knew John was never devout. Below it, a neatly made bed was adorned with a rosary and scapular.
But scuffing sounds from the hall raised alarms. Sam moved toward the bedroom, adrenaline spiking. The door hung ajar, and John's name died on Sam's lips as he viewed inside.
John was slumped in the corner, trailing blood. Sam swept the room before crouching to check - his partner had been executed within the hour.
John's body was too convenient to be anything but a trap. His instincts screamed warning, hyperaware of every detail.
The faint cigarette smell hung in the air, yet John didn't smoke. Scuff marks from multiple shoes marred the dusty floor near the window. They wanted him to follow their script, find the body and walk into their ambush.
Bullets tore through the bedroom wall as Sam rolled behind the old iron bedframe. He noticed it stood on rusted casters - an idea took shape. Bracing himself, he shoved the heavy bed toward the shattered window as a barrier.
Sam used the barricade of bedframe and mattress to shield himself as he edged toward the door. The gunmen had fallen quiet, likely repositioning for a clear shot. Sam knew he had to act fast.
He slipped into the hallway, senses hyper-alert. One down, more to go. He moved with purpose between rooms, ready to turn the hunters into the hunted. They would not find him easy prey.
As Sam cleared each room, he moved silent as a specter down the hall, systematically clearing rooms. But his, assess threats in real time. But echoes of her whimpered cries, muffled sobs still haunted him. Never again, he vowed. The familiar icy determination flowed through his veins, steadied his heartbeat. He would lay waste to anyone who tried to extinguish her light. For now, rely on the cold precision that had kept him alive this long. Room by room.
Quick glance toward the living room - two silhouettes moved stealthily across the front windows. They were inside.
Sam swept into the kitchen and grabbed a knife from the block. Listened intently - the soft creak of a floorboard was his only warning. He spun, burying the knife to the hilt in the gunman's chest as bullets split the plaster behind him.
With the gunman bleeding out on the linoleum, Sam was already moving again. No time to ensure a confirmed kill - not with Rosita waiting.
He flowed through the rooms, footsteps silent, senses alert. These men were obstacles, problems to be solved with efficient brutality. Collateral damage in his personal mission to keep Rosita safe.
The next hireling came at him with a knife. Sam deflected the wild swipe and snapped his elbow into the man's temple. He dropped boneless to the floor, delaying Sam by precious seconds. Couldn't afford mistakes or wasted movements if he hoped to reach Rosita first.
By the time Sam slipped outside, his leg and stomach wounds throbbed from the exertion. But adrenaline kept the pain at bay for now. He limped over to where the stolen pickup was hidden down the block.
Sliding behind the wheel, only one thought filled Sam's mind: Rosita. Her name echoed with each frantic beat of his heart.
Sam sped through the dark streets, his grip white-knuckled on the wheel. Every nerve thrummed with urgency as the motel finally came into view. The weather-beaten sign stood like a grave marker, full of ominous portent. The lot was empty except for a few cars left to rust like corpses.
He pounded on the scarred door of unit 12, flecks of rust staining his knuckles like dried blood. "Rosita!" he called out, pulse racing. After an agonizing moment, the door creaked open. Rosita peered out, face wan and eyes hollow. Sam nearly collapsed in relief at the sight of her.
Rosita's eyes went wide at the sight of Sam's blood-soaked shirt. "¿Por qué estás cubierto de sangre?" she asked urgently in Spanish.
"Estoy bien," Sam replied, keeping his voice steady despite the fiery pain of his wounds. "But
Rosita's gaze flicked down, noticing the hilt of the knife still protruding from his side. "¡Estás herido!" she cried out.
Sam gripped her shoulder firmly. "No hay tiempo," he insisted. "Gather your things. I'll explain on the road."
As Sam sped down the highway, Rosita turned to him hesitantly. "My father...he was part of something bad," she began in halting English.
Sam glanced over, waiting for her to continue.
"He talked...about his work with Der Bruderschaft. They plan to build a bomb and kill leaders at an upcoming summit," Rosita revealed urgently.
Rosita took a shaky breath. "He said he worked for Der Bruderschaft. But they...do more than drugs." Her small hands twisted nervously in her lap.
"They want...power. My father said Der Bruderschaft plans to kill politicos, to make fear," she said.
Sam's jaw clenched. Der Bruderschaft - a mysterious crime syndicate based in Switzerland. "Did he say how they would do this?"
Rosita nodded, her expression grave beyond her years. "I hear him say...they build a bomb. To kill many leaders at one time. At...sum-mit."
Sam nodded, but something felt off about Rosita's story. The details seemed almost too perfect, hitting the right notes to pique his interest. His instincts, grown rusty lately, faintly warned that more vigilance was needed.
"And where did you overhear your father discussing these plans?" Sam asked casually, studying the girl's face.
Rosita's gaze flickered down briefly before meeting his eyes again. "In his office, when he thought I was asleep."
Part of Sam urged to abandon the girl—cut loose the complication, keep moving. That was the logical choice. Emotion only cluttered things.
Yet she stirred something in him, long buried beneath ruthless calculation. Faint heat from embers thought extinguished forever through it all, against his better judgment. Like so many before, he found himself grasping for solutions, only to end up exchanging one complication for the next.
Maintain focus - the mission comes first. Der Bruderschaft won't hesitate to kill innocents to achieve their goals. To defeat them requires matching ruthlessness.
Once it's finished, the girl will have to find her own way. Sam can't provide more than temporary reprieve from tragedy. Attachment endangers them both.
Sam took side roads and farm tracks to stay off the grid en route to the airfield. He kept one eye on the rearview and one hand near his gun. No tails yet, but constant vigilance was his only edge now.
At the airfield, he refueled the pickup and wiped it clean of prints before ditching it in a stand of trees. Didn't need some local cop connecting dots later on.
The Cessna sat camouflaged under netting at the far end of the tarmac. Sam wheeled it out and prepped it for departure as the girl watched anxiously from the treeline.
Wheels up before first light exposed them. The girl buckled in tense and silent beside him. Sam tried not to look at her. Sentiment was a liability he couldn’t afford right now.
The aging plane shuddered over open ocean. Sam's makeshift bandages wicked blood from his torn flesh. Had to stay functional a little longer. No time for rest. The hunters were likely still circling.
Sam stole a glance at Rosita as she gazed silently out the window. On the surface she seemed just a scared and confused girl caught up in events beyond her control. But doubts needled at the back of Sam's mind.
Sam said nothing, his face stony. Her excuses meant nothing now. She had compromised the mission, left him exposed. There was no forgiveness for that betrayal, family or not.
As the operatives converged, Rosita tried again desperately. "Please, they have my family!"
Sam turned on her, eyes cold. "Your family? I killed your family. Reyes was the only family you had."
Rosita paled, shrinking back. "Reyes is not my father," she admitted softly. "The whole thing...it was a set up."
Sam's stomach dropped as the truth crashed over him. They had known his moves before he made them. The mission was compromised from the start.
Rosita continued, voice trembling. "We knew you would kill Reyes. It was staged, to lure you in." Tears spilled down her cheeks. "I'm sorry, there was no other choice."
Sam stood motionless as armed men surrounded the plane. All his actions had played perfectly into their hands. Outmaneuvered at every turn by an enemy who anticipated his every move. Rage and frustration simmered in his gut.
But as the operatives forced him to the ground, Sam's face remained an impassive mask. Never let the enemy see you sweat or break. He would regain the advantage, no matter how long it took. The hunters had underestimated their prey. He would make them pay for that mistake.
Sam tuned out Rosita's muted sobs as he was bound and led to the SUV. Her remorse meant nothing now. She was already dead to him. Eyes forward, he began meticulously planning his countermove. When the moment came, he would be ready.
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