The Choice
Panic, cold and sharp, flooded my system. The domestic illusion of my life vanished in a heartbeat, replaced by the raw, primal instinct of a creature cornered.
“They’re here,” Alejandro said, his voice entirely devoid of fear—only a grim, fatalistic acceptance. “Carlos must have botched the exchange. Or they followed him back.”
“We have to call the police,” I fumbled with my phone, my thumb hovering over the emergency dial.
Alejandro reached out and firmly pressed his thumb over mine, stopping me. “The local police are on their payroll, Sofia. If you call them, you are simply broadcasting our coordinates to the executioners. Look at me.”
I forced myself to meet his gaze. The helpless patient was gone; in his place sat a man who had survived four months in a cartel slaughterhouse through sheer force of will.
“In my bedroom, behind the closet drywall near the floor, there is a loose panel,” Alejandro instructed, his delivery rapid but precise. “Inside is my service weapon—a Sig Sauer—and two spare magazines. There is also a flash drive with the unencrypted files. If anything happens to me, you take that drive to the Federal Consulate in the city center. Do you understand me?”
“I can’t leave you,” I said, tears finally blurring my vision. “I’ve spent three years taking care of you, Alejandro. I’m not leaving you to die in a wheelchair.”
“Then you need to help me up,” he said, a fierce, sudden light burning in his dark eyes. “They think I’m a corpse in a chair. Let’s show them how much life is left in a ghost.”
The sound of the front wooden door splintering open echoed through the halls of the house. Footsteps—heavy, deliberate, and multiple—began to filter through the silence, moving toward the back wing.
I grabbed a towel, threw it over Alejandro’s shoulders, and braced my weight against his. As the rain screamed against the roof, the quiet life I thought I knew died completely, and the battle for our survival began.
