Prologue #4
My shirt was gone. My boots were gone. Just my pants and bare feet on cold concrete, the chill seeping straight into my spine.
I forced my eyes open.
Harsh fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, bleaching the room in merciless white. A warehouse, maybe. Or a reinforced basement.
Concrete walls. Exposed pipes. No windows.
Men lounged along the edges of the room—six of them at least. Guards. AKs slung casually, fingers loose on triggers. They smoked cigarettes, laughed quietly among themselves. One of them nudged another and nodded toward me.
They were watching.
Enjoying it.
I tested the zip ties—subtle, controlled pressure.
Nothing. No give.
“Where are they?” I shouted, voice raw, shredded by gas and rage. “Where are the women?”
No answer.
Just slow smiles. Exhaled smoke. One of them flicked ash onto the floor near my feet like a joke.
“If you’ve touched them—” My chest heaved as fury surged. “If you’ve harmed them, I swear to God I’ll—”
The door at the far end of the room swung open.
The guards straightened at once, cigarettes falling from their fingers as their smiles vanished.
The temperature in the room shifted.
He stepped inside.
Alonso “Al” Chapo Guzmán.
Early fifties, maybe—but he moved with the relaxed confidence of a man who had never truly been hunted.
Lean. Coiled. Dangerous in a way that had nothing to do with muscle and everything to do with patience.
He wore a simple white jalabiya, the fabric crisp and spotless despite the underground grime.
His dark hair curled neatly at his temples, beard trimmed close.
His eyes—sharp, dark, intelligent—flicked over the room with casual authority.
Those eyes had kept him alive while governments burned entire cities looking for him.
He walked straight toward me, unhurried, footsteps soft against the concrete. Stopped just outside spitting distance.
He studied me.
Not with hatred. Not with anger.
Like a scientist examining a specimen.
“You should be dead already,” he said in lightly accented English, voice calm—almost friendly. “My men wanted to start cutting pieces off the moment you woke up.”
I strained violently against the pole, zip ties biting deeper into flesh. Rage boiled over, hot and reckless.
“Then what’s stopping you?” I snarled.
He smiled faintly.
Not cruelly.
Amused.
He tilted his head, eyes never leaving mine.
“Because,” he said softly, “dead men don’t suffer.”
He took a deliberate step backward, never once breaking eye contact.
His gaze stayed locked on mine, steady and appraising, as if I were a problem he hadn’t yet decided how to solve.
Then, with a lazy flick of two fingers—index and middle raised like a conductor calling an orchestra to attention—one of his men hurried forward.
A low wooden stool was placed precisely where Chapo indicated.
He lowered himself onto it with the unhurried grace of a man who owned the space, the moment, and every soul inside the room.
One leg crossed over the other.
His posture was relaxed, casual, obscene in its comfort.
“I grew tired of simple killing,” he said, voice smooth, almost thoughtful.
“It becomes boring and predictable.” He shrugged lightly.
“Twenty-one of you were sent. Highly trained. Very expensive.” His eyes flicked briefly to the guards lining the walls.
“And now eighteen are fertilizer in Greek soil.”
The words landed one by one, like slow hammer blows.
“It seemed...” He paused, as if searching for the right word. “...wasteful to end the last three so quickly. Far better to drain them first—information, fear, whatever was left to take.” His mouth curved into a thin, knowing smile. “And to enjoy the process while doing so.”
My jaw clenched so hard it hurt.
My wrists burned where the zip ties bit deeper as my muscles strained uselessly against them.
“Don’t touch the girls,” I said. The plea tore out of me before I could stop it, raw and unfiltered. “Please.”
He tilted his head, studying me with mild curiosity—like an entomologist examining an insect pinned to cork.
“You mean I should not violate them?” he asked.
The word hit like a slap.
It was blunt. Unadorned. Delivered without shame or heat.
My stomach lurched.
I swallowed hard, bile burning the back of my throat.
Chapo extended his open palm without looking away from me.
Instantly, a pack of Marlboro Reds was placed into his hand by a guard who moved before the gesture was even complete.
Another stepped in with a gold lighter, shielding the flame with his palm against a wind that didn’t exist in this sealed underground room.
Chapo leaned forward slightly, inhaled, the cigarette tip flaring orange.
He exhaled slowly, smoke curling toward the ceiling.
“Do whatever you want with me,” I said, hating the way my voice cracked, hating that I sounded desperate. “Torture me. Kill me. Take pieces off if that’s what you want.” My chest heaved. “Just leave them alone.”
His eyes narrowed—not with anger, but with interest.
“I know the young one is your sister,” he said casually. “Amy Baranov.”
My heart slammed so hard I thought it might break my ribs.
He made a different gesture this time—a slow, deliberate circle of his index finger.
The heavy metal door at the far end of the room creaked open.
Two guards dragged her in.
My world tilted.
Amy’s dark hair hung in tangled strands across her face, loose from its tie.
Her breathing was uneven, chest rising and falling too fast, but she was upright—moving under her own power.
Her clothes were still intact: tank top, cargo pants. No rips. No blood staining her torso. No visible injuries beyond dirt and bruises earned in the fight.
She’d fought.
Her eyes found mine for a split second.
Just a fraction of a heartbeat.
Then she looked away.
Guilt. Shame. Fear. All written in the tightness of her shoulders, the way she held herself rigid—as if bracing for something worse.
“We do not force ourselves on women,” Chapo said quietly, almost offended by the implication. “We have principles, Mr. Baranov.” He gestured lazily with the cigarette. “Your government calls us terrorists. Animals.” He gave a small, humorless smile. “But we have codes.”
The hypocrisy made my vision blur with rage.
“Then let them go,” I demanded. The words echoed hollowly in the room, stripped of power.
Chapo chuckled softly, shaking his head as if I’d asked for the impossible.
“No.”
He flicked ash to the floor, then nodded toward his men.
“Tie her.”
Amy stiffened instantly.
My lungs seized. “No—!” I shouted, thrashing against the pole. “Don’t you touch her! I’ll tell you everything you want—everything—”
The guards moved anyway.
Amy exploded into motion the instant the guards reached for her.
“Get your filthy hands off me!” she snarled, twisting violently, her knee snapping upward, heel striking bone.
One man grunted as she caught him square in the thigh. Another staggered when her elbow cracked against his jaw. For a heartbeat—just one—she looked unstoppable. Pure fury wrapped in muscle and defiance.
Then reality crushed her.
The men were built like concrete slabs—thick necks, steroid-swollen arms, bodies hardened by violence and repetition.
One caught her wrist mid-swing and twisted, forcing a cry from her throat. Another seized her by the shoulders and drove her backward with brutal force.
They slammed her into the metal chair opposite me.
The impact rang through the room like a gunshot.
Amy gasped as the air was knocked from her lungs.
She fought anyway—kicking, bucking, teeth bared like an animal caught in a snare.
It took all three men to force her arms behind the chair’s backrest. Coarse rope scraped skin as they bound her wrists tight, looping it again and again until circulation slowed and angry red welts bloomed.
They tied her ankles next, rope biting deep, anchoring her to the chair until movement became impossible.
Still she fought.
Her shoulders strained, muscles trembling, breath coming in sharp, furious gasps.
Sweat beaded along her hairline, streaking through camo paint. But she would not look at me.
I knew why.
She blamed herself with every fiber of her being.
For disobeying a direct order from a superior.
For kicking that door open.
For turning caution into reckless momentum.
For leading us straight into the trap.
I didn’t blame her.
Not even for a second.
I just wanted her alive.
“Al-Chapo,” I said, forcing my voice into something steady, controlled—commanding, even as my insides burned. “You claim to have values. Codes. I’m certain those values don’t include torturing women.”
His smirk deepened, slow and knowing.
He exhaled smoke through his nose, eyes flicking lazily between Amy and me.
Instead of answering, he tilted his chin.
The metal door opened again and Elena was shoved inside.
Elena stumbled but didn’t fall, catching herself with instinctive balance.
Her clothes were intact—no torn fabric, no visible bruises—but her eyes told a different story. Wide. Too bright. Haunted. She moved with the rigid control of someone holding herself together by sheer will alone.
Relief and dread hit me at the same time.
Elena was a teammate. A soldier. A friend forged in blood and fire.
But Amy was blood.
Amy came first.
Always.
“Killing the three of you would have been very simple,” Chapo said conversationally, as if discussing weather. “You would never have awakened from the gas.” He shrugged lightly. “But where is the lesson in that?”
His gaze shifted to Elena.
“You, Miss Vasquez.”
Elena met his eyes without flinching.
“You will deliver one hundred punches to your friend’s face,” Chapo continued calmly. “Eyes. Mouth. Cheeks. Anywhere above the neck.” He smiled faintly. “Do it properly, and you walk out of here alive. Free.”
The words cut deep, not because of what he was asking, but because of how easily he said it—like survival was a simple transaction and cruelty just part of the price.
Elena didn’t hesitate.
“She won’t survive that,” she said evenly.